#Rewrites also. I also like takes on the character that are kind with him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hanimanny · 2 months ago

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“i only know that i feel tired, antiqued; i feel as though i’ve been awake for a long long time”

HOMESICK

synopsis: when the exhaustion of loving finally takes you.

tags: xavier x non!mc, ANGST!!! hurt/ comfort(?)

word count: 4.4k

likes + comments + reblogs appreciated

authors note: xavier’s version of this. let me know if you want versions of the other Lis. also please give me some ideas!!! divider by: @fairytopea

ACT I: VIGIL

Laughter has never been so suffocating.

You watch, not from a distance, but next to MC.

You think it's worse to be this close and to hear everything you're hearing now. In all the years of trials and tribulations of knowing Xavier, have you ever heard him laugh so brightly, smile so widely, or love so loudly?

The quiet, ever aloof prince of Philos—the man you followed, crossing stars, passing meteors, abandoning the place you once called home—beams brighter than his evil.

You think about all the things that built up to this moment.

To you, he was the stars: bright and all-encompassing. His silence—always silent—ever consuming, as you trailed in the shadow he left behind. Throughout the years of companionship and camaraderie, you followed blindly, as you always do, even when you knew what following him meant: an ill-fated destiny you could never rewrite.

You knew MC once before—the same woman who took the world by storm, a hurricane in his life that devoured him whole, leaving nothing for you behind.

Just like the MC you once knew, this MC is just as captivating.

The universe is playing a sick joke. He is your longest companion, the very last of your kind—the last light of your planet, your world, your culture. You left it all behind because, to you, loving him meant more than the comfort of your people and the safety of your planet. Loving him was worth leaving everything behind.

Ironically enough, he thought the same thing.

And despite it all—the friendship, the companionship, the camaraderie—you’re not even a placeholder for the love he holds dear. Nothing but white noise that followed him around, that clung to him at every turn.

A persistent, pathetic, piteous echo.

You are so close, and yet, so far.

Pulled in by the gravity of his very being. You think—thought—that all this time, just being beside him would be enough to soothe the dull ache of your heart, the perpetual pain that roamed your bones, and the exhaustion that swallowed you whole.

Like a dreamer, you think of the ways he could love you in the same capacity he loves her. That if you show up enough times, reach out and fill the silence he leaves behind; that the days of dedicated devotion, the sacrifices made along the way, would surmise to something worthy of being loved.

Worthy of being seen.

You’re left stranded in his orbit, gravity pulling harder the more you think you’ve got a handle on your thoughts. The pain, the agony, the suffering. Thinking that sticking by his side was all you ever needed, that you can’t be greedy—because having him was enough, and having him be yours was pure insanity.

You hear the laughter erupt once again, likely from a silly joke MC made. You pull yourself out from whatever hole you've dug, pull your lips into a smile the best you can, laughing along. It's hearty and very becoming of your character, you think, since MC wraps a secure arm around yours and squeezes with affection.

You allow her, of course—straining your cheeks until they burn, letting out a long-drawn sigh that fills the room.

Despite what others may think, as you converse along luridly, as if the volume of your voice could hide the heavy heart you bear, you've never been so quiet.

…

ACT II: DREAM

You once thought that the convenience of being neighbours was a good thing.

Next door to Xavier—close to him, but never next to him.

Walking to the Hunters Association together, coming home together, eating together. Just being together.

But you could tell Xavier wasn’t ever there—not really.

Despite being with him for so long, his mind was usually elsewhere. Sometimes in dreamland, but mostly—actually, always—drifting to her.

At some point, in between the solo bickering and one-woman conversations, you, too, found yourself wandering.

Like your mind sanctioned itself in your own self-made isolation.

Quieter. Smaller. Dimmer.

You stop talking as vividly—maintaining just enough energy to keep up appearances. Your voice, so used to fading into the background, remained where it was so oftentimes pushed towards—away from everything. Everyone.

You stop tagging along in the mornings, early days, and late nights, save for the obligatory lunch with your co-workers.

You stop leaving your apartment, taking refuge in a bed you’ve grooved your body into, like a coffin awaiting your arrival. An apartment you’ve grown used to, replicating the only home you knew.

And you’re just so tired. Tired of it all. Exhaustion clings to you like chasing breath. Sleep evades you like the plague.

It was your choice to cling to hope—to leave your home and to follow, naively, in hopes that one day, he would look at you the same way you look at him. To experience his love: the soft edges, the warmth, the gentleness. To think quiet, everlasting devotion would get you anywhere—devotion that controlled you, consumed you. Devotion that you thought would be enough, as silly as it sounds, to at least hold a candle next to the sun.

Devotion that instead puts you in the hands of despair.

You’re stupid to still hope, to yearn for a love that was never yours to have. To attempt to go against fate—against an entire lifetime of love.

So really, it was your burden to bear—and bear it alone.

And the funniest thing of it all? Xavier never once visited you. Checked on you. Sought you out. Even the tenant right below you, Charlie, visited, offering warm welcomes of fresh bread and a simple smile.

As you lie on your couch, enveloping yourself in the embrace of your own naivety, forced by Jenna to take a day off, you listen to the familiar silence.

Which is soon broken by the snubbed sound of light that snuffs the room.

It’s the first time in weeks—29 days, 21 hours, 2 minutes—Xavier has stepped foot in your apartment.

You don’t make a move to look at him or say anything like you normally do.

You both reside in the deafening silence. One by choice, one succumbed.

For the first time, Xavier breaks the silence: “You weren’t at work today.”

You could laugh, scream, cry, or all of the above, but you don’t.

Quietness reaps your soul.

Xavier continues. “MC was worried about you.”

A lifetime's worth of companionship, and he wasn’t even here to seek you out.

You truly are stupid.

Xavier isn’t used to the silence—not this kind. Despite being so quiet all the time, this silence was completely foreign. It was heavy and uninviting, almost suffocating.

There’s a moment of unrelenting anticipation as he waits to see you respond.

When you don’t, he steps forward. One step, then two—then he’s at the foot of the couch, peering down at you like a deity summoned—unconsciously shining with that light of his.

Steel blue eyes bore into you, trying to read you.

But you’re too fractured to be read. At least not clearly.

“Are you okay?”

‘Am I okay?’ You want to laugh at the thought, to make fun of the words asked.

Were you ever okay?

You miss it all—your family, your friends, your people, your home.

To think, once there was a time you chose to abandon it all in the name of love—where you thought complacency was where you belonged: beside a man you knew never loved you, maybe never even liked you.

Now you can only sneer at the fact, as you reminisce about a place far and forgotten, only finding a place deep within your memory.

Xavier prompts a different question. “Have you been sleeping?”

And for the first time in a while, you finally speak.

“I’ve been dreaming a lot.”

First, about you. About us. About what could have been. About what never was.

“What about?” His voice holds something softer than you ever thought possible from him. Something reserved only for her, never for you.

It almost makes you break. To confess everything. To finally open up your heart and pour all your pain out. To free yourself from self-made shackles and unwanted thoughts. To hear the very softness you crave—to be held, caressed, embraced.

But you don’t. Because even with that unreadable look in his eye—the same eyes you’ve longed for all this time—you know what they hold.

Obligation

“Home,” you say simply.

For the first time in a while, Xavier looks at you—really looks at you. He’s known you all this time, the image of you ingrained in his brain like second nature. He knows you—you’re his oldest friend, most trusted companion. He's seen all sides of you, but the person he’s looking at looks nothing like the you he remembers.

He looks at you and can’t even recognise you. Cruelly, for a moment, he even wonders if it’s really you.

“I don’t see any changes.” Xavier takes a quick glance around; everything remains stagnant, as it always has.

You don’t correct him—not this time. You hum a noise between affirmation and acknowledgement and drift off to a place once forgotten.

Silence consumes the soul once again, with Xavier wondering when he had become so complacent with it all: with your constant presence, voice to fill the spaces he’s left behind, unrelenting energy, and unwavering spirit.

“You’re right. Nothing has changed.”

…

ACT III: DRIFT

Xavier hasn’t visited since.

Not that you didn’t expect it.

You still see him at work, at lunch with MC, and on the rarest occasion, you bump into him in the hallway of your apartment complex—like strangers.

You do your best to find a new rhythm in this life, as your absence becomes more common and your presence goes with the echo of your voice. You’re seen less and less.

Maybe you were never seen at all—not truly.

You find that it’s easier to deal with heartache in the same way Xavier deals with everything: in silence.

Silence, although not foreign, not even new to you, seeks you out and sticks to you like a foreboding message.

You’ve spent years so bright, a will so strong it held on tight enough to kill you. Your loudness brought you here, away from Philos, so as the bits of your spirit whittle away along with your soul, silence is left to fill in the gaps of an empty shell.

You learn to live without Xavier in your life—as though he isn’t the last thing you have of your home, of the love you once felt, the comfort, the security. You learn to live without Xavier and learn to nurse a pain that has become something of a lover.

You had to learn to live because the world kept spinning—even when you’re lost in a place, unfamiliarly familiar, and can do nothing but live on.

But are you even living at this point? Even a dead girl walking has rights to a life—to living.

You’re leaving for another mission. In spite of Jenna’s protests, you’d rather fight to exhaustion—to blend the pain in your chest with the ache of muscles.

Your face reflects your volition. Eyes pulled down by the weight of your burden, face pale like a dying star. Despite trying, your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, your laughter isn’t as bright, and your voice isn’t as loud.

You wait for Jenna’s reluctant orders. She’ll be damned if she lets you out on another solo mission—because despite your incredible hunting rates, you too are human.

A voice so familiar pulls your attention, and you look up to see Xavier standing before you—ice blonde hair and steel blue eyes in tow.

How long has he been standing there?

“Jenna assigned me as your partner for the mission.” Your face shows no expression—and not for lack of trying.

You laugh inwardly at the thought.

You're too much like him, in a sense. Loving hard enough to abandon your home, to follow blindly with fate—in spite of your own shortcomings. To silently love, quietly devote, and slowly disappear.

You purse your lips and let out a sigh too heavy for someone like you.

Xavier is almost taken by surprise.

“Let's go.” Xavier can hear it in your tone, and see it in your voice. How truly tired you really are—incomparable to his ever-waking sleepiness.

Your exhaustion runs you dry.

Again, silence befalls the two of you—an unwelcome rhythm that has found a place in the cracks of your relationship.

For the first time, Xavier trails behind you. Watching you. Observing you. And if he didn’t see your face or know your frame, he’d think the person walking in front of him was nothing but a stranger.

This time, Xavier walks in your shadow.

…

ACT IV: SILENCE

You think you’re fading.

The remnants of who you once were have been whittled down to the bone. You’re broken—maybe you always have been. Maybe this was who you were always supposed to be.

You’re so tired, not just emotionally but physically too.

The never-ending stream of wanders is starting to take a toll, even on professionals such as you and Xavier.

Your sword is dull, chipped at the edges, and your wounds scatter across your frame, staining your skin in a dirty shade of red.

Even the almighty knight is struggling to keep up with the demand.

So, as you find refuge in a murky cave, to recuperate the best you can, you find that the full-body ache starts to return.

You lean against a well-placed boulder, breath shallow and your grip loose, as your eyes haze over the fire in front of you.

You feel the warmth reach out for you—gently, creeping through the shell of yourself.

It’s quiet, save for the crackle of the flame.

You feel peaceful for once—the hunt muddling your thoughts so much that you can’t even think straight. Or maybe it’s the exhaustion of not sleeping.

Despite it all, you feel a strange sense of tranquillity. One with the throb in your chest that makes it hard to breathe, but is easier to deal with now that everything aches.

It’s peaceful, you think, as you fade into whatever hole you’ve dug all those years ago. Your mind is muddled, and your soul flickers with the last bits of who you were.

Suddenly, you’re pulled back out—again by the very men who left you there, like a nostalgic toy forgotten all these years.

Your eyes pull away from the fire.

You soak in his gaze. It holds none of the same love you see him give out so freely to MC. It’s hard and stern—years of knighthood sewn into his features. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you at all.

Calloused hand gripping your shoulder—it’s firm enough to shift your attention, your body facing him.

You look at him and try to find the line between succour and obligation. Try to find one thing that says you mattered—even just for a second.

You were foolish to believe that you could remain just his friend, companion, comrade. You were stupid, dumb, idiotic.

You were completely blind to it all—to think that his love could have relieved something burning in you. Something insatiable. Something permanent.

“You’re drifting.” Xavier’s voice cuts through your messy thoughts and heavy heart.

You’ve been drifting.

You don’t make an attempt to joke like you used to—not even a weak smile. You sit back and stare at him like you don’t even know him.

“You’ve been doing that more often.” You take a moment to digest what he says—something he’s noticed entirely on his own, not by MC’s worrywart love.

Once upon a time, you would’ve thought it was normal for him to notice these types of things—the dullness of a close second. But now, you’re surprised. Shocked, even. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Where are you going?” he prompts, and his voice holds something so intrinsic to the soul. Something you can’t find here. Something like home.

You’re fading, like the light of his evol—dimmer, as you’re pulled into the gravity of your own mind.

You’d like to tell him—if not as a lover, then a friend:

I’m lost. I’m gone. I’m tired. I’m sad. I’m furious. I’m not myself. Not with what’s left of who I am.

I am not home.

You don’t. Despite something inside you telling you you must. That it’s not worth dying on this hill.

You think: How much deeper of a hole can you dig before you vanish? Before you're gone? Forgotten? Never having existed in the first place.

Until you’re not a person, but a memory.

You don’t tell him anything, because that’s not the kind of relationship you have—not anymore.

In the midst of the silence, your voice finally breaks through.

Quiet. Cracked. Almost gone.

“I’m thinking of going home.” There’s finality in your tone. Weak as your voice may be, Xavier hasn’t heard such certainty from you in months.

His eyes knit in confusion, contort in concern.

Maybe you’re just tired. But there’s something to your expression—an unspeakable hollowness that wasn’t there before. Your eyes haze over with something distant.

A body without a soul.

Like he always does, he remains silent. Never reaching out. He’s seen you get through worse, come back stronger. He’s seen everything. He knows you.

Or maybe... he knew you.

All the years of companionship will amount to something. It has to. He’s known you for so long. You stuck by his side even through death. You truly were the one stable thing in his life. Never needing to chase—always there, beside him. With him.

It was always you and him—even as he fights his way through the forgotten memories of MC, you remain.

Though, something claws at him, as his hand gently travels down your arm. To reach. To ask what you meant. To wonder if you meant the apartment beside his, where it reflected the culture of Philos, somehow capturing the stars in every object you bought.

He wants to ask if home is with him.

But he doesn’t.

Silence is there to greet him again—him only, he thinks, because you seem so used to it now.

Unfamiliar territory.

His eyes travel to his hand on yours, afraid to let go for some reason. As if letting go meant never seeing you again.

Your head is slumped motionless against his shoulder. His eyes peer onto your back—and then he sees it.

The blood stains the rock behind you. Your back is adorned with gashes that soak your uniform.

“Y/N,” he calls out, like it’s the only thing he knows. Because it’s the only thing he can do.

He hears no response. Not even a whisper of a shallow breath.

It’s not quiet. Not even small.

It’s silent.

Then he feels it. The way your eyes droop down to the fire. The limpness of your hand on his. The paleness. The coldness.

The death.

His spare hand reaches out.

He shakes you. “Don’t close your eyes.”

But you don’t abide—swaying with the motion of his force.

You could do anything. Do everything. Move mountains. Slay beasts. You were strong. Firm. Confident. He knew you could get through anything.

“Come on, just open your eyes. Can’t you do that?”

“One breath. That’s all I need.”

“Hold me tight, Y/N.”

Xavier cradles your gaunt body as he pulls your head taut to his shoulder. He rocks you like a sleeping child, holding you tight—tighter than he ever has before.

He’s shaking—and not from the cold.

He doesn’t know what comes over him, but suddenly, the silence breaks.

And he hears everything. Sees everything. Feels everything.

And he cries.

Because that’s all he can do.

…

ACT V: LINGER

Xavier likes to think that he notices your absence.

The way people step over the shells of your name, the routes taken to avoid the common spaces you once occupied in the living. The untouched work desk, memorialised by those who remembered her. The vacancy next door — the home she built away from home — now barren, her things sold, thrown away, or forgotten.

MC, who was so loud with her affection, mourned just as passionately. Her heart sewn onto her sleeve as she cried the loss of a friend. Flowers tended on the desk of a fallen soldier, and distance built from the apartment upstairs.

But really, he doesn’t.

The way you’ve faded so naturally out of his life — never moving, never reaching. The walk to and from home is the same. His apartment is the same. His life remains the same. Like you were never there. Like the image of your smile wasn’t something that pushed him through distant times.

Like you never meant anything to him.

Like the years of friendship, companionship, camaraderie — all amounted to a tombstone with your name etched into it.

And he hates himself for it.

For being so complacent. For never seeing you. Never hearing you. Never reaching out. For always thinking you’d remain the same: the loyal, competent pillar in his life. For thinking that his silence meant nothing to you.

Because it did. It meant everything.

He hates how he’s living life like he always did — like you weren’t ever part of him. Regret, guilt, grief — they all settle in his bones, for a person he can’t even remember.

Along with the memory of you, time passed, as it always does. And as time passed, he slowly forgot.

Your goals and aspirations. Your loves, your hates.

Your dreams.

He can barely remember your face. The last time you laughed. Your smile.

He can barely remember you at all.

Only pulled in by the gravity of his grief, where he finds you at the centre of it all.

To think he was so far from you. The irony now is that he can’t ever leave.

Stuck on a cursed image of a woman who meant so much to him.

Who held the moon up so he could shine with the stars.

He sits on his bed, light voided from the room. The pictures from your apartment piled by his bedside, facing the stars, watching — as you always did.

For the first time, he’s not tired at all.

Is this how you felt? How restless you were?

When he showed up that time, too worried about MC and her anxieties. Too quick to solve her issues that he hadn’t noticed how your eye bags sank deep enough to stain your spirit. How you lay, lost, drifting to a place he couldn’t reach.

Dreaming of home.

And just like his home, his culture, his people — you too join the faint memory of Philos.

His phone buzzes, bright. The screen illuminates the room.

Xavier thinks it’s MC again — she doesn’t know the depth of what you and Xavier shared, but she understood the weight of long-term partnership.

At first, he answered every time — to relieve her worries, to silently say he was fine.

But now, everything feels like a farce.

A lie he tells himself as much as he tells the world.

If the absence, the silence, isn’t acknowledged — maybe it’ll keep things still. To stop time from moving.

Because if time doesn’t move, then the memory of you won’t fade.

And you’ve faded enough.

He picks up the phone and waits.

Then he hears it — the soft laughter he longed for. It’s gentle and hearty, so full of life.

Xavier peels the phone from his ear to peer at the screen.

Then he sees it. The light. The brightness of a smile lost to memory, now alone. It’s displayed in front of him — teeth bared, lips stretched wide with a feeling he hasn’t seen in years.

It’s you.

Laughing so freely. Smiling so widely.

You’re alive.

Xavier scrambles upright, leaning forward to see the screen more clearly.

It’s you — in clothes he’s never seen you wear, in a room he’s never seen before, with a face he barely remembers.

But he knows it’s you.

How could he ever forget? Not truly.

So desperately, he calls out. Announcing himself, finally reaching out.

Your eyes perk in surprise as you lean in.

“Holy shit, did he just say my name? That’s crazy!” you giggle, and Xavier is too overcome with emotion to even question the absurdity of your words.

“No wonder people were glazing this game on Twitter!” you laugh before the call cuts.

Xavier’s too stunned to react. He taps rapidly through his phone to check the caller history.

Unknown.

He scrambles to call again.

Anticipation sweating off of him.

He holds his phone tightly and then— You pick up.

Your face: confused.

“Damn, I didn’t even level his affinity up yet and he’s calling already,” you mutter, peering at the screen.

Xavier looks dishevelled, almost destroyed. His hair is a messy heap, and dark circles shadow his eyes. The usual soft glow of his skin— dulled, lifeless.

He’s worn thin. A dead man walking.

“Hey,” Xavier says softly, almost inaudibly.

He watches your face shift — confusion to elation.

“Oh my god, you can even talk! Let me try again.”

And then you speak — not offhand commentary, but to him.

“Hi,” you greet, brightly enough to light up the room.

Xavier is at a loss, and doesn’t reply. But unlike before, you speak again.

“This is so cool. So like, does this count as my daily interaction?” you ask aloud, maybe to yourself, maybe to him— he can’t tell.

“Right, probably not in his programming to answer questions like that,” you mumble, before turning your full attention back to him.

“I’ll see you soon, alright? I hope this mechanic isn’t a glitch.” You grin softly.

And nothing in Xavier’s entire career could’ve prepared him for this.

But he’s not letting this opportunity go. Not when he has another chance to hear you, to see you — and even if he can’t touch you, he’ll never let go.

He’s not letting you slip.

Not now. Not ever. Not again.

“All right... I’ll see you soon,” Xavier replies simply.

Watching your face glow is enough for him.

The way your lips stretch, teeth bare — a face full of life.

Here, he decides: he’ll wait as long as you need.

As long as you want.

He’ll wait until the phone screen glows once again. He’ll wait to see you again.

Close enough to hear you. To see you. But never touch you.

…

ACT VI: ECHO

“Hi Xavier”

The unfair proximity of a dream

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cressidagrey · 30 days ago

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The Brush Off

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

Summary: 5 Times people flirt with Felicity and 1 time Oscar sees it happen.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂 Also, check out my new divider!

School Library, Haileybury

Felicity was tucked into her usual corner of the school library — second floor, far left, just behind the dusty shelf of outdated atlases no one ever touched. It was quiet there. Untouchable. Sacred.

Her legs were curled under her in a frankly illegal way that made the librarian twitch every time she passed by.

But Felicity didn’t care. She had more important things to worry about. Like finishing her own chemistry coursework, writing the conclusion to her robotics team report, and, most importantly, rescuing Oscar’s history grade from what could only be described as a stylistic disaster.

Her copy of The Selfish Gene sat open next to a packet of sticky notes and five highlighters arranged in rainbow order. Oscar’s essay draft was sprawled beside it like a corpse in need of resuscitation.

She was six pages in.

