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skeltnwrites · 3 days ago

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A Family Affair ✶ part one!

In a fit of jealousy over Nancy’s perfect new boyfriend, Steve falsely claims to be dating someone too. Robin recruits you to help Steve out, despite the fact that you’re practically strangers. | MASTERLIST

⤷ Fucking Brad ›› Hawkins Elementary puts on Peter Pan, Steve has FOMO, and you have all sorts of crazy plans 8k

Fucking Brad. Brad, with his slim waist and his broad shoulders and his chiseled jaw. Brad, who doesn’t slouch and can grow a full beard and always smells nice. Brad, who is the better version of Steve in every way. He’s the Ken of Barbies. He’s what every man wishes he looked like at thirty-two. He’s like Steve, if Steve had Botox injections and a gym membership.

And God he has stupidly good hair. All layered and cropped like it’s trimmed every other week. But effortless in the way it sits perfectly on either side of his face. He probably hasn’t had a bad hair day in his life. And even worse, Steve’s yet to find a single gray hair on the man’s entire head.

It’s too good to be true, obviously. You can’t be that attractive and a good person. Steve doesn’t make the rules.

But Nancy seems happy. And as a good ex-husband and father of her children, Steve’s trying to be happy for her and her new boyfriend. There’s just this sharp little shard of his heart that never quite slots back into its old place. And every time he thinks he’s patched it up, Brad comes along and knocks it loose again.

The divorce took a heavy toll on Steve. He’ll admit that now, almost a year down the line. He lost weight, then gained twice as much back. He pushed Robin so far away that they didn’t speak for two months. It really changed him. It made him question things he used to be so sure of.

Nancy was never cruel, not even on their worst nights. But the arguing became constant. Steve slept in the kids’ rooms more than his own. He became obsessed with finding solutions that Nancy didn’t care to try.

She was never cruel, but she did break his heart for a second time. So maybe that’s part of the reason he tells her a little white lie.

It happened last week. Steve had been out of town for the weekend and subsequently didn’t have the kids for a whole week straight since Nancy couldn’t swap days with him. And this is the longest he’s not seen them in… probably ever, so he’s extra excited to pick them up. He even offers to drive to Nancy’s house on the other side of town rather than meet her somewhere halfway. But guess who pulls into the driveway at the same exact time as him? Brad.

And Caroline, bless her sweet little second-grade heart, beams across the yard, right past Steve’s car up to Brad’s. Steve remembers watching in a daze, the scene unfolding in slow motion. His heart wrings itself in his chest just thinking about it. Caroline, his firstborn, his baby girl, his own flesh and blood, betrayed him, for fucking Brad.

It’s not fair. Nancy breaking his heart is one thing, but his daughter? At this rate, he’s not sure he’ll live long enough to walk her down the aisle. And like hell he’ll let Brad be the one to do it.

Steve steps onto the driveway and quickly receives the same armfuls of enthusiasm Caroline treated Brad with. He kneels to hug her back properly, both arms around her waist as he sprinkles kisses along the side of her head.

“You’re back!” Steve feels the shape of a big smile through his shirt.

“I missed you,” he says, pulling back to see her lovely face, “so, so much.”

Caroline is proof that Steve’s done something right in his life. He finds more and more evidence every day. It’s in her kindness to strangers and her bottomless well of curiosity and her sunbeam of a smile that weirdly looks like a smaller version of his own. He used to hate the way his teeth looked in his mouth but now he wonders why.

He’s received comments about their alikeness since the day she was born. She obtained his hooded eyes, his square jaw, and his strong nose. She has lighter eyes, like Nancy’s, and lighter hair, like Steve’s when he was her age. But still, Caroline’s his carbon copy, his mini-me.

“Missed you too, like, more than the whole universe.”

“Woah! More than the whole universe? That’s a lot of missing to do.” His fingers crawl across her chest until she arches away in a fit of giggles. “Is your poor little heart okay?”

Brad waves incessantly from the top of the driveway until Steve glances up. He’s not an asshole, he waves back, but he can’t help his smile curdling into something sour.

Caroline, of his two children, is by far the least likely to lie to him. She burst into tears the last time Steve caught her red-handed and over something so insignificant he couldn’t even tell you what it was. But her words feels hollow when the memory of her picking Brad over him still stings fresh. Logically, Steve knows it wasn’t a malicious decision. Caroline’s a daddy’s girl to her core. But just knowing doesn’t make the hurt ache any less.

Steve pulls Caroline up as he stands. “Where’s your brother?”

“Mom said he can’t play outside ‘cause he got in trouble at school.”

“What happened?”

“He threw rocks at someone.”

Steve presses his lips together with a hum. “Not good.”

Caroline beats him to the front door, swinging it hard enough to shake the house. “Dad’s here!” she announces.

Steve’s still in this weird limbo about entering the house without Nancy’s permission. To his knowledge, she’s never cared when one of the kids has invited him in, but it feels sort of wrong because he hasn’t lived there in quite some time.

It’s a quaint little home at the top of a hill, purchased in their early twenties when Nancy was pregnant with Caroline. So many years of his life, etched into floorboards and door frames and garden stones that he rarely ever sees anymore.

In the foyer, a riot of blonde fur slams hard into Steve’s knees. He’s expecting it, delighted more than anything to greet his honorary third child, Daisy. Eighty pounds, a golden retriever with more energy than Steve knew a dog could have. She was a Christmas gift from Steve to the family, a surprise Nancy has slowly grown to love over the years. Still, she would’ve been happy to let Steve take her, Daisy’s always been more his than hers, but signing the lease on a place that doesn’t allow pets complicates things.

Steve’s crouched on the floor, receiving a face full of wet kisses when someone smaller barrels into his side.

“Daddy!”

Steve’s hand catches the carpet before he falls, his free arm slinging around his youngest, Andrew. “Hi, buddy.” He pulls him in for a forehead kiss but pushes him back for a better look at his face.

He’s got big brown eyes, round like Nancy’s, and feathered with a long set of lashes. He’s a fair mix of their genes, Nancy’s button nose and pointed ears but Steve’s thick hair and plush lips. He’s like Daisy, with endless reserves of energy and no off switch, but he’s half the dog’s size, tiny, even for six.

“Hi.”

“Hi. How was school?”

“Good,” Andy smiles, words whistling in the gap his front teeth left behind. “I got something from the treasure box and I had music specials today.”

Steve gives his shoulder a loving squeeze. “That’s fun. I heard you got in trouble though, hmm?”

“Barely. It wasn’t really bad. I had a timeout but mom says I still can’t play.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll talk to Mom.”

“Talk to mom about what?” Nancy frowns from the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest.

One thing from their marriage that Steve doesn’t miss is Nancy materializing out of thin air. She’s quiet and quick on her feet, always appearing at the most incriminating moments. He can think of a dozen times he’d gotten in trouble for letting the kids do something she already forbade.

Steve shifts his focus to her begrudgingly. He presses his lips into a cordial, tight-lipped smile. “Why can’t he play? He said he had a time-out already.”

“Because he didn’t do what I asked, Steve. I know you like to let the kids get away with everything, but in my house there are consequences.”

“Okay,” he raises his eyebrows and his smile slips away, “unnecessary.”

She breathes a quiet sigh, hooking her fingernail under the fresh tear in her tights. “It’s been a long week.”

“Sorry.” Steve means it because he’s been there, but he doesn’t waste much sympathy on Nancy these days.

Brad fills the leftover silence as he zips down the stairs, his fingers drumming along the handrail in time with his hums. “Steve!” he grins. “How was Florida? Catch some sun?” He cruises over to Nancy with a much gentler excitement, pecking her head with a soft, “Hi, honey.”

Steve wants to gag. No, he wants to projectile vomit all over their nice floors. He stands and chooses to look at Nancy as he replies the simplest, “Yeah.”

Nancy stares blankly back at him. He used to have some kind of superpower when they were in love. Could read her mind by looking at her eyes alone. But these days he can’t tell her frown from her smile, let alone her thoughts.

“Is your dad doing better?” she says.

“Yeah, he’s– yeah, fine. He’s home now.”

“Good.”

Andy pulls Brad down to his knees, eager to funnel a “very important” secret into his ear. Steve tries, but he can’t decipher any words over Nancy’s voice.

“So, can you take him?” she asks.

“Where?”

“The dentist. Are you listening to me? I said his appointment is after school.”

A vein pulses on Nancy’s forehead, though Steve isn’t privy. His attention swings across the living room behind her like a compass needle, always pointing to Andy and Brad. They’re both giggling, falling onto the couch like ragdolls. Steve’s never had worse FOMO in his life.

“Yeah, sorry, yeah. I’ll take him,” he answers finally.

“He’s been complaining about his mouth since last Tuesday. Think he has a cavity.”

Steve nods. Nancy nods. The silence is awful.

She turns her nose to the stairs and he knows she can’t bear the awkwardness either. “Andrew go get your stuff. Caroline!”

“What!”

“Come on! Dad’s waiting!”

Andy shrieks and Steve turns instinctually. It’s a happy shriek, he finds, paired with pleads of, “Again! Again!”

Brad nods knowingly, slotting his hands under the boy's armpits and swinging him up and up and up until he launches him right back into the couch.

Andy’s thrilled, of course. But Steve doesn't know how to feel. There isn’t a sound he loves more in the world than his kids laughs’, but his body tells him what is happening right now is all sorts of wrong.

“Oh and don’t forget about the play on Friday,” Nancy adds.

Steve can’t answer. He can’t fucking think over the sound of his molars grinding against each other. A switch flips in his brain.

“It’s at six I’m pretty sure. Care’s pretty nervous so just, I dunno, don’t bring it up maybe.”

“I’m bringing someone,” he blurts.

Nancy shifts her weight from foot to foot, her stare sharp as a thumbtack, pinning him right to the floor. Why the fuck did he just say that?

“Who?” she asks strangely. Her mouth is smaller like she’s mad. But her eyes are curious, a sudden softness to them.

Steve clears his dry throat but finds no relief. He hasn’t fucking thought this through. He shrugs, his chin tipping toward the floor. “Just this girl I’ve been talking to. She’s…” He chances a glimpse up but steers his eyes away from Nancy’s the second they land. “It’s kinda gettin’ serious, so, you know.”

“Really?”

He squirms at the way she says it. He feels like he’s in trouble and about to get an earful. “Yeah,” he swallows, “Yeah. She’s great. You’ll like her.”

“How long?”

“Hmm?”

“How long have you been seeing her?”

His eyes rove across the ceiling as he pretends to count the imaginary days he’s spent with his imaginary girlfriend. “Ya know, a few months.” He frowns for show, “Give or take.”

Nancy chuckles wryly. She very clearly doesn’t buy it. And of course, she doesn’t buy it, they were married for a third of his life, she knows Steve inside and out. Steve is officially, utterly, and irreversibly doomed.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he slips in nervously.

“Right.”

“Yeah, so…”

“Okay, well, I look forward to meeting her.”

“Okay. Me too. Well– to you meeting her. I’ve met her, obviously.”

Her mouth twists in a struggle to hide her amusement. “Okay, Steve.”

This is pathetic. Steve’s never been more embarrassed in his life. Ten-plus years he’s had to make a fool of himself in front of Nancy and nothing will ever top this.

Tiny arms curl around his legs and he knows they’re Carolines before he’s seen them. She’s a foot taller than Andy and ten times as gentle. Her ear presses into Steve’s side, her hair newly pinned with a set of plastic butterflies. Steve’s positive she gets prettier by the day and he’s just grateful to have anyone besides Nancy to look at.

Andy hustles down the stairs not long later, sneakers swinging from his wrist by the laces, wearing a backpack twice the size of his chest. And with both kids in sight, Steve cuts straight for the front door, encouraging a round of goodbye hugs and kisses for Mom from the safety of the porch.

On the ride home, Caroline has a deck of questions about his trip. If Grandma and Grandpa still live in that big house on the water. If the airplane ride was bumpy or not. His favorite– if he ordered the fish tails (popcorn shrimp) from that restaurant they all went to last time.

Eight years he’s been a dad and to this day the infinite questions never fail to fascinate him. And even more remarkable, how Caroline remembers things from years ago like they happened this morning.

He hadn’t told her why he went to Florida or the real reason she couldn’t come. Steve’s dad had a minor health scare, and if it weren’t for his mom calling in hysterics, he probably would have saved the PTO. He spent most of the trip in the hospital, listening to his dad fuss about every possible thing he could find to complain about.

Nancy preached honesty when it came to explaining things like this to the kids. But Caroline’s a worrywart. Steve couldn’t let her spiral, certainly not over his dad of all people.

He’s very happy to be back home. And even happier to be distracted from his poor decision-making by the bottomless pit that is his daughter's brain. But time flies when you’re having fun as Steve apparently says now. Dinner goes fast, and bedtime even faster.

The kids are asleep and he’s left to simmer alone in his stupidity. He replays the conversation with Nancy on a loop, each turn twisting the words until he can’t tell what’s real apart from what he wishes to have said. He fucked up, that much is clear. And for what? A fleeting satisfaction if Nancy had believed him? He truly can’t think of a time in the last ten years he’s said something so dumb.

Steve dials Robin’s number and slips the phone against his ear as he opens the fridge. He stares at his groceries, or lack thereof, and listens to the phone ring and ring and ring until he’s turned over to Robin’s answering machine.

“Hi, you’ve reached Robin! Or, well, it's not, obviously, because you're talking to a machine. Anyway, I’m probably busy doing something incredibly important, so, leave a message, and I’ll call back– unless I forget— which, statistically speaking, is very probable. Sorry.” –Beep!

“Hi, um, this is Steve.” He shuts the fridge door and swipes the takeout menu from the magnets on the side. “I’m having an… emergency type of situation and if you really, truly love me you’ll call me back, like, as soon as you get this. Yeah, okay, bye.”

Robin’s at work he’s pretty sure. That or sucking face with her new girlfriend, Lin. She’s busy a lot nowadays, Steve just as much. It’s put a weight on their friendship but Steve can’t imagine his life without her. She’ll surely call him a dumbass or an idiot or the classic dingus for what he’s done. But being snarky with each other is their love language; he looks forward to it.

Steve’s three or four Cheers’ reruns deep when the phone rings. He rocks himself out of his recliner and takes the half-empty pizza box in his lap back to the kitchen. He’ll be the first to admit, his evenings aren’t all that glamorous. But things could be worse and he’s happy with the majority of his life’s choices– minus the most recent one, obviously.

The phone slides against the pizza grease on his fingers. He pins it between his ear and shoulder to swipe his hands down the front of his shirt as he speaks, “You know, you’re lucky this isn’t a life-or-death emergency. I’d have been dead hours ago.”

“Uh-huh. Tragic,” Robin rasps. “I’ll write your eulogy for you. ‘Steve Harrington: untimely death by dumbassery.’”

“That’s not a real word, genius.”

“It is now. I’ve made it one.”

“You can’t just make it a word. That’s not how it works.”

“No, it is. Check your dictionary.” He hears the clinking of pans, water running in a sink. “But wait, what did you do? Lock your keys in your car again?”

“Ha, no. I wish.”

“Forget to pick up the hellspawns?”

“No, Rob.”

“What? It’s happened before,” she laughs in that scratchy way she does. He can picture her whole face like she’s stood there beside him. “I dunno, I’m tired. I give up. What’s the crisis?”

“Um, so, I told Nance that I’ve been seeing someone and that it’s serious and I’m bringing her to the kid’s thing on Friday.”