She had already marked five run-on sentences, circled three historical inaccuracies, and scrawled “comma splice?” in angry red ink on the header. Next to that, she’d added, in smaller print: “This is a run-on sentence and also a war crime.”(This was three lines after “I am not sure if child labour can be considered a “perk” of the industrial revolution, Oz.”)

She was muttering to herself about how Oscar consistently forgot the difference between a primary and secondary source when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hey,” a voice said. “You always sit here?”

Felicity glanced up — just barely — and immediately clocked the newcomer.

Mateo.

The Spanish exchange student.

Hair swoop. Too much cologne.

He had the vibe of someone who thought reading The Secret History made him profound. Like the kind of guy who bought Moleskines but didn’t write in them. Like a walking Instagram profile captioned “Fluent in Nietzsche.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just scribbled a note in Oscar’s margin (“use a stronger thesis here or face the wrath of every historian who’s ever lived”).

“On Wednesdays, yes,” she replied eventually, eyes still on the page.

Mateo didn’t take the hint.

He leaned in a little too close. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and already regretted not bringing headphones.

“What are you working on?”

She lifted Oscar’s paper slightly, as if it were obvious. “This.”

He squinted. “You’re helping a friend?”

“This is my boyfriend’s essay.”

Mateo’s face lit up, but not with recognition — with opportunity. “Wow. You’re that good a friend?”

Felicity blinked. “I’m that good a girlfriend.”

He paused. Smiled like she’d just told a cute joke at a party. “Sure. But, like, if you ever wanted to… hang out? Or study together? I’ve been struggling with philosophy.”

She stared at him. “You’re struggling with philosophy?”

He nodded eagerly. “It’s so dense, you know?”

“You mean… reading?”

He chuckled. “I just thought it might be easier with someone like you. Someone sharp. Smart.”

She just stared at him.

Still, he didn’t leave. “I’m just saying, if you ever get bored of helping your boyfriend… I wouldn’t mind a little attention.”

That’s what made her pause.

Because for a moment, Felicity genuinely didn’t understand what he meant.

Attention? What kind? Did he want her to edit his essay, too? Help him structure his arguments?

Was this a mentorship request? A tutoring thing? Was he trying to hire her?

Because from where she was sitting — wearing one of Oscar’s sweatshirts over her school uniform with her hair up in a pencil-stabbed bun, ink smudged on her fingers… There was no way this boy was flirting with her.

She finally looked up, expression flat. “I’ve been with my boyfriend for two years. I rewrite his footnotes. I know the number of his racing sim’s USB ports by memory. You think I have time for recreational idiocy?”

Mateo blinked. He stammered something that might’ve been “Sorry” or “Your loss” or possibly just the start of a philosophy quote he didn’t finish.

Then he turned and slunk away, disappearing into the nonfiction aisle like a man who needed to Google what a footnote was.

Felicity exhaled slowly, turned back to Oscar’s essay, and drew a tiny skull next to a sentence about Napoleon.

Ten minutes later, Oscar appeared — bottle of water in one hand, hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, curls slightly mussed.

“Hey,” he said, flopping into the seat beside her and nudging her ankle under the table.

Felicity didn’t even blink. She just slid his paper across the table.

“Yours,” she said, tone dry. “Try not to get seduced by misused commas.”

Oscar grinned, leaned over, and kissed her temple.

***

Engineering Library, Imperial College London

The engineering library at Imperial had a very specific kind of silence — dense, utilitarian, and just slightly stressed.

It didn’t have the hushed reverence of a humanities space or the open nervous energy of undergrads cramming in a group. No. This room buzzed with tension.

It smelled like soldering fumes, pencil shavings, leftover caffeine, and the faintest echo of ambition-turned-despair.

Most students had packed up hours ago, but Felicity remained in her fortress of design textbooks, open CAD diagrams, three kinds of scrap paper, and a crumpled granola bar wrapper that she’d been meaning to throw away for at least forty-five minutes. Her water bottle was dangerously low, her laptop fan sounded like it was preparing for lift-off, and her cursor had been blinking in the same spot on her thermal stress simulation for the last twenty-seven minutes.

She wasn’t stuck. She was just… tired.

Tired in the bone-deep way only a mechanical engineering student in her second trimester could be.

She shifted slightly, legs curled beneath her, one hand resting absently on the curve of her bump. Not because it hurt — not tonight — but because Beatrice had just kicked her in the ribs again, like she was trying to crawl out through Felicity’s diaphragm.

Her phone buzzed next to her laptop:

Oscar: Don’t forget dinner. Please. You always forget when your sim models hate you.

She smiled faintly but didn’t reply. Not yet. She still had heat sink values to triple-check.

That was when it happened.

A voice—too close, too casual—sliced through the stillness.

“Hey.”

Felicity looked up, blinking.

A guy was standing across the table. Probably mid-twenties. Tall, in that I stretch for photos, way. Crisp haircut. Slim jeans. Water bottle with a “No Bad Vibes” sticker on it — ironic, because he was currently radiating intrusive energy like a malfunctioning microwave.

He didn’t wait for permission. Just slid into the chair opposite hers like this was a first date she didn’t know they were having.

“I saw you in Thermo this morning,” he said. “That fluid mechanics question you asked? Insanely clever. I was going to say something after class, but you ducked out too fast.”

Felicity blinked at him. “I had a tutorial.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Should’ve guessed. You seem like you’ve got everything scheduled down to the second.”

“I also needed chips,” she added, because both things were true.

He laughed like she’d made a joke. “You seem intense. I like that. Women in engineering? You don’t see that every day. Rare combination of intimidating and hot.”

She stared at him.

The words rolled around her brain like loose screws.

What… did he want?

Was this a compliment? An insult? An offer?

She was six months pregnant, her knees hurt, her thesis was trying to kill her, and she was wearing Oscar’s hoodie with a faint grease stain across the front.

What exactly was the goal here?

“I mean—don’t get me wrong,” he rushed on, clearly sensing the silence and trying to recover. “You’ve just got that… serious vibe. Like the kind of girl who rewires her own dishwasher.”

“I did,” she said flatly. “Last week.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“And the kettle. And Oscar’s sim pedal when it failed under full brake.”

There was a beat.

“…Who’s Oscar?” he asked, smirking now. “Your roommate?”

Felicity paused.

And for a moment—just a moment—she considered laughing.

Then she closed her laptop slowly. Deliberately.

“Oscar’s my husband.”

The guy blinked.

Stood up slowly. Her hoodie shifted, and with it, the full curve of her pregnancy became unmistakably obvious. Not theoretical. Not ambiguous. Imminent.

The guy’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

She adjusted the hem of her sweater, not breaking eye contact, slung her bag over one shoulder, and smiled — cold, clean, efficient.

“If you’re gonna flirt with a mechanical engineer,” she said, “maybe do a better job at observational diagnostics.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he wanted to apologise and also vanish into the carpet tiles.

Felicity didn’t wait for a response.

***

Trinity College, Oxford

By the time Felicity Piastri was twenty-one, she had two things down to a science:

How to balance a toddler on her hip while rewriting entire sections of a doctoral thesis.

The exact number of times she could ignore the same man before it became a full-blown academic experiment.

Her Oxford doctoral project - Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite-Structured Performance Environments. - had technically been finished for weeks. The simulations were done, the modelling locked in, her conclusions tight and triple-sourced. Now she was just revising. Editing. Wrangling footnotes into submission while Bee tried to paste glitter stickers into the margins of her printed draft.

She did almost everything from home.

The only reason she even stepped foot into Oxford was for fortnightly supervision meetings with Dr. Green, who was brilliant, terrifying, and the only person Felicity would willingly leave the house (and her toddler) for.

Which was, unfortunately, where Nathan lived.

Nathan — Dr. Green’s personal assistant — had been a PPE student once upon a time, which explained a lot. Somehow, he’d wheedled his way into a departmental admin role despite not knowing the difference between a torque curve and a coffee stain. His talents included:

Misfiling room bookings.

Brewing tea that tasted like despair.

Flirting with Felicity like it was something he was being graded on.

The first time he tried it, she’d thought it was just bad small talk. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed the type to flirt accidentally, the kind of man who said “babe” to baristas and thought it made him charming.

The second time, she was slightly annoyed.

By the fifth, she had moved on to anthropological interest.

How did he not see the wedding ring? The child’s drawings poking out of her folder? The exhaustion of someone whose idea of a wild Friday night was installing firmware updates for fun?

Today, she arrived two minutes early for her meeting. She’d barely stepped into the department lobby when he spotted her.

“Dr. Green is running a bit late,” Nathan announced, standing up from behind the reception desk like he was emerging for a curtain call. “But I can keep you company if you like.”

Felicity barely paused. “She’s not. She still has 2 minutes till our appointment time.”

He grinned like she’d just flirted back. “You know, I was thinking the other day… you never hang around after your meetings. You always rush off.”

“Yeah,” she said, expression unreadable. “Because I have a toddler. And a dissertation. And a husband. In that order.”

Nathan winced theatrically. “Oof. Brutal.”

She offered him a smile that wasn’t one. “Sorry. Was that too reality-based?”

Still, he pressed on, leaning against the desk like he thought he was on the cover of GQ.

“Still,” he said, “it’d be nice to talk about something other than drivetrain mapping sometime. Maybe grab a drink?”

Felicity blinked. Twice.

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it. But somehow, today, it caught her even more off guard.

“You’re asking me,” she said slowly, “a married mother of one, who is actively finishing a thesis and hasn’t eaten a full sit-down meal in two days, to go get drinks with you?”

He laughed, like she was being ridiculous.

“I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously. We could just talk—”

“About what?” she asked, genuinely baffled. “What, precisely, do you think I have in common with a man who once told me Elon Musk was just misunderstood?”

Nathan blinked.

Felicity continued. “Do you want help with your CV? Is this about office gossip? Are you confused and trying to network with me through reverse psychology?”

“I just meant—”

“I’m not trying to be rude,” she said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I genuinely don’t understand what outcome you’re envisioning here. Do you think I’m going to cheat on my husband with the guy who can’t pronounce ‘aerodynamics’ without swallowing the word halfway through?”

He flushed slightly. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“I’m not. I’m being efficient.”

The door to the inner office opened before he could reply. Dr. Green appeared, breathless and balancing two takeaway coffees in one hand and a folder in the other.

“Felicity, I’m so sorry. The grant committee meeting ran over. Here—” She handed over one of the cups. “Decaf oat, right? And I pulled the new journal submissions for you. There are a few I thought might intersect with your secondary chapter on hybrid systems.”

Felicity smiled as she took the coffee. “Thanks. I already reviewed the three most relevant ones and emailed you a summary chart with citations.”

Dr. Green blinked. “Of course you did.”

Nathan blinked, too, but for entirely different reasons.

Felicity turned back to him just before following her professor inside.

“Oh, and Nathan?”

“…Yes?” he said, still — somehow — hopeful.

She raised her left hand and tapped the wedding band with one finger. “This wasn’t a joke.”

And then she shut the office door behind her like it was a verdict.

The Door Handle Aisle of Homebase, Woking

Oscar was off racing.

Felicity was elbow-deep in a bathroom renovation.

Not the Pinterest kind.

Not the “new towels and scented eucalyptus and a little bamboo ladder for the aesthetic” kind.

No, this was the “rip out the vanity with a crowbar and discover the wall behind it had been sealed with hope and duct tape” kind.

The kind of renovation that required full battle gear: dust mask, gloves, safety goggles, and the controlled fury of a woman who had read the plumbing manual twice and did not need a man explaining pipe fittings to her.

And because she was who she was — stubborn, competent, and wildly intelligent— Felicity hadn’t hired anyone.

She could do it herself.

And she would.

Which meant… many, many trips to the hardware store.

The staff had started to recognise her by mid-April. A couple of them even learned to duck when she walked in, in case she asked for a specific size of tap washer they didn’t carry. But one guy — the guy from the sealant aisle—hadn’t learned that lesson.

Late twenties, overly friendly, perpetually wearing a toolbelt he definitely didn’t need, like he thought it made him look rugged instead of unconvincing. He hovered near the caulk and grout displays like they were a dating pool.

The first time, it was casual.

“You here again?” he’d asked, smiling like he was in a rom-com. “You must really like DIY.”

Felicity didn’t look up from the tile grout chart. “I like doing things properly.”

The second time, it was more confident.

“Doing a kitchen too?” he asked, spotting the tile adhesive in her basket. “You ever need help—”

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said, already walking toward checkout before he could finish.

By the sixth visit, he had apparently decided they were bonding.

She was in the handles aisle, comparing brass finishes, when she heard him again — that telltale sneaker-squeak on linoleum, the voice turned up a little too loud, too performative.

“Wow,” he said, appearing at the end of the aisle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you keep coming in just to see me.”

Felicity didn’t look up. She held one cabinet pull in each hand and considered which one better matched the art deco lines of the mirror she’d thrifted.

“I assure you,” she said, tone even, “my interest in you begins and ends with your stock of brass hinges.”

He laughed, undeterred. “Come on. You’re always here. I figured, maybe you’re one of those cool builder girls. You don’t wear a ring or anything, so…”

That’s what finally made her pause.

Not the tone. Not the implication. But the logic.

She looked at him.

“You think I keep coming in here because… what? I’m lonely?” she asked, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “I’m literally holding blueprints and a door handle.”

He shrugged. “You just seem like the kind of girl who could use a little—” (God help him) “—company.”

Felicity blinked. She wiped a smudge of pencil from her chin, set the handles back down, and reached into her tote bag without breaking eye contact.

She pulled out her phone.

“I’m going to walk you through something,” she said calmly, unlocking the screen. “Because clearly, you didn’t do any preliminary research before launching this… ill-conceived outreach attempt.”

She turned the lock screen toward him.

A photo.

Felicity, curled up on a sofa in a hoodie. Oscar was beside her, kissing the top of her head. Bee sprawled between them in footie pyjamas, holding a spoon upside down like a trophy. The lighting was soft. Domestic. Unmistakably intimate.

“This,” Felicity said, “is my husband. He is currently in Azerbaijan, driving a car at three hundred miles an hour. That’s our daughter. She is two. I do renovations during naptime.”

The man paled. “Oh. I—uh. I didn’t know—”

“No,” she agreed. “You didn’t ask.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else — possibly to dig the hole deeper.

But Felicity wasn’t done.

“I come in here to buy tile primer. I don’t come in here for unsolicited analysis of my marital status from men who think a toolbelt is a personality trait.”

Her voice never rose. It didn’t have to.

It was calm. Steady.

The voice of someone who had personally rewired her fuse box and once installed a dishwasher while on the phone and dealing with a crying toddler.

She smiled politely. Dangerously.

Like a woman who kept zip ties in her car and knew how to use them.

“I’ll take these, thanks,” she said, lifting the cabinet handles. “Don’t need help carrying them. But if you’ve got any more of that tile primer from last week in stock, that would be helpful.”

He mumbled something about checking the back and fled like a man pursued by the consequences of his own choices.

Felicity watched him go, then picked up the nicer brass finish.

She didn’t even roll her eyes. She was too tired.

Felicity just wanted her tile primer and to go home.

***

Rooftop Bar, Melbourne

Felicity didn’t go out much.

Not because she couldn’t — Oscar insisted she take breaks, even booked her massages that she always forgot to attend — but because she liked her life.

She liked being home with Bee. She liked sanding doorframes and painting walls and mapping out the next renovation with a pencil stuck in her messy bun. She liked curling up on the sofa with her laptop, trading stock options at 1 AM. She liked Oscar reading over her shoulder, pointing out line graphs he didn’t understand but wanted to. She liked the steady rhythm of their days. Naptimes and quiet dinners and Bee’s loud commentary on the existence of pigeons.

But they were in Melbourne over the Winter break, and Nicole had insisted.

“You’re getting out of the house,” she’d said, practically pushing Felicity toward the wardrobe. “You’ve been in Australia for five days, and the only places you’ve seen are the beach and Bunnings.”

And so here they were — rooftop bar in Melbourne, warm summer air, glass of chilled white wine in Nicole’s hand and a lemon-lime mocktail in Felicity’s.

Their dresses fluttered in the breeze; Her hair was up. Her arms were bare. She looked, Nicole thought proudly, like the kind of woman men write songs about.

Which was, unfortunately, the problem.

Because a man at the bar had noticed, too.

He made his way over with the swagger of someone who once played rugby in uni and still referred to it as “his prime.” White linen shirt. Too many rings. Hair with more product than structure. And that thing men did when they leaned on a table like they were presenting a TED Talk on their charm.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said smoothly, eyes only on Felicity.

Nicole didn’t blink. “You are.”

Felicity raised her eyebrows, mildly surprised, but didn’t say anything. She just sipped her drink and let the lime catch on her tongue.

The man chuckled — the low, confident kind that assumed he was being flirted back with.

“I just thought I’d say—you’ve got a great smile,” he continued. Still to Felicity. Still convinced. “You local?”

“No,” she said. “Just visiting.”

He nodded toward Nicole. “With your sister?”

Nicole’s mouth twitched.

Felicity opened her mouth to clarify, but Nicole got there first.

“I’m her mother-in-law,” she said, swirling her wine.

That gave him a moment’s pause. But not enough.

“Well, she’s clearly not married—” he gestured vaguely to Felicity’s left hand, bare in the way most hands are after a morning at the beach with a toddler and too much sunscreen.

Felicity smiled. Slowly. Like a summer storm deciding whether to ruin your picnic or level your whole house.

“I took my rings off before swimming this morning,” she said, amused. “Didn’t want to lose them in the ocean.”

He still didn’t give up. “No offence, but… a girl like you? You don’t need to be tied down so young.”

Felicity furrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, you could have fun. Live a little.”

“I’m married,” she said again, a little slower. “I live a lot.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, grinning.

She genuinely didn’t understand.

What did he mean by that?

Was she supposed to say thank you? Defend her marriage?

Debate the merits of early commitment like she was on a panel?

“No,” Felicity replied honestly, “I actually don’t. What exactly do you think is going to happen? I abandon my family because you complimented my teeth?”

She had a three-year-old who could build better arguments about bedtime.

Before Felicity could figure out what to say, Nicole gently set her wine glass down.

“She’s not tied down, darling,” she said, tone perfectly pleasant. “She’s adored.”

She reached into her purse like she was pulling a weapon.

“Would you like to see a photo of her husband holding their daughter on the beach this morning?” she asked. “Or maybe the one where he flew eight hours just to make it to her thesis defence?”

The man’s face did a visible three-second software update.

“No, that’s okay,” he said, already backing up a step.

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “You sure? My son is very photogenic. His job likes to post him shirtless sometimes. It’s a whole thing.”

Felicity had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Right. Uh—have a nice night,” the man muttered, vanishing like a bug under bright light.

+1 — The One Time Oscar Noticed

The garage was buzzing with that high-voltage energy unique to a U.S. race weekend — louder music, brighter cameras, fans pressed against every fence line like they were at a concert instead of a motorsport event. McLaren’s VIP list was stacked with influencers, sponsors, and the usual parade of celebrities trying to look like they knew what a downforce map was.

Oscar didn’t care about any of them.

He cared about the girls in the denim jackets with PIASTRI stitched across the back in big, white glittery letters. Their arts and crafts project for Silverstone.

Felicity was standing near the back of the garage, Bee balanced on her hip, and a pair of toddler-sized headphones slipped over her curls. The two of them had matching jackets, homemade and loud and perfect. Bee’s even had a sparkly iron-on chicken. Felicity’s had glitter stars. Oscar had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He was mid-chat with one of the engineers when he glanced over again.

And froze.

Because some guy—tall, tanned, fake-smiling, and clearly trying to look famous—was leaning way too close to Felicity. His teeth were too white. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He held a drink, and worse, he had sunglasses on inside. Oscar didn’t even know where he’d come from — but there he was, leaning against the garage railing like it was a club bar and Felicity was the drink special.

He was saying something. Laughing too loud.

Felicity frowned politely. She shifted a sleeping Bee on her hip and took a half-step back.

The man followed.

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, gesturing to her jacket, “if you’re gonna wear another man’s name on your back, he better be worth it.”

Felicity blinked. “He’s my husband.”

That didn’t deter him.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how good he’s got it,” the man said, still smiling, his gaze dropping briefly to her legs. “You ever get tired of being someone’s plus-one, let me know.”

Bee stirred a little, nose twitching, and Felicity rubbed her back automatically, like muscle memory. Her brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

The guy tilted his head. “C’mon. You’re clearly the type who plays the sweet wife in public. But a woman like you?” He dropped his voice. “You need real attention.”

Oscar took a step forward, but someone else moved faster.

“Alright,” said a voice, sharp and Australian and impossible to ignore. “Let’s try that again — from six feet away.”

The man turned, surprised, and saw Mark Webber.

Mark didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence alone was enough to freeze a room.

He gave the man a smile that could cut glass. “You’ve got five seconds to back up before I make this very awkward for everyone.”

“Sorry, mate—”

“No, see, that’s the problem,” Mark said, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not her mate. You’re a stranger talking to a woman who’s clearly married, clearly holding a child, and clearly not interested. So unless you’re trying to get blacklisted from every paddock hospitality list from now until eternity, I’d walk away.”

The guy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then turned and slinked off like a coward in designer shoes.

Oscar finally got to them, face tight, fury in every step.

Mark nodded. “Handled.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Mark looked at Felicity. “You alright?”

Felicity still looked baffled. “What was that?”

Oscar looked her over, checking Bee, checking her, like reassurance was the only way to keep his hands from shaking. “That guy was harassing you.”

“What? No. Was he?” She squinted after him. “He was just being weird.”

Oscar stared at her. “He was flirting. Badly.”

“He was being rude,” Felicity said. “And creepy. But flirting? Why would anyone flirt with someone holding a sleeping toddler and wearing a juice-stained T-shirt? Why does this keep happening?!”

Mark rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re wearing a custom denim jacket with your husband’s name on it in glitter. Holding your kid. And you still have men sniffing around. That’s not on you — that’s on them being idiots.”

Oscar exhaled hard.

Felicity, still gently rocking Bee, just sighed. “Maybe I should just get a flashing neon sign.”

Oscar stepped closer and kissed her temple. “You okay?”

She looked at him, tired but unbothered. “Yeah. Are you?”

“No,” he muttered. “But I will be once I get you both inside.”

***

They were tucked away in the quiet corner of the drivers' room now, post-session, Bee still fast asleep on the little sofa wrapped in one of Oscar’s hoodies. The chaos of the paddock had faded into muffled noise.

Oscar was sitting across from Felicity, one leg bouncing.

He was still rattled.

“What do you mean they keep flirting with you?” he asked, brows drawn together as he looked at her.

Felicity blinked up at him. “What?”

“You said it like it happens regularly,” he said, voice low and sharp with something he was trying to keep cool. “Like that wasn’t the first time.”

She paused. Shrugged. “I mean… it does? A little?”

Oscar stared at her. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. Since Haileybury, probably? Or Oxford. And, like… in the hardware store.”

Oscar made a noise that might have been a groan or a growl.

“And you didn’t tell me?” he asked.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” she said simply, brushing a hand over Bee’s curls. “They’re not you. So they don’t have a chance.”

He stilled.

That one sentence — calm, sure, like it was the most obvious fact in the world — hit him in the chest like a perfect downshift.

She tilted her head, studying him. “You really didn’t know?”

“I knew people looked,” he admitted.

Of course, they looked. He was aware of how Felicity looked: Sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. Hair windswept from the open pit lane. She had juice on her shirt, no makeup, and still — still — she looked like something out of a dream. Breakable and brilliant. All porcelain and fire.

Beautiful.

“I’m not blind. But I didn’t realise they were… like that.”

“I don’t even get why they are doing it,” Felicity snorted. “I look like someone who hasn’t slept properly since Bee was born. I have crusted juice on my shirt. I literally threw Goldfish crackers at our daughter to buy myself ten minutes.”

Oscar leaned back, exasperated. “And you still look better than anyone else here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just biased.”

“I’m jealous,” he corrected, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I hate it. That guy didn’t even flinch when you said you were married.”

“He probably thought I was joking,” she said mildly. “People don’t really expect twenty-somethings to be married with kids.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “They should. You wear my name on your back.”

She shrugged. “They don’t matter. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Oscar was across the space in a second.

He kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate — hand sliding around her waist, pulling her in close. His other hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he had to remind himself she was real.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, breath shallow.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice low. “I know I don’t own you, but God, I feel it sometimes. Like you’ve always been mine.”

“I have. Since we were 15,” she whispered. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even before you had a Wikipedia page.”

Oscar kissed her. Not rushed, not messy — but firm. Grounded. A kiss that said mine. A kiss that would’ve been indecent if she weren’t already wearing his name and carrying his child and his whole damn heart.

When he finally pulled back, she was breathless.

And across the room, Bee stirred, let out a sleepy sigh, and snuggled deeper into Oscar’s hoodie.

Felicity leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, and muttered, “You’re ridiculous when you’re jealous.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” she sighed. “Yes.”

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

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orangesaek · 1 month ago

Text

‘choose me’ | simp Haechan

summary: a short story about how Haechan got roasted, fell deeply in love, and tried to convince you (a serial Tinder dater) that he’s the best catch around

pairings: haechan x afab!reader┊genre: fluff (with a sprinkle of comedy)┊wc: 0.8k┊cw: very minimal cursing, like three

a/n: slightly proofread; inspired by a funny astrology meme i saw on reddit lol

The first time Haechan realized he liked you was when you insulted him.

Not a casual jab.

A full-on, deadpan, “did you take something that’s why you talk this much, or is it just your personality?”

He fell in love instantly, like a loser.

You were sharp, untouchable, kind of scary, and hot. Like, distractingly hot.

Which would’ve been fine if you weren’t also funny and charming and friends with his friends. If you hadn’t slotted yourself right into the Dreamies’ circle like you’d always belonged there.

Especially Jisung. That little shit.

You two bonded over aliens and cursed theories and inside jokes faster than Haechan could process.

So, yeah. From day one, he was doomed.

But the problem was, you didn’t like him.

Well, not in the way he liked you.

You were out there dating guys with astrology tattoos and ‘sapiosexual’ in their bios.

Meanwhile, Haechan was watching you spiral through Tinder dates like a Bachelor contestant, wondering when God would give him a break.

“Another fail?” he’d ask casually every time you joined the group post-date.

You’d glare. “At least I’m trying.”

And he’d flash you a grin and say something stupid like, “may God continue to send you terrible men until you finally choose me, ah-men.”

It was a joke.

Except it wasn’t.

He meant every goddamn word.

He wasn’t subtle about liking you either. Not even a little.

He flirted loudly, shamelessly, obnoxiously—but he loved you quietly, in the background. In the little ways.

Like the iced drinks.

You always wrapped a tissue around your cup because you hated the wetness. So Haechan started doing it for you. No announcement. Just, ‘here’, like it was no big deal.

He noticed the way you wiped the mouth of a can before drinking, so he started doing that for you too.

And when you kept taking the chair against the wall during group dinners, he started offering it first. No fuss. Just slid into the other seat like it was nothing.

You liked extra onions in your food. He didn’t. But you’d never know that, because he always gave you his.

“You’re obsessed with onions,” he teased once, dropping another spoonful on your plate.

You laughed, glowing. “They make everything better.”

He smiled, chewing on his plain meat. “Guess they do.”

He didn’t want credit. He just wanted to make your life easier. That was enough.

Okay, maybe a little credit. A plaque, a trophy, your hand in marriage. Whatever.

Still, nothing changed.

You kept dating around.

And Haechan? He kept pretending it didn’t get to him.

He joked about your flops. He played it cool. But inside, he was climbing the walls, screaming into the void, rewriting sad songs in his head.

“Why not me?” he asked Jaemin once, tipsy and dramatic.

“Because you’re a menace,” Jaemin replied, not looking up from his phone.

Then came the arcade night.

You were freshly ditched by some asshole. Haechan had a whole speech ready. Something about how he would never cancel on you unless he was actively on fire.

But when you showed up with Jisung anyway, he swallowed it. Just being around you was enough.

The claw machine nearly ruined him.

You stood there, trying to win a ridiculous plushie, failing over and over with your nose scrunched and your lip pouty.

Haechan, of course, had to intervene for your happiness. Not because you looked like an actual Disney character in distress.

“I got this,” he said, rolling up his sleeves like a clown.

Miss.

Devastating miss.

He could feel the judgment radiating off you.

“Are you trying to lose on purpose?” you asked.

“I’m letting the plushie build character,” he said, sweating.

But on the fourth try, the stars aligned. The claw dropped, caught, and delivered that cursed plush into his hands like divine retribution for his devotion.

He handed it to you like it was the most sacred object in the world.

“For you,” he said. “Because clearly the universe is giving you everything but me.”

You stared at him and he panicked.

“… and because you’re too pretty to be rejected and plushie-less,” he quickly added.

You laughed and he breathed again

The shift was slow, just the little things.

You started texting him first. Sitting next to him more and laughing longer.

Then came the night you asked him out.

He genuinely thought he hallucinated it.

“Wait, like, a real one?” he asked, blinking rapidly.

“With me???”

“No, with the ghost of my dating history,” you said dryly.

“Yes, you, you dummy.”

He had to walk away for ten seconds and come back just to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.

The first date was simple.

He booked your favorite restaurant. You sat in your preferred seat. He brought your drink already wrapped in tissue and ordered extra onions for your favorite dish.

You looked at all of it—every small, invisible thing he’d been doing for months—and then looked at him like he was something brand new.

“Haechan,” you said, “why do you do all this?”

He shrugged casually. “Because I noticed.”

You stared at him.

He swallowed but let out a soft, genuine smile.

“And because I like you,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Because it really was.

accepting requests atm ₍ᐢ._.ᐢ₎♡ btw, part 2 is otw ;)

── .✦ SEQUEL IS OUT!!! ✦. ──

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the-s1lly-corner · 27 days ago

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Cuddling TADC cast

Been a minute since I've written an entire cast shot for TADC-- dont expect this to be a common thing again

Notes: gn reader, short and sweet, written on computer, Canon character focused, im sure ive already written this a loooooooong time ago but blah blah blah feeling like its been long enough to warrant a rewrite esp as new episodes have likely come out between then and now

CWs: mentions of body dysmorphia in zoobles part, mentions of loss in kingers part as well as struggles with memory

CAINE

LOVE love loves cuddling with you- hes never actually cuddled another person... bubble doesnt count and thats more of like... comical clinging hug than actual cuddling!

odds are youre physically larger than him but thats not going to stop him being big spoon- definitely has the traditional "men need to be the one in that position" not because he feels he NEEDS to as a man... he just likes feeling like youre personal protector- your man, your guy, your... uhuhuh... yeah!

he sometimes like to cuddle you mid air... hope youre not afraid of heights and the odd feeling of defying physics!

POMNI

again, odds are youre larger than her. she seems more of a little spoon person... though she strikes me as the type to be an awkward cuddler. she doesnt really know where to put her hands- even if its far from the first time youve cuddled into one another

i love her, and she loves you- but pomni looks like the type of person to run uncomfortably hot and doesnt like being touched because of it... clammy and gross feeling, doesnt like it. dont touch her she will get irritated from the feel... its not that she doesnt like you she just doesnt like feeling sweaty

compromises by holding your hand in bed... looping your fingers together as you sleep feels... more tender honestly...

RAGATHA

shes soft and plush- of course she is, shes a doll! definitely has some weight to her... sleeping with her arm wrapped around you is so comforting, genuinely the best sleep youve gotten in a while

she also vaguely smells like berries! so thats a bonus! she totally gets it if you nestle your face into her hair and drift off smelling her! sure its a little quirky but shes not going to judge you for it... honestly if you smelled nice like that she might do the same

no big spoon/little spoon thing... you two mostly just cling onto one another in the bed by any means necessary

JAX

only ever cuddles you when he knows for a fact other people arent going to come in and see him like this. i still stand firm that he hates being seen as soft and vulnerable. even letting himself indulge in stuff like this in an unapologetically tender and sincere way for YOU takes some time

and even then hes most likely to shift into you and cuddle if youre asleep, unable to perceive his rare moment of just... being soft.

he doesnt like being little spoon though, even without the vulnerability stuff

hes kind of sticky.. hes not fluffy in my mind. hes like those rubber squishy toys

KINGER

its... nice holding someone again... but when was the last time hes held someone? why does it feels so familiar but so different- it wasnt you in his arms before was it? it was... someone else, wasnt it? ...hes hardly in the moment long enough most of the time to really dwell on it

he likes being the big spoon- keeping you in his arms... er... hands... makes him feel anchored, calmer. he knows hes missed this even if he cant quite pin point why

but... he kind of melts right into you when you turn it back on him and make him the little spoon. its like seeing a stunned animal relax into comfort

GANGLE

cuddling with her can be a little... hard.. shes made of ribbon so there isnt much to hold and she doesnt have much weight to her... it.. definitely is a sore topic for her. it makes her feel like shes falling short somewhere. like she cant properly cuddle you

even holding her bundled up in your arms doesnt feel right, and shes going to pull away the entire time- doesnt want to waste your efforts even if you try to reassure her... times like this call for creativity--

wrapping her ribbons around you might be a little unconventional... and might lead to tangling- but its something, and its something only you two can do.. no one else! its special and unique to your relationship specifically.. word it like that to her and she'll cheer up a bit!

ZOOBLE

they dont... much care for cuddling. for multiple reasons. partly because its just not for them, and partly because it forces them to actively become aware of what their body is like... the shape, the textures... its all a bit much...

but zooble doesnt want to make you feel rejected- its a hard situation all around. they are going to at least talk to you about it so youre not left in the dark... though it might take a while for them to bring it up

they much prefer non physical intimacy anyways- even prior to the circus. acts of service, talking, spending time. things like that mean more to them

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thekoalapastriesbakery · 2 months ago

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LOSS OF MY LIFE

formula one x horror actor!reader

request: I'm hoping this is thw right way to ask for requests but we live and learn ig. Anyway what about how the drivers would react to reader being in some sort of horror film and they end up dying?

summary: your boyfriend reacts to your death in a movie.

warnings: mild descriptions of death and gore, swearing, i think that's it?

contains: charles leclerc, gabriel bortoleto, + ollie bearman

word count: 552

charles leclerc:

he had been so incredibly excited to see your movie. you had warned him several dozen times that it was a horror movie and not a tame one. he didn't listen, of course, and decided it was a better idea to watch it when he was alone. at night. in a hotel room he was not familiar with.

… needless to say, you weren't exactly surprised when you woke up to your phone ringing. even less surprising was hearing charles sniffling and begging you to get a flight out because he's just seen you die a very gruesome death in the movie and now he desperately needs cuddles. he's definitely got a collection of stuffed animals he uses when he needs comfort but you're not available, and his favourite is a floppy bunny. charles is holding onto that bunny like his life depends on it after watching your movie.

you end up having to call one of the other drivers and ask them to keep him company until you get there. when you do, expect to be within arm's reach of your boyfriend at all times.

gabriel bortoleto:

he's actually kind of offended that the writers had the audacity to kill you off. the second he realizes what's about to happen he'll start angrily ranting about "how dare they!!" and all that.

then he sees you covered in the (fake) blood and you're so clearly pissed off even though you're dying and he just … slowly … trails off … until he's just staring at the screen. he doesn't even respond when you poke his arm to see if he's okay. all that's going through his head is holy fuck you look hot when you're angry and covered in blood—

it takes you a little while to realise what's actually going on, and you gotta just kinda keep poking and teasing him until he breaks out of it. let's just say if you wanna go all out for halloween there … gabi's definitely on board.

ollie bearman:

i actually think he really likes horror movies even though they give him nightmares? ollie loves them and finds them so interesting and even though he's so tense the whole time he just … he loves them! so when he finds out that you're gonna be in a horror movie?

he is so excited.

ollie makes a whole night of it. he'll order food from your favourite restaurant, set up a lil blanket fort for the two of you, make sure you know that he'll be extra jumpy that night, and then get your movie set up on his laptop. he can't watch horror movies on big screen because the detail makes it too scary for him. so you'll just have to get used to watching things on a laptop screen, sorry.

finally he gets to cuddle up to you and he's so excited to watch your movie!! he gets most of the way through before your character gets killed off and ollie … he just shuts his computer immediately.

the whole rest of the night is just spent assuring your boyfriend that you're fine, you're not upset about your character's ending, and also that yes, all of the actual horror bits in the movie were fake. then—and only then—will he start talking about the actual quality of the movie and praising your acting.

©thekoalapastriesbakery :: please do not copy or rewrite my work on any platform !!

author's note: please note that i am a wimp who can't watch horror for the life of me 😅

comments + reblogs appreciated!

taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius @crispysoup318 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @ncrsbrg @spoonfulofmilo @justaf1girl @widow-cevans

#f1 x reader #f1 x male reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x male reader #gabriel bortoleto x reader #gabriel bortoleto x male reader #ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman x male reader #actor!reader

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writesvani · 2 months ago

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dear me | 09

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: sexual tension, emotional tension, alcohol consumption, conflicted feelings for a taken friend, stage anxiety, performance stress, emotional repression, romantic confusion, angst, unresolved feelings, subtle jealousy, explicit language

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 6,6k // date: 13th of May 2025

CHAPTER NINE — PLAY IT AGAIN happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey guys, it’s been 2 weeks without “dear me,” but we’re so back, baby. anyways, writing this chapter was really hard for me. like, REALLY hard. i’ve been stuck in a writer's block pit and i swear, i kept deleting and rewriting scenes (i’m pretty sure this chapter has like 8 versions in my drafts, don’t even ask). BUT i’ve finally settled with this one, so here we are.

now, time to meet some new characters. what do we think of them, huh? yay or nay? also, i gave you SO MANY easter eggs in this chapter. like, half of it is just foreshadowing or clearly hinting at something and i’m LOWKEY excited to see your comments and asks about it.

anyways, goal for this chapter is 450 because i KNOW we can hit it and also because i like having a bit more time to finish chapters. so yeah, let’s do this. love you guys, now go read and tell me everything you think.

It’s kind of ridiculous, honestly—the way Jeon Jungkook blends into a room and owns it at the same time. Like some kind of paradox. Earlier today, he looked like he belonged to the sunlight—the warm kind, the kind that makes old bookstores feel like home. Curled into his booth with an espresso and that soft, quiet stare. He looked small. Touchable.

But now?

Now he looks like a warning sign. Shoulders squared, head tilted like he knows something you don’t, lips curved in that maddening smirk of his. The neon lights of The House flicker against his sharp jaw, casting shadows that feel deliberate. Calculated. Dangerous.

You’re following behind him, mildly regretting the decision to show up early. It’s barely 9 p.m. and the place is already humming—bands tuning up, neon signs buzzing, and Alex... perched on a bar stool like he owns the air.

You’re going to need a drink. Immediately.

Jungkook walks up like it’s his goddamn stage. Alex looks up, face splitting into a grin.

“Well, shit,” he says, tossing his pen aside. “Didn’t think you’d actually show, big boy.”

Jungkook shrugs, already half in a chair. “I don’t back out of dares.”

You glance at the paper Alex was scribbling on and let out a half-laugh. “Are you—are you seriously doing sudoku right now?”

Alex deadpans, “Gotta keep the brain sharp, sweetheart.”

You snort. “You’re so full of it. You not working tonight?”

“Please. I’m off-duty. I came to get drunk and take Jungkook’s money.”

“You wish,” Jungkook mutters, grinning. “So who’s behind the bar?” he asks.

Alex leans back dramatically. “New guy. But he’s decent. You might know him—same age as you two.”

You raise a brow. “Then just say his name? What is this cryptic scavenger hunt?”

“I’m setting the vibe,” Alex says. “Anyway, name’s Park Jimin.”

You blink. Jungkook goes still for half a second.

Park. Fucking. Jimin.

This is exactly why you hate small towns.

This is why you should’ve stayed away. Should’ve packed up your life, lit a match to the past, and never looked back. Because small towns come with reunions you never asked for. The kind that smell like stale beer, too-loud music, and people who were never villains—just unnecessary plot twists you never wanted to reread.

So when Park Jimin strolls out from the back closet door of The House—the one they keep the good booze in because the bar’s too damn small—you already feel your molars grinding.

You don’t hate him. But God, does his presence itch.

“Well, well,” he says, slipping a bottle of Belvedere into the fridge. His eyes lock on yours, glittering with the same mischief that used to make you roll yours in high school. “Familiar faces just follow me, huh?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grins like it’s personal. “Missed me much?”

“Yeah. Like a rash.”

“Oof. Still bitter about prom?”

“I’m not bitter about prom.”

“You totally are.” He leans on the bar like he’s settling in. “Sorry again for dumping you right before, though. Heard you had to go with Yoongi. Brutal.”

“Hey, hey, hey—” Alex interrupts next to you, throwing a hand in the air. “Don’t slander my boy Yoongs like that. That man is class.”

Jimin ignores him. Of course he does.

“Thought your bestie would take you,” he adds, eyes still on you, “but I guess his girlfriend matched his aesthetic better.”

The blood in your ears roars. You open your mouth, but Jungkook beats you to it.

“What’s your problem?” he says, voice low and sharp. The tension in his jaw could crack diamonds.

Jimin looks at him for the first time. Smirks. “Relax, bro. I’m just messing with my ex. No harm done.”

You’re about to fire back when he adds, casual as hell, “Heard you got engaged to your high school sweetheart though. Congrats, man. Seriously.”

And just like that, the air goes from hot to hostile. Your throat tightens.

This motherfucker always knew where to cut.

Jungkook’s expression falters for a moment. You catch it—just the twitch of his jaw, the flicker behind his eyes. You think he might say something—thank him, tell him off, maybe even laugh it off.

Instead, he shifts.

His face evens out into that lazy, cool disinterest he wears so well. Like nothing ever touches him.

“One Jack Daniels,” he says, tone smooth, eyes bored. “Two cubes of ice. And for my friend—” he gestures toward you without even looking, “One Long Island Iced Tea. Add extra lemon juice and, uh, don’t be shy with the tequila.”

Jimin blinks. “What?”

Jungkook shrugs, rolling his shoulders like he’s stretching before a fight. “That’s our order. You do still make drinks, right? Or are you just here to be irrelevant all over again?”

You almost choke on a laugh. Almost.

Jimin wets his lips, and for a moment you see the flicker of something crack behind his eyes. But he recovers. Plasters on that wide, gleaming smile—the one you used to fall for. The one you now recognize as plastic.

“Of course,” he says, voice all sugar and sawdust. “Coming right up.”

Jungkook’s phone buzzes against the bar top. You glance over just as the screen lights up — Nina. Of course. She and Yoongi are supposed to be showing up any minute now.

When Jungkook had called her earlier to tell her about the bet with Alex — how he was playing drums tonight — she was thrilled. Or, well, "ecstatic," in his words. You weren’t on speaker, so you couldn’t hear her exact reaction. But you can imagine it. Sweet and supportive and all the things you know Nina to be.

He’d invited her immediately, of course. And she’d dragged Yoongi into the plan too — not that you minded. You might’ve casually begged Yoongi to show up so you wouldn’t have to third-wheel your way through the night like some tragic side character.

Jungkook picks up his phone with a low grunt, muttering, “She’s gonna call me in like, two seconds.”

You nod as he stands, watching his silhouette disappear toward the front door.

Alex elbows you, hard. “So… what I’m gathering here is, Jimin is your ex?”

You sigh. “Wow. Incredible deduction, detective. Really cracked the case there.”

He snorts. “So he’s that ex? The one who bailed on you before prom?”

You shoot him a look. “What gave it away, the tension in the room or the mild death wish I had five minutes ago?”

Alex grins. “You’re such a bitch.”

“Jimin brings it out in me.”

“Sure, blame the man.”

“I am blaming the man,” you say, then pause, brow furrowing. “He’s just… irritating.”

“He was acting weird with Jungkook though. And Yoongi too, back when he was mentioned. What's his deal with them?”

You shrug. “Honestly? No clue. Even when I dated him, he’d pretend they didn’t exist in public. It was weird then, and it’s still weird now.”

Alex hums, nursing his drink. “Damn, I thought he’s cool. He gives me bad vibes now.”

“You give me bad vibes.”

“And yet here you are, hanging out with me,” he grins.

“Sooo… love,” Jimin drawls, and you know — you just know — he’s talking to you.

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to stay facing Alex, but his voice is like a needle in your spine. When you glance over, he’s not even trying to hide the smug look on his face. He’s pouring white rum into a shaker like it’s the most casual thing in the world, the glint in his eyes almost daring you to respond.