Robin’s silent long enough for Steve to pull the phone back and check if the call’s still connected. But her laughter builds slowly, rattling through the speaker in beats. “Oh no, Steven.”

“Yeah, so…” He shears the last bite off of the pizza he was working on before and tosses the crust back into the box. “I’m fucked.”

“You could say that.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“Sorry, sorry. I mean, fuck dude. Why’d you say that?”

“I don’t know, okay? It was stupid. I fucked up.”

“Big time.”

“I have to figure something out.”

“Can’t you just say it fizzled out? You had a good run, but you weren’t right for each other, cue dramatic sigh, problem solved.”

“No! She knows, Robin. She fucking knows I was lying. She was giving me that look she gives Andy when he’s done something he’s not supposed to.”

“Heh, I know the one. God, that’s hilarious. I love her mad face. Was she doing that weird lip thing, like she’s trying to suck them back into her skull?”

Steve cuts off his own laughter, “Probably– I don’t know! I was panicking, bad, you should’ve seen me.”

“Oh, I would pay so much money to see a video of this. Were there cameras? Where was this at?”

“No, no, I have to do something. I need to bring someone to the show.”

A beat. Two. “What? You want me to revive straight Robin? I can’t walk in heels to save my life, you know that.”

“Jesus, no. She knows you're gay, dude.”

“Then who?”

“I dunno.” Steve throws his hand in the air. “You know people.”

“I know people?”

“Yes?”

“You’re right, hold on, let me get out my address book and just call every single woman I know. ‘Hey, how do you feel about pretending to be my friend’s boyfriend so his ex-wife doesn’t make fun of him?’ Sound good?”

“Yes! Exactly!”

“Maybe while we’re at it we just start calling random women in the phone book. I saw a billboard with this sexy lawyer lady today.”

“Robin.”

“Steve,” she chuckles. “Come on. This is crazy. You have to see that.”

“I don’t care, Rob. You don’t get it. Nancy is dating America’s next top model and I’m,” his words feel sticky as bubblegum, “I’m watching shitty TV and eating shittier pizza by myself.”

Robin sighs. “Don’t act like I haven’t been a good wing-woman. I’ve tried to set you up with people.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not ready to date anyone for real, I just– I just want to pretend for a night, that’s all. I don’t want Nancy to think any less of me than she already does.”

Robin sighs again, worse. He feels bad about bugging her but she’s his best friend and she bugs him to the same extent with her own relationship problems. He listened to her cry for an hour about a fight she had with Lin last week.

“If I help you… will you promise me that you will move on and go on a real, actual date with a woman who is not Nancy Wheeler?”

Steve’s about to say ‘I’ll do anything’, but the sentence catches in his throat.

Robin complains about Steve’s dating life (or lack of) about once a week, if not more. It’s been a year since the divorce, yeah, but he’s short on time with two kids and a second full-time job that affords him the first. He’s not in any rush to do awkward first dates or even worse breakups again.

But fuck, he’d rather die than face the consequences of his own actions. “Fine, yes. I’ll do it.”

“Hallelujah.”

“Please, just call a couple of your friends for me. One night, that’s all I’m asking.”

“Honestly, I definitely know a couple of people who’d do it for a hundred bucks.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “If that’s what it costs to keep my dignity then so be it.”

He hears Robin’s breathy smile. “You’re so dramatic. Shelly might do it for free. She doesn’t exactly look your type though.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I dunno, Steve. We both know Nancy has a better gaydar than you.”

“I hit on one lesbian at the height of my divorce-depression. I was desperate, okay?”

“You hit on two, actually. I do count, still. And she was like the most butch woman I've ever met. You guys basically had the same outfit on.”

“It was a good outfit!”

Her laughter is loud through the speaker. And before he realizes it, he's laughing too. In retrospect, that woman very obviously was a lesbian and not at all his type.

“Wait,” Robin gasps, “what about Y/N!”

“Who?”

She repeats your name with even more emphasis. “She was at my birthday thing. You definitely met her.”

Steve describes a vague version of the person he thinks is you. His memory is hazy.

“Yes! Yes! You wouldn’t stop showing her fucking pictures of the kids.”

“Excuse me, she wanted to see them.”

“No, I think you need to ask her that again, pal.”

Steve reconsiders that moment he met you. He recalls a polite smile and how you had several nice things to say about his kids. He remembers you being pretty but it was too soon post-divorce for him to process that information then.

“Oh my God,” Robin roars, “How did I not think of this sooner? You guys are perfect for each other, I’m telling you!”

“Wait, wait, Robin. This is just pretend. I’m not actually dating her.”

She scoffs. “Will you give her a chance? Please? This can count as your real date.”

“No, absolutely not. No. I can’t– I already know her. That’s weird.”

“Oh my God. You’re making dumb fucking excuses already. You better hold up your end of the deal, Harrington.”

“I will, I will. Just not her. We’ll figure it out after, okay?”

The line is silent but he can almost hear the gears in Robin’s head cranking out a new negotiation.

“I’m serious. Don’t tell her it’s a date.”

“Ugh. Have you no faith in me anymore?”

“Will you ask her? Seriously, Robin, please?”

“Yes, whatever, I’ll ask her. But don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face.”

“Don’t tell her it’s a date, Rob. I mean it.”

“I knowww.”

“Thank you,” he sighs. He feels like a load of bricks just dropped from his back straight to his stomach.

“But I really think you and Y/N should come to that romance retreat with me and Lin. She knows the owner so I’m sure she could snag us another couple of tickets.”

“Mmm. Sorry, no. I’m actually busy that weekend, ‘member?”

“Oh, I know you did not just lie to me right now. What is this, a compulsion?”

“Oh my God. I was kidding,” he laughs. “But also hard no. I’m hanging up.”

“You can’t avoid all your problems forever.”

“Whatever. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Love you, dingus.”

“Love you.”

Steve slots the phone back in its cradle and presses his hand into the countertop. He thinks of you again, your face, your clothes, your voice– what had you said to him? He turns you in his mind like an unravelled spool but there are way too many loose ends.

He agrees with Robin, this is a bad idea. He can’t imagine you’ll drop everything to help a guy you met one time. And if for whatever reason you do agree? You might be really awkward or rude to the kids or a kidnapper! He really, really hopes Robin doesn't befriend kidnappers.

She assures him you are not a kidnapper when she calls him the next night. She also tells him he’s won the lottery and somehow you’ve agreed to this ridiculous plan. You’ll pretend to be his girlfriend in front of his kids and ex-wife and her boyfriend, just to save him from some embarrassment. Steve thinks you might be crazy but Robin promises you’re a match made in heaven.

Steve jots down your phone number and thanks Robin until she hangs up on him. But he doesn’t call you yet. He chews on the plan all week and decides it still tastes bad. Very, very bad. But what choice does he have now? He’s groveled with Robin until she gave in and asked you and you’ve actually agreed. He’s in too deep now.

It takes him three tries to dial your number all the way through. He only works himself up to the final digit with the mental image of Brad and his stupid, sparkly teeth. Steve's stomach starts cartwheeling as the line trills.

“Hello?”

He freezes. He doesn’t know what he expected you to sound like but your voice throws him for a loop. Every sentence from his practiced speech erases itself from his memory.

“Helloooo?”

Steve forces all the air from his lungs until he makes a strangled sort of noise. “Hey– sorry, um– hi, it’s Steve. Uhh, Robin’s friend.”

“Oh! She said you’d call.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Here I am.”

You chuckle back but are otherwise quiet, waiting for him.

“So like–”

“How did–”

“Sorry,” you say overtop each other.

“You go,” he begs.

“Well, I mean– so Robin gave me the run down already, but like, how exactly do you want this to go?”

“So,” Steve takes a deep breath, “my kids are both in the school play over at Hawkins Elementary. It’s this Friday from six to seven-ish. All I need you to do is just show up and pretend that you’re my girlfriend.” He cringes through the last part. The more times he explains this plan, the more outrageous it sounds. This might as well be a form of torture.

“Just show up and watch the play and agree that we’re a couple if somebody asks? That type of thing?”

“Yes, exactly. Yes. My ex-wife and her boyfriend will be there, so probably just them and the kids.”

“Right, Robin said. But how much should I– how do I say– should I hold your hand, I guess, kiss you, things like that?”

“No, no,” he swallows so hard you probably hear it too. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

"Would you..." you pause for a while. He fears you’re backing out. “Would you want to meet up, maybe? Like, sometime before the play?” you ask. “We could talk more about boundaries and, I dunno, how we met, our first date, all of that junk. In case it comes up.”

Steve doesn’t think that’s really necessary. He only needs you for one hour, the majority of which you won’t be talking. You’re really just there to sit beside him and smile. But you are doing him a massive favor, if it makes you feel better, it wouldn’t hurt to discuss it in person.

He lets you pick the time and place and thanks you endlessly before he hangs up, very much ready to crawl into bed and never come back out.

His second impression of you doesn’t stray far from the first. You’re sweet, maybe a little too sweet for someone who barely knows him. And you must be smart. You have enough wits about you to question him and this plan. Maybe, with you there, it won’t completely fall apart.

But as luck would have it, Steve is forced to cancel on you last minute– thanks to Brad, of course. Well, it’s not really his fault his sister goes into labor but Steve likes to pretend it is when Nancy asks if he can take the kids that night. He reschedules with you once, then again when you can’t make it. But shit happens and things don’t work out how he hoped. Neither of you can make it work before the play.

So Steve pulls up to Hawkins Elementary with his heart lodged in his throat like a stone. He’s about to make the biggest fucking fool of himself if you don’t show and he’s only about forty-five percent sure that you will. As of yesterday, you were still game, sounded excited, even, to come. But maybe you forgot about the whole thing or maybe you’re chickening out because you never solidified where you had your first date. Steve wouldn’t blame you either way.

Brad’s already seated in the front row of the auditorium, Nancy likely dropping the kids off at their classrooms. Steve slinks around the back to a denser part of the audience hoping not to be seen. But it’s Brad. He’s got twenty-twenty vision, no doubt. He flags Steve down as soon as he turns around, standing and waving emphatically, leaving Steve no other choice but to sit with them.

Brad talks his ear off, to no one's surprise, but Steve’s mind is stuck somewhere else. His eyes skip between the lavish rose bouquets in Brad’s lap to the measly assortment of pink and blue daisies in his own. It’s silly to worry the kids would love him less over something like flowers, but he can’t help himself.

Nancy joins with a knowing smirk and immediately asks about Steve’s plus one. He feeds her some generic, bullshit line about you and how you’re trying so very hard to make it, and he decides Nancy must fucking hate him. She knows it was a lie. She just wants to watch him burst into flames and char into a corpse of embarrassment and regret.

There are less than two minutes to showtime. The audience is buzzing, the auditorium doors are closing, and the bench space beside Steve remains unoccupied. He turns around for one last pathetic look behind him before his dignity is tarnished forever.

But there you are! Stood up against the back wall, searching and searching until your eyes lock onto Steve’s and your whole face brightens like a sunrise.

Steve waves, a little shy suddenly, but largely overwhelmed by the complete one-eighty his heart’s just spun. And it only worsens as you make your way up to the row.

You look fucking unreal Steve realizes. You pat a pretty dress down your thighs, two big bouquets wedged in the crook of your arm, and shimmy past the family seated beside him with a dashing smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say to him, so genuinely apologetic Steve can’t remember the reason you’re there in the first place. You bend to wrap your arms around him, his nose tapping the sugared sweetness of your perfume.

His brain reboots itself, a blank slate. He’s completely forgotten about Nancy and Brad until you lean across his lap to address them.

“Nancy,” Steve coughs, “um, this is Y/N. My girlfriend.” The words trip off his tongue slow and he thinks it can’t be more obvious that he doesn’t mean them.

But while his head is busy imploding on itself, you’re acing introductions. You’re smiling and waving, your voice stays so calm— exactly the reassurance Steve needed. He peels his eyes off your face for a glimpse at Nancy’s and nearly laughs.

Her brows are up, obscured by her bangs, and she blinks like she’s got something caught in her mascara. Priceless.

“Y/N, this is Nancy and her boyfriend, Brad,” Steve finishes.

“Nice to meet you,” Brad smiles, squeezing Nancy’s knee until she does the same.

The pretending is clumsy at first. Steve’s arm hesitates on its course behind your shoulders. And you go stiff as a board the first time his fingertips brush your bare arm. You overcompensate, laughing at something that’s not all that funny while Steve rambles on about how you met when no one even asked. But eventually, you find a balance somewhere between too much and too little.

And Steve can’t stop fucking smiling. You’re polite, funny, really pretty, you’re perfect. You’re more than what he hoped to have tonight.

The lights dim and the curtains part, Steve’s excitement shifts toward the stage. His hand remains on your shoulder but his attention is reserved solely for his kids. You cheer for them just as loud as he does, for two children you’ve never met in your life. You remember their names and are eager for Steve to point them out when they appear. You’re a convincing girlfriend. You actually seem to care a whole lot.

Caroline is a fabulous mermaid. She has a tail made of sequins and glitter gel down her arms. All those hours of practice were worth it, Steve nearly cries watching his little girl recite her two lines to a T.

And Andrew plays a scruffy dog called Nana. He has no lines but he makes several appearances throughout the show, barking with flawless comedic timing for a kindergartener. Steve’s biased when he thinks his kids are the best actors here, of course, but he couldn’t be more proud.

Touching you doesn’t become any less strange as the evening rolls on. Your thigh is smushed to his. Your back warms the inside of his elbow. He hasn’t touched anyone like this since Nancy, maybe besides Robin who doesn’t really count. And perhaps that’s pitiful, he’s not touching you all that much. But he likes it, which, is probably even more pitiful, you being his pretend girlfriend and all.

The main cast of fifth graders bow, the crowd erupts with applause, and the lights flicker back on as the big curtains close.

Nancy is staring at you when Steve checks her way. It’s not the first time he’s caught her tonight but he still isn’t certain that she fully believes this whole thing. At least you’re here and you seem normal and you’re a much better actor than Robin gave you credit for. That’s a mission fucking accomplished in Steve’s book.

“They did really good, Steve,” you say in his ear. “They’re both adorable.”

His smile is immediate. He won’t miss an opportunity to rave about his kids, not even to a stranger. “Did you see Andy’s run? He does this little skippy-thing, I dunno where he learned it.”

“Mhmm! And Caroline, she’s only eight? She seems so much older the way she talked.”

“I know! She was so worried before, I can’t believe how good she did.”

Nancy is one of the first parents to her feet. Brad collects her purse and the flowers as she scans each exit for the quickest route. Her face is rigid as she explains, “I’m going to get Caroline if you’ll…”

“Yeah,” Steve nods when she looks.

Nancy’s eyes veer from his to yours for the briefest second before she turns around. Her chin juts up to Brad. “Ready?”

He works a hand across the cardigan on her back and starts for the end of the row where parents squeeze and squish by each other toward the hall doors.

Steve waits until their bodies bleed into the rest of the crowd before he faces you again. His lips tilt into a funny line, his eyes alive under the auditorium lights. “I kinda think that worked?”

“Are you kidding?” you laugh and knock your shoulder into his. “She kept staring at me! She totally bought it.”

Steve’s smile pinches up into his cheeks. He thinks you're really quite beautiful. It’s not new information to him, he noticed the first time he met you, bumbling up behind Robin in her kitchen. And he remembered just last week when she brought you up out of the blue.

But today that knowledge feels different. Today you’re all smiles and sweet touches and sneaky glances. It’s doing something scary to his heart.