You roll your eyes. God, he’s insufferable. Always was. Still, you can’t lie — black hair, pretty lips, annoyingly symmetrical face… Park Jimin has no right still looking that good.

Not that you’d ever say it aloud. Your friends would kill you on the spot.

“What?” you snap.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just wanted to see if you’d still turn when I call you love.”

“You’re fucked in the head.”

He grins, unbothered. “You know whose head I also fucked?”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Peak comedy. Is there a two-drink minimum for this set or what?”

“No joke. Just facts.”

“Yeah, okay, we had sex. Ages ago. You want a medal?”

He leans in slightly. “Didn’t think the first time was that forgettable.”

“It only means something if the person means something,” you say coolly.

That hits. His smile slips just a bit — before morphing into something darker.

“Then maybe you should’ve picked one of your friends. Wonder who would’ve been more desperate—gloom-and-doom Yoongi or Mr. Marrying-The-Preppy-Girl.”

You tense. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

He just shrugs again, shaking the cocktail like nothing’s wrong. “Touchy.”

“I don’t know what your problem is with them—hell, with me—but you’re acting like a damn parasite.”

“I don’t have a problem with you,” he says easily, pouring the drink. “You’re not pathetic. They are. I’m just trying to open your eyes.”

“Dude,” Alex hisses, his tone sharp, “I get there's history here, but you really need to back off. She’s a customer.”

Jimin doesn’t even flinch, still focused on mixing the drinks with practiced ease. “I get it, I do,” he smirks, eyes flicking to you. “But she knows exactly what I’m talking about. She knows why we broke up, after all.”

You clench your jaw, fighting the urge to snap. “Jimin, drop it. It was a high school breakup. Seriously, who cares? I got over it in two weeks.”

He leans in slightly, that dangerous edge to his smile. “You ever think I might’ve been right?”

“No,” you reply coldly, voice tight. “Because you weren’t.”

Jimin’s smile widens, but it’s all sharp edges now. “Sure, love. Whatever helps you keep your little fairytale. I’ll drop it—for now.” He slides the drink toward you, his gaze lingering just a second too long.

When Jungkook walks back into The House, the change in him is immediate. Whatever easy charm he left with is gone — replaced by stormy eyes and a jaw so tight you’re afraid he might crack a bone or two. His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, a tell you’ve come to recognize: something went wrong.

“Took you long enough,” Jimin taunts, just as Jungkook drops into the seat next to you without a word. It’s not his usual controlled fall — it’s heavy, careless.

“Your ice melted,” Jimin adds, gesturing toward the untouched whiskey glass, voice dipped in mock concern.

Jungkook barely glances at it. “Right. Shame,” he mutters.

Alex leans forward slightly, brow creasing. “Everything cool, man?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook says. “Peachy. Don’t worry about it.”

But you do. You worry the second you see the way his knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the bar. You want to ask, but his expression shuts that down. Whatever it is, it’s not meant for public display.

So you shift gears. “When are Nina and Yoongi getting here?”

“Nina’s not coming,” he says flatly, not even looking at you.

“What?” That doesn’t make sense. She was practically bouncing off the walls earlier, excited to watch him drum again, or at least that’s what Jungkook said.

“She’s… feeling under the weather.”

A cold excuse. Paper thin.

You blink. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” he says, then adds, too casually, “Just not in the mood to go out.”

Something’s off. Way off.

“And Yoongi?”

“He’ll be here later,” Jungkook says, voice tightening as he rubs the back of his neck — another tell.

Then, of course, Jimin can’t help himself.

“Damn,” he drawls, grinning like the devil. “Your little fiancée bailed on your big night?”

Jungkook flinches.

It’s subtle, but it’s there — a flicker of pain behind the guarded eyes.

“Jimin,” you hiss, eyes flashing as you shoot him a death glare. “Enough.”

But he’s already walking off, smug and self-satisfied, whistling like he didn’t just stick a knife into something raw.

And Jungkook?

He doesn’t say a word.

He just stares straight ahead.

A few awkward minutes pass — the silence only interrupted by the distant sound of opening bands testing mics and tuning guitars. No one dares break the uneasy stillness. Alex is hunched over a sudoku, casually sipping his beer like it’s any other night. Jungkook nurses his half-melted whiskey, the kind of lukewarm drink that probably tastes like piss by now. Even Jimin’s gone quiet, absent of any snark, polishing glasses with the focus of someone who knows he went too far.

You stare blankly at your phone, Instagram Reels flickering past without meaning. You couldn’t name a single thing you’ve watched.

Because all you can feel is him.

The tension radiating off Jungkook is impossible to ignore — like he’s one sharp breath away from detonating. But instead, he just… sits there. Bottled up. Unmoving. Unwell.

“Kook,” you whisper, soft enough that only he hears. “What happened?”

He exhales through his nose. “Nothing, really. I don’t wanna dump shit on you.”

“C’mon.” You bump your shoulder gently against his. “Spill.”

He hesitates. Then, quietly: “Nina just thinks… since I’m working tomorrow, I shouldn’t be out tonight.”

You frown. That doesn’t sound like Nina. Not from what you know.

“And?” you ask.

“And she thinks… this is an unnecessary distraction.”

You blink. “This as in what?”

“As in me drumming tonight.”

Your eyebrows knit tighter. “A distraction from what?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I don’t get it either. She just said she needs sleep and can’t make it.”

You let that settle for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Kook. But… wasn’t she excited earlier? Like, really excited?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice thinning. “But… something changed. I don’t know what. She just—changed her mind.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Kook,” you say gently, giving his shoulder a little squeeze. “She’s probably just annoyed about something and taking it out on you. It’ll pass. It usually does, right?”

“Yeah… probably,” he mutters. “I just thought she’d come. I haven’t played in forever. Kinda wanted her here, that’s all.”

“I get it,” you nod. Wanted her here. It shouldn’t hit the way it does, but it does. You take a sip of your drink, trying to shake it off. “But hey—Yoongi’s coming. Alex is here. I’m here.”

He glances at you, manages a small smile. It looks practiced, not real. “At least I’ll have a chill crowd when I completely bomb.”

“You wish,” you nudge him. “If you bomb, I’ll be the first one to laugh in your face.”

“You’re all heart,” he says with a light chuckle, and it feels better—easier—than anything he’s said since he walked in.

“Hey!” Jimin suddenly appears in front of you both like he’s been summoned by drama. “Not everyone here’s so supportive. I’ve got front-row seats to his downfall.”

Jungkook laughs for real this time. “Yeah, well, good thing I never valued your opinion.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s accurate.”

You roll your eyes, pointing at Jimin. “Alright, enough out of you. Go make us another round. Alex too. And fine, you can pour yourself something if it’ll keep you from eavesdropping.”

Jimin clutches his chest like you just proposed. “Wow. Buying me a drink now? And here I thought you were over me.”

You smirk. “Don’t push your luck. I’m just trying to keep the vibe from completely crashing.”

Jimin gives you a playful salute and walks off. And for the first time in what feels like forever, Jungkook’s shoulders drop a little. He still looks sad, but at least now he doesn’t look like he’s gonna snap in half.

When Jimin slides your drinks over, Alex actually wheezes — like, full-on wheezes — before his face turns red with excitement. “As soon as I get Jungkook’s money,” he adds dramatically, “you’re the first one I’m buying one for.”

“You could just split the money with me,” you reply, smirking over your glass.

Next to you, Jungkook groans and slumps forward, burying his face in his hands. “I swear to god, I’m gonna die. I’m not even gonna be good. I haven’t done this in so long.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex waves him off. “Spare us the dramatics, Kook. The kids you’ll be playing with should be here any minute.”

“The kids I’ll be—what?”

“Well, yeah,” Alex shrugs. “You’re playing drums, right? No offense, man, but I don’t think the crowd’s dying for a solo drum recital. You need a full sound. Guitar, bass, maybe even keys. You know how these things go.”

Jungkook stares at him, horrified. “Oh my god. I didn’t even think about that. Who am I playing with?”

“That band I told you about this morning, remember?” Alex says casually.

“Wait—don’t they already have a drummer?”

“Yeah, they do,” Alex grins. “But I talked to Jack. Asked if he’d let you jump in for a song, and he said sure. Super chill guy.”

Jungkook rubs his forehead with both hands, muttering something under his breath. You can't tell if it’s relief or panic—or both.

“Hey,” you nudge him gently, “you’ll be fine. You could probably play in your sleep.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll have to,” he mutters, then downs the rest of his drink.

The door of The House creaks open, and like a domino effect, all four of you—Alex, Jungkook, even Jimin, and you—snap your heads toward it, expecting to finally see the teenage band roll in.

But no. Not even close.

Instead, it’s Yoongi. He steps inside in a massive black hoodie and matching sweatpants, a bandana pushing his hair off his forehead. He pauses when he sees all your eyes locked on him, confusion already creeping into his features.

“What?” he frowns. “Did I miss it? You already played, man?”

You let out a small laugh.

“Nah, not yet.” Jungkook gestures toward the bar. “Keep the whiskey flowing.”

Jimin groans under his breath, clearly annoyed—by Jungkook’s request, by Yoongi’s sudden presence, by existence in general.

Yoongi raises a brow as he takes the seat next to Alex. “Did all of you just... stare at me when I walked in?”

“Sorry, man,” Alex chuckles. “We thought the band Kook’s playing with showed up.”

“The high schoolers?” Yoongi asks, settling in.

“Yeah,” you say. “I mentioned them earlier when we texted.”

Yoongi hums. “Heard they’re good. Can I get a dirty martini?” His voice is calm until his eyes meet Jimin’s.

He stiffens. Jimin rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in his head.

“Why the hell not,” Jimin mutters, stomping off to make the drink.

Yoongi watches him walk away, his jaw tightening.

“What are you doing here?” he calls after him.

“Working. Thought that was obvious,” Jimin bites back, slamming the finished martini in front of him with no ceremony.

Yoongi goes quiet. You and Jungkook exchange a subtle glance.

You lean toward Yoongi, voice low. “Okay, I knew you two weren’t exactly besties, but this feels like next-level passive-aggressive.”

“He deserves it,” Yoongi grits out.

You blink. “Sure, but… I wasn’t expecting you to be more pissed than I am to see him.”

“He’s just—” Yoongi exhales, “annoying.”

“That’s something even I agree with,” Jungkook mutters, sipping his drink.

“What are you even wearing, dude?” Jimin asks, eyeing Yoongi’s oversized hoodie and sweats like they’re a disgrace to the earth. “Who the hell comes to a club dressed like that?”

Yoongi doesn’t even flinch. “Me.”

Jimin scoffs, dramatic as ever. “Right. Is that because you’re, what—edgy? Quirky? Too cool to try?”

“No,” Yoongi says flatly. “It’s because this place isn’t a club, it’s practically a dive bar, and I literally grew up here. But hey—props to you for trying so hard. Must be tough being the new guy.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow, jaw twitching just slightly. “Cute. Did you rehearse that one in the mirror or does it just come naturally when you’re being a dick?”

Yoongi smirks, unbothered. “Naturally. But thanks for noticing.”

“Well, everyone’s getting along just great,” Alex mutters, lips pressed tight around the rim of his beer.

“I’m just glad someone finally matches Jimin’s talent for being a pain in the ass,” Jungkook says, spinning one of his rings absentmindedly with his thumb.

Your eyes drift to his hands. Just for a second. Just because they’re moving. But then you really look. His fingers—long, slender, tanned just enough—move with ease, like they know how to pull attention. His skin looks soft, but there’s something sharp in the way his knuckles flex. Something wicked. Something you shouldn’t be noticing.

Your stomach twists.

You blink, hard, like that'll reset your brain.

Jungkook is your friend. Your best friend. Engaged to your other friend. This isn’t supposed to be happening. You’re not supposed to be looking at his hands like this.

And worse—worse than anything—Jimin saw it. Of course he fucking did. You hear his quiet, condescending chuckle, and a wave of shame burns through your cheeks.

“Nice rings, Jungkook,” Jimin says, too casually. His eyes never leave Jungkook’s face, but you can feel the smirk meant for you. “They really suit your fingers.”

Jungkook frowns, caught off guard. “Uh… thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Jimin replies smoothly, already turning on his heel as someone calls his name from across the bar.

You watch him go, teeth clenched.

Fuck you, Park Jimin.

You’d almost been grateful for his silence. But no—he just had to say something.

Finally—finally—after what feels like an eternity and three Long Islands too deep, the door creaks open and in stumble four high schoolers, breathless, disheveled, and looking like they lost half their souls on the way here.

Alex shoots up with a dramatic yell. “Here they come. My children.”

“Fucking hell, Mina, I told you we’d be late,” the tall brunette groans, dragging a black gig bag over his shoulder as he wipes sweat off his brow.

“Chill, dude. We’re not late—we’re on at eleven,” the girl—who you assume is Mina (probably because she’s the only girl)—retorts, hoisting a keyboard bag like it’s a sack of bricks but somehow not tripping over it.

“Can you two not? Just tonight, please?” the third kid huffs, his pale skin glowing under the lights, striking blue eyes shooting them both a glare.

Trailing quietly behind them is the fourth member—carrying only a pair of drumsticks. That’s Jack. Definitely Jack. His shoulders are hunched, cheeks tinged pink as he scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the chaos in front of him.

“Hey, Alex,” the blue-eyed boy says, grinning as he high-fives the older man.

“Yo, Dan. What’s up.”

“Sorry we’re late, bro. Mina took two hours doing her eyeliner.”

“Ha! See!” the brunette jumps in. “I’m not the only one who thought it was excessive.”

“It’s called getting ready,” Mina snaps, turning on him. “Sorry I wasn’t born a man so I could just throw on a clean shirt and be socially acceptable. It’s not my fault people expect women to look like magazine covers.”

“Why do you turn everything into feminist propaganda?” Ace mutters, and you can’t help the smirk that tugs at your lips.

“I’m not. I’m just stating facts.”

They’re so deep into their bickering that they don’t even notice the rest of you at the bar—except for Jack and Dan, who gravitate toward Alex like they're clinging to stability.

“So, this is JK, guys,” Alex says, nodding toward Jungkook.

That shuts everyone up.

“The Jeon Jungkook?” the brunette—Ace, you think—says, eyes wide, posture straightening in an instant.

You nudge Jungkook’s shoulder. “Uhm, wow, Jungkook. Didn’t know I was in the presence of royalty.”

Jungkook laughs under his breath. “Uh… yeah?” He glances at Ace, unsure.

Mina squeals—an actual, honest-to-god squeal. Dan flushes bright red. And Jack stammers, “Whoa. You’re kind of a legend around here. Total honor to meet you, sir.”

“Please don’t call me sir,” Jungkook says, flustered. “I’m not that old. And—legend?”

“Yeah, bro—I mean, sir—I mean Jungkook,” Jack stammers. “Everyone knows about you. I can’t believe I’m letting you borrow my sticks tonight.”

“Thanks for the sticks in advance, Jack,” Jungkook says, his cheeks tinged pink—part whiskey, part unexpected attention. “But I’m just gonna warn you—I might disappoint you guys.”

“No way,” Jack fires back instantly.

“Not a chance,” Mina adds, shaking her head.

Jungkook laughs, easing into their energy. He falls into effortless banter with the kids, talking about their setlist, throwing out ideas, asking their opinions on which song he should play.

You don’t interrupt. You just watch him.

He finally looks relaxed, like the tension in his shoulders has melted off without anyone noticing. His face is lit up with a soft smile, his hands moving as he animatedly explains why Smells Like Teen Spirit should absolutely make the list. The kids groan dramatically, arguing that while it’s a classic, it’s way too basic for a comeback gig after ten years.

“It’s a banger!” Jungkook insists, brows raised.

“And that’s the problem!” Ace argues. “We want iconic, not expected.”

Yoongi, from his seat nearby, chimes in lazily, “Nirvana is iconic. Can’t be basic if it’s legendary.”

Mina turns to him, eyes sharp but playful. “With all due respect, Sir—we need something more iconic.”

“How is that song not the 'most' iconic?” Yoongi repeats, deadpan.

“It is,” Mina sighs, “but we need like—iconic with a twist.”

You laugh, quietly. The whole exchange is ridiculous but so full of life. Your gaze finds its way back to Jungkook—still laughing, still animated, bangs falling in his eyes, youth catching the edge of his expression.

You’re not sure what it is—the presence of the kids, the memory of what The House used to mean, or just the anticipation of playing again—but something about him tonight feels different. No—familiar.

He looks alive.

He looks like himself.

So you lean into it. You let yourself feel it. Let yourself miss him in the way that hurts but also heals.

Because this… this version of him—the one glowing with purpose and ease—this is the version you’ve missed the most.

“Don’t you guys want to drop off your instruments and have a drink?” Jimin asks from behind the bar, voice light, expression even lighter.

You stiffen, blinking twice. Park Jimin… smiling? And not the condescending, I-know-something-you-don’t smile, but a real one. It’s disorienting—like waking up in a parallel universe. For a second, you brace yourself for a backhanded comment, a jab hidden behind sugar-coated words.

But it never comes.

He actually looks like he likes the kids.

“Uh, yeah—we totally forgot,” Daniel says, still a little breathless as he adjusts the strap on his shoulder.

“Give us a sec, JK,” Ace calls over his shoulder, clapping Jungkook’s arm before the four teenagers vanish backstage, a trail of youthful energy and secondhand adrenaline left in their wake.

The bar quiets just enough for a breath to settle.

“Are you excited?” you ask, leaning closer to Jungkook.

His gaze lingers on the now-empty hallway where the kids disappeared. His features are soft, loose, almost vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen in years.

“Actually… yeah. I am,” he admits, lips parting in surprise at his own words. “I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just the kids—”

“The tasteless kids,” Yoongi deadpans, slumped in his chair like a tired philosopher. “How the hell does that girl say there’s something more iconic than Nirvana?”

Alex raises his beer solemnly. “Blasphemy. Absolute blasphemy.”

Jungkook just rolls his eyes, used to their noise. “Anyway,” he says, “like I was saying… I think I’m genuinely looking forward to playing.”

The words hang in the air for a second too long, warm and raw. And before you even realize it, your hand is in his hair, ruffling the soft strands. His cheeks flush—alcohol or affection, you can’t tell.

“Aw, look at my bestie getting all giddy,” you tease, trying to sound casual, but something inside you aches at how happy he looks. “Seriously, Kook, that’s fucking amazing. Now I can’t wait to see you up there.”

“Don’t be too excited,” he laughs, brushing a hand over his face. “There’s still a good chance I shit my pants from nerves.”

“Wasn’t your whole goal to fail?” Yoongi asks, blinking like he’s doing mental math. “So you don’t have to give Alex the money?”

Alex waves a dismissive hand, the gold ring on his pinky flashing under the low amber lights. “No one ever plays to fail. Not in music, not in life. I, my friend, am simply operating within the mystical corridors of Jungkook’s subconscious. Planting seeds. Psychological warfare.”

“You, my friend,” you shoot back, “are drunk.”

“Maybe,” Alex replies, tipping his beer with a grin that says definitely.

“You so are,” Jungkook adds, eyes glinting.

Alex leans closer, mock-sincere. “Don’t worry. I’ll still be sober enough to take my money when you owe it to me.”

There’s laughter again, warm and alive, and for a moment you forget the heaviness. Forget the time. Forget the past. Because Jungkook is here, sitting next to you, eyes sparkling, stomach twisting with nerves in the most beautiful, human way.

And for the first time in a long while—he wants to be seen.

The kids return in a pack—energy buzzing around them like static, cheeks flushed from the excitement and maybe just a bit of nerves. They spill into the empty bar stools like they own the place, all happy—the kind that comes with knowing tonight matters.

Ace claps his hands together, flops onto a stool, and shouts toward the bar, “Alright, Jimin! Hit me with a Coca-Cola—I’m fucking thirsty!”

Jimin, unfazed, quirks an eyebrow. “Watch your mouth, rockstar,” he says, already reaching for the glasses.

The others chime in, each echoing Ace’s order like it’s part of a ritual. Coke all around.

“When are you guys on?” you ask casually, turning to Mina as she sips from her drink. Her eyes are bright beneath the dim bar lights, and you blink. Damn, her eyeliner’s sharp enough to kill. It makes her look fierce. Electric.

“In about twenty minutes,” she says, voice calm, a soft smile curving her lips like she’s done this a thousand times before. “Jk’s opening on drums—Jack takes over after he finishes the first song.”

You nod, picturing it. Jungkook behind the kit again. The lights. The sound. The pulse of something being reborn.

“Oi, Mina!” Daniel calls from the other end of the bar, half-lounging over his stool. “Quit flirting with Jungkook’s bestie and finish your drink—we’re up soon!”

Mina groans and rolls her eyes, but her grin gives her away. “I’m not flirting,” she mutters as she raises her glass. “I’m being polite.”

You smirk, and she clinks her glass against yours anyway.

There’s a hum in the air now. Something about the way the kids shift in their seats, glance at the clock, tap their fingers to an invisible beat. A collective breath held, waiting to be released the moment they step on stage.

And through it all, Jungkook’s knee bounces beneath the table, his fingers twitching like they already hear the opening riff in his head.

The bar dims a little more, lights overhead shifting to a deep red hue. A hush rolls through the room—not complete silence, but that charged pause just before something erupts. The kind of silence that makes your skin prickle.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Mina says, swinging her keyboard bag over her shoulder as she hops off the stool. The others follow, a quiet intensity settling over their faces like masks. The joking, the teasing, the sugary buzz of Coca-Cola—all of it vanishes in the electric stillness of the pre-show moment.

Jungkook gets up too, a small crease between his brows, lips pressed together in a thin line. You nudge his arm gently as he passes by.

“You’ve got this, bestie,” you whisper.

He glances back at you. A smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes—those big, dark eyes—are filled with something you haven’t seen in a while.

Fear.

But also: fire.

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods.

On stage, Jack claps him on the shoulder before handing him the sticks. The kids do a final check—Mina tapping her keys, Dan tuning his bass, Ace slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. The room starts to buzz again, people murmuring, turning toward the stage, phones raised. Someone yells out a “WOOO!” and Alex, leaning against the side wall, grins like a proud dad.

Mina steps up to the mic. “Hey guys,” she says, her voice steady. “We’re The Strangers, and tonight… we’re doing something a little old school.” She glances at Jungkook. “Featuring a local legend.”

There’s light applause, a couple surprised whistles.

And then—Jungkook lifts the sticks.

He taps the hi-hat four times. It begins.

But then.

Crash.

The beat stumbles. His right hand slips, hitting the rim instead of the snare. The rhythm trips over itself, chaotic and jarring. Ace freezes mid-riff. Mina slams her palm on the keys too early. Dan completely misses the bass cue.

A mess. A beautiful, terrible mess.

A few people in the crowd gasp. One laughs. You wince.

Jungkook, mortified, pauses for half a second—half a second that feels like a lifetime—before whispering, “Shit,” under his breath.

Jack starts to step forward, like he’s ready to take over immediately.

But Jungkook throws up a hand.

“No,” he mutters to the mic, half to himself, half to the crowd. “I got it.”

And this time—he counts again. One, two, three, four—

This time, it hits. Hard. Toxicity intro comes alive—feral, gritty, raw. Ace slams into the opening riff with vengeance, Mina’s synths howling underneath, Dan’s bass like thunder rumbling through the floor. And Jungkook—Jungkook comes back. You can see it in his shoulders, in the way his hair whips around his face. There’s rage and release in every strike of the snare, redemption in the crash cymbals.

The crowd erupts.

Jungkook plays like he’s possessed now, blood rushing, all hesitation gone. His whole body moves with the rhythm, with the madness of it. His face glistens with sweat. He grins—really grins—like he’s high on the beat.

And you? You can’t look away.

This, this is the Jungkook you remember.

A little off at first. But once he finds the groove—

He becomes it.

The crowd is losing their minds.

Phones are raised, heads are banging, and even Jimin—cool, collected, snarky Jimin—is nodding behind the bar with an impressed smirk. Ace and Dan are completely synced, locking in their parts with the kind of chaotic grace that makes you feel like the song might fall apart at any moment, but never does. Mina’s eyes are closed, fingers dancing across the keys, mouth moving along to lyrics.

And Jungkook—

God.

His hair sticks to his forehead in messy strands, and there’s a flush creeping down his neck, veins flexing on his forearms every time he slams into the snare. He looks like he’s burning up—like every part of him is charged. The black t-shirt he’s wearing is soaked down the back, clinging to him like a second skin, and when he tilts his head back in rhythm, biting his lip and closing his eyes—

You feel it.

In your chest. In your throat.

Oh God.

You shouldn’t be thinking this. He’s your best friend. He’s taken. He’s Jungkook. But you’re human and he’s—he’s just so magnetic up there. Confident. Wild. Beautiful.

It rattles something in you.

You look away for a second, shaking your head as if that’ll snap you out of it. But then you hear the bridge hit—Mina’s synths wailing, Ace’s guitar almost screaming—and you glance back.

He’s looking at you.

Just for a second.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice. But long enough for you to feel your heartbeat quicken like it’s trying to keep up with the tempo of his drums.

Long enough to wonder if he knows what he’s doing to you.

And then, just as quickly, it’s over.

The final notes ring out, loud and proud, and Jungkook hammers the crash cymbals like punctuation marks. The sound reverberates through the bar, into your ribs, your skin. Everyone’s screaming and clapping and whistling. Alex is on his feet, yelling something you can’t even hear. Jimin throws a towel toward the stage.

But you?

You’re frozen.

Emotion crashes into you like a wave—unexpected, heavy, cold. It’s not about attraction anymore. It’s not even about the performance. It’s the moment. The way Jungkook looked up, eyes shining, chest heaving, smiling like he hadn’t smiled in years.

It’s the way he came back to life in front of you.

And you realize, achingly, that this is what you’ve missed all along.

Not the friendship. Not the ease. Not the safety.

You missed him. That version of him. The one who lets himself feel joy without guilt. The one who belongs somewhere.

And for some reason, that breaks your heart.

Because he’s not yours to keep.

Not really.

Jungkook jumps off the stage like he’s weightless, flushed and glowing, his chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon and won. The crowd still buzzes with leftover energy, but he’s already moving toward you—wild-eyed and breathless.

Before you can react, he wraps you in a hug, tight and full-bodied, arms locking around you like you’re the one anchoring him to the ground. You barely have time to think before you’re melting into it, laughing as your arms wind around his back.

“Holy shit,” he gasps into your ear, voice cracking with joy. “Did you see that? I didn’t tank it! I came back! I actually pulled it off!”

“You did, Kook, you killed it out there.”

He pulls back just enough to grab your face between both hands, calloused palms cradling your cheeks. His eyes are shining—shining—with something raw and real and so reminiscent of the boy he used to be, your chest squeezes tight.

“I thought I was gonna choke after that first beat,” he breathes, grin splitting his face. “But then I looked at the kids. And I looked at you. And it felt like I was supposed to be right there.”

Your heart stutters. “You looked like yourself up there.”

His expression shifts—just for a moment—and then his forehead drops to yours.

The contact is light. Barely there.

But it crackles.

It’s intimate and fleeting and charged, his breath brushing your lips, and your entire body locks up. You should move. You should really move. But you don’t. Neither does he.

You both just breathe.

And in that breath, something slips.

Not love.

Not lust.

But something terrifyingly in between.

“I should do this more often,” he murmurs, still forehead-to-forehead with you, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “Feel like this.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t want to say anything that might break the moment. That might remind either of you that he’s not yours to lean into like this. Never was.

But then the room reminds you for you.

A cheer goes up. Someone shouts his name. Laughter rings out.

And when he opens his eyes and sees how close you are, the spell breaks.

He steps back, a breath catching like it hurts. His hands fall slowly from your face as if letting go costs something.

You say nothing.

Neither does he.

Instead, you both turn—wordlessly—and slide onto the barstools beside each other.

Jungkook drums his fingers against the wood, still jittery with leftover adrenaline, while you pretend to focus on the drink Jimin sets in front of you.

Your shoulder brushes his.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

But the silence between you is deafening.

Your chest feels too tight. Your throat too full.

And for a second—just a second—you wonder what would’ve happened if you told him everything when you were younger.

You wonder what it would feel like if it were you he could come back to.

But you don’t ask.

And he doesn’t offer.

So you both just sit there—shoulder to shoulder, forehead memory still warm—and pretend nothing happened at all.

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no-144444 · 7 months ago

Text

A Christmas Prince (2017)- c.leclerc

₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡

summary: When a young aspiring journalist is sent abroad to cover a a coronation, she hears rumours about the 'Prince of F1' and goes undercover to investigate them.

pairing: prince! charles leclerc x fem! reader

9.8k words

disclaimer: i do not own anything in these films, the only original character is the character y/n.

‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡

You jumped up from your desk as soon as you saw him, and trailed him through the office. “Excuse me, sorry- Ron?!”

He turned to you. “Not now.”

“This will just take a second, I just have some questions about your article? The fashion week piece that I’m editing?”

He groaned, clearly uninterested in giving you the time of day. “Go for it.”

Nevertheless, you continued on. How could someone who makes so many noticeable mistakes have a higher job than you? How could someone so self-centred and rude be in that position of power? “The main problem is that Max wanted 300 words, and you’ve written 600, and also the models and designers you quoted weren’t even at the event so…”

“Y/n,” he sighed, putting a hand on your shoulder. “I don’t have time for you right now, just go off and fix it? Yeah?” he smiled, that punchable, asshole smile, and walked off. You rolled your eyes.

Working as a journalist bitch was not your plan when you moved to New York, but alas, your rent does not magically pay itself. Categorically, you enjoyed your job. Decent pay, good co-workers (minus asshole Ron), and it was pretty cool to be in one of the high-rise offices of New York, especially around Christmas. But… the whole getting to write articles part wasn’t something you got to do. You were an editor now, not a journalist. It was… slightly infuriating to know that someone less qualified got paid more money to write shit that you always ended up rewriting for him, but as we mentioned before, bills don’t pay themselves.

“Let me guess, you’re going to completely rewrite the article and save his ass?” Damon, your best friend, asked.

You faked a smile. “It’s almost like that’s my job!”

He rolled his eyes. “Tell him to shove it,” he scoffed. “Any of us could write that better- with our eyes closed!”

You groaned as you sat down.

“How the fuck are you ever going to be taken seriously as a real journalist if you are such a good editor?” he added. “He’ll never promote you if you’re always going to stay as his bitch.”

The ding of your laptop ended the conversation

Max wants you in her office- NOW!

“Oh fuck,” you said under your breath.

“What?” Damon asked, looking over your shoulder. “Oh… good luck.”

You walked into her glass office, praying to something to make this as painless as possible. “If this is because of Ron’s article-”

“It’s not, sit down. I have something else for you,” she smiled. You followed her instructions and stared at her, unused to the kindness. “What do you know about the Royal Family of Monaco?”

“Monaco?” you wracked your brain. “The King died a few years ago, the new King just got married, and the other two are racecar drivers, right?”

“Exactly, anything about the second eldest Prince?” she mused.

You grimaced. “He’s more loyal to Ferrari than his girlfriends and he’s a royal disgrace?”

She grinned. “Yes! Exactly that! Obviously, Charles moved off from the royal duties a long time ago, but Lorenzo has decided to abdicate since his fiance has fallen ill, in Monaco there’s a rule that the throne can be uncrowned for one year and it turns out Lorenzo abdicated in December last year.”

“So Charles has to take the throne?” you asked. “But he’s a driver there’s no way he’d… what happens then?”

She smirked. “That’s exactly what you’re going to find out! His Royal Highness is due back at the Castle this weekend, but in case he also abdicates, I need someone to write on it! There’s a press conference on the 18th, and I want your boots on the ground!”

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but why me?” you smiled, genuinely curious.

“You’re intelligent, talented, hungry for a story- also none of my regular writers are willing to give up their Christmas,” she admitted. You nodded, knowing you were a last resort.

“Thank you for this opportunity, I won’t let you down.”

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

“He’s gorgeous!” Damon fawned over the pictures of him.

You shrugged. “He’s such a douche, I cannot believe people still find him attractive after all the stuff he’s done.”

“Who wouldn't forgive a face and body like that?”

You looked at the photos. Yes, he was conventionally attractive, but his track record of scorned girlfriends, and the semi-awful fashion sense (who , over the age of 12, still wears tie dye jeans?) put you off. “He’s not my type.”

He stared at you. “He’s everyone’s type. Everyone is a Ferrari fan, and everyone is a Charles LeClerc fan.”

“I still don’t see it,” you shrugged.

“You should try to seduce him! Make him your husband and just excuse all the cheating so you can be royal and rich,” he suggested.

“I do not want that,” you scoffed. “Plus, I’m not on the market right now.”

He groaned. “You two broke up a whole year ago. Don’t let him yuck your yum 12 months on!”

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

You walked into Rudy’s, your dad’s diner, you couldn’t but feel the weight of the conversation you were just about to have. You had spent Christmas as just the two of you every year since your mom had passed, you didn’t want to just leave him alone. The regulars raved about the pies as you stepped in from the cold, snowy air.

“The usual?” your dad asked, you nodded and smiled, waving to some of the regulars you knew. “How are you doing sweetie?”

“Good, great!” You smiled, plastering on your best ‘i’m fine!’ face.

“What happened?” he asked, concerned. You deflated.

“I have good news and bad news,” you explained.

“Bad news first,” he decided.

“I won’t be here on Christmas- but, It’s because I got my first story.”

He grinned, pulling you into a hug. “That’s amazing! Your first real story! This is your big break!”

“You don’t mind that I’ll miss Christmas?”

He shook his head. “This is your big break, take it. Don’t worry about me. You go over to wherever, and you make me proud.”

You smiled, pulling him into another hug, and thanked him.

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

The flight was long and uncomfortable, thus the joys of economy, and the dickhead that stole your cab wasn’t much nicer either.

You and the rest of the press were all then bundled into cars and brought to the palace.

“First time?” The reporter beside you questioned. You nodded your head, slightly embarrassed about the fact that they could tell, but he just chuckled. “Word to the wise, pick a new career.”

The rest of the car was an eruption of laughter, small agreements, or a scoff. You chuckled along, but you couldn’t help but feel small. You were the only woman in your car, the only new reporter, and-

Woah. Holy shit.

The Monaco Palace.

Any and all other thoughts were pushed to the back of your mind as you stared in awe at the beautiful structure. The wide windows and beautiful pillars, all decorated perfectly for Christmas. Though it wasn’t snowing (like back home), you did appreciate the gesture of making it feel like Christmas. You were enchanted by the palace, it stood tall on the edge of the bay, fitting in perfectly with the rest of the gorgeous scenery.

You walked in behind the rest of the press, a nervous energy buzzing in the air. Prince Charles was an F1 favourite, a master of the sport, and now he had to give it all up for the crown. Everyone was more than excited to see if he’d actually show up, which seemed increasingly unlikely as the moments ticked away. He did every single piece of press Ferrari or the FIA asked him to do, and he seemed to enjoy the majority of them, but the second the palace asked him to do something, he was ‘too busy’. It left a bad taste in your mouth. You were exactly a patriot, but you thought that one should at least appreciate the fact that they were a part of their country, and the people deserved to hear from their Prince, not only through sports interviews. He’d been photoshopped into the palace's Christmas cards for the past 4 years, for god’s sake.

You pushed your opinion of him to the side and turned your attention to the palace. The tall white walls and arched ceilings, the beautiful and historic artwork hanging off the walls, god, you’d give anything to be allowed free reign in here with your camera. Your attention was then grabbed by the PR liaison, Penelope, standing at the panel desk looking increasingly nervous.

After another 30 minutes of waiting, the repress started getting restless. Lorenzo was never late. Hervé had never been late. Pascale was never late. Arthur was never late. Charles was the outlier. He slept with too many women, drank too much, and ‘disgraced the crown’, according to the Monegasque reporters beside you. You didn’t care much for all of the gossip pages he frequented, and only watched F1 on the occasion that your father wanted to watch it. But, it was clear that he thought that following his dreams of being a racecar driver were more important than his duties, and while you understood the push and pull of having a dream, there were also expectations to meet, and he didn’t meet them.

“We regret to inform you that this press conference has been cancelled-”

She was cut off by about 200 reporters shouting and groaning.

You politely raised your hand, and all eyes turned to you. “When can we expect the press conference to be rescheduled?” You asked and the room was alive again, this time, in agreement.

“As of right now, we won’t be rescheduling,” she offered a polite smile as everyone collectively groaned again.

“Well can we at least expect a date at which he’ll be crowned?”

“He will be crowned on Christmas Eve, at the annual Christmas Ball,” she smiled.

“Which is a private event, so what are we to tell your people? They can’t see him getting crowned as their next king? No media are allowed in, no cameras, phones are barely allowed. What will your people think?” you questioned, your voice dripping with condescension. The rest of the reporters cheered you on, no one had stood up against his behaviour before. No one.

She faltered, and then the room started being cleared by security, much to the chagrin of the rest of you. You were kicked out, a collection of grumbles and groans, knowing Christmas was ruined because of some stupid Prince and his childish antics.

You couldn’t go home empty handed. You’d never get a chance like this again, so breaking and entering into the Monaco Palace wasn’t that bad of a crime, right?

You came into a long hallway, the marble walls and floors taking your full attention, until you came across a picture. It was the royal family, a picture of the five of them, taken before Hervé passed. Charles was only 20, Arthur was only 16. Lorenzo was 29. And they lost their father. In the photo, they’re sitting at a dinner table, looking happy. It didn’t look posed, or professionally taken. It looked like it had been taken on an iphone. Charles was smiling bright, his arm around his little brother and his father. Lorenzo’s arm around Pascale as she held Arthur’s hand. Charles was truly the thing that dragged you in. His bright smile, eyes crinkled at the edges, laughing so hard he must’ve felt sick. The way everyone else’s eyes were on him. He was like a magnet. Not because of his good looks or lovably dorky personality, but because of something else. He was just… interesting.

“Can I help you?” a security guard asked, his voice booming and strong. You jumped.

“Gosh! Sorry, umm-yes-no-um-”

“American?” he asked, and you were sure you were busted. But then he smiled. “Follow me.”

You followed him through the halls until you were in front of a tall woman with brunette hair. You knew who she was, her name was Georgia, the palace coordinator. She was terrifying to stand in front of. You’d never felt so judged in your life.

“You’re the new tutor?” she questioned. You just nodded. “I thought you couldn’t come until January?”

“My last job finished up early,” you lied. A sinking pit in your stomach started growing, but you just swallowed it. You’d deal with it later.

“Oh,” she smiled. “Perfect, I’ll bring you to meet him,” she smiled.

What were you getting yourself into?

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Turns out Arthur LeClerc needed a tutor to help with his engineering course. Thank god you’d dated that engineer who wanted to mansplain every single part of a car to you, and you could get by the maths with a calculator. Arthur wasn’t exactly a fan of having someone younger than him tutor him, he felt stupid, you could tell. You did everything you could to reassure him that it truly was alright to need help, and he was starting to come around, but every time you two really started talking, Charles would appear. And yes, Charles had been that asshole who’d taken your cab at the airport. Even more of a reason to hate him.

“Arthur!” Charles called up as you finished explaining a sum, which he was finally getting, but of course, Charles had to distract him. “Sim work?” he offered, popping his head in the door. You frowned. He was clean-shaven, unlike the small goatee and mustache he’d been sporting before. Objectively, he was attractive either way, but you personally preferred the facial hair.

He frowned back at you. “What?”

Arthur attempted to get up to join his brother, but you held him down to his seat with a hand on his shoulder. He sighed.

“What?” you repeated. “Arthur is busy with lessons, your Royal Highness, you can come back in 2 hours, when he’s finished,” you smile politely, though your tone was less than warm.

“2 hours?” Arthur sighed, looking at you with pleading eyes.

“I’m not the one who failed their midterm,” you said, matter-of-factly. He nodded, agreeing.

“Why did you look at me like that?” Charles smirked, walking into the study.

“Like what?” you asked, engrossed in the work, trying to decipher Arthur’s handwriting.

“Like you didn’t like what you saw,” he mused.

You scoffed. “I was just surprised by the baby face, that’s all.”

He frowned, making Arthur laugh. “Baby face?”

“You look like a 12 year old boy without facial hair, it freaks me out,” you pointed out.

Charles left the room with whatever dignity he still had intact, and you and Arthur rather enjoyed the teasing.

“Will you be my guest tonight?” he turned to you, discarding his work.

“What’s tonight?” you asked.

“Some boring drinks and dinner thing with the whole of Charles’s team, and other nobility. It’s going to be such a chore to go without you, please come?”

You smiled. “I’d be honoured.”

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You kind of hated the whole ‘double agent’ thing. You were getting on really well with Arthur, Charles was enough to stomach (in small intervals), and Lorenzo had been too busy to really meet. Georgia had been on you about different things, but you always had to remember that a) your name was in fact not Y/n, but Martha. And b) You still had to be a reporter. You still had to break into these people’s privacy, and make it a story. You were pretty sure what you were doing was illegal in America, so you were just hoping it wasn’t a crime here. As the night went on you snapped pictures of Pascale, Lorenzo, some of the other nobility and some of the important F1 drivers (a friend was doing an expose on one of them for cheating so… yeah). You didn’t catch a glimpse of his Royal (pain-in-the-ass) Highness all night, that was, until he made an(uncharacteristically (not)) late arrival. You also left Arthur to go hang out with his girlfriend, who had surprised him this weekend by arriving a whole week early.

“How are you enjoying the party?” Arthur smiled, walking up behind you as you tried to take photos of the nobility as secretly as possible. You quickly hid your phone.

“Very much so, thank you for inviting me,” you smiled.

“Staring at Charles?” he questioned, noticing how you’d been following him around the room.

“Trying to find something to eat,” you lied. Again, that pit in your stomach grew every single day that you were at the palace. “Not a fan of the meat-jelly.”

He grimaced. “Me neither, follow me.”

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Possibly the best gingerbread cookies entered your mouth soon after. “Wow,” you nodded, and he smiled back. You stared at him. “Where’s Jade?”

“She’s off with her friends,” he answered, but you knew it was a guess.

“Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden? You hated me three days ago,” you chuckled.

“You’re not like everyone here,” he shrugged. “You’re normal.”

You smiled. “I know I’m, normal, btu so are you-”

“A ‘normal’ 24 year old who has a palace and a crown, as well as an affinity for racing cars. I’m so normal.”

You laughed. “No one’s perfect.”

Then a tall man, who looked a little bit like Arthur, joined you.

“Cousin Arthur,” he smiled.

“Cousin Simon,” he sighed, less than impressed with having to see him.

Simon looked at you, slightly confused. “Was your mother feeling charitable, inviting the chambermaids again?” he joked, but it wasn’t funny. Arthur didn't laugh, he groaned.

“She’s my tutor, actually. And I invited her. Mrs. Martha Whelan, meet my cousin, Simon.”

You stood up and held your hand out to be shook, but he shied away. “Nice to meet you Simon.”

“You can address me as Lord Dukesburg,” he explained, taking great offence. Ah, this was Simon Dukesburg, the man who has been after the throne since Arhtur’s father died. He said some of the most out-of-touch shit about Lorenzo, saying he couldn’t be the King because he wasn’t Herve’s blood-related son.

“I find that nobility who require someone to use their title might be compensating for something,” Charles interjected, making you stifle a laugh, whereas Arthur laughed out loud.

“And what might I be compensating for?” he scoffed.

“I wonder,” Charles smirked. Then someone else interjected the conversation and pulled the both of them away from you and Arthur.

“Simon hates Charles,” Arthur explained. “He’s ahead of him in the succession, since it goes by age, not actual blood relation, he’s ahead of me.”

“So if Charles abdicates, Simon has the throne?” you questioned.

Arthur nodded. You looked up at the two men again, and found Charles already looking back at you. You offered a small smile, which was returned, then you turned back to Arthur.

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“I'm really not sure there’s any dirt here,” you sighed, explaining it for the millionth time to your boss.

She wasn’t having it. You ended the call feeling even worse than before. Honestly, you were one day away from just leaving the palace all together and admitting your crimes. It was eating you up inside, you could barely sleep, barely eat. It was all a little bit too much for you. You understood that reporters had to be cut-throat, but god, it was hard work pretending to be someone you weren't, especially to people as kind as the LeClerc’s. As you walked through the halls of the palace, unable to sleep, you heard some piano music. You followed the sound and found Prince Charles at his piano, incredibly talented. Sadly, it ended the second he noticed you, about 30 seconds of you being there.