Steve stands quickly. He’s hot all over, uncomfortably aware of the sweat accumulating under his clothes. Being sardined against every other parent in the school will do that. Plus, there’s you and your nice face. Still, somehow, he misses the heat of your thigh pressed to his.

“She’s smart, Nancy, I mean… I dunno,” he worries.

You stand too and your hand finds a home on the back of his arm. “No, no. It worked. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” He can’t help but grin at your nonchalance. He wishes he could be like that, but having kids makes you worry more.

You grin back and shrug. “Yeah, trust me.”

Well, he can’t not trust you. Not when you’re looking at him with all the confidence in the world and squeezing his arm in gentle reassurance.

His cheeks ache from smiling by the time you make it to the hall. He gestures one way and you follow him past doors and bulletin boards and as many children as there are adults. And finally, he turns through an open classroom door and it’s just absolute chaos.

A ball pops against a ceiling tile, Steve’s heel slides under a stack of notebook paper, and a string of kids fly between his hip and yours, all in one blink.

You recognize Andrew faster than Steve expects, pointing him out where he’s barking at a child sprawled on the rug. The other boy stops giggling as you approach, prompting Andrew to spin around with the crazed expression of a real puppy looking for trouble.

His costume is even cuter up close, a painted snout and a fur-onesie with a floppy-eared hood to match. Andrew barks at Steve, crawling across the carpet on all fours until he’s panting at his father’s jeans.

Steve squats down to his level, a gentle hand on either side of the boy's neck. “Oh, nooo. They didn’t turn you into a real dog, did they? Are we going to have to feed you from Daisy’s bowl now?”

Andy slurps a rope of spit back in his mouth and rolls his eyes. “I’m just pretending, Dad.”

“Ohh,” Steve laughs, pressing him impossibly closer. “You did so good, bud. Proud of you.”

“Did you see me? When I barked at the pirates?”

“I did! I actually thought it was a real dog.”

Andrew cackles once, throwing his head down on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve pats his fuzzy back. “Tired?”

He blinks up at you curiously and shakes his head.

“Andy,” Steve cranes toward you, “this is my friend, Y/N. Can you say hi?”

He lifts his head and barks, high-pitched and snappy as a chihuahua.

Steve tilts his ear away and pinches Andy’s side until the barking turns to giggles. “In English, please.”

“Hi, Y/N,” Andy squeals out between the remainder of his laughter.

“Hi, buddy.” You kneel beside Steve and fawn, “You did such a good job!”

Andy pokes his tongue through the gap in his smile. He looks you over entirely and bats his long lashes like a paper fan.

“I got these for you,” you say, tipping the colorful blooms toward his face. “This one’s for your sister. Here.”

He chokes the plastic-wrapped stems in his tiny fist, half his face hidden behind a rainbow of petals.

“Here, bud,” Steve takes one of his bouquets from the floor and tucks it in with yours, “this one’s from me.”

Andy can’t see much of anything with his nose pressed to a daffodil but he loves them all the same. You pick yourself off the floor, your laughter spilling like the sun.

“Let’s go find your sister,” Steve says, a hand braced on Andy’s shoulder as he stands too.

Andy looks between you and Steve in amazement. “She was a mermaid. Did you see?”

“We did,” Steve answers. “She was a great mermaid, don’t you think?”

“Yes. She was all sparkly.” Andy slips his small hand into Steve’s, then automatically offers you his other.

You find Nancy, Brad, and Caroline outside the school near the parent pickup circle. Brad’s got Caroline’s hand in his, her feet tracing the edge of the sidewalk like a balance beam.

She jumps off the curb when she spots Steve, tripping over her toes before breaking into a sprint for his arms.

Steve kneels right there on the asphalt. “Hi, baby,” he laughs. She sets her elbows on his shoulders as he kisses her on each cheek. “Did such a good job up there!”

“Did you see me!” she yells. “I wasn’t even scared! I didn’t forget my words like I thought I would.”

Steve thumbs the corner of her crinkled eye where eyeshadow glares silver under the moon. “I know! My big girl. I’m so proud. Know that?”

She giggles, her fingers scrunching around the cellophane wrapping in his hand. “Are these for me?”

“They are. For my best little lady.”

She sticks her smile in the bouquet and sniffs.

Steve is oblivious to the heart-warmed grin on your face. But you watch the scene unfold, feeling an unexpected fondness for a family that isn’t yours. You’re only a guest in their little world, an outsider looking in— but even from here, it’s undeniable. He’s a great dad.

“Hey, I have someone I want you to meet,” Steve says.

You’re so enraptured by the moment, you completely forget that’s your cue. Steve beckons you over with features that echo Carolines, not just in emotion but in shape too. They’re cheek-to-cheek looking at you like a pair of very happy identical twins.

“Hi, Caroline,” you wave and offer the same hand to shake.

She smiles big and wraps her smaller fingers around yours. “You came to see our show?”

“I did! You were a really amazing mermaid, you know? I especially liked the dance with the sea stars.”

She shrinks away, suddenly sheepish as she thanks you.

“Oh, here,” you shift the bouquet in your arms toward her, “before I forget, these are for you.”

“Another! Oh my gosh!” Her beaded hair-tie clinks as she pivots. “Mom! Look! I have three flowers now!” She takes the bouquet at the base and books it toward Nancy who’s engrossed in a conversation with Brad. “Can I keep them in my room, please? And can we get some more vases tonight? I’ll water them, I promise, Mommy.”

You have a fondness for his kids Steve doesn’t often see in the eyes of strangers. They're quite rambunctious a lot of the time and while the elderly compliment him and his genes occasionally, this is different. Affection softens every line of your expression and there’s joy stitched in each sweep of your lashes. It’s endearing as it is strange because ultimately you are still very much a stranger.

Steve trusts Robin’s judgment more than his own sometimes. If love for his kids were a race, she’d take a very close second against him. She takes her duties as an aunt very seriously and so he’s confident you’re as great as she says. But still, he doesn’t know you personally. He can’t know your intentions for certain. And he might feel guiltier about that in the context of introducing you to his kids— if you weren’t so undeniably wonderful.

You idle beside Steve, a short distance from the rest of the crew. He places his hand on the small of your back and you exchange quiet smiles.

It’s mostly for show. He feels the weight of Nancy’s gaze in his peripherals. But an ounce or two of Steve is motivated purely by his own self-interest.

He misses these simple acts of affection. Tracing the veins in someone else’s palm, kissing their eyelids, counting their lashes. It’s human nature, a need, he supposes. A need he’s been trying to convince himself is much more of a want.

And you’re so very gentle with him. It’s really driving him mad.

Nancy must tell the kids it’s time to go because they’re scrambling over in a cacophony of goodbyes. Steve gives them each a big squeeze and a little shake for the road. Caroline hugs you like you’re no different than the rest of them, while Andy, ever the little charmer, asks your name for the third time. They disappear behind the first row of cars, their voices carry far but fade into all the rest.

When Steve turns, he finds you already looking at him.

“They’re really great,” your smile worsens and Steve’s stomach capsizes, “your kids. You should be proud.”

The joy is contagious, infecting Steve with the same toothy smile, spreading through every cell in his body straight down to his jumping heart. “I am,” he manages.

“God,” you shake your head at the stars, “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

Steve closes his eyes and exhales a rough laugh. “You’re telling me.”

“Did I make you uncomfortable at all? I didn’t want to do too much.”

“No,” Steve promises. “No, no, it was perfect. You did great. Thank you.”

You throw your hand up in dismissal. “Don’t. That was… weirdly fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “is that fucked up?”

“Not any more than me asking you to do this,” he snorts.

“How long exactly do you plan to do this for? I could probably do most evenings but mornings are trickier with work.”

Steve blinks unceremoniously. “Oh, I– well, I was just gonna tell her it didn’t work out, actually.”

“Really?”

He struggles to understand your squinting. He didn’t expect you to question this part. “Yeah?”

“You want it to be believable, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah–”

“Then you have to sell it, Steve. Give it a little buildup, some emotion. It would be so obvious if you ended it now.”

He searches your face, not sure what he’s hoping to find. But there’s at least some level of authenticity there. “You’d want to? To keep going?”

“Like I said,” you frown, “weirdly fun.”

He hums. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay.”

“I say we make a few more appearances, you know, as a happy couple. Then, we stage the breakup.”

“What, in front of her?”

“No, not necessarily. But we plant the seeds. We aren’t as affectionate, we get a little worked up over something stupid. I don’t know. Just enough to make her catch on that things aren’t all that good. That’s believable.”

Steve stares at you for a long minute before his smile turns a sinister shade. “You’re crazy, aren’t you?”

You huff but there’s no heat behind it. You’re grinning too. “I thought you had more manners than that, Steve.”

“Yeah, well, if it's any consolation, I also think you’re a fuckin’ genius.”

“You’ve been a nice boyfriend, so, I’ll let it slide.”

He rolls his eyes like a kid. He likes talking to you but he isn’t sure what else to say.

“So, see you next time then?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, I’ll call you. Thank you.”

“‘Kay. See ya.”

There’s a beat before you go, a split-second where Steve could hug you, kiss your cheek, touch your arm. He’s not exactly sure what the protocol is for this type of situation, though. He makes the executive decision not to subject you to any more PDA lest you get the wrong idea about him. But the way you’ve got this all planned out, he’s not so worried anymore.

“Bye,” he waves.

You walk the same path Nancy and his kids had, the back of your head slipping behind the bed of a truck. There’s something about you. Something fun, something that makes him feel alive again. And a fake relationship isn’t really harming anyone if you’re both enjoying yourselves. So why the hell not?

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #dad steve harrington #steve harrington fluff #stranger things fic #stranger things #stranger things x reader #a family affair #afa #divorced stancy #skeltnwrites

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rex-rambles · 1 day ago

Text

➤ SOMETHING FISHY (SMAU + FIC)

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: you dress up as a mermaid for your niece's birthday, and end up rescuing a f1 driver that's convinced you're the real thing

wc: 4.3k

warnings: mentions of a minor injury - photos from pinterest

➤ MASTERLIST

Your niece wasn't your niece by blood, but that didn't matter. You had been there for your best friend through pregnancy, through labour, through the late nights when Ruby was just a newborn, and now that she was four? She was your niece in every sense of the word, which meant what Ruby wanted, Ruby got.

Even if it was you dressing up as a mermaid for her birthday. You had rented the tail from some costume shop near the beach, set yourself up on some rocks near the shore for them to "discover" you as they stormed across the beach, more of a hunt than a party as you watch them. When they get close enough, you happily push yourself up on the rock, waving at them, and they gasp in unison.

"It's a mermaid!" One of the younger girls says, quite easily believing in the fantasy of it all, and your best friend helps them up the rocks to sit near you, and instantly, there are little hands everywhere, grabbing the tail, the shells woven into your hair, but Ruby? Ruby is perched right in front of you, beaming with her gap teeth.

"I told you!" She says, clapping her hands together. "A real live mermaid!" Then, she leans in close to whisper, "I know it's you, auntie."

"Nonsense," You say, gently splashing some water up at her. "I have no idea who this aunt is you speak of. I am a Mermaid, of the Coral Sea."

"Coral Sea is up North," Your best friend scolds softly. "I think you mean Pacific?"

You flick water up at her with a grin. "I travelled a long way to get here. Coral Sea."

"Are you tired?" One of the little boys asks, now intently trying to braid your hair and failing.

"No, I made sure to get plenty of rest for your big day! I hear a certain someone is turning five!" Ruby happily shows off her birthday sash as your best friend begins to take some pictures. "I asked some of the other mermaids to join me, but they thought it was just too far."

"Like Ariel?" Another little one asks, as you gently try to guide her away from ripping one of the fins of your tail off.

"Well, she lives much farther away! More like...Siren-a?" You pull the fake name out of nowhere, but they all seem to accept it as fact, before returning to their questions.

It was a precious thing, you think, getting to do this for them. They might not believe in mermaids for much longer, but for an afternoon, you get to be a real, live mermaid, taking pictures and reciting facts about fish and shells you memorized this morning. You get to hand out little mermaid-themed gifts, wave to those wandering by who also happen to stumble across a mermaid. It was a perfect afternoon, you think, until the waves picked up.

"Oh, my." You say as they creep up on the rock, gently spraying the group with the salty water. "Seems like Poseidon is eager for me to get home!"

"Aw, but Auntie-" Ruby pauses, sparing a glance to the other girls, "But Mer-Auntie, we don't want you to go!"

"I'm sure you have snacks waiting for you back home! I hear you got a special cake, made of sea sponges!" They all pause to look at you, and you try to put on your best Little Mermaid impression. "Sponge cake? Isn't that sea sponges?"

"No, silly! It's just cake." The waves pick up again, but this time, a hand appears at the edge of the rock with it, and the girls scream as they stumble away.

For a moment you're terrified it's not attached to anything, but there's a person hanging off the edge of the rock, obviously washed in with the waves, and you and your best friend quickly grab him and pull him up onto the rock as he coughs up water. He's breathing, considering he's coughing, but he's clawing at his chest to get his life jacket off, which you quickly help remove to get some pressure off his chest.

"It's Prince Eric!" Ruby shouts, coming to splash in the water next to the poor man. "Like the story!"

"That's not Prince Eric, sweetheart." Then, gently from below you,

"Ariel?"

Charles wouldn't call himself a gifted surfer, but he'd say he was alright. Good enough to take on the waves of one of Melbourne's beaches before the race weekend. He wasn't alone, either, an instructor and some friends joining him, and for most of the morning, it was fine, in fact, it was better than any of his previous surfing had gone.

And then the waves picked up. He hadn't expected it, easily overtaking him and forcing him under with the current, and he had thought he was going to drown until he hit up against a rock and desperately tried to claw his way up it against the force of the tides and waves, board lost somewhere in the water below him.

Spots began to appear in his vision as he almost broke the surface, and quickly, people pulled him from the water, helping him up onto the rock as he gasped for air, choking up the sea water and probably bits of sea weed. His life preserver felt like a weight against him as he tried to get it off, and luckily, someone from his team seemed to understand what he was trying to do and helped him out of it.

A small voice screamed something near his ear, and opening his eyes, Charles realized rather quickly that it wasn't anyone on his team who saved him, but a mermaid.

A real live mermaid. He must've hit his head, he thinks, as he blurry blinks up at the figure, peering over him like that scene in the movie. Your hair is woven with shells, top made from something that looks like seaweed and netting, a blue tail to accentuate it all. He lays there, panting heavily as he tries to blink away the vision, before finally coming to terms with the fact that mermaids are real in Australia, or he's died and is hallucinating a mermaid in heaven.

"Ariel?" He creakily manages to get out, and you gently wipe water away from his face, hitting something high on his forehead that has him seeing stars as he hisses, reeling back and into the rocks and only jostling himself further.

"SEE!" The tiny voice continues screeching, "HE'S REAL!"

He's real? Whoever's child got loose ought to be freaking out at the fact that the mermaid currently tending to him is real. It might be the concussion, or the delirium that comes with seeing mermaids, but he can't help but think you're pretty as he manages to open his eyes again. You look blessed by the water, the kind of sight that Charles thinks would make a good siren. He'd follow you into the water, anyway. "Let's give him some space, girls." Another voice says, and very gently, your hand returns to check out his forehead.

"Can you hear me?" You ask, voice as melodic as he'd expect a mermaid's to be. You shift closer to him, your tail coming to press up against his leg, and it even feels real. "That looks pretty bad."