“Sorry for interrupting, your Royal Highness,, I’ll head back-”

“Call me Charles,” he smiled.

Slightly blind-sided, you weren’t sure what to say. “That was beautiful,” you smiled.

“Thank you,” he smiled, getting up. “My father made me take lessons. It’s a great passion of mine.”

“I’ve heard your father was a great man,” you smiled.

“He was,” Charles agreed..

“Won’t be easy to replace him,” you mused, hoping he would give you something, anything worth writing the story over.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” he explained. “No one could.”

“Oh god! No, I didn’t mean it like that- just… there must be a lot of pressure on you, I didn’t mean it…” you trailed off and he smiled.

“Well, you’re under more pressure than you bargained for, right?” he smirked.

Shit. He knew. Somehow. He knew. You were bout to get arrested by the fucking Prince of Monaco. How embarrassing.

“My brother can really be a handful,” he chuckled.

You took a deep breath. He didn’t know. You were safe, for now at least. You chuckled. “He’s actually pretty great.”

“After our father died, he took it very hard,” he explained.

“I lost my mom, same age and everything,” you explained, a flat smile on your face.

He nodded. “So you know what it’s like then.”

You nodded. “Holidays are the worst.”

“I’m glad he has someone to talk to.”

“So, now that you’re back… is it for good? Arthur talks about you all the time. He misses you when you’re gone. Is all that talk about abdication just… rumors?” you questioned, feeling like the worst human being in the world for manipulating this family the way you were. They were good people. Maybe yes, they’re rich and commit tax fraud, but good people.

He sighed. “It’s very hard to know what to do.”

FUCK!

Great. So there is a story. Ideal. It’s not like if he’d just said, ‘yes, they’re all just rumors’, you could’ve gone home and never had to think about the awful things you’ve done here, but now you have to stay, to listen to him. Great.

“I heard you didn’t want to give your… lifestyle,” you asked. “Is that true?”

“What lifestyle is that?” he scoffed, slightly amused.

“I don’t know. The women, wine, and cars?”

“Is that what you think I am?” he chuckled.

“I don’t know who you are, Charles, but if your brother is any indication, I wouldn’t exactly believe everything I read. Good night.”

And with that you left the room, feeling like a terrible person, and he was more than intrigued by you.

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Christmas Eve rolled closer and closer, and every night seemed to be one of celebration. You decorated the tree with the family (aka you sat in the corner not eating or drinking because of the guilt, and watched over Arthur, making sure he was alright).

“To family and friends,” Pascale smiled.

“And new friends!” Arthur called, lifting your hand. You smiled at him, thankful that you had a friend there.

“What are your traditions Martha?” Charles asked, turning attention to you.

“Well, my father and I light a candle and we bake my mothers favourite cookies,” you explained, a smile on your face. “I know how it feels to… have someone missing during traditions,” you assured Arthur, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Just then, Lady Sophia appeared in the doorway. Lady Sophia, Charles’s childhood best friend and the leading lady of the greatest will-they-won’t-they story of all time. She wore a beautiful long flowing gown with a present in hand for Pascale. She elegantly dodged cousin Simon’s advances (you applauded her for that), and went straight to Pascale and Charles.

“Sophia, it’s lovely to see you,” she smiled, pulling her in for a hug.

“It’s lovely to see you too,” she smiled, then moved on to Charles. “Charles, good to see you.”

Charles greeted her with his best flirty smirk, and Arthur turned to you, fake gagging, which made you both laugh. All eyes turned to the two of you for a moment, before you quickly shut up, and the greetings continued. Lady Sophia was staying for Christmas, how wonderful. Maybe you could get an early access to their engagement story- god you felt sick with yourself.

You turned to Arthur engrossed in the small toy car he had in his hands, a gift from his father, he spoke about it as you listened, barely noticing Charles over both of your shoulders.

“I remember when you first got that,” he chuckled, ruffling Arthur’s hair. “You were so happy with it, you wanted to be just like dad.”

“Now you are,” you smiled, squeezing Arthur;’s hand. He’d be moving up to F1 next year, in a Haas seat (Esetban Ocon shit the bed, oops), and Arthur was the next best Ferrari junior driver. Arthur beamed back at you, and Charles gave himself a moment to study you.

You were so gentle, so smart, so kind, so… you. He was entranced by you. You were some sort of enigma. He didn’t want to sound full of himself, but women did throw themselves at him, it was a simple fact, and you didn’t. You weren’t interested in him at all, in fact. It was refreshing.

“Charles!” Lady Sophie called. “Will you put my ornament on the tree?”

He (begrudgingly) took his eyes off of you and joined her at the side of the tree. Funnily enough, her ornament was a heart.

“Be gentle with it,” she told him, and he sighed, knowing it wasn’t just the ornament she was talking about.He placed it on the ree and when he looked back at you, you were already engrossed in conversation with Arthur about something else and he thought it best not to pry. You barely liked him as is, he shouldn’t push his luck.

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The day you get bossed around by Arthur LeCerc may actually be the biggest joke of your life. He found out that you were a journalist, and he didn’t even care. He just… wanted a friend, and for you to write the truth about his brother. Which you were happy to oblige.

So, instead of going over aerodynamics, you baked Christmas cookies.

“What’s with Charles and Lady Sophia?” you questioned, shovelling some of the batter into your mouth. Arthur shrugged.

“She’s had a crush on him for ages, but he’s never liked her back,” he shrugged, eating some of the icing. “She’s always trying to get with him though.”

“Simon seems to like her,” you pointed out, shooing him away from the icing (he’d eaten half of it).

Arthur groaned. “Simon has wanted everything Charles has had since they were 3. He even tried go-karting. He was shit though,” he chuckled. “But y’know, everyone wants what we have.”

You cracked a smile. “You are the royal family of one of the most beautiful countries in Europe.”

Arthur sighed. “It was different though, before my dad died, it was-” he cut himself off, trying to to cry. You pulled him into a hug.

“He’s not gone Arthur, you’ll always remember him,” you smiled, he nodded against your neck. “Come on, we need to get these in the oven before I eat all of the batter.”

He laughed, joining you beside the oven.

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The next morning was the children’s fundraiser, where everyone was expected to be a guest. You, again, were Arthur’s, Jade having left a few days earlier to spend time with her family. One of those asshole reporters came up to you, but he got them away, and you knew that by tomorrow, people would already assume you were his new girlfriend, or something along those lines, so you made sure to tell him to talk about Jade in interviews. After the wonderful carol service, Pascale came out to the stage and addressed the public, announcing Charles’s speech.

When she called his name, he didn’t show.

Arthur sighed, grabbing your hand and running you to the Orphanage. There he was, playing with the children. He looked so… happy. He was telling them about every corner in the Monaco Grand Prix, and telling them what it felt like to win it. They all sat around him, listening intently, desperate to hear from him. You took out your phone and took a photo, seeing a tiny glimpse of that same 20 year old boy from the picture.

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“Charles, help me understand why you were unable to carry out your duty today?” Pascale asked, exasperated with her son.

“I thought my duty was to those children,” his words bit through the tension in the air.

“There is much more to being kind than simply compassion,” she sighed. “You need to be strong, a leader. You need to be someone that those people can look up to and say, ‘that’s my king, and he can make the hard decisions’. Not someone who tiptoes around his duties like a schoolboy. Arthur had to give your speech instead. Now every outlet thinks your abdicating and giving the throne to him right when he’s on the cusp of his dreams-”

“I have dreams!” he shouted. “I have a life, I have a dream-”

“And we gave you 8 years to make it happen. You have to grow up now Charles,” she commanded.

“Mother I-”

“Do you seriously think you’re the only one who wants to run away?” she questioned. “The only one who has dreams, and feelings, and a weariness about everything?”

“I’m-”

“This has been the hardest year of my life,” she choked up. “Lorenzo abdicating, you off in god-knows-where racing a car that can’t win, and Arthur trying his damndest to make his dreams come true, while I deal with it all. While I ‘hold down the fort’. You have a duty to your country, but you also have a duty to your family, Charles. I have complete faith in you, and then some. You will be a brave, and compassionate King. But you need to realise that sacrifice is a part of life. One we may have shielded you from, and I am sorry for that. But you need to make a sacrifice here. Royal life isn’t the prison you make it out to be. You can be happy, and you will be. But you need to learn to be happy with what you’ve got, because you have so much Charles. You have your family, you’ll meet someone nice and then you’ll have your own. You don’t need to race cars to feel strong. You need to be yourself. The people of Monaco are looking for someone they know after a year of confusion and shock. You need to be the comforting voice. I know you can be.”

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

“I have faith in you. You need to have faith in yourself. Don’t try to be your father, be Charles. He’s just as wonderful.”

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Arthur wasn’t going to focus, it was 3 days till Christmas, and he was kind of like an over-excited child. You suggested an adventure, and that is how you ended up racing speed boats with Arthur and a few of his friends. You two won, of course, and he may or may not have accidentally shoved you overboard and made you hit your head. But you were probably fine. Probably. You two relaxed on the water for a while, enjoying the Monaco sun asn the sun began to set and all of his friends went home.

Then you felt something hit into the edge of your boat. Another speedboat. Driven by none other than Prince Charles.

“Race you?” he smirked at his brother, his eyes then landing on you. He stopped, almost doing a double take when he saw you in your swimsuit, his mouth opening slightly. You didn’t seem to notice. Arthur did and he rolled his eyes, hoping against hope that Charles and his master-manipulating ways would pass you by and go onto the next person.

“You’re on!” Arthur shouted back, reeving up the engine, and thus the great race of speedboats began. Sadly, once again, Arthur LeClerc is very much not coordinated, so he shoved you off the boat, again. Charles immediately slowed down, turning back to grab you, but he found you laughing. He reached a hand in, and pulled you up onto his boat, grabbing your waist when you almost slipped and fell. You were close, much too close. You could feel his breath on your face, his eyes staring into yours, the look of shock, but neither one of you was asking to stop. It was different, a good difference. He was right there, right in front of you, and you didn’t look at him with annoyance, or anger, or distance. One of those fleeting moments of the both of you truly just being yourselves. Well, you were Marha and he was the Prince of Monaco, soon to be King. He saw every freckle on your face, every small wrinkle line, every flutter of your eyelashes. He loved it. He loved being this close to you. He loved the way you were smiling at him, and once he’d started looking at your lips, he couldn’t stop.

Arthur threw a snorkel at the two of you, making you jump apart, you almost falling off the boat again (actually your fault that time), but you just fell into Arthur’s boat. “No fraternising with the enemy!”

And the race was back on.

Unbeknownst to you, Lady Sophia and Duke Arsehole (aka Cousin Simoin), were riding by on a perfectly sublime boat ride, and saw the three of you enjoying yourselves. You had joined Charles' side, winning against Arthur every time, and then you’d be swapped back, or Arthur would swap.

Lady Sophia didn’t like it one bit.

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When you got back to the palace, Lorenzo was standing at the top step of the stairs, his mother beside him.

“Where have you three been?” he demanded.

“Lorenzo, we were-” Charles began.

“Speedboat racing in the bay?” he finished.

The three of you stood there, silent and still, unsure of what to do next.

“I suggest next time that you ask permission, Ms. Whelan,” he addressed you, and you nodded quickly offering multiple apologies. “And next time, maybe include the other members of the family. It’s not like we've never raced in our lives,” he smiled, before walking off. You had a feeling they hadn’t seen Arthur this happy in a long time. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in you, that you had been the one to help him get himself back.

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Arthur was busy with his duties, so you were given the day off, the day before Christmas Eve. You needed to get to know Charles better, so you could right all the wrongs online about him. He was going for a bike ride, so you followed suit, clearly forgetting about the fact that you knew nothing about Monaco, and the limited cell-service was really helpful. Oh, and when you fell off your bike and cut the shit out of your knee, you really wondered whether it was you or Arthur who was clumsy.

“Are you alright?”a voice called out, a voice you couldn't quite place, until Charles was in front of you and taking a look at your knee. “This looks bad, come with me.”

He helped you up, and while Mont Agel was beautiful, you were in the middle of fucking nowhere, what was he going to do?

Bring you to his secret cabin, of course.

Literally, was this dude James Bond?

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You sat outside on his patio as the sun set. He handed you a glass of water. You thanked him.

“So, now that you’re alright,” he smiled (he’d bandaged up your leg despite the thousands of times you assured him you were fine). “Why were you following me?”

You sighed. “I was curious about Monaco, and I didn’t want to bother you,” lie after lie after lie. You were continuously sick. Maybe that other reporter was right, maybe you did need a new career.

“You couldn’t bother me,” he assured you, an easy smile on his lips.

“So what is… this?” you asked, gesturing to the house. “James Bond hideout or?

He laughed. “No, nothing interesting like that. This is just my house,” he smiled.

“So you’ve lived in Monaco the entire time?” you asked.

“The Palace is a bit too much for me at times,” he explained. “So I come here.”

“That’s nice,” you smiled. “Why do you find the Palace too much?”

He sighed. “Everyone is always looking at me.”

“Everyone is away looking at you in F1 too, you have like, millions of fan-girls,” you giggled.

“That’s different,” he argued. “I’m a driver there, that’s talent and hard work, I was just… handed the throne.”

“You were born into it,” you corrected him. “And just because you came across something easily doesn’t mean you haven’t struggled. I mean yes, it’s a lot of responsibility, but why wouldn’t you want to be King of Monaco?”

“Do we have to talk about this?” he sighed, getting up and pacing the patio.

“It might be good for you to talk it through,” you told him.

“I can’t even go for dinner with my friends without it being an international scandal!” he groaned.

“Like, when you went out with Sophia?” you mused.

“That was different, she sold a story to a tabloid, and the media had a field day,” he sighed, slumping back into his chair.

“The media is what’s holding you back?” you questioned, feeling your stomach twist.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Explain it then,” you smiled gently.

He looked at you for a moment, and for a fraction of a second, you could see that boy from the picture again. The magnetic, messy, smiley boy his parents had adored. The boy who worked so hard to prove himself. Then those walls went right back up and what replaced him was the man; older, wiser, and hurt. “Why bother? You probably think I’m just a spoiled rich kid anyway.”

You scoffed. “I never said that!” you argued, getting up and turning to him. “You know what you need to do, stop worrying so much about what everyone thinks of you, or how they’re going to perceive you. You’re a good person, with good instincts, and despite being actual nobility, you have morals, good ones, the kind that makes you miss a speech because you’re helping children. The kind that makes you worry about your little brother so much that you come home when he asks you to. The kind that makes you kind. Stop trying to be your father Charles, just be, Charles.”

He sighed, standing beside you. “You make that sound so simple,” he scoffed.

“Why isn't it? You’re a smart, talented, caring person-”

“Except when I steal your taxi,” he smirked, making you roll your eyes. He paused for a moment, his eyes shining in the low light of the sun. “I want to show you something.”

You stared at him, grimacing slightly. “What is it?”

“Follow me,” he said, taking your hand. He led you through his house, up to a room filled with books.

“You read?”

“After my father died,” he explained. “We kept some of the overflow of his habit here. He also kept his journals here. I found a poem, it was dated just before he died, I think he was going to give it to my mother.”

Frost a sparkle in the fields,

Twixt the frozen minarets,

Winter’s harvest, wager yields,

Heavy burden’s, the years debts,

P[out from a seed, an acorn’s gift,

Henceforth the truth will flood,

Darkness such a secret bears,

A love far greater than blood.

“It’s beautiful,” you smiled, reading the poem. Charles’s eyes were on you. You were so close, just like on the bat, just like he wished for every single day since you’d come into his life. He leaned in and you didn’t back away. You didn’t run, or lean in either, you were still, your eyes trained on his lips.

Then your phone rang, and off you went to find it. Part of him wanted to grab you back and kiss you, but even he, in his delirious love-filled haze, knew the moment had passed, and he would just have to wait until the next one.

As you two were getting ready to go back to the palace, he left to go grab something from his room. His father’s desk took your attention, and you obliged yourself. Hidden in plain sight was a secret drawer with a stack of documents in it. As much as you hated yourself for it, you took the documents back to the palace with you.

Within those documents you found out a truth, a truth so great, you had no idea what to say. Charles and Arthur were adopted as children.

What the fuck were you going to do now?

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

As you were walking through the halls with Arthur the next day, you saw Lady Sophia and Charles… kissing. Great, barf. Anyways. You had to finish your story, get something on the page, make this torment of a trip worth something. If you broke the story today, you could be out of there before Christmas, and their lives would be a lot easier. You thought about coming clean, but the thought of it actually made you vomit in your mouth. You were lost. You had no idea what to do.

So, you called your dad. What else were you supposed to do?

“Y/n!” he smiled, it was only a phone call but you could tell. “How are you?”

“Hey dad, remember how you said I have to take chances to win?” you asked.

“They are my words to live by,” he chuckled, understanding that something was going on. “Is everything alright?”

“What if that chance is going to really hurt people who don’t deserve it?” you questioned.

“I’m going to need more than that sweetheart,” he sighed.

“My story, if I release it, it might hurt someone who’s already been through a lot. I’m just…” you trailed off

“Sweetheart, I’m not going to sit here and pretend I know anything about the world of publishing and reporting, but I do know that you have to trust your gut.”

You smiled. “Thanks dad.”

“I’m better than a fortune cookie, right?” he joked and you both chuckled. “I’ll see you soon sweetheart.”

“Bye dad-” as you hung up the phone, there was a knock on your door. You tentatively got up and opened the door, only to find Charles on the other side, dressed in a Ferrari branded suit, a small smile on his face.

“Hi, is there something I can do for you?” you asked, slightly awkward and unsure. You didn’t really want him to look in your room too much, considering the documents of his adoption were literally on your desk, but alas, what would be, would be.

“I thought we could go for a walk?” he offered. “I can actually show you around Monaco, now that I know you want a tour guide.”

Your smile faltered. “I don’t know,” you sighed. The media had been stirring everything up ever since the boat, you were the ‘mystery girl’ being passed around by the LeClerc’s, and it didn’t feel great.

He looked at you with pleading eyes. “Please, just give me a few minutes of your time. I would like some company.”

“Sure, let me grab my coat,” you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

As you two walked through the streets of Monaco, he spoke freely about the beautiful buildings and people he knew so well, while you listened. You liked it, but it broke your heart slightly, to know that you had lied to the entire family for weeks now. But another part of you was grateful that you got to meet them, because you knew you had been changed for the better. It was also nice to see Charles be less… upset than when you first came. He smiled more, laughed more, and spent more time with Arthur, it was lovely to see.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes darting around your face as you looked at the pavement. “Are you alright?”

“Do you often take the help for a walk?” you questioned, your tone soft but the words bit at him anyway.

“What?” he questioned.

“Nothing, it’s stupid. Go back to your story Charles,” you sighed, walking on.

He grabbed your hand, turning you back to him. “Please talk to me. I feel like you know everything about me, and I know nothing about you.”

“What would Lady Sophia say if she saw us walking together?” you scoffed.

“Why would that matter?”

“I saw you two,” you said.

“Whatever you saw, trust me, there is nothing there,” he pleaded.

“It didn’t look like that to me,” you scoffed. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“She was just… taking her chance again, even after I explicitly told her not to.”

“Sure,” you nodded. “It doesn’t matter anyways. Charles.”

You were both silent for a moment. He took the opportunity to study your face. The way your eyebrows creased, the tightness of your lips, the determined stare forward. He smiled. You were so smart, and headstrong, and right all the time (which kind of drove him crazy), but he loved it all. He loved you.

“I hope you’ll come tomorrow night,” he admitted. You looked at him confused. “The Ball. My coronation.”

You couldn’t do it anymore. You had to tell him. He couldn’t keep living this lie, and neither could you. “Charles, I need to tell you something-”

But he kissed you. Of course, he fucking kissed you, because he’d been wanting to do it since the day you arrived at the palace. He was in love with you, if he hadn't made that obvious enough, and yes, he kissed you, because the fact that he hadn’t yet was driving him mad. He didn’t want Sophia, he didn’t want anyone else, he wanted you.

And it was everything he could’ve dreamed of. His arms circled your waist, pulling you close to him, while his lips explored your soft ones, the taste of cherry on them. You must use some sort of cherry lip balm, and it quickly became one of his favourite tastes. Your arms slowly crept up to wrap around his neck, and when he pulled back you just pulled him back in.

This was the real Charles. The one who loved people unabashedly and didn’t care what people thought. This was that 20 year old boy in the photo. This was the boy you had slowly fallen in love with, without even realising it.

And it was wonderful.

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

Much to your chagrin, while you were off tonguing the next King of Monaco, Lady Sophia and Cousin Arsehole were busy looking through your things. Unluckily for you, they found something.

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

Charles sat in the driver’s seat of his Ferrari, half willing himself to man-up, and the other half begging himself to turn around. He couldn't though, not when he was this close to finally visiting his father’s resting place for the first time in months.

He got up and out of the car, your voice in his head telling him to get over himself, with that soft, perfect, smile on your lips.

He walked up to the grave, determined to speak to his father once again.

“I’ll take the crown,” he whispered, his eyes flooding with tears. “I’ll never measure up to you, but I will take it. For you and for mom.”

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

You stood in your room, wondering what the fuck one wears to a coronation.

Arthur stood in the doorway, smiling brightly. He frowned when he saw your dress.

“It’s this or pyjamas,” you dead-panned. He walked in, taking the dress out of your hands and sitting on your bed.

“How’s the story coming along?” he asked. “Nearly done?”

“Almost,” you huffed, laying beside him.

He sighed. “I’ll miss you when you go,” he admitted, more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. You almost forgot how much he’d been through, his sunny demeanour always seemed to make you forget his troubles. “It was nice to have a friend.”

You turned to him. “I’ll always be your friend,” you smiled. “And I’ll be cheering you on in Haas, and in everything else you do. I think you’re brilliant Arthur, seriously.”

He chuckled. “Thank you. I hope everything goes well for you back in New York.”

“I hope so too,” you teased, wiping a tear off his cheek.

“I got you something,” he smiled cheekily, handing over a small box.

“Arthur!” you scolded. “We said no gifts!”

“There was no way I was following that,” he chuckled. “Open it!”

You slowly opened the box, inside there was a beautiful necklace with a beautiful blue topaz on the end. “Oh my god Arthur, this is beautiful,” you whispered.

“To remind you of the boat day” he grinned. “So you will never forget me.”

You smiled, your eyes cloudy with unshed tears. “I could never forget you, Arthur.”

Then in walked Jade, his girlfriend, with an array of gowns on a rack.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

“Oh yes!” Arthur cheered.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

You stood at the top of the steps, terrified of what anyone would say. Arthur had styled you (aka, Jade let him pick the dress) and while you thought you looked beautiful, you were slightly worried about what the nobility in the room would think. It had been fun though, an afternoon of being pampered and becoming friends with Jade was a lot more enjoyable than it was nerve-wracking. You slowly descended the steps, looking for Arthur, when Charles caught your eye. He looked beautiful, his hair perfectly styled, his suit perfect, his face perfect. He smiled up at you, excusing himself from his mother and brother to take your hand as you left the bottom step.

“You look beautiful,” he smiled, taking in your dress. IN all honesty, there wasn’t a word for how he thought you looked. Regularly, a look from you made his heart stop. This? A different level. He was enamoured. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, even if he wanted to.

You felt your cheeks heat. “Thank you,” you smiled. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I will see you in there, alright? I have to-”

“Do what you need to Charles,” you chuckled. “I’m not running away at midnight.”

He smiled. “I’m glad.”

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

Despite the fact that it was a royal ball, it was quite entertaining. Different Duke’s and Duchess’s were dancing, letting loose, and getting pretty drunk, but you just sat with Arthur and Jade and laughed at them. The ballroom was magnificent, the tall ceilings and Christmas lights all around, and in the centre of the hall there was a 36 foot (yes, about the height of a telephone pole) Christmas tree, decorated perfectly. Even though you were miles and miles away from home, it was still nice to be celebrating with people you love.

As you were speaking to Jade, someone started speaking.

“Might I have the first dance, mon amour?” Charles asked, barely above a whisper as he wrapped an arm around your waist.

You turned to him, your face dropping. “Seriously?”

“Well, as long as you promise not to tread on my feet, we should be alright,” he chuckled, leading you to the dance floor. You joined on, doing a simple waltz (you thanked your father mentally for making you take ballroom classes as a child), and it was very sweet. It was nice to be so open about being close to each other, no longer shying away from each other's affections. You liked having Charles so close. He liked having you in his arms.

Win-win.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said as you waltzed around the hall. “I wouldn’t be accepting the crown if it wasn’t for you, so thank you for telling me to grow up.”

You chuckled. “I think you’re giving me too much credit there.”

He shrugged. “I do not think so,” he smiled. “You make me feel comfortable, you’re the most genuine person I have met since… well probably since birth.”

Again, that nauseating feeling in your stomach urged you to run away and hide from him, even though your heart (as mad as it sounds) longed to never let him go. “I have to tell you something.”

He nodded. “You can talk to me about anything.”

As he spoke, the music stopped, and it was time. He would be crowned King.

“Tell me after,” he whispered, as all eyes went to him. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck.”

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

“I dispute this claim!” Lady Sophia’s voice shocked the room and you. Charles was so close, so close to taking his rightful seat as the King, and of course, someone had to make it difficult.

“On what grounds?” the Archbishop asked.

“The grounds that he is in fact, not the rightful heir,” she smirked, smug as ever. “Prince Charles, and his brother Arthur, were in fact adopted by the late King Hervé and our Queen Pascale, therefore are not of the blood of the Royal family, as per this document.”

The certificate was taken from her, and shown to the Archbishop. “Where did you obtain this document?”

“I obtained it by uncovering a scheme by an American journalist, Ms. Martha Whelan, or should we call you Y/n Y/l/n?”

All eyes went to you as the room was full of gasps.

You knew you should've turned tail and ran, you knew you shouldn’t have stayed on when Arthur found out, and you knew you shouldn’t have fallen in love with the Prince of fucking Monaco. You were the dumbest person you’d ever met.

You didn’t dare look at Charles, knowing what his expression would be. You just looked down.

“Is that true, you are a journalist?” the Archbishop questioned.

You spoke confidently, though the regret was evident in your voice. “I am.”

The room was in upheaval. Everyone was angry, everyone was confused, and everyone needed an answer.

“And your Majesty, this certificate?”

The room went silent as Pascale began to speak. “It is legitimate.”

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

You were running out as quickly as humanly possible, trailing just after Charles.

“Charles, please, just let me explain-!”

“Explain what?” he spat, turning to you.

“I’m sorry. I never meant for anything like this to happen, and I understand that you never want to see me again. I just had to tell you I’m sorry, and the only reason I kept it up was for you and Arthur.”

“And you couldn’t have told me?!”

“Arthur made me promise I wouldn’t tell you,” you sniffled.

His face dropped. “He knew?”

You nodded, wiping away your tears. This wasn’t for you to be upset about. This was your mistake, and you couldn't fix it.

“Why wouldn’t he let you tell me? Did he know he was adopted?”

You shook your head. “He doesn’t know. And I don’t know why he wouldn’t let me tell you. I just… he asked me not to.”

He stared at you for a moment, and it wasn’t those same, shining eyes that made your heart leap. It was the cold, dead, reserved eyes that made you want to run away and never come back, that stared back at you. “I’m glad you have your story. I suggest you stay out of our lives from now on.”

And with that he walked on.

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

New York was colder than you remembered. You had decided to just go straight to your apartment, turn off your phone, and binge watch shitty reality tv shows until you could show your face in public again without wanting to sob every time you saw something that remotely reminded you of Charles and Monaco.

But something nagged at you. The acorn, the poem, ‘a love far greater than blood’. You didn’t understand it. So you spent about 12 hours working on deconstructing it, and you thought of something. Maybe it was your delusions after not sleeping for a day (or two), but maybe the acorn ornament could prove something, so you sent your findings over to Arthur, hoping they would make sense, and turned your phone back off, blocking all of their numbers and falling into a very needed sleep.

౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊౨ৎ˚₊

The next few weeks were full of clearing out your office (you quit), looking for a new job, and starting off as an actual journalist, not just cleaning up some sleaze work. It was nice, peaceful. Writing articles about things that mattered to you, things that would help people, things that weren’t a certain King of Monaco.

Life was good. Getting over your heartbreak was hard, but you were starting to believe that you might actually be alright.

You sat in your dad’s diner, ready to ring in the New Year, when there was a snowball thrown on the glass, and when you looked outside, there he was.

Quickly, you ran outside. “What are you doing here?” you questioned.

He shrugged, “I never got to say goodbye, or thank you.”

“Please don’t thank me, I honestly should be apologising again and again for what I did, I am so sor-”

“You opened a door that should’ve been opened years ago. Arthur showed me what you’d done. Half because I couldn’t believe he could do it on his own, and half because… I thought it was going to be a message from you. You blocked me…”

“I didn’t want to risk bothering you anymore,” you sighed.

“You’d never bother me,” he smiled, pausing for a moment. “Arthur misses you. So do I.”

“I miss you both too,” you smiled. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Y’know, a palace is a lonely place for a king, when he has no queen,” he admitted.

“It’s a good thing you’re an eligible bachelor then,” you chuckled. “Good night Charles, thank you for coming to see me-”

“I love you,” he confessed. “You made me a better man- you make me a better man. I don’t even want to spend time without you, do you understand that?” he asked, getting down on one knee and revealing an engagement ring.

You frowned, your eyes tearing up. “Charles, I am not nobility-”

“I don’t care,” he smiled.

“My entire life is in New York-”

“We can come back as much as you want.”

“What will the people think?” you sniffled, and he stood up, wrapping his arms around you.

“They’ll think you're a kind, caring, beautiful woman with a very intelligent mind, and brilliant ideas, who is loved very much by their King,” he whispered, then pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

“We barely know each other Charles-”

“And yet I’ve never been more certain in my life. And I’m known to be indecisive-”

He stopped talking because you’d started kissing him.

Jesus Christ, you were going to be the Queen of Monaco, what a story that was.

‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡

a very f1 christmas! masterlist (2024)

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

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sfznyxio · 9 months ago

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-ˋˏ FLOW ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. with your auto workshop at risk of closing down, your best friend kira ryosuke offers to introduce you to people who are definitely in need of your high quality services: underground street racers of blue lock, whose obsessions are winning the races. however, your arrival at the track makes them think otherwise.

CHARACTERS. isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, kunigami rensuke, barou shouei, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, yukimiya kenyu, otoya eita, karasu tabito, shidou ryusei, itoshi rin, itoshi sae

CONTENT. f!reader. street racer au. fluff. 1.3k wc. rewrite of flow at my old main blog @/verxsyon. reader is labeled as “kira (ryosuke’s) girl” because they are always seen together. possessive behavior (barou). mentions of violence (shidou & rin).

VERA. what’s better than egoist soccer players? egoist street racers. you know what could be better than egoist street racers? the reonagi divorce arc in hd— oops, lmao. you know what could be better than the reonagi divorce arc in hd? season 2 premiere this week and sae has more screen time! i also bought a reo figure in his high school soccer uniform to celebrate, and it was the last one too. lucky!

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ISAGI YOICHI

the heart. quickly becomes popular for his freshness to the arena. isagi is a good friend of kira, so there’s one more person you can trust. while in his care as kira meets up with his team, he gives you a tour of blue lock to keep you entertained. sweet and kind, he fetches you water and asks if you feel alright because the racers have been ogling at you since you arrived. interrupted by an uproar caused by a racer who is standing on his car with paint all over his body, isagi is beyond irritated.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. BACHIRA MEGURU

the monster. obsessed with spray paint and loves decorating his car with it. bachira is terrible at being an artist. playful and cheerful outside, he holds amateur art performances for the crowd before races to get them pumped up. his gaze makes isagi flinch when he is told by the latter to quiet down. you can still hear the warning of staying close to someone you trust. he emits a dangerous aura, a strong first impression. bachira feels the same when he’s up at your face, studying you intensely.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. CHIGIRI HYOMA

the surge. the fastest racer in blue lock, securing victories at the speed of light. as chigiri approaches bachira to scold him for scaring newcomers, his beauty is so unreal that you don’t even realize you’ve been staring at him. he apologizes for his friend’s antics, justifying that he acts like this before a highly anticipated race. unfortunately, chigiri is not in this one due to a leg injury but luckily has someone helping him to stay in shape: an orange-haired racer waiting at the garage in his car.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. KUNIGAMI RENSUKE

the hero. kunigami has the highest endurance in blue lock, outlasting all racers in long-distance races. he acts like an older brother as he is very protective and solves issues in a civil manner, balancing out his friends’ hot-blooded personalities. kira trusts him enough to take you home as your best friend has matters to take care of. you thank kunigami for the ride and being nice to you. embarrassed, he says he’ll see you at the race and nothing else before zooming away.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. BAROU SHOUEI

the king. barou is the racer that kira complains about for as long as you can remember. he’s selfish and arrogant based on what you gathered so far from kira, claiming that the venue is his throne and the next race is his for the taking. his attitude fits your expectations; you already dislike him upon the first encounter. barou has the audacity to “claim” you as his prize when he wins this race. you’ll definitely follow kira’s advice to avoid him for sure when you see this guy again.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. MIKAGE REO

the heir. reo considers kira to be one of the best in the arena, besides his best friend, nagi, of course. a master of negotiations due to his status as the future chairman of a corporation, he hopes you will find his terms reasonable and collaborate with him as a business partner. but what he doesn’t expect is you playing hard to get. a pretty rich boy does deserve wild goose chase, making his pursuit exhilarating just like races at blue lock. nagi thinks that what he is doing is a waste of time.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. NAGI SEISHIRO

the genius. most people are happy with their achievements, but nagi does not care less as they’re essentially reo’s efforts. all he cares about are his video games and his cactus until you arrive to the arena with kira. all of a sudden, he attempts to impress you; “attempts” being the keyword. yet reo does the work once again by introducing him to you as his precious treasure and brags that you will see nagi’s full potential at the upcoming race. nagi doesn’t find you to be a bother, so he hopes to see you again.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. YUKIMIYA KENYU

the model. his charm is the focal point of his character, which drives the audience nuts. curious by nature, yukimiya wonders about the qualities you possess other than being “kira ryosuke’s girl” and how you manage to get the likes of barou, who treats everyone like trash, and nagi, who thinks of only going home, at your whim. seeing you teach nagi about car anatomy allows him to introduce himself. he believes that there is something special about you, but a friend of his thinks so otherwise.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. OTOYA EITA

the ninja. otoya claims to be not like his fellow racers and prefers to stay in the shadows. he doesn’t see you as an angel sent by god in the form of a mechanic to fix their cars, not understanding why everyone is smitten by you. he isn’t interested in interacting with you at first, however, that is proven wrong when yukimiya makes you laugh at a silly joke. it’s rude to make you feel unwelcome, so he decides to give you a chance. a crow- like racer mocks him for thinking he doesn’t find you attractive one bit.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. KARASU TABITO

the assassin. all about good vibes and good times, karasu does not want anyone to act “mediocre” around you. many newcomers are notorious for never setting foot in this place after their first round. he is relieved to hear that you came at your own volition thanks to kira. majority of racers you met so far are nice to you, so he doesn’t need to worry about making an impromptu spiel of why blue lock is great. if you think he’s too friendly for your taste, what about the guy stalking you right now.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. SHIDOU RYUSEI

the joker. unrestrained both in words and action, shidou goes about his day and does everything as he pleases. judging by how yukimiya, otoya, and karasu are quick to shield you, he’s bad news. the altercation grabs kunigami’s attention, who he has massive beef with. being “kira’s girl” doesn’t phase him, nor your best friend going after his head for being near you. one of his rivals isn’t amused by the ongoing circus act, as if he didn’t break his nose in the previous race.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ITOSHI RIN

the puppeteer. rin has a score to settle with his older brother, sae, who is betting on shidou for the next race. physical violence is a usual solution to settle arguments, and it’s worse for rin to be involved in another fight with shidou, especially before a race that determines his fate and prove to his brother that he’s the best of the best. he doesn’t spare a glance at you or ask if you’re alright, as sae walks into the garage to check out the commotion.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ITOSHI SAE

the prodigy. sae is one of the top eleven racers at the underground. you now know that he is betting on shidou for the upcoming race. rin does not seem pleased. even if it’s not obvious at face value, everyone can tell that there’s bad blood between the brothers by the intense atmosphere created from their staring contest. sae looks at you then at his brother, who he scoffs at for his lack of concern for you. for a girl to experience this in the first week, he’ll stop by your shop as reparation after the race.

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aeyumicore · 6 months ago

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okay REWRITING THIS SINCE TUMBLR ATE MY POST I HATE MY LIFE:

i think i’m one of the few girls that didn’t want caleb to come back half cyborg or w a mechanical arm so idk how to feel about this HAHAH im processing

but his back made me viscerally ill i’m HURJRHRHEHDUE i shivered.

some thoughts i have about caleb’s story:

1. i need caleb’s story to have DEPTH - i need caleb to have a level of moral greyness. i dont think caleb can survive as a classic childhood friends to lovers trope. it would be too cliche, esp with the controversies surrounding his global reception.

2. i think caleb needs to have betrayed mc on some conscious level. it can't have been on a "he was forced to do it" or a "he had a very good and noble reason." it can't be something that can be so easily squared away. the level of betrayal needs to be BIG, because the level of REDEMPTION needs to be bigger.

3. i just don't think caleb can be the golden retriever boy he's been, he won't survive. luke pearce from ToT was this character, who btw was my fav and prob one of my first otome favs but luke pearce lacked the depth to keep my interest long term.

4. i think caleb definitely had something to do with the explosion whether he knew about it or he himself set it up. i think he maybe

was part of the plot, knowing josephine and mc would be "collateral." but he knew mc would survive. maybe he thought he could or couldnt save josephine (moral greyness).

maybe he also died. he could have a level of survivability/reincarnation like mc and like the other boys who all have a level of being able to reincarnate or self-heal (sylus). heck josephine prob also tested on him so he might even have some aether core like thing in him

maybe he almost died but was saved by Ever, as he is a valuable asset, and they needed him. maybe in order to save him they had to take drastic measures? (mechanical arm? :O)

5. i just think overall caleb will be a much better character, love interest, AND villain if they do make him a LITTLE BIT genuinely morally grey. not the fake morally grey of "oh they made me do it" or "i did it but i didn't want to" or "i did it but i was thinking of you the whole time" ykwim.

i think rafayel has some of the BEST character lore and depth not only in the game, but....like kinda ever, and that has a lot to do with it, is the conflict of hatred and love. i would love a good mix of that + sylus's "there is no love purer than mine".

i REALLY fear they will fumble his story. i think it would be a MASSSSSSIVE disservice to caleb if they made him too cliche and simply "ive loved you since we were little and i'd do anything for you"

MORE THOUGHTS TO COME WHEN ITS NOT 5AM and i have to be up in 3 hours for work

edit: I FORGOT TO ADD - the fact that caleb is wearing some kind of officials uniform and seems to be interrogating mc? maybe his betrayal is much deeper rooted..like it’s part of a larger picture that involves a much larger chain of corruption??

#✧.˖ aeyumi muses #✧.˖ aeyumi's lnds obsession #caleb corner .ᐟ✧#caleb #love and deepspace caleb #xia yizhou #lads caleb

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littlefankingdom · 10 months ago

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It's kind of annoying (and weird) how DC keeps trying to rewrite how Jason and Bruce met to paint Bruce in a worst light.

Originally, Batman finds Jason stealing the Batmobile's tires, the kid runs away, and Batman finds him. Discovering the kid is homeless, he gives him to the authority and Jason finishes at Ma Gunn's school. Ma Gunn is actually teaching the kids to be gang members, so Jason tells Batman. Together, they win again Ma Gunn, and Bruce takes Jason in because he sees himself in him.

Well, in Nightwing: Year One, they change it for "Batman kidnapped Jason when he found him stealing his tires and forces him to become Robin", with Jason ATTACHED AND GAGGED in the batcave. (I like this comic except for that because wtf)

In Red Hood and The Outlaws (2011), they changed it for "Jason stole drugs from Leslie and Batman was ready to beat and throw a young teen in jail, but Leslie begged him to give him a chance", which again, wtf. Batman beating up a child. Okay.

In Red Hood and The Outlaws (2016), they changed it for "Bruce put Jason in Ma Gunn's school because he couldn't handle him after taking him in". The only good addition they made is "when Batman caught Jason stealing his tires, he bought him food".

I do not understand why they need to make him awful to this 12 years old so bad. What do they want to make it as if Bruce forced that life on Jason but also didn't want to deal with him. Why they cannot let it as it is, with Bruce having fun dealing with this lil shit that stole his tires and being there for him when he needs him later on, until he finally craves and takes Jason home.

And that's why I am so critical on how Batman and Bruce is written in Nightwing and Red Hood stories, because the writers are incapable to make their main character have conflict with Bruce, without changing his character and their story to make him abusive. They need him to be the bad guy of Jason's, and sometimes Dick's, story because they don't know how to make you side and care for their character without making the other side a monster.

#bruce wayne #batman #jason todd #robin #dick grayson #nightwing #dc comics #my ramblings #that's how you get Jason's fans that believe Bruce doesn't care or help the people struggling and Crime Alley #and doesn't understand this world which is NOT TRUE AT ALL #Bruce understands that people coming crimes because of their circonstances and he wants children to get the help their need #he literally has a breakdown in Gotham Knights because he refuses to believe a kid could kill his own parents #and after he talks about helping the kid he doesn’t even view this kid as a criminal because it's a kid #Jason's writers stop making Bruce treats him like trash challenge impossible #including Nightwing because they fucking love to write Bruce hitting Dick in Nightwing for some reasons

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roxoxoxoxy · 4 months ago

Note

Prompt 25 26 and 31 for antonnnnn

You cooked with this one anon, also this is so long and probably had more plot than you wanted, my bad 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Prompt game list

Made this kind of hurt/comfort? Sorta? Reader gives in super fast. Also have you guys seen that clip of Anton's dad talking about how Anton used to sing rewrite the stars in the shower? He's so cute.

Obligatory this will have typos and grammar is a loose concept here.

25- "Do you know what you do to me?" As they press kisses down your stomach.

26- "You're such a pervert.." You mumble, a shy smile curving your lips. "Only for you, mia cara," They mutter kissing your aching breasts.

31- They drop the towel from their waist and crawl onto the bed, caging you. "What are you going to do to me?" You ask, your fingers dancing a trail down his chest.

Minors dni

You consider slamming the door when you enter Antons apartment, making your anger known to him in a way he can't ignore but decide it's ultimately not the best idea. You instead settle on throwing your shoes aggressively on the floor as you change into your slippers, entering the living room to voice your upset at him.....only to see he's not there.

That only serves to piss you off more, he was a no-show on your anniversary date and he's not even at his own apartment? The thought of him ditching you to go hang out with someone else is about to give you a fucking aneurysm when you suddenly hear sounds coming from his bathroom. Getting closer to the door you can hear him singing 'rewrite the stars', if you weren't so mad at him you'd find this cute. Right now it's just annoying.

You take a deep breath, setting down the leftovers from the restaurant you were waiting at him for on the coffee table. You don't even want to call them left overs, you barely touched your food waiting for him to show you. It might as well be take out. You sit down on his couch, silently waiting for him to get out, stewing in your anger.

Anton being Anton he takes an unimaginable amount of time in the shower, by the time he comes out it's already been over thirty minutes and your anger as simmered down into a mix of sadness and exhaustion. The fancy dress you picked out to wear is starting to feel uncomfortable and the feeling of your jewelry against your skin is overstimulating you.

When he finally comes out of the shower he's wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, he looks so good with his hair wet and muscles out that you consider forgiving him right then and there, thankfully your self-respect kicks in before you can really commit to that decision.

Anton looks surprised to see you, he's halfway through forming a smile when you see him connect the dots. The way you're dressed, the food on the table, what day it is. His face goes from joy to shock to guilt like he's a cartoon character, it almost makes you laugh.

"oh......shit." he says, voice sounding deflated.

"Yeah." You think about something actually clever and snappy to say back to him but come up with nothing. You're just so upset.

"I set an alarm." He blurts out, looking both awkward and confused at the same time.

"I'm sure you did." You say, sarcastically. The look he gives you almost makes you regret saying that. He looks guilty, with the eyes of a kicked puppy but when you remember what it was like watching the waiter come back to you and ask you over and over if you were ready to order. The staff looked at you with such pity that thinking about it is making you angry all over again.