"You're real," He breathes out, hand awkwardly reaching out to poke your tail. "This...Australia has mermaids?"

"No, no." You answer gently. "This is a costume, sweetheart. I'm just dressed up for a party."

He squints, trying to focus on where your tail meets your waist, and he softly shakes his head. That's something a mermaid would say to try and hide its existence. After all, your tail seems to meet perfectly with your skin, which he most certainly isn't focusing on. "I don't believe you."

"Oh?" You laugh, sitting back as Charles props himself up. "Must've hit your head harder than I thought."

"You look so real!" He finds himself saying, hand reaching out to gently pet against one of the little side fins on your tail. "This is...like the Little Mermaid, no?"

"Well, I did save you from drowning." Your hand comes up to find his forehead again, tilting his head towards you. "But I'm serious about that, you might be concussed."

Then the panic starts to sink in a little at the tone of your voice. He can handle a scrape or two, but a concussion? He'd be out of the race, and he'd be out of the race for potentially a long time. "I'm sure it's fine," He says, coming up to move your hand away. "It doesn't hurt that bad."

"Here," That other voice says, and Charles looks up to see another woman, handing you a bag. "There's some first aid supplies in there."

"It's a real mermaid, right?" Charles asks them, and they just sort of stare at him, like one would at a delusional man.

"It's for my daughter's birthday party." Then, giving a small pause, "They're actually a werewolf. Werefish. Fish by night, person by day."

"Enough of that, you two." You say, beckoning Charles forward. You gently wipe over the cut on his forehead and he hisses, hand reaching out to clasp over your tail-knee, and you hum gently. Werefish - you both were mocking him. He had made the discovery of a lifetime, and you were mocking him. "Easy there, Prince Eric. I need to clean this."

"Charles," He says finally, "My name is Charles."

You wipe over the cut again and then apply a bandage, offering a smile that makes Charles's heart do things, and he's pretty sure it's not the seawater he ingested, or the potential concussion. "Well, Charles. That's the best I can do, for the time being."

"Is the Prince okay?" The tiny voice returns, and Charles turns to see a young girl with a birthday sash slung over her shoulder peering up at him.

It was a child's birthday party, and his subpar surfing skills crashed it.

Literally. "Yes," Charles answers. "Sorry for interrupting your party."

"It's okay," She says, gesturing to you. "We were waiting for her prince anyway. Now you can kiss!"

"Ruby!" You say with a small laugh. "Prince Charles here just got hurt!"

"And you can kiss it better," Ruby states firmly. "Mermaid magic."

Then, there's a little swarm of girls behind Ruby, all looking at you and Charles intently. "I'm sorry about them," The woman says quickly. "It's sort of a mob mentality."

"I can only kiss it better if the prince gives me permission." You say, crossing your arms over your chest, and making Charles's eyes widen. He has to give permission? For you to kiss him? He would say it's the other way around, considering you're a majestic mermaid, and he's a drowning man you just pulled from the water.

"Go on!" Ruby says, glaring at him. "Let her make it better."

"I-of course." He rushes out, tilting his head down. "Anything to stop the pain."

Then, to his shock, you lean over and gently press a kiss to his forehead, and the tiny crowd erupts in cheers as heat flushes from Charles's cheeks to his ears. "Now, you all have to let Prince Charles go to get actual medical help."

"I'll take them back to the car." The other woman says, quickly herding them away as Charles wobbly stands.

"Sorry about that," You say up at him, and he has to remind himself that you can't stand. Tail, and all. Maybe he'll have to carry you out here, and he'll get to be the hero in reverse. Maybe, he thinks before he can stop himself, he'll get another kiss for helping. "If that was uncomfortable, or you felt forced, but-"

"No, no!" Charles says, sounding far too eager. "It's not every day you get the chance to kiss a mermaid. I should make it up to you, and your niece, for crashing the party and all. Dinner?"

Then, because today is truly full of surprises, you slip your phone from the bag and unlock it before handing it to him. A mermaid with a phone. Part of him thinks you'd use a shell.

Part of him thinks he might be genuinely losing his mind, and his team should come and rescue him soon. "Dinner sounds lovely, Prince Charles."

"Will you wear the tail?" He asks over the phone as he types in his number.

"Unless it's a swim up bar? No."

f1gossip Something fishy is going on! Charles Leclerc suffered a nasty fall while surfing in Melbourne this week, only to be saved by a mermaid! the unnamed sea creature was seen tending to Charles's wounds on the rocks before returning to his crew. (We don't really know either.)

↳ carcarcar ...what timeline did we enter for Charles to be saved by a MERMAID?

↳ forza-ferrawri hopefully a timeline where Ferrari can win

↳ brocedes never letting go of the disney prince allegations

↳ fan44 f1gossip, I think it's time for a nap...or a reality check

"Okay, okay-" Pierre wheezes out, barely managing to block the pillow Charles tosses at him. "Okay! Let me get this straight: you wiped out and got saved by a mermaid? With-with the tail?" Then, when Charles can't bring himself to answer, "And you believed it!"

"You'd believe it too!" It had been a few days since you'd rescued Charles, and he was sort of still losing his mind. His team had given him a clean bill of health, no concussion, safe to race, but he couldn't stop thinking about you. It had been real, your texts to him had proven. You were dressed up for your niece's birthday but deep down in Charles's heart, a young part of him still wanted to believe that you were an actual mermaid, if only to help his bruised ego. "It was either a real mermaid or I was hallucinating."

"You never thought it could be a costume?" When you'd just been dragged underwater and smashed against a rock?

No, a costume did not cross Charles's mind. "It looked so real! Even the tail!"

Max appears in their little rest station, Red Bull in hand like it always is, offering a matching, shit-eating grin as Pierre's, and without having to say anything, Charles throws a pillow at him too. They wouldn't understand! He wasn't just being an idiot, or delusional, you had been so ethereal, so beautiful, you had to be magical. Magic was the only way to explain why you'd say yes to dinner with him. Magic was the only reason any of this could have happened at all. "So," Max finally says, coming to sit beside Pierre, "You were saved by a mermaid, who helped bandage you up, and who you then asked out to dinner?"

"They also kissed it better." Charles admits quietly, and both Pierre and Max blinked at him before finally speaking again.

"You're fucked." Charles throws another pillow, now out of them on his couch, and Max catches it and launches it back, and Charles can't block it in time. It hits against his head and he hisses, gently rubbing at where you'd applied the bandage, and all Charles can think is that you technically already had your first kiss together.

He wasn't like this, with people, with dating. He didn't randomly give out his number, most certainly now that he was a driver. It had to be magic, for you to have won him over so easily, or maybe it was his injured mental state. All Charles knew is that he was, in fact, fucked, and there was nothing he could do but see it through.

"This can't be real!" Pierre says, shaking his head.

"They are too real." Charles snaps back, already pulling his phone out to show off your Instagram. He didn't do that normally, either, stalk social media accounts, but he needed to see if you worked as a professional mermaid or something, or if you were hiding a secret mermaid identity.

"Who, the person or the mermaid?" Max teases, and Charles pauses to stare at a new post, underwater shot of you and your tail and all, and Charles just sort of stares at his phone until Pierre and Max come over to join him.

"Oh." Pierre says, reaching over to zoom in on the photo of you with a tail. "That does look real."

Vindication, Charles thinks, has never looked so good.

Liked by yourbestie, charles_leclerc and others

yourusername we take playing mermaids very seriously in this house

↳ yourbestie the best aunt/mermaid in the world

↳ yourusername anything for my baby 🥰

↳ charles_leclerc how can you tell me you're not a real mermaid? look at the second photo!

↳ yourusername maybe you hit your head harder on that rock than we thought...

↳ charles_leclerc this is a conspiracy against me.

↳ f1_fanatic CHARLES???

↳ mclar_win they really weren't kidding that he was saved by a mermaid

It was just supposed to be dinner.

You weren't crazy, after all. Most of the world thinks you are, considering pictures have ended up everywhere of you and Charles, apparently an F1 driver, with you in a mermaid tail, but you were not crazy. You didn't just randomly accept guy's numbers, especially those you're pretty sure are concussed, but there was just something about Charles that made every little crazy thing seem normal.

Because it wasn't just dinner, it was an incredible, five star experience that turned into drinks the next day.

And it wasn't just drinks, it was laughing and bonding and skipping what felt like a 100 first dates and just going straight into getting to know each other. He'd told you about his race, and you'd watched it, and you told him how happy you were for him, and he didn't understand. He'd placed eighth, injured and all! He didn't seem thrilled with the number, but to you? You'd save his life, and then he'd gotten eighth in a grand prix.

You deserved part of his points, you'd joked, and he told you he'd send every trophy he got your way.

That's how you ended up on a boat that he'd rented, alone off the coast. Your best friend said you'd be crazy to turn him down, but now, you're starting to wonder if you're crazy for seeing this through. It wasn't supposed to be like this, but there was something about Charles that just sort of made you see it through.

"I'm still not convinced," Charles says from where he's sprawled on a beach towel. "I think this is all a disguise."

Even if he was still pretty caught up on the mermaid thing. "What? My legs?" You say, rolling onto your side to squint down at him

"Mermaid magic," Charles answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world, hand coming up to play with your drying hair. You'd spent a better part of the morning in the water, spending Charles's last day in Australia together, and something unspoken was stuck between you. The way you feel isn't just some fling, but you'd only known him for three days. You wouldn't blame him for moving on and forgetting about you, and all this mermaid stuff. "You don't want the world to know mermaids are real, so you're hiding it from me."

You laugh, falling back down onto your towel, and Charles shoots up onto his elbows to offer a soft glare. "Oh, you're serious?"

"It looked so real! This-" He pokes at your leg a few times, before his hand flattens out to smooth against your thigh, and your faces heat up in tandem. "This isn't right," Charles says finally, giving your leg a small squeeze. "Where's the fins? The shells?"

"Do you have a thing for mermaids?" You tease, and Charles rips his hand off your leg, cheeks turning a rather nice shade of pink.

"All I'm saying is you make a very beautiful, believable mermaid, and that your secret is safe with me." A beautiful, believable mermaid. You can't immediately think of anything to say after that, stuck replaying those four words on a loop. He doesn't move to lay back down, just perched at your side, and you reach over to grab his ankle.

You'd have to address it eventually, you think. Until then, however, you'll play along, even if it's starting to grow old. "I should get my shark friends to eat you."

"See! Proof." Charles says before rising to his feet, and he smugly crosses his arms over his chest as he peers down at you. "You're terrible at hiding your secret identity."

"At what point do I get concerned that you think I'm a mermaid?" And, instead of answering you, Charles bends down to pick you up, an arm easily slotting under your back and under your knees to haul you up. You gasp, quick to wrap your arms around him, and pressed this close, you think he really might be a prince.

He's wealthy enough to be, surely, but it was just the way he looked, but more specifically, the way he looked at you. You couldn't find anything particularly poetic to say about his eyes, or his hair, or that damning smile, but when Charles looked at you, it didn't matter whatever else was going on.

You just wanted him to keep looking. "Well, I suppose there's one way to test if you are a mermaid or not."

Then, with little grace, Charles throws you overboard.

You gasp as you hit the water, sputtering as you breach the surface, and Charles squints down at your legs pedalling in the water. You splash water up at him as he laughs, and you wouldn't take back any of the things you'd said about him, but you would add that you were getting annoyed at his antics, and fast. "Charles!" You admonish, "I'm not going to grow a tail!"

"You can forgive a man for trying, no?" You swim back to the boat, trying to get up the ladder. "Oh come on, ma perle. Your secret is safe with me."

"Help me up," You say, and as Charles takes your hand, you get a wonderful, terrible idea.

You let go of the ladder, falling backward and pulling Charles with you, and he screeches as he hits the water, payback for all the ridiculous things you've put up with so far. If it were anyone else, you think, all this mermaid business would have grown old fast, but with Charles's charm, it's hard to hate it, especially when he's wrapping his arms around you again. "You," He says as his hands find your waist, and your arms wrap around his neck, "Are mean."

"Payback." You answer happily, and Charles's eyes dip from yours to drag down to your mouth, and suddenly, the chill of the water is gone and replaced by the heat of being pressed so close to him.

It was barely a week, you try to remind yourself. You'd only gone to dinner, and drinks, and out this afternoon, but something about it felt enticing in a way you'd never felt before. It had never felt like he was a stranger, considering he let you kiss his forehead for your niece, or the way he talked like he'd known you his whole life.

Maybe you were the one losing it, considering all the things that meant this didn't work out in the end. He was a famous driver who lived in Monaco, nowhere near you or Australia, but it's hard to think of excuses not to kiss a man when he's currently leaning in. You meet him halfway, a clumsy thing as you try to stay afloat in the water, but it's right, like you were always meant to be pressed close to Charles like this, like this was your hundredth kiss, and not your first. Charles deepens it, hand coming up to cradle your cheek before he seems to forget that he needs to keep himself afloat and he slips underwater, breaking the moment. "Maybe you're a siren," He says as he re-emerges, shaking out his hair and spraying you with it. "Trying to drown me."

"Maybe I am." You tease in response, and Charles feigns a gasp.

"Proof! Again!" Then, with a grin, his hands find your waist again and he pulls you against him. "You know, you shouldn't be out here, terrorizing Melbourne's beaches."

"Oh really?" Charles nods enthusiastically.

"Mhm," He says, pressing a kiss to your lips. "I happen to know a prince, in Monaco, who could use the company instead."

f1gossip Shapeshifter or Siren? After being saved by a mermaid, Charles Leclerc was spotted getting cozy with a certain someone in the water after his race...without a tail!

↳ fan16 why am I lowkey disappointed they aren't an actual mermaid

↳ brocedes after Ferrari's race this weekend?? man probably is trying to drown himself

↳ forza-ferrawri he already tried it with the water in his seat

↳ totallynotyourbestie can we just appreciate how cute they are??

↳ mclar_win Charles dating an Australian Mermaid? Checks out

Liked by yourbestie, charles_leclerc and others

yourusername he keeps pushing me into the water to see if I'll grow a tail

↳ charles_leclerc it might work, ma perle

↳ yourusername you're lucky you're cute

↳ fan16 my pearl 😭 even her nickname is mermaid themed

↳ yourbestie @/charles_leclerc i hear mermaids like the waters better in monaco...just saying

↳ charles_leclerc tickets are already booked

Liked by yourbestie, yourusername and others

charles_leclerc might not have any pictures of mermaids, but plenty of us

↳ yourusername you're never letting this go, are you?

↳ charles_leclerc no

↳ pierregasly no

↳ yourbestie no 🥰

↳ brocedes the meet cute to end all meet cutes

↳ forza-ferrawri literally a fairytale

a/n: i need to be on a beach. right now. that is where this came from

#➤ rex works #➤ cl16 #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc smau #charles leclerc fluff #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 imagines #reader insert #f1 social media au #f1 smau #f1 fluff #formula one fluff #australian gp 2025

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grayson-nn · 3 days ago

Text

"You're just as handsome as the day I lost you."

𖥔 pairing: M! Reader x Maskless Mark

: ̗̀➛ Category: Angstish, fluff

: ̗̀➛ Category: While evacuating citizens during the Invincible war you didn't expect to be swept off your feet, literally and figuratively.

: ̗̀➛ Tags: Blood, rough kissing, force kissing, licking

C/C: 4k

The wind howled, tearing at your clothes as your darted through the chaos, your heart pounding in time with the frantic rhythm of the city. The evacuation sirens wailed in the distance, but they barley reached your ears over the deafening crash of falling debris and the roar of distant explosions.