"I'm sorry" he comes closer to you, reaching to hold your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. "I'm so so sorry....what can I do to make it up to you? Please I'll do anything, I love you"

"Yeah I felt pretty loved today." You pull your hands away from his, folding your arms across your chest. Anton kneels Infront of you, his hands on your knee, looking up at you.

"Please don't be like that" Your resolve melts a little, you sigh looking down at him.

"Make it up to me then." Anton raises and eyebrow at the way you phrased that, trying to gauge whether or not you're implying what he thinks you're implying.

"You wanna have sex? Right now? I thought you were mad at me" His tone is teasing, a grin plastered across his face.

"Shut up. You're the one who's basically naked. If you keep teasing me I'll go back to being upset with you" Anton shuts up but he's still had that cocky smile on his face. He reaches to pick you up, princess carrying you to his room. You can't help but get a little flustered at his strength, he didn't even grunt when he picked you up.

He kisses you on the way to his room, giggling against your mouth as you fumble to open his bedroom door without breaking the kiss. After a tad bit more struggling you finally manage to open the door and he sets you down on the bed. He drops the towel from his waist and crawl onto the bed, caging you.

"What are you going to do to me?" You ask, your fingers dancing a trail down his toned chest, taking in his naked body with no shame. He's been working out more recently, he's on a calorie surplus to gain more muscle so his biceps look extra bite-able lately. He has that boyish smile on his face as he watches you admire him, a mix of cocky and bashful.

"Nothing you won't like." He whispers against the skin on your neck before nibbling on it. Your back arches slightly, giving him just enough room to slide his arm under you, pressing you as close against him as he can. He pulls back, pulling off your dress so fast you almost complain about him being too hasty. He cuts you off by slowly kissing down your body, leaving open mouthed desperate kisses down your collarbone.

"You're such a pervert.." You mumble, a shy smile curving your lips.

"Only for you, princess" He mutters, kissing your aching breast. He takes the nipple into his mouth, using his tongue to stimulate it, causing small tingles of please to crawl up your body. He uses his hand to squeeze the other breast, massaging it softly before he switches sides. You whine, unintentionally raising your hips.

"Anton...cmon..." You say, you're just short of begging him to keep going to where you need him most. pouting when he giggles at your words.

"Who's the pervert now? Why don't you tell me what you want me to do? Hm?" You roll your eyes, looking away from him.

"You're taking a lot of liberties for someone who missed our anniversary dinner" that seems to shut him up, he bites the inside of his cheek.

"Ah....I should probably save the teasing for another day" you're starting to worry you killed the mood when Anton leans back up to plant a sweet kiss on your mouth, making out with you for a bit until you're out of breath.

"Do you know what you do to me?" He asks, kissing back down your body. "You looked so good in that dress, I'm kicking myself over not being there to admire you at the restaurant. Wish I had time to soak all of you in"

He reaches your thighs, lowering his face to right above your knee, slowly starting to kiss up your inner thigh. His kisses get more messier the closer he gets to your cunt, making you squirm. He uses his hands to hold you down, you can feel him chuckle against you, his breath hot against your skin.

You can't help but think he looks pretty like this, his hair is wet and unstyled, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink. You almost start to zone out looking at him when the feeling of lips pecking your clit snaps you out of it. You let out a involuntary whine, reaching down to tangle your hand in his hair as he begins to suck on your clit softly.

"Fuck- Anton that feels so good-" He moans in response, which only intensified the feeling. He moves down, his tongue finding your entrance and pushing in. He brings tongue fucking you, using his hands to hold you down when you start squirming again. He shifts his hands down so they're cupping your ass, lifting you off the bed slightly and pulling back his face.

"Grind against my face." His voice is thick and desperate, voice shaky from trying to catch his breath. "I know how much you like my nose."

You shut him up by pushing his face down again, doing as your told and grinding against him. His nose feels perfect, the tip of his nose nudging against your clit every time you grind on his face. You can't hold back your moans, if your mind wasn't clouded from pleasure you'd be embarrassed by how loud you're being.

"Anton I'm getting close"

He lets out a deliciously loud moan when you say that, the vibrations tipping you over the edge. You squeeze your thighs around his face as you cum, riding out your high by holding his face down. By the time you're done Anton's face is soaked in you. His lips are swollen and his hair is somehow even more of a mess. He licks his lips, not breaking eye contact when he sits up.

"Forgive me yet?" You're still catching your breath but you manage to sit up, reaching down to wrap your hand around Anton's hard cock. It's all red and needy from eating you out, the tip has a drop of precum oozing out of it. Anton can't hold back from hissing at the feeling of your hand, clearly pent up.

"No, i think you still have some making up to do"

This is way longer than I wanted it to be LMAO, any interaction is appreciated.

#Roxys prompt game ✿#riize x reader #riize smut #riize hard thoughts #riize hard hours #anton x reader #anton smut #anton hard thoughts #anton hard hours #anton imagines #anton scenarios #riize scenarios #riize imagines

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souliebird · 7 months ago

Text

[[and then I met you || ch. 29]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 3.4k

ao3 link

Foggy never thought he would be babysitting Matthew Murdock’s kid.

As much as Foggy loves Matt - and it is a lot - he is the first to admit his best friend is more than a bit of a disaster. Matt is brilliant and kind and truly a good soul, but he is also a self-destructive idiot with more baggage than any airport in the nation. He always tries to do the right thing, but the right thing never seems to involve taking care of himself. And that doesn’t even include all the Daredevil bullshit.

If Matt had come to him a few months ago and told Foggy he wanted to be a father - to go out and have a kid at that exact moment - Foggy would have beat him over the head with the nearest solid object. Matt can barely run his own life - there was no way he could raise a child.

Matt was still working on even managing to have friends and a real life outside of his mask and his ability to balance it all had been on thin ice. Matt getting into a serious relationship had been a laughable idea and that relationship leading to a baby wasn’t even a thought.

As far as Foggy had been concerned, as long as he was Daredevil, Matt was destined to be a bachelor.

So, of course, God’s favorite punching bag was told he already is a father.

The change in Matt isn’t what Foggy expected. He expected panic. He expected Matt to be in Church for eight hours a day praying for guidance while he had a crisis. He expected Matt to spiral.

He hadn’t expected him to take to being a father like a duck to water. He hadn’t expected it to completely rewrite his best friend’s DNA.

It seemed like overnight the dumpster fire of a man he knew was replaced - born from those ashes was someone who Foggy almost didn’t recognize.

It was a Matt who cares about himself. One who isn't being reckless. One who no longer hides things from Foggy and Karen, who lies about injuries and thinks he is a one-man army.

In the office, if Matt isn’t working, he’s listening to self-help or parenting books. He talks to other people, and he actually makes an effort to not look like he’s getting abused. He’s focused in a way Foggy hasn’t seen since college and it makes Foggy so so happy.

But it also terrifies him because he doesn’t know how long it will last. Is this a temporary change or has Matt finally learned he isn’t alone, and his actions affect others?

It is too early to tell and Foggy feels like a complete asshole for doubting his friend and waiting for the ball to drop, but he feels like he’s also being realistic.

Matt has hurt him so much over their friendship - and Foggy has hurt him, too - and his sweet angel of a child doesn’t deserve to have that be a possibility for her.

As far as Foggy can tell, Minnie inherited all the best parts of Matt - his smile, his charm, and his inherently good nature. He knows if Matt doesn’t manage to fuck it up - and Foggy prays he doesn’t - she is going to grow up to be a beautiful woman, heart and soul, with no reason to yell at God.

He couldn’t ask for a better little girl to babysit.

All she wants to do is watch Lady and the Tramp over and over and Foggy couldn’t be happier to oblige. It is easy to sit back and watch the movie - he hasn't seen it in a long time, and he forgot how charming all the characters are.

It is halfway through the third viewing of the movie when big brown eyes finally tear themselves away from the screen. Foggy watches curiously as Minnie slips off the couch and toddles over to her toy chest in the corner of the room. She methodically begins going through her things, lifting up each toy and giving it a good once over before setting it back down.

“What’cha doing, squirt?” he asks.

Minnie does not look back to him as she replies, her tone making him feel like it is the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m gonna make dinner.”

Dinner was had before Foggy arrived for babysitting duty, so he guesses it is time for some make believe. He is very much used to this from watching over his nieces and he wonders what kind of play will be in store for him.

The first toy she deems worthy to have a seat at the table is a Barbie and the second, almost immediately after, is a floppy looking bear that clearly has had another life before this one. The pair are transported to the coffee table and delicately sat down before Minnie whips her head around to look up at Foggy.

“They need says-or-eases,” she says seriously. He can barely get out a confused ‘okay’ before she’s scampering down the hallway to the bedroom. He decides to sit and wait to see what is going to happen. Moments later, the little girl is back in the living room with an armful of supplies. He can make out a lot of costume jewelry, and among the fake pearls and gems, a pair of fake glasses.

It is all dumped in front of the table unceremoniously before she is off to collect something else.

Foggy stays on the couch as markers and a variety of play food join the pile on the floor. He has no idea what could be going on in the mind of the toddler, but it is amusing that she is so determined in her task.

Finally, everything is gathered and Minnie plops down in front of her toys, mouth turned down as she focuses. She starts sorting through things, making multiple little piles, and Foggy can’t help but ask, “Do you need any help?”

“No, I’m a Big Girl,” she replies factually, not even bothering to look up. She’s completely locked in on whatever it is she is doing, and since she’s doing nothing deemed risky, Foggy lets his eyes go back to the movie.

As Lady roams the streets of some unnamed city, Minnie dresses up her toys. Barbie gets draped in so many necklaces her torso is no longer visible, and the bear gets the glasses. She hums and haws over the positioning on his muzzle for a good minute before she takes them off and disappears from Foggy’s eyeline. Her feet pop up a second later and he determines she is laying tummy down on the ground.

He checks his phone as she plays - replying to messages from Marci and Karen and going through a few work emails.

He is in the middle of checking his calendar when Minnie’s curls reappear in front of him and she is back to trying to balance the glasses on the bear’s face.

Except, now, the lens of the glasses have been colored over in red marker and Foggy knows exactly who the floppy bear is meant to be.

“Is that your Daddy?” he asks, not at all containing the glee in his voice. Karen is going to Love this.

“Uh-huh,” the baby tells him as she finally manages to get the accessory to stay on. She grabs the doll next and holds it up to show it off. “This is Mommy.”

“That’s Mommy?” Foggy confirms. He quickly switches his phone over to his camera app to start taking a million and a half pictures.

“Uh-huh. They are on a date. Like Lady and Tramp,” she explains, “We gotta make them dinner.”

His heart absolutely soars and he knows this is one of those stories he is going to tell everyone - Matt’s precious little daughter pretending her toys are her parents on a date, while her real parents are out on their first date. It is some of the cutest shit he’s ever seen and he’s glad he’s the one who agreed to babysit.

He pushes himself up into standing, so ready to get in on this make believe action, “Of course. What are we making them for dinner?”

They spend the next five minutes rearranging things - the play kitchen set is moved into the real kitchen and Foggy drapes a throw blanket between two chairs so the dining guests can’t see the food being prepared. Mommy Doll and Daddy Bear get a plastic Pooh Bear plate between them, and an LED candle is scrounged up to give the date the right ambience.

Foggy gets designated as the Waiter - he even slicks his hair back and lets Minnie draw a pencil mustache under her nose and she, of course, is the Chef, as well as puppeteer of the toys.

Once everything is set up - the make believe begins.

“Oh, ho, hon,” Foggy says in a horrible French accent as he kneels beside the coffee table, a pad of paper and a pen in hand. “What a lovely couple! You are looking so beautiful this evening, mademoiselle!”

“Thank you!” Minnie chimes, altering her voice just a little to be higher as she takes hold of the doll to make it bounce as it ‘talks’. “You are beauty-fulls too!” She then grabs the bear with her other hand and shakes him just a bit, making him sound gruff as he chastises, “What about me?”

“You are as handsome as ever, sir,” is his cheesy reply. With too much flourish, he brings up his pen and positions it on his paper, “What drinks can I get started for you? Water? Juice? Wine? May I suggest a bit of hot cocoa?” He over emphasizes the last word, making the little girl start to giggle.

“We don’ts have cocoa! Only water and appy juice!”

Foggy dramatically throws his hand over his heart, “My apologies! The chef has let me know our options tonight are Water de Aqua and Appy Juice.”

“We want appy juice!” Daddy Bear tells him, and he makes sure to write the order in nice big letters.

“A wonderful selection, sir! We get it from the finest grocer, and it is chilled to perfection. Shall I get you started with some appetizers?”

Minnie squints over to him, tilting her head to the side and doing a wonderful impression of Matt as she asks, “What is an appy-tiger?”

“It is a snack you get before dinner, so you don’t get hungry while the Chef makes the food,” he explains in his normal voice.

The toddler nods like she really understands what he means, then she turns her two toys to face each other. Mommy Doll is moved first, “Do you want an appy-tiger?”

Daddy Bear’s head nods as Minnie grumbles out, “I want a cheese stick and ice-cream. Please, thank you.”

“Oh, that sounds good,” Mommy Doll replies. She is turned towards Foggy so hard her necklaces clatter together, “I want a cheese stick, too. Please, thank you.”

He writes down the request and promises, “That will be right out.” As he pushes himself up onto his feet, Minnie streaks past him to get to her kitchen before him. He purposefully takes his time, letting her get herself set up before he arrives. “Order up! We got two cheese sticks and an ice cream for the couple at table one.”

“Two cheese sticks and ice cream!” The little girl calls back excitedly. She moves to start digging through her plastic food, but then she freezes, and she gets a look on her face Foggy has seen so many times on Matt’s that he’s lost count.

She’s heard something.

Before Foggy can ask what it is, the unmistakable sound of a fuse being blown fills the air and the power dies, leaving them in a deep darkness. A brief panic takes a hold of him - he’s been in far too many situations where this sort of thing means danger - but logic prevails, and he rushes over to the window to assess the damage.

The neighboring buildings still have their lights on, so someone in the building must have overloaded something. It happens all the time in the heat of the summer and not a cause for him to go into fight or flight mode.

“Looks like it is just us,” he tells Minnie as he turns back to her. He can only just barely make out her outline - there is only one window in the room, and it faces an alley. There is next to no light filtering in and the only thing still going in the apartment is the weak LED candle.

He expects Minnie to be scared - after all the sudden lack of light is kind of terrifying - but she seems completely unaffected.

“The tee-vee turned off,” is what she replies with, sounding annoyed as can be.

“Everything turned off,” Foggy counters. “We’ve got no electricity. We have to wait for it to come back on.”

He hears her huff as he makes his way back to the couch. He’s careful as he moves, not wanting to accidentally crush any of the playthings that have been spread around.

“Do you still want to play Dinner Date?” He asks. It is pretty dark, but if they just stick with going between the couch and the fake-kitchen, he thinks things should be okay.

“No, I wanna watch Lady and Tramp.” There is a slight whine in her voice that makes him think this might turn into tears and his heart breaks a little. He doesn’t want to be the one to deny her anything.

“The power is out, squirt. The television isn’t going to work. We have to do something that doesn’t require power.”

“Why?” He can hear the underlying Murdock Anger in her question, and he notes it is something he’ll have to tell Matt.

“Do you know how it usually makes this sort of noise?” Foggy asks before humming. He can sometimes hear electricity, so he knows she must know what he’s talking about. She confirms with a little ‘uh-huh’ and he continues on. “Well, that means it is getting power and can work. It’s not getting power right now, so it can’t work.”

He hopes the logic makes sense in her little brain.

She doesn’t respond right away and that worries him. He plucks the little LED candle up from the coffee table and holds it up like a torch. It barely casts enough light for him to see his hand and does nothing to help him locate the curly haired toddler.

He walks slowly over to the kitchen, hoping to find her pouting by her toys, but the area is empty. He did not hear the pitter patter of feet and groans at the thought of another ninja in his life.

Of course, Matt’s child would be able to sneak around in the dark undetected. Why wouldn’t she?

“Minnie,” he calls out softly, hoping this doesn’t turn into a game of hide and seek. “Where are you?”

He turns in place, trying to remember if he left his phone on the table or on the couch. The battery is in the forty percent zone, and he’d rather save it than use it as a light source. He’s pretty sure he was told there are flashlights under the sink, but he can’t remember if it was the kitchen or bathroom sink.

He decides to try the kitchen sink first and blindly makes his way there. He admittedly doesn’t have the best vision anymore and his eyes are taking forever to adjust to the meager amount of light, so he has to move slowly.

“Will you read me Lady and Tramp?” a tiny voice suddenly asks from right beside his knee and Foggy totally doesn’t scream.

“You totally need a bell,” he tells the child before rubbing at his face with his candle free hand. “If you help me find a flashlight, I can read to you.”

The noise of annoyance Minnie makes is right from Matt’s playbook, “why do you needs a flashlight?”

He wonders if this is the first power outage she has experienced, but if that was so, he doubts he would have been told where the flashlights were. Though, Minnie’s mom is a bit paranoid and anxious, so it could have been a ‘just in case’ thing, but who really knows.

It is a question for later. Right now, he has an annoyed toddler ready to bite his ankles over Lady and the Tramp.

“It’s too dark for me to read,” he tries to explain, hoping she will accept the answer.

She doesn’t.

Instead, he gets sassed.

“It’s not dark.”

“It is, too,” he counters.

He can perfectly picture little hands-on hips as she doubts him, “Not-uh.”

He resists the urge to say ‘uh-huh’ and attempts to rationalize with her, “Mouse, I can barely see past my nose. It’s too dark for me to read to you without a flashlight. Can you help me find one?”

He can just see her curly head of hair looking up at him and he doesn’t need to see her face to feel her judgement. With the huff so haughty it could rival Marci, Minnie plops down to the ground and drops something that sounds like a picture book in front of her.

His suspicions are proved right when he hears the soft fluttering of pages.

“El…ay..dee..why. El..ay..La! La..dee…Lay..dee..Lady!” Her little voice is full of frustration as she tries to sound out the word Foggy knows she can’t really see and his heart pangs in sympathy.

“Minnie, don’t strain your eyes. Let’s just find a flashlight, it’s too dark to read.”

“I want Lady and Tramp!” The little Murdock barks at him, “I can reads it!” He hears what must be her finger hitting the page and he pictures her trying to trace the words. “La..La..lady. Lady. wuh…wuh..double-you ay ess. Wuh…Wuh-ah…Wuh-ah..”

“Was?” he tries to supply, feeling so guilty. He should just step away and find the flashlight before she really hurts her eyes, but he doesn’t want to leave her when she’s getting into a mood, even if it’s a few feet.

Apparently, helping is not what she wants, because he instantly gets her tiny wrath, “I can reads it myselfs!”

Foggy’s hands shoot up in front of him in the universal ‘my bad’ pose and he apologies, “I’m sorry. Let me get the light and we can read together.” He decides, if anything, he’ll just go grab his phone and waste the battery. Anything is better than upsetting Minnie the first time he properly babysits her. She’ll never want to stay with him again and he’s pretty sure Matt would easily bend to her will.

“But I can sees it!” She practically yells it at him, her voice getting wet and wobbly. There is a hint of desperation in it that makes Foggy feel like an absolute villain for not believing her. “I can sees it and reads it by myself!”

He gives up on trying to convince her and pivots to go to get his phone. As he carefully steps around her to find his way back to the couch, she picks up her watery ‘reading’ again.

“La..Lady wuh-was a…Lady was a..el..el you..el you see kay…”

Foggy locates his phone on the coffee table and it wakes up as soon as he picks it up. The light hurts his eyes, and he has to look away so he isn’t blinded by it.

Daddy Bear looks up at him from his interrupted coffee table date, beady little black eyes hidden behind red lenses and so suddenly, with enough force to cause him mental whiplash, Foggy feels like a complete idiot.

He turns to shine his phone on Minnie, who is hunched over her book, trying her very best to sound out the words.

“See..Kay…Luh…Luh..see..kay..why..Luh see kay why.”

She is trying to read the word ‘lucky ’he realizes. He knows kids can memorize stories, but there’s no way such a little baby can memorize how to spell all the words and pretend to read them out loud.

But this isn’t just any normal little baby.

This is Matt Murdock’s little baby.

Matt Murdock - who has enhanced senses and passed them on.

Matt Murdock - who is blind and wouldn’t know what it would be like to have enhanced eyesight.

“Holy shit,” Foggy says to himself. “She’s got dark vision.”

a/n :

i'm sorry, this chapter fought me so much. Foggy refuses to cooperate with me :( this is nothing like i was planning and I kinda hate it

tags:

@two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8 @littlenosoul @ednaaa-04 @astridstark13 @hashcakes

@lovingkryptonitehideout @moongirlgodness @soocore @bluestuesday @midnightwonderlan

@starry-night-20 @rebeccapineapple @writtenbyred @cherrypie5 @capswife @silvercharacterchaos @resting-confused-face

@Specialagentjackbauer @yarrystyleeza @ofmusesandsecrets @buckyssugarchick

@midnightreids @cloudroomblog @yeonalie @thychuvaluswife

@petrovafire39 @ghostindeath @roxytheimmortal

@allllium @waywardcrow @thatkindofgurl @waywardxrhea

@anehkael @akilatwt @lostinthefantasies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @ethereal-blaze

@nennia-2000 @seasonofthenerd @abucketofweird @mattmurdockstateofmind @imagineswritersblog @hazelhavoc @smile-child-13 @allst4rsfall @hashcakes @kezibear @mapleaye @sammanna @gamingfeline @moon-glades @nightwitherspring @phoenix666stuff @dare-devil

@ladyoflynx @hobiebrowns-wife @sarcasm-n-insomnia @lillycore

@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt

@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374

@theclassicvinyldragon @aoi-targaryen @lunaticgurly @nikitawolfxo @shireentapestry @snakevyro @yondiii @echos-muses @honeybug-victoria @the-bisaster @ristare

@mrs-bellingham @eugene-emt-roe @cometenthusiast @stevenknightmarc @yes-im-your-mom @hunnybelha @actorinfluence @capbrie @prowlingforfood @jupitervenusearthmars

@mayp11-blog @danzer8705 @thinking-at-dusk @remuslupinwifee @akila-twt @nommingonfood @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @dil3mma @allllium

#soulie writes #fanfiction #matt murdock x reader #and then i met you #daredevil #matt murdock x you #foggy and minnie bonding not really

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