You shouted over the commotion, guiding panicked citizens toward the evacuation point, each stop feeling like if could be your last. You didn't have time to think about the danger, only about getting people to safety. Every second mattered.

Then you felt it–a rush of wind so powerful it nearly knocked you off your feet. A shadow looked overhead, and you looked up just in time to see him.

It was Mark, your boyfriend. But not the one you knew.

He hovered in the air, his eyes glowing an amber shade in the sunlight, his costume almost identical to the one your Mark wore yet it wasn't his blue and black one but his yellow, blue, and black one. And it was covered in blood from head to toe.

You froze for a split second, unsure whether to call out or flee. But then his eyes locked into yours, and you felt the ground beneath you shift. This wasn't your Mark.

You had to ask fast. The citizens were still in danger, and you couldn't let this twisted version of your boyfriend wreak havoc.

"Get to safety!" You shouted, pushing through the crowd. "More, now!"

But the wind picked up again, and just like that, he was right in front of you, lifting you into the air before you could react.

You struggled in his grip, your pluse racing as he pulled you closer, his arms tight around your body like a vice. His lips, still cold from the air, crashed against yours, desperate and hungry. His kiss wasn't the tender, gentle one you were used to–it was frantic, as if he was trying to hold on to something he couldn't bear to lose.

"Stop!" You gasped, twisting in his arm, pushing against his chest, but it was useless. His strength was overwhelming, and no matter how hard you fought, he only pulled you in tighter, his lips trailing over your jaw, his breath ragged and unsteady as he inhaled your scent.

His voice, hushed yet urgent, vibrated against your skin as he whispered, "I never thought I'd find you again... After everything." His hands roamed your back, pulling you even closer, as if to reassure himself you were real. "I've spent so long without you... I just couldn't decline the chance to get you back. Not after losing you. You're just as handsome as the day I lost you."

You felt a sickening twist in your stomach, the memories of the world you knew– this wolrd, where everything was mostly normal – clashing against the nightmare before you. This version of Mark was nothing like your Mark. This was a something twisted, someone who had been corrupted by grief and loss. In his universe, you were dead.

But you were alive here. And you were not his to lose again.

"No," you snarled, trying to wriggle out of his grasp with a renewed surge of desperation. "Let me go!"

His eyes flickered with a strange mixture of pain and fury. "Don't you see?" His voice cracked. "I'm bit the monster you think I am. I just... I couldn't live without you. I would do anything to keep you, to hold you, to protect you."

Tears welled up in his eyes, his expression torn between longing and insanity. "You don't understand. In my world... You died. My father killed you. I couldn't save you. And now... Now you're here, and I won't lose you again. I can't. I won't lose you again Handsome."

You pushed harder, but his grip only tightened, pulling you back against him. His lips found your neck again, leaving hot, wet trails that made your skin crawl. His touch was frantic, as if trying to imprint your essence on him, as if by holding you, kissing you, he could somehow keep this nightmare at bay.

The memories of your real boyfriend–kind, gentle, compassionate Mark– rushed back, and with then came the clarity this wasn't him. This was a broken version of the person you loved, twisted by grief and pain. He was a killer in his world and in this one too. And even if you understood the pain driving him, you couldn't let yourself ever fall for a person like this.

"No," you gasped again, voice trembling. "You're s murderer. You hurt so many people."

His eyes flickered with something sharp, something almost predatory. "I'm doing it for you," he hissed, the madness creeping in his voice. "For us."

----

E/N: I love my little gay Mark. I was gonna make this one part but it was going to be to long. So, should I make another part?

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rafesgreasycurtainbangs · 1 day ago

Note

Rafe catching you applying for more higher level jobs after the incident with telling Ward you’re pregnant

you don’t have to prove anything to me - rafe cameron

series masterlist

content: ward (ew.), pregnancy related stress, pregnant!reader, emotional distress, family conflict, self doubting

au: love writing these. keep the asks coming!

word count: 689

Rafe wasn’t stupid. He might’ve acted impulsively sometimes, let his temper get the best of him, but when it came to you—he noticed everything. That’s why, when he stepped into the bedroom that night and saw you curled up on the bed, laptop open, brows furrowed in focus, something in his chest tightened. You looked determined. Too determined. And that’s when he saw it—the email drafts, the open job applications, the résumés lined up on your screen like a desperate, last-minute attempt at control.

His stomach dropped. He didn’t say anything right away, just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as he watched you, waiting for you to notice him. It took a moment, but then your fingers slowed on the keyboard, and you sighed, rubbing at your temples before glancing over. The second your eyes met his, you stiffened. “Rafe,” you breathed, snapping the laptop shut like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

His lips twitched, not in amusement, but in something softer, something sadder. “Something you wanna tell me?” You hesitated, eyes darting away. “It’s nothing.” “Doesn’t look like nothing,” he countered, nodding toward your laptop. “Looks like a whole lot of job applications for positions you swore you weren’t interested in just a couple of months ago.” You swallowed hard. “I just… I just want to be prepared, that’s all.” “For what?” His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was firm. Steady. “Baby, we don’t need more money. You don’t need to prove anything.” Your throat tightened. “It’s not about that.” Rafe pushed off the doorframe, walking toward you slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something fragile. Maybe he was. “Then what is it about?” he murmured, sinking onto the edge of the bed, close enough to touch you, but not yet reaching out. He needed you to tell him first. You exhaled shakily, fingers curling into the blankets.

“Your dad.” Rafe’s jaw clenched. “I just—” You sucked in a sharp breath, shaking your head. “He made me feel small, Rafe. Like I wasn’t good enough. Like I was just… some girl who made a mistake. And I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but I can’t stop hearing his voice in my head, and—” Your breath hitched. “I don’t ever want to feel like that again. Like I have to prove that I deserve to be in this family. That I deserve to have this baby with you.”

Rafe was silent. Not because he didn’t care. Because he cared too much. Because he knew exactly what it was like to live under the weight of his father’s expectations, to feel like no matter what you did, it would never be enough. And now, Ward had made you feel like that too. Something inside him burned. He reached for you then, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks. “Listen to me,” he said, voice low, almost rough with emotion. “You don’t have to prove anything to him. Or to anyone. You are enough—more than enough. For me, for this baby… for everything.”

You swallowed thickly, blinking up at him. His grip tightened, not harsh, but firm. Grounding. “I don’t care what he thinks,” Rafe continued. “I don’t care if he never comes around. I chose you. You are the mother of my child. And there is not a single doubt in my mind that you are exactly where you’re meant to be.” Your breath shuddered. “But what if—” “No,” Rafe cut in, shaking his head. “No what ifs, baby. Not with this.” Your eyes were glassy now, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. Rafe exhaled sharply before pulling you into his arms, wrapping himself around you like he could shield you from every cruel word, every doubt, every fear. “You’re everything to me,” he murmured against your hair. “And I swear to you, I won’t let anyone make you feel less than that again.” You buried your face in his chest, your fingers gripping onto his shirt like a lifeline. And for the first time since that conversation with Ward, you felt safe.

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cameronsbabydoll · 2 days ago

Text

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WARNINGS — a short filler chapter, controlling, possessiveness

The morning stretches out in quiet stillness, the weight of last night still hanging between you. Rafe hasn’t let go of you since you woke up—his hands constantly touching, brushing, reminding. Every time you shift, he pulls you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little.

"You don’t need to be scared anymore," he says again, his voice like honey, thick and warm, laced with something deeper. Something darker. "I’ll make sure of it."

Your throat feels tight. "I wasn’t scared—"

His laugh is soft, but the edge of amusement doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "You were, angel. You still are."

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything, he moves—rolling onto his side, pressing his forehead to yours. His fingers skim your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough that you can’t look away.

"You don’t have to lie to me," he murmurs, his thumb brushing the swell of your cheek. "I already know everything about you."

There’s something suffocating about the way he looks at you—like he’s peeling back every layer, stripping you down until there’s nothing left but what he wants to see.

"You’re still shaking," he notes, his lips curving into something almost smug. "You really thought I’d let you go?"

Your breath hitches. "Rafe—"

His lips press against yours again, soft, but firm—like he’s sealing the words away before you can say them. He kisses you with the kind of certainty that leaves no room for hesitation. No room for doubt.

When he finally pulls back, his fingers slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. "You belong with me," he whispers, his tone gentle—but unforgiving. "You get that now, don’t you?"

You don’t know what to say.

Because you do get it.

And the worst part? A small, treacherous part of you likes it.

Rafe hums at your silence, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. "You like it when I take care of you, don’t you?"

Your stomach tightens, heat creeping up your spine.

"I—I don’t know," you say quietly.

His smirk deepens. "You do."

His hand slips under your nightgown, fingers ghosting over the softness of your stomach, then lower, barely brushing the inside of your thigh. Not enough to push—not yet. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

"You like it when I tell you what to do," he muses, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. "You like knowing you don’t have to think too hard. That I’ll always decide for you."

He presses a kiss to your temple, then lower, his lips trailing down your jaw. "You like being kept, angel."

A shiver runs through you, and Rafe feels it.

He sees it.

And you know, without a doubt, that you’re not fooling him.

"You’re never running again," he murmurs, his voice soft, velvet smooth. "Not when I’ve made it so easy for you to stay."

You don’t know if it’s a warning or a promise.

Maybe both.

—

Later that day

Rafe doesn’t leave your side.

Not when you get up to shower, not when you sit at the vanity to brush out your hair. He’s there—watching, touching, reminding.

At breakfast, he pulls you into his lap instead of letting you sit in your own chair. He feeds you bites of toast and fruit with a slow, purposeful patience, like he’s proving something to both of you.

"You don’t need to do that," you mumble, cheeks warm.

Rafe hums, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "But I want to."

It’s not about feeding you. It’s about control.

And you know that.

When the housekeeper comes in, you try to move, but Rafe doesn’t let you. He likes it—the way she glances at the two of you before quickly looking away.

He wants people to see you like this—kept, protected, his.

"Get used to it, angel," he murmurs against your ear, voice low enough that only you can hear. "This is how it’s gonna be from now on."

You shiver, but you don’t pull away.

Because a part of you—a part you don’t want to name—is starting to believe him.

And maybe… maybe you don’t hate it.

#cameronsbabydoll ⋆. 𐙚 ˚#sugar coated chains ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა #sugar daddy rafe ᦏ♡᪔ #sugar daddy rafe cameron #rafe cameron #rafe cameron headcanons #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x yn #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron x innocent reader #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x female reader

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seitmai · 3 days ago

Text

Many thoughts

The way his jaw tensed, the way his biceps flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, the way the veins in his forearms stood out when he gripped the pool cue. You knew better than to stare, but the dim lighting and the amber of your drink made for good camouflage.

It would be rude not to look at his beautiful forearms imo🤷🏻‍♀️

"Match made in heaven," Fanboy teased, nudging you with his elbow. You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. It was true, in a way. You and Hangman worked well together, your sharp instincts and calculated precision balancing out his reckless confidence. In the air, you made each other better. On the ground, though? That was different.

Well a Match made in heaven, sometimes is made just for the sky not the ground

Your lips twitched, but you hid your smile behind your drink, letting the glass linger against your lips. Bradley's eyes flicked toward you, quick but sharp, and for a second, you thought—no, you knew—he caught you watching. The corner of his mouth lifted, subtle, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

👀

The moment passed, the conversation shifting, the music playing on. But as you turned back to your drink, your heart was still hammering against your ribs. Because if there was one thing you knew for sure, it was that Hangman never said anything without a reason.

Oh he sure doesn’t

Bob was still half-listening to Fanboy, nodding along as his fingers drummed against the side of his glass, but you could feel his attention flicking back to you every so often. He wasn’t obvious about it—not like Hangman, who would’ve just called you out in front of everyone—but Bob noticed things. Always had. It was part of what made him such a damn good WSO.

Of course be does

Bob didn’t press, just hummed in acknowledgment, but you caught the way his eyes lingered as you turned away. If anyone was gonna figure you out first, it would be him. You just had to make sure you didn’t give him anything more to work with.

100% it would be him (& Phoenix probably lol)

"What’s your poison tonight?" You should’ve just answered him. Should’ve just kept it casual, like you did with everyone else. But the way he was looking at you—the lazy tilt of his smile, the barely-there rasp in his voice—it made you want to push back just a little. "Why?" you asked, tilting your head. "Gonna buy me one?" Something flickered in his expression, brief but unmistakable, before he leaned in just slightly, enough that his voice was low when he murmured, "That depends." Your fingers tightened around the glass, pulse kicking up. "On?" Bradley let the silence stretch, like he was giving you time to think about it, about him, before finally smirking again. "On whether or not you’ll actually drink it… or just use it to hide behind."

Oh 👀

"You wish, Bradshaw." But even as you said it, you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—him or yourself.

Fair 🤭

He grinned, eyes still on you as he took another slow sip—deliberate, careful, like he was daring you to look away. And maybe that was your first mistake.

Was it a mistake though? 🤔

Your back hit the wall. You hadn’t even realized you’d been inching away, hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten until there was nowhere else to go. But even now, even with the way his voice curled around your name, warm and teasing and just a little too soft, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.Because the way he was looking at you—the way he always looked at you—was more than enough.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

Rooster’s hands flexed at his sides, like he was physically holding himself back. Like if he didn’t, he’d reach for you without thinking. His jaw tightened, his breath uneven, and for the first time all night, he didn’t have a smirk, didn’t have a teasing remark locked and loaded.

It's taking all in him to not reach out 🫣

"Tell me no," he murmured, voice rough, low, almost desperate. "Tell me to back off, and I will." You should have. You knew you should have. But you didn’t.

Can't blame that decision 🤷🏻‍♀️

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering in your ears. Because he wasn’t just asking. He was begging. Begging for permission, for just a sign that he wasn’t crazy, that whatever this was—whatever had been burning between you for months—wasn’t just in his head. And God help you, you wanted to give it to him.

I love a begging man 😮‍💨

His lips parted at the sound of his name, something flickering in his expression—hope, relief, hunger, you weren’t sure. But his hands stayed at his sides, fists clenching, because he was waiting. He was waiting for you. "Tell me yes," he whispered. "Just once."

Easiest yes

The word barely left your lips before Bradley moved. Not rushed, not reckless, but like he’d been holding himself back for so damn long that the second you gave him permission, he couldn’t stop himself. His hands finally found you, one pressing firm and warm against your waist, the other cradling your jaw, fingers skimming your skin like he needed to memorize the way you felt beneath his touch.

🥰🥰🥰

You fisted the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned—deep, low, the kind of sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His grip on your waist tightened, his body pressing flush against yours as he kissed you harder, deeper, like he needed to prove something. Like he needed you to feel how long he’d been waiting for this. "Tell me I’m not crazy," he whispered. "Tell me you want this too."

He is such a lover boy 😍

Bradley kissed you like he was starving, like he’d been waiting years for this moment and now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go. His hands gripped your waist, your jaw, like he needed to feel you everywhere at once, like he was trying to make up for all the times he’d held back.

Urgh this is so hot

But then—between kisses, between the ragged breaths you barely had time to take—he murmured against your mouth, "Why’d you join the Navy?" You smirked, tilting your chin just slightly, your hands still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. "I like dressing like the man." Rooster froze for half a second, his brows lifting slightly—then he let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his forehead dropping against yours. "God, I knew I liked you," he murmured, voice husky, and before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours again, deeper, hungrier, like your answer had just sealed something in him.

Extremely random but oh well 😂

And then he was kissing you again, harder this time, like he was proving a point, like he was making damn sure you’d never forget it because to you, he is the man.

Yeah about that, let's have discussion about that in the bedroom later on 🤭

The man's job

At The Hard Deck, Sniper—Hangman’s sharp-tongued WSO—tries to ignore her growing attraction to Rooster, but he sees right through her. After a heated exchange, Rooster pulls her into a quiet hallway, desperate for the truth, and when she finally gives in, he kisses her like he’s been waiting forever. Between breathless kisses, he asks why she joined the Navy, and when she teasingly admits it’s because she likes dressing like the men, he grins against her lips and murmurs, "I do too."

Warning: This story contains intense romantic tension, heated moments, and Rooster being utterly irresistible. Proceed with caution—you might fall for him all over again when he loses his cool.

4k words

Just saying English isn't my first language and this is crap because I got bored and wrote yap

The Hard Deck was alive with laughter, the low hum of conversation mingling with the distant crash of the waves. The scent of salt and spilled beer hung in the air, the jukebox spitting out a country song that had more than one pilot tapping their fingers against the worn wood of the bar.

Jake "Hangman" Seresin leaned against the pool table, a cocky grin playing at his lips as he chalked his cue. His gaze was locked onto Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife.

"You wanna try that again, Rooster?" Hangman drawled, voice as smooth as whiskey. "Because I could've sworn you said I got lucky on that last shot."

Rooster scoffed, arms crossed over his broad chest, aviators still hooked onto the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. "You heard me just fine, Bagman. One lucky shot doesn’t make you the best."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass in your hand as you took a slow sip of your drink, the cool condensation slick against your skin. From your seat, you watched the exchange unfold, feigning indifference behind the rim of your glass. But your eyes weren’t on Hangman—not really.

They were on Rooster.

Beside you, Bob and Fanboy were deep in conversation, their voices threading through the noise of the bar.

"I’m just saying," Bob mused, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "a good WSO doesn’t just read the pilot—they anticipate them."

Fanboy nodded, ever the calm voice of reason. "It’s about trust. You can be the best at reading radar, but if your pilot doesn’t trust you to have their six, you’re dead in the air."

You hummed in agreement, setting your glass down with a soft clink. "It’s instinct. That’s why some pairings work better than others. Right, Bob?"

Bob smirked knowingly, glancing over at Hangman, who was now leaning dangerously close to Rooster, both men locked in a silent battle of egos. "Yeah, like you and Seresin," he said. "You two just… click."

"Match made in heaven," Fanboy teased, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. It was true, in a way. You and Hangman worked well together, your sharp instincts and calculated precision balancing out his reckless confidence. In the air, you made each other better. On the ground, though?

That was different.

"Hey, Snipes!" Hangman’s voice cut through the conversation as he straightened, smirking at you. "Tell Rooster here that he should quit embarrassing himself and rack ‘em up for a rematch."

You raised an eyebrow, the weight of Rooster’s gaze settling on you before you even turned to meet it.

"Don’t look at me," you said smoothly. "I just work here."

Laughter rippled through the group as Rooster smirked, shaking his head before taking a long sip of his beer. The golden liquid caught the light, and for just a second, you let yourself look—really look—before turning back to your drink.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the bar, swirling the remnants of your drink in the glass as Bob and Fanboy continued talking shop beside you. Their conversation faded into the background, your focus slipping as Rooster set his pool cue down and stretched, arms lifting high above his head before settling back down, fingers tapping absently against the side of his beer bottle. The stretch pulled his shirt tight across his chest, and you forced your gaze away, taking a slow sip of your drink to cover the way your pulse kicked up.

"You good?" Bob’s voice cut through your thoughts, quiet but pointed. His pale blue eyes studied you with the kind of sharpness that made you wonder just how much he noticed.

"Yeah," you said quickly, setting your glass down. "Just tired."

Bob hummed in a way that said he didn’t quite believe you, but he let it go, turning back to Fanboy, who was now deep in some exaggerated retelling of a training exercise. You took the out, shifting your attention back to the room, where Hangman had just stepped closer to Rooster, that ever-present smirk still in place.

"Come on, Rooster," Jake drawled, resting his pool cue against the table. "You gonna admit I got you, or do you wanna lose again?"

Bradley scoffed, shaking his head. "Man, I swear, you could fall into the ocean and still find a way to be cocky about it."

"Damn right," Jake shot back, tipping his beer up for a slow sip.

Heat licked up the back of your neck, but before you could react, Jake clapped a hand on Bradley’s shoulder with a grin. "Come on, Bradshaw, let’s go again. Unless you’re too busy staring at Sniper over here."

Your stomach dropped.

Bradley’s jaw tightened just slightly, his fingers flexing around the bottle in his hand. But if he was caught off guard, he didn’t show it for long. Instead, he just smirked, slow and easy, before turning back to the table.

"You wish, Seresin," he muttered, racking up the balls.

And now, thanks to him, you weren’t the only one noticing where your attention kept slipping.

You exhaled, forcing your shoulders to relax as you pushed your empty glass toward the edge of the bar. "I’m gonna grab another drink," you said, keeping your voice even, casual.

Bob’s gaze lifted from his own glass, studying you for half a second before he nodded. "You want company?"

You shook your head, already sliding off the barstool. "I’m good. Be right back."

You wove through the crowd, dodging a pair of aviators deep in some animated debate over dart scores, before finally making it to the bar. Penny was a few customers down, pouring a round of shots, so you leaned against the wood, letting your fingers trail along the smooth, worn surface as you waited.

It wasn’t until you felt a presence beside you that you glanced up—and immediately regretted it.

Bradley.

He was close. Not enough to be improper, but enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne beneath the salt air, enough that you could see the way the dim bar lights caught on the gold in his hair.

"You hiding over here, Snipes?" His voice was easy, teasing, but there was an edge to it, like he already knew the answer.

You rolled your eyes, willing your pulse to slow. "Just getting another drink, Bradshaw."

He smirked, leaning against the bar beside you, his fingers tapping absently against the wood. "That so?"

You didn’t answer immediately, but you didn’t have to. Because the way his eyes stayed on you—the way they held just a little too much knowing—told you he wasn’t buying it.

Penny slid a beer across the bar toward Rooster without him even needing to ask, a silent acknowledgment that he was a regular here. He caught it easily, fingers wrapping around the bottle as he turned back to you, his smirk still in place but softer now, more amused than cocky.

"You always this jumpy, Snipes?" His voice was low, meant just for you, the rough edge of it curling around your name in a way that sent heat flickering down your spine.

You scoffed, shifting your weight against the bar. "I’m not jumpy."

"Mm." He took a slow sip of his beer, eyes not leaving yours over the rim of the bottle. When he lowered it, he let his elbow rest against the counter, his body angled just slightly toward you. "You sure about that?"

Your brows lifted, feigning disinterest. "You always this nosy, Bradshaw?"

His grin widened, like he knew exactly what you were doing. "Only when it’s interesting." He let the words hang in the space between you, light but deliberate, before nodding toward your empty glass. "What’s your poison tonight?"

You should’ve just answered him. Should’ve just kept it casual, like you did with everyone else. But the way he was looking at you—the lazy tilt of his smile, the barely-there rasp in his voice—it made you want to push back just a little.

"Why?" you asked, tilting your head. "Gonna buy me one?"

Something flickered in his expression, brief but unmistakable, before he leaned in just slightly, enough that his voice was low when he murmured, "That depends."

Your fingers tightened around the glass, pulse kicking up. "On?"

Bradley let the silence stretch, like he was giving you time to think about it, about him, before finally smirking again. "On whether or not you’ll actually drink it… or just use it to hide behind."

Your breath hitched, but before you could come up with a response, Penny stepped up to take your order, cutting through the moment. Bradley didn’t move, didn’t look away—just waited, watching, like he already knew he’d gotten to you.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away from Rooster’s knowing gaze as you turned to Penny. "Whiskey, neat."

If she noticed anything in your voice, she didn’t comment on it, just nodded and reached for a bottle. But Bradley? He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound warm and teasing as he took another sip of his beer.

"Didn’t peg you for a whiskey drinker," he mused, tilting his head.

You shot him a look. "And what exactly did you peg me for?"

He let his gaze flick over you, slow and measured, before shrugging. "Something smoother. Less burn."

You smirked, rolling your empty glass between your fingers. "Maybe I like the burn."

Bradley’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his expression shifted, the teasing edge softening just slightly. "Yeah," he murmured, voice quieter now. "Maybe you do."

Penny slid your drink across the bar, and you grabbed it quickly, grateful for something to do with your hands. But when you turned back, Bradley was still watching you, eyes dark with something unreadable, something you weren’t sure you were ready to decipher.

"Careful, Sniper," he murmured, tipping his bottle toward you before taking a sip. "Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you like me."

Your stomach flipped, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you lifted your glass, letting the whiskey slide down smooth and slow before setting it back on the bar with a soft clink. Then, with your best smirk, you leaned in just a fraction, just enough for your voice to dip between you both.

"You wish, Bradshaw."

But even as you said it, you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—him or yourself.

Rooster was still smirking when he took another sip of his beer, but when he lowered the bottle, you caught it—just the smallest trace of foam clinging to the edge of his moustache. It was barely noticeable, but once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.

Without thinking, you reached up, the tips of your fingers grazing his jaw as you swiped your thumb along the corner of his mouth. "You had a little—"

The words caught in your throat the second his breath hitched, his entire body going still under your touch. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, the slight stubble along his jaw rough against the pad of your thumb. You should’ve pulled away the second you fixed it, should’ve stepped back before the moment stretched too long, before the air between you shifted into something heavier.

But you didn’t.

Bradley didn’t move either, his eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Slowly, so slowly, his lips quirked, and you felt it—the way they just barely brushed against your thumb before you finally dropped your hand.

"Thanks, Sniper," he murmured, voice lower than before, rougher.

You swallowed, gripping your glass a little tighter as you forced yourself to scoff, to play it off. "Try drinking like an adult next time, Bradshaw."

He grinned, eyes still on you as he took another slow sip—deliberate, careful, like he was daring you to look away.

But you didn’t.

And maybe that was your first mistake.

You should have walked away. Should have taken your drink and gone back to Bob and Fanboy, slipped back into easy conversation about WSOs and manoeuvring and anything that didn’t involve the way Rooster was looking at you.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you stayed put, fingers curling around your whiskey glass, pulse thrumming beneath your skin as Bradley studied you with that lazy, knowing smirk. The worst part? He wasn’t even trying. He wasn’t laying it on thick like Jake would, wasn’t feeding you some line just to see if you’d take the bait. He was just… there. And for some reason, that made it harder to shake.

"You always this handsy, Snipes?" His voice was smooth, laced with amusement, but there was something else beneath it. Something quieter.

You scoffed, finally forcing yourself to take a step back, putting distance between you both. "Don’t flatter yourself, Bradshaw."

He hummed, tipping his beer toward you in mock salute. "Too late."

You rolled your eyes, turning toward the crowd, desperate to pull the focus away from whatever the hell this was. The Hard Deck was still alive with energy, the Dagger Squad scattered around the bar. Hangman was now leaning against the jukebox, arguing with Coyote about song choices. Payback and Fanboy were deep in conversation, likely rehashing old stories from training. Phoenix was at the dartboard, eyes locked in concentration as she lined up a shot.

Safe distractions.

"I should get back," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

But before you could step away, Bradley's voice was there again, softer now. "You ever gonna let me catch up to you, Snipes?"

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your drink. The question wasn’t loaded, not on the surface. But something about the way he said it made you pause, made you consider the weight behind it.

Slowly, you turned back to him, arching a brow. "What makes you think you’re behind?"

Bradley smirked, but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Call it a gut feeling."

You held his gaze for a beat longer than you should have, something unspoken lingering in the space between you. Then, with a small shake of your head, you turned on your heel, slipping back into the crowd before he could say anything else.

But even as you walked away, you felt it—the heat of his gaze still following you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet.

You barely made it three steps before you felt it—fingers curling around your wrist, firm but careful, like he wasn’t trying to stop you, just… slow you down.

"Hang on," Rooster murmured, his grip warm against your skin.

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t stop him, didn’t shake him off. He didn’t give you the chance to. With a gentle but insistent tug, he steered you through the crowd, slipping easily between groups of aviators and locals like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You knew where he was leading you before you even saw it.

The narrow hallway just past the bar—the one that led to the bathrooms, the back exit, the only quiet place in the Hard Deck that didn’t involve sneaking behind the counter with Penny’s disapproving glare burning into the back of your head.

The second you stepped into the dimly lit corridor, away from the noise, away from the others, Bradley let go of your wrist. But he didn’t step back. If anything, he was still too close, the faint scent of his cologne and the salt air clinging to his skin.

You crossed your arms, forcing yourself to level him with a look even as your pulse betrayed you. "Seriously, Bradshaw? The hallway?"

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, steady. "Seemed like the only way to get you to actually talk to me."

Your stomach flipped, but you forced a scoff, leaning back slightly against the wall. "Talk to you? About what?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his gaze flicker over your face like he was trying to figure something out, like he was debating how much to say. Then, finally, quietly—

"You’re different with me."

Your breath caught.

Bradley took a step closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your eyes on his. "You talk all that shit with Hangman. You joke with Bob, mess with Fanboy, keep up with Phoenix. But with me?" His head tilted, voice dipping lower. "You’re careful."

You swallowed hard, willing your expression to stay neutral. "You’re imagining things, Bradshaw."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No, I’m not." Another step, closing that last bit of space. "And I don’t think you are either."

Didn’t have to.

Because the way he was looking at you—the way he always looked at you—was more than enough.

"Tell me no," he murmured, voice rough, low, almost desperate. "Tell me to back off, and I will."

You should have. You knew you should have.

But you didn’t.

"Rooster, it's the alcohol talking."

His eyes searched yours, flickering between them, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "Snipes…" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was trying to pull himself together, but then his voice dropped even lower, nearly breaking—

"Please."

And God help you, you wanted to give it to him.

"Bradshaw…"

"Tell me yes," he whispered. "Just once."

Your breath shuddered.

And then—

You did.

The word barely left your lips before Bradley moved.

Not rushed, not reckless, but like he’d been holding himself back for so damn long that the second you gave him permission, he couldn’t stop himself. His hands finally found you, one pressing firm and warm against your waist, the other cradling your jaw, fingers skimming your skin like he needed to memorize the way you felt beneath his touch.

And then—God—his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful. It was needy, desperate in a way that sent heat rushing through you, like he’d been dying of thirst and you were the only thing that could quench it. His lips moved against yours like he was making up for lost time, like he couldn’t get enough, like he was afraid if he let you go, you’d slip right through his fingers.

It was overwhelming and dizzying, and God, you should have stopped him. Should have pushed him away before this became something you couldn’t take back.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself drown in him, let yourself pretend—just for a second—that this was something you could have. That Bradley was something you could have.

And when he finally pulled back, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, his voice came out rough, almost wrecked.

"Tell me I’m not crazy," he whispered. "Tell me you want this too."

You swallowed hard, hands still curled into his shirt, your heart pounding against your ribs.

And when you finally answered, your voice was barely above a breath—

"I do."

You were just as desperate, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you, just heat and pressure and the intoxicating taste of whiskey and beer on his lips.

But then—between kisses, between the ragged breaths you barely had time to take—he murmured against your mouth, "Why’d you join the Navy?"

You barely processed the question at first, not with the way his lips trailed along your jaw, not with the way his hands were tracing slow, burning lines down your sides. But then he pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded but curious. Like he needed to know.

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering against your ribs. Of all the moments, of all the things—he wanted to ask this now?

You smirked, tilting your chin just slightly, your hands still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. "I like dressing like the man."

Rooster froze for half a second, his brows lifting slightly—then he let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his forehead dropping against yours. "God, I knew I liked you," he murmured, voice husky, and before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours again, deeper, hungrier, like your answer had just sealed something in him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, "I do too."

And then he was kissing you again, harder this time, like he was proving a point, like he was making damn sure you’d never forget it because to you, he is the man.

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aleskie · 2 days ago

Note

hey!! you’re genuinely one of my favorite writers, i check your profile everyday to see if you wrote something new. ily.

i was wondering if you would be able to write ex!charles leclerc calling after winning monaco and leaving a voicemail of how he wishes she could be there with him to experience it after all the years he dreamt of it and every single time he did she was there? kind of like a “the one that got away” trope?

if so then thank you so much may everything good happen to you foreva

Anonnie! ILYT!!! You're so so sweet! I love writing angst so this was right up my alley!! I really hope you like it!

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY | Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warnings: None. There is no happy ending.

It’s late at night, long after the celebrations of his Monaco win, when he thinks of you. He tries not to. It hurts too much. But after this—after years of chasing this, of dreaming about this—all he wants is to share it with you. He can’t, though. Because he left. Because he chose to leave. And he regrets it every single day.

“I just need to focus on my career,” he had said. “I don’t need distractions right now.”

He called you a distraction.

“I can’t have anything unimportant ruin my chances at helping us get a Constructor’s Championship.”

He called you unimportant.

“This is all too much. This relationship is too much. I have too much on my shoulders to worry about this.”

He said you were too much.

But you weren’t. You were never too much, never unimportant, never a distraction. You—God, you were his whole world. And he let you go.

That night, he left. Stayed at a friend’s place until you both could figure out how to split everything. He thought there would be a conversation, a plan. But he didn’t have to wait—when he returned, you were already gone. Your keys left at the front desk, your presence erased from the apartment that once felt like home.

Your shoes were no longer on the rack by the front door. Your clothes were missing from your side of the closet. Your perfumes and makeup—gone. Your skincare, once neatly arranged on the bathroom counter, wiped away as if you had never been there at all.

You were gone, and yet your absence was everywhere.

If he could take it back, he would.

But he can’t.

He let go of the one person who had been there from the very start—the one who watched every race, who nursed his wounds after every crash, who celebrated every podium, every victory, as if they were her own.

And he regretted it more than anything.

Still, a part of him—selfish and desperate—wanted to hear your voice just one last time. Wanted to tell you about this win. Wanted to imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to have you here, whispering, I’m proud of you.

Against his better judgment, he calls you. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No voice in his head warning him that this might be a mistake—that you might not want to hear from him ever again.

The phone rings, and he hopes. He knows you won’t pick up, but still, he hopes. Hopes that, against all odds, you’ll answer. That you’ll say what he’s desperate to hear. That you’ll come rushing over to celebrate with him. That maybe…just maybe, you’ll tell him you want to try again.

The call pushes through.

"Hey! This is Y/N! Sorry I can’t get to you, but just leave a message after the beep!"

His heart sinks, just a little. But at least his number isn’t blocked.

“Y/N? Hey, this is Charles.” He exhales, steadying himself. “I don’t know if you saw—I hope you did, but I don’t know if you still keep up with Formula One—but I finally won Monaco!”

He’s sure you can hear the smile in his voice. Even now, with the weight of this call pressing down on him, the sheer joy of the win lingers.

“I…” He hesitates, his breath shaky. “I’m sorry for calling.” A pause, longer this time. “I’m sorry for everything.”

He paces around the apartment, eyes drifting to the empty spaces where your things used to be—gaps on the bookshelf where your favorite novels once sat, the flower vase beside his piano that hasn’t held a bouquet since you left, the shelf where your little trinkets used to be, now collecting dust.

“I don’t know why I called you,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I just… felt like I needed you to know.”

His gaze lands on the fridge. The photos are still there—pictures of the two of you frozen in time, untouched, unchanged, as if removing them would make the loss too real.

“You were always there for me. Through everything. And I wouldn’t be here without you. I hope you know how grateful I am for that.”

His fingers trace the outline of your smile in one of the photos.

“I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you. No one could put up with me like you could. No one else would stay.”

Your picture is still in his wallet, tucked in the same place it’s always been. A habit he never broke, a piece of you he never let go of.

“I don’t know if what I did then was the right thing,” he confesses, voice raw. “I don’t know if I would have moments like this if we were still together. I don’t know how my life would have been if I never let you go. But I do know one thing—I will always love you.”

A silence stretches between him and the voicemail, like he’s processing the weight of his own words.

“There will always be a part of me that belongs to you,” he murmurs. “No matter how long it’s been, no matter how much time passes—I’m yours. You don’t spend your life with someone and then expect that to just disappear.”

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

“If you ever want to come back to me, and God, I hope you do—one day, when we’re wiser, when we’ve healed, when we’ve lived a little more—my door is always open. My arms are always open. For you. Always for you.”

A shuddering exhale.

“I love you. I’ll always love you. And I will always regret letting you go. You’re always going to be everything to me. I would give you all I have, everything you want, everything I could give.”

“I love you,” he says one last time before ending the call, fingers lingering on the phone like he wants to say more. But there’s nothing left—nothing that wouldn’t crack his voice, nothing that wouldn’t let you hear the quiet devastation settling in his chest.

So he puts his phone away and goes to bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping.

Maybe he’ll receive a reply tomorrow. Or next week. Or years from now.

He’ll be waiting, after all.

You listen to his voicemail that night, curled up in your bed, sobbing into your pillow, your chest aching in a way you thought you’d left behind.

Why now?

Why would he choose to break your heart all over again?

You’d think you’d moved on. You’d think you’d healed. And you did. You really did. You built a life without him. You stitched yourself back together, piece by piece.

But then you hear his voice, and suddenly, the wounds aren’t scars—they’re fresh, raw, bleeding all over again. And God, you want to go back. You want to step into the past, into his arms, into the life you used to share.

But that’s not healthy anymore.

You can’t keep waiting for someone to slow down when their entire existence is built around going faster and faster—so fast that a crash is inevitable.

Your finger hovers over his contact. You trace the familiar details—the way his name looks on your screen, the phone number you could recite in your sleep, the goofy picture of him you took all those years ago still set as his image. A piece of the past frozen in time.

A notification pops up.

[Block this contact?]

Your breath catches. For a second, you hesitate. But then you remember—the sleepless nights, the ache of waiting, the empty promises, the way he chose his career over you without a second thought.

And this time, you choose.

You press the button.

No more waiting. No more hoping. No more him.

This time you were choosing yourself. As much as it hurt, as much as it broke you, you were going to let go.

A final notification.

[This Contact Has Been Blocked]

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc #cl16 #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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moonstruckme · 19 hours ago

Note

*insert Bernie Sanders meme*

I am once again asking for Prince!Sirius, perhaps a tryst in the royal gardens? A stolen kiss while practicing a waltz? An eventful evening at the opera for the “engaged” couple? A midnight motorbike ride throughout the city, away from the palace guards? Sneaking out in the night to see each other?

Anything you’d like, of course, and only if you’d like to write it♥️I love you just as much either way, which is bunches and tons🥰

Thank you for your request!! I shall be using more than one of these haha :)

cw: migraine, arranged marriage

prince!Sirius x princess!reader ♡ 1.3k words

By the way Sirius talked about it and everything you’ve experienced since setting foot in the palace, you’d come to the easy assumption that the negotiations of your arranged marriage would take place behind closed doors you weren’t invited through. You never imagined you’d be involved. Though perhaps involved is a strong word for what you are now, sitting like an ornament at your grandmother’s side while her courtiers argue in civil tones with courtiers from Sirius’ kingdom.

The more you’re around Sirius’ parents, the more intimidated you are by both of them. Sirius can be intimidating too, all roguish charm and sharp-toothed grins, but his parents are different. They’re just…scary. You don’t think they’ve stopped glaring since they sat down. Every now and then, when negotiations don’t seem to be going their way, Sirius’ mother’s mouth will become pinched and small, as though she’s only just barely biting her tongue.

Evidently, marrying two heirs is more complicated than simply getting married. Sirius would have to abdicate to his younger brother, there are inheritances to be discussed, land ownership, things like dowries which you didn’t know still existed. It all faded away around the time your ears started ringing. There’s a harsh, zagging line across your vision now. The undersides of your thighs are slick with sweat. You have no hope of translating this bourgeoisie legal dialect.

Sirius is sitting on the other end of the table, but you’ve been able to feel his gaze all evening. At times he’s looked bored, others agitated, but for the most part when he looks at you his eyes are calm. Placid waters. A thick morning fog.

You don’t think either of you are meant to speak, but Sirius wouldn’t be Sirius if he didn’t break the rules.

“Well, this is tedious.” His mother’s gaze snaps to him, but the prince appears not to notice. He stretches, pushing back his chair. “I’m going to nod off if I don’t get some fresh air. Care to join me, Your Highness?”

For once, you don’t care enough to decode the looks your grandmother and her courtiers are sending you. “Sure,” you mumble. Nausea presses at the base of your throat as you stand shakily. “I mean, yes, thank you.”

Sirius escorts you from the room like a true gentleman. A hand on your back, opening and closing the door for you. He doesn’t even comment when you close your eyes and put your hand over them in an attempt to block out the light. Just keeps walking, guiding you around turns and through hallways. You don’t think to ask where you’re going until you step outside.

The difference is brightness is immediate. You drop your hand. It’s nighttime, the palace gardens dark but for small lanterns illuminating the paths in front of you. Those are bearable, at least.

Sirius waits until you’re seated on a bench to ask, in a more hesitant tone than you’ve heard from him yet, “What’s wrong?”

You nearly moan as you fold over your legs, putting your forehead to your knees. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

“Don’t do that. Please. I could see you sweating from across the table.”

Your nausea worsens. “Did everyone see?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not sure,” he admits. You appreciate that you don’t have to question whether Sirius is telling you the truth. He always does.

“Not very princess-like.”

“Fuck that.” Sirius’ hand lands between your shoulder blades, fingers splayed but unmoving. “What is it? Do you need a doctor?”

You let out a breath. It warms your knees. “No,” you mumble. “It’s a migraine. I’ve had them before, it’ll go away.” Not quickly, you don’t say. But eventually.

“Oh,” Sirius murmurs. Somewhere in the garden, not very close, there are crickets chirping. Faint. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“What can I do?”

You pause. Maybe it’s because you’re already feeling so wretched, but the simple care in his voice makes you want to weep. “Nothing really. It’s helping just to be out of there. Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says in a quiet voice. His thumb moves a couple times over a bump in your hunched-over spine, thoughtful. “The lights from the path aren’t helping, are they?”

“They’re better than the ones inside.”

“Can you move?”

You pick your head up, gathering your strength. Sirius’ eyes are unreadable in the dark. “We should probably go back in, right?”

He frowns. “No.”

“They’ll be upset if we’re gone for too long. I’ll be okay.”

“The longer we’re gone, the more they’ll speculate about an heir, and the more they’ll have to talk about.” He quirks a brow at you, eyes glinting. “Come on, gorgeous. It’s the right of betrothed couples to canoodle in gardens.”

You let him pull you up from the bench, trying to ignore how that makes you feel. How lately you’ve found yourself wishing the perceptions of you and Sirius’ relationship were closer to reality. You don’t want to be married, or to be a queen, or to have the pressure of producing heirs. But you wouldn’t mind canoodling in gardens. Only if it’s with Sirius, though.

He takes you off the path, into a grassy area walled in by trees and shrubbery. The only light comes from the stars in the sky. You’ve completely given yourself over to Sirius’ whims by this point, so you make no objection when he lies you down with your head in his lap, the dewy grass dampening your clothes.

“Tell me if this hurts more than it helps,” he says, positioning his hands on either side of your head. His fingers sink into your hair and begin to massage gently at your scalp.

Tears press at your eyes again. Not from pain. From relief, yes, but also a rush of aching tenderness. You don’t know that you’ve ever been treated with such care.

“It helps,” you manage.

“Yeah?” Sirius' voice is near a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“I have a hard time believing that when you’re not breathing, lovely.”

He’s teasing, a little bit, but his tone slips into sincerity again when you let out a long breath. “Good,” he says, thumbs making small circles at the base of your head. “Thank you.”

You don’t know how long you lie there. No one comes looking for you, or if they do you’re too far into the garden to hear them. The breeze cools the sweat lingering on your skin. Sirius is diligent in his ministrations, working his way from your ears to the crown of your head and from your forehead to your nape. It works. Your migraine doesn’t go away completely, but you feel better.

You open your eyes slowly. The stars wink above you with their cold light, but Sirius’ gaze is warm on yours.

“I’m going to fall asleep,” you murmur.

His lips quirk. “I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“We can’t stay here like this.”

“Why not?” he asks lightly. “I don’t mind. Most guys would give their left foot to sit here with you all night. I’d count myself lucky.”

Your chest aches. You’re not going to take him up on that, but a few more minutes won’t hurt.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Really, babe, I don’t mind.”

“No, not just…I mean, for everything.” Emotion makes the throbbing in your head worsen, but you keep your eyes open to hold his gaze. “For always being so nice. Just, thank you.”

Sirius must see the pain in your expression. His brows furrow just a little, and he brushes his thumb next to your eye, encouraging you to close them. You do.

You think you might feel his lips on your forehead. It’s too ghostlike a kiss for you to be sure, the tickle of his hair past your ear perhaps more wish than sensation. You pretend it’s real anyway.

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oopsiedaisydeer · 2 days ago

Text

ʜɪᴅɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴘʟᴀɪɴ ꜱɪɢʜᴛ

…𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴

angst, loneliness, mental health struggles, sub!chris?, longing, crush, vulnerability, petnames, intimacy, fluff if u squint,anonymous relationship, love square?

word count - 1.8k

Daisy sat in the corner of the classroom, trying to ignore the buzzing in her chest that had nothing to do with her tutor’s monotone recap. It was the old, familiar feeling creeping back, just like it had in high school… her brain refusing to focus on anything other than him.

Chris. She’d seen him this morning, after she completely not accidentally walked past the field where he had morning practices a couple times a week. He looked soft in the early morning light. Smiling, like he always used to back home.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open and the very person she was thinking of walking through. What was he doing here? His usual laid-back presence was somehow still visible even when he was clearly rushing to make it to the class on time. His disheveled hair and worn sneakers were familiar enough to make her heart race. But the Chris she remembered was the one who’d walked past her in the halls of their small high school, oblivious to the way her stomach would flip whenever he was near. He was still oblivious, but now an entire university campus stood between her and him.

“There’s a spare seat there,” the teacher called, gesturing to a spare seat beside her. Chris glanced around, his eyes scanning the room before he finally spotted it. Daisy froze as he started walking towards her. She couldn’t help it… her heart beat faster, and her hands suddenly felt clammy.

No. Not now. Not here. She was supposed to be an adult, but her mind couldn’t help but drift back to that silly high school girl who had watched him from afar, too shy to do anything about it.

And then, to her absolute horror, he was sitting down beside her. Close. Too close.

She could smell his cologne, a soft, familiar scent that made her stomach flip. Her ears turned bright red as she tried to pretend that the proximity didn’t make her skin tingle. She really didn’t need this distraction.

The teacher’s voice was drowned out by the rushing in her ears. Somehow she made out that he was calling for everyone to discuss something in small groups. Daisy immediately stiffened. She didn’t want to be paired with him. Not now. Not when her heart was already threatening to betray her.

Unfortunately for Daisy, Chris turned towards her and the two other people sitting beside her.

Why? She silently cursed the universe. It was just like high school again. No matter how many times she tried to push those feelings down, they kept bubbling up to the surface. And now she had to sit next to him, listen to him talk, and pretend like she wasn’t completely out of her depth.

He glanced at her. She quickly looked away, pretending to pay attention to the notes on the table. “Uh, I guess I’ll start,” he began, and his voice—so familiar and yet so foreign in this context—made her heart race even more. He started talking about the example on the board, with the girl to her right adding on to what he was saying.

Before she knew what was happening, Chris looked at her again. “Do you have anything to add?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She was too aware of every little thing. His posture. His fingers drumming lightly on the desk. The faint scent of him that had invaded her senses.

And when their eyes met briefly, she froze, her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t let him see her like this. She couldn’t let him see that she was just as awkward as she’d been back in high school.

“Um…” She cleared her throat, but before she could say anything, the professor interrupted them, moving on to another part of the discussion.

Daisy let out a shaky breath, relieved for the momentary escape. She couldn’t deal with this. Not now.

The class continued, but Daisy couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of Chris sitting next to her, too close, his presence weighing heavily on her chest. She had always found him charming, funny, and a little bit untouchable… someone who’d never notice her.

And now he was here, in the flesh, sitting beside her as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

But the truth was, he didn’t know. And she didn’t either. Neither of them knew that Daisy was the one Chris had been talking to these past weeks. As Sun, that is.

Daisy sprawled out on her couch, the evening stretching out in front of her with nothing but the soft hum of her phone and her thoughts for company. She had just finished up another call with a stranger—someone who didn’t quite live up to Sun’s usual charm—and now, she was left feeling... empty. She had gotten used to the easy flow of conversation with Sun, to the point where now, every other call felt a little hollow. Her mind kept drifting back to the way he’d made her laugh, the little personal moments they shared, physically or emotionally intimate—he had made those ordinary nights something different.

The problem was, she missed that. She missed him. He hadn’t called in a couple of days. And there was nothing she could do about it.

But now, just as she was ready to settle into her thoughts, her phone buzzed again. Another call.

She almost ignored it, but something pulled her to answer. After all, it had been a few days since she’d heard from him. Maybe this call would be the one, or at least, different than the others.

Taking a deep breath, Daisy pressed the button, not sure if she was ready for another stranger. “Hello, this is Daisy,” she said, her voice light, trying to sound welcoming.

A slight pause followed, but then that unmistakable voice came through, smooth and familiar.

“Hey, it’s Sun.”

Daisy froze, her stomach doing a little flip. Sun? Her heart rate picked up, and she could feel a smile creeping across her face. She quickly tried to suppress it, but there was no denying it. He was back.

“Sun?” she asked, almost too quickly. She mentally cursed herself for sounding so eager, but it had been so long since they’d last talked. “Wow, it’s... it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Chris chuckled softly. “I know. I, uh, called a few times, but didn’t get through to you. And I’ve been a bit... busy. But I’m feeling better now. Things are finally starting to calm down.”

Daisy felt a rush of relief, a strange warmth in her chest. “Glad to hear it,” she said, leaning back a little on the couch. Maybe she could just pretend this was casual... like it always was. “How’s everything going?”

“Better,” Chris replied, but there was a slight hesitation in his tone. “You know, working through stuff. Still not perfect, but... I’m getting there. Trying to open up more, you know?”

Daisy could hear the subtle vulnerability in his voice, and it made her smile softly. There was something different about him tonight, maybe even more honest than usual. She felt the tiniest flutter in her chest.

She cleared her throat, trying to ignore the growing warmth in her cheeks. “I get that,” she replied. “I mean, I guess we all have our... walls, don’t we?”

“Definitely,” Chris agreed. There was an easy tone to his voice now, as if they were picking up right where they’d left off. “But I think you’ve been a big help. You’ve made these last few weeks a lot less... complicated.”

Daisy couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed by the compliment, even though it made her heart skip. He’s really sweet. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, you’ve made it easy to talk to you.”

She could almost hear him smirk on the other end of the line. “That’s just my sunny disposition, huh?”

Daisy laughed softly, the sound a little more nervous than she meant. “I guess so.”

The banter was flowing now, both of them falling back into their usual rhythm… casual, comfortable... but maybe a little more charged than before. She had to admit, the idea of being just friends was getting harder to sell, even to herself, especially when this felt more like flirting than anything else.

“So, what’s been keeping you busy?” Daisy asked, her voice light, trying to steer the conversation back to something neutral. “New project? Drama? Life?”

“More like... life, I guess.” He sighed, but it wasn’t a sad sound, just the kind of heavy sigh that came from a long day. “Honestly? I’ve missed talking to you. It’s been too long. Don’t get me wrong, I get it… you’ve got your own life. But sometimes I kinda hope we could talk more... outside the calls.”

Daisy’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to say something clever, something funny. But the heat on her face was making her feel a little dizzy. She cleared her throat, trying to stay calm. “Well, you know… this is work and all. It’s not like I don’t want to talk more. To you.” She quickly added, “I mean, talking to you is... nice.”

“Oh, I see how it is.” Chris laughed lightly, the sound warm, teasing. “Is that so? Nice?”

Daisy blushed harder than she should have. “Yeah. Nice. Is that such a surprise?”

“Not at all,” Chris replied, his voice turning a little more sincere, though the teasing still lingered. “But, hey, I was actually wondering...”

Daisy’s heart stuttered.

Chris hesitated for a moment, and for some reason, it made her pulse spike. She waited with bated breath. “I was wondering if... maybe you’d feel comfortable giving me your personal number?”

Daisy felt her throat tighten as she processed his request. Her palms felt suddenly clammy, and her words got stuck in her throat. This wasn’t just a casual question. He was asking for something real... and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that.

He rushed on, clearly nervous. “Look, I know this might be a little out of nowhere, but I... really appreciate the connection we’ve had. You’re, um, really easy to talk to, and I feel like we’ve got a good thing going. I feel like it could maybe make things easier? And I really do consider you a friend, Daisy. It’s totally up to you, of course. No pressure.”

Daisy felt her heart thud in her chest. She should’ve said something. She should’ve been cool about it. But the words slipped out before she could stop herself. “I… yeah. Sure. I mean, you’ve been such a good friend. I don’t mind at all.”

There was a long pause, almost like he was processing her answer. Finally, he spoke, the relief clear in his voice. “Thanks, Daisy. I really mean it.”

She smiled, feeling a little lightheaded. “Of course.”

After she gave him her number, he bid her goodnight, and the line clicked softly, like the soothing scratch of a record beginning.

creds to rose for the dividers!! @bernardsbendystraws

a/n: not sure if ppl have noticed but each title has been based on a song lyric from this au's playlist :>>

taglist: @applecidersturniolo @throatgoat4u @sturnslutz @desreads @courta13 @kier-with-a-k @bluestriips @sturns-mermaid @sweetshuga @snoopychris @st7rnioioss @herewegoagain-b @cowboylikenat @joanakaulitz @mattsstarlet @chrislova comment to be added!

cya sooooooon !!

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shaiyasstuff · 2 days ago

Text

wilted promises | sylus | chapter 2

synopsis : Sylus once vowed to love and protect you, but love, like flowers left untended, withered beneath the weight of silence and duty. In the hollow halls of your shared home, he watched as you faded—slowly, quietly—until the day you collapsed, slipping between life and death like a ghost of the woman you once were. Now, with regret heavy in his chest and your absence suffocating, he is left grasping at wilted promises, wondering if love, once lost, can ever bloom again.

content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, self-loathing(?), ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers, sylus is a noble.

writer’s note : I wrote this because I wanted to put some of Sylus’ perspective. I thought it’d be interesting. Enjoy :D @phisen btw hereee you goo xd

parts : one | two

quote : "The saddest moments come when we realize the time we’ve lost cannot return." - unknown.

“I promised to protect you, to love you, to stand by your side—yet here you are, shattered by my own hands. Tell me, how do I live with that?”

It had been years since that first promise—the one he made while holding a datura to you, vowing to protect you, to love you, for all eternity.

He still remembers the way your eyes shone with trust and belief.

But the weight of his family’s expectations and the harshness of reality have stolen those promises from both of you.

He never wanted it to be like this; he never intended for the love you shared to rot beneath layers of indifference.

He knows he’s been cold, distant and cruel.

But every word he says, every action he takes, was all to protect you.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

To Sylus, in some twisted sense of belief, he thought pushing you away, if he made you hate him, it’s because the world was cruel.

He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you hurt by its sharp edges.

He became cruel because he thought that would shield you from the storms he’s endured.

Because he would rather you hate him than face the reality of a world that doesn’t care about you.

He couldn’t bear to let you in, to let you see just how broken he’s become, how trapped he was by expectations that were never his to begin with.

Perhaps that was his biggest mistake.

Every time he saw you, he sees the woman who once believed in him, who trusted him to keep his promises.

And he dies a little more inside.

He promised you forever.

And forever, he will protect you—from the world and from himself.

Because for him, he never stopped loving you.

—•

The car screeched into the emergency bay, tires screaming as he barely managed to pull it to a stop.

He threw the door open, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as he pulled your frail form from the passenger seat.

You were too light. Too cold.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he carried you through the hospital doors, his grip on you desperate, his mind spiraling.

“Not like this. Please, not like this.”

“Help!” His voice was raw, the sharp edge of panic bleeding through as he staggered into the corridor.

A group of nurses rushed toward him.

“She’s losing too much blood.”

The words rang in his ears like a death sentence.

The gurney wheeled past him, hands pulling you away from him, and all he could do was stand there, frozen, useless.

A doctor turned to him, frowning. “Has she been unwell recently?”

His breath caught.

“She… she just started to paint,” he choked out, his own voice foreign to him. “She’s barely been eating, but I never—” His throat closed. He swallowed against the rising panic. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”

The doctor’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, signaling his team to move faster.

Minutes felt like hours.

The walls were too white. Too quiet.

Sylus stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles bone-white, watching them work on you.

His hands shook. His stomach churned.

“How did I let it get this bad?”

The doctor returned, face solemn.

“We’ve stabilized her for now, but she’s in critical condition. She’s severely malnourished, and there’s internal damage from the blood loss.”

The words hit like a hammer.

“We need to run tests, but it’s too soon to tell how this will play out.”

The words faded out.

“Can I see her?” His voice was barely a whisper.

The doctor shook his head. “Not yet.”

The world blurred at the edges.

He could only watch you being taken away, limp and lifeless.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t deserve you.

He never had.

He whispered to the empty hallway, his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t protect you. I didn’t love you like I should have. But please—don’t leave me.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him, but he didn’t care.

He needed you to know.

He needed you.

—•

Sylus watched as you consigned your art to the flames.

Your movements were steady, calm in a way that unsettled him.

He remembered how you used to speak of your paintings with quiet passion, how your eyes would glow with pride as you lingered over every brushstroke.

He’d thought the portraits were your sanctuary, the only place you could escape him, escape this life.

And now, you were burning them.

“Why?”

The question left him before he could stop it, rough and strained.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t pause. Another painting slipped into the fire, its edges curling, the flames devouring it.

“Because I don’t need them anymore,”

Your voice low, steady. Final.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

Your words struck harder than any accusation.

Sylus felt something twist in his chest, a confusion that spiraled into guilt.

He wanted to stop you.

Wanted to pull the paintings from the fire.

Wanted to say something, anything.

But he stood still.

Frozen. Watching.

Your voice was cold, resolute.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

The flames crackled between you, licking at the remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if you meant more than just the paintings.

If you meant him, too.

But he said nothing.

Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

—•

Sylus sat in the sterile waiting room, staring blankly at the door to your room.

His fists trembled at his sides.

The weight of everything—his mistakes, his cruelty—pressed down on him, suffocating.

He felt helpless, unable to undo the damage he had caused.

“What have I done?”

The question repeated in his mind, mocking him.

His guilt was overwhelming, gnawing at him like a constant ache.

He had pushed you to this point, broken the woman he loved with his pride, his anger, his neglect.

And now you lay there, unconscious, fighting for a life he had destroyed.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising as he fought back tears.

“Please wake up.”

He was desperate.

He couldn’t lose you—not like this, not after everything.

His regret gnawed at him, bitter and relentless.

Every moment of your marriage felt like a failure now, a cruel joke played on both of you.

When the nurse appeared, her calm demeanor only made him feel worse.

“She’s stable,” she said, but it didn’t matter.

Stability wasn’t enough.

He collapsed back into the chair, his chest tight. All he could do was wait, pray, and beg for forgiveness in silence.

Then the phone rang.

He didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know who it was.

“Where in the world have you been?! You haven’t been answering your messages,”

His mother.

“And what’s this nonsense about your wife? You need to pull yourself together.”

His father’s voice joined in, colder than ever.

“You’ve made a mess of things, boy. Marrying her was a disgrace to this family. A commoner. We raised you better than this.”

He hadn’t thought about their disapproval in weeks.

The shame they’d cast on him for marrying someone beneath their social status, their constant insistence on duty and legacy, had been a constant pressure from the start.

“She’s not just a commoner,” Sylus muttered, but his voice faltered, barely a whisper.

The words felt hollow, like they didn’t even matter anymore.

The reality was, he didn’t know what he had expected from them.

Understanding?

Compassion?

But instead, all he received was disdain.

“You’re throwing away your life for someone who can’t even stand on her own two feet!” his father barked.

“You owe it to the family to move past this and fix the mess you’ve made.”

Sylus’ hand tightened on the phone.

His knuckles were white, and for a moment, he felt his anger flare.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

They didn’t know the woman he’d married—the one who had filled his life with color, with warmth, with purpose.

“Watch your tongue,” he growled, his voice raw.

“Do not act like you know me.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“This charade cannot go on. If she remains in that state, then tell me, what purpose does she even serve?” She didn’t even pretend to care.

“You will be at the family gathering next week. I will not ask again. Do not make me come find you.”

The line went dead.

He sat there in the oppressive silence, the phone still pressed to his ear, staring at the empty room around him.

They hadn’t cared about her, or about him, in years.

Everything was about status, about their own wealth and image, and he had foolishly believed they could ever understand the depth of what he had with her.

His stomach turned as the reality settled over him.

The love he had once taken for granted now felt like an isolated island in a sea of cold indifference.

He wanted to scream, to shout at the void, but he just sat there instead, feeling small, helpless, and utterly alone.

Tears threatened to fall, but he swallowed them back, blinking them away.

How did we get here?

The silence that followed was deafening, and he could feel the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on him.

In the end, they didn’t care.

His marriage, his life, none of it mattered.

It was all about the name, the title, the legacy.

Could he fix what he had broken?

Could he?

The weight of his family’s expectations was suffocating, a constant, invisible force that had shaped every decision, every move he made.

They had built a future for him, a legacy he was expected to uphold, to continue.

Their voices, their unyielding demands, had always been in the back of his mind, a chorus of what he should be, who he should become.

But in the quiet of the hospital room, as he frowned at your unmoving body, lifeless and vulnerable, he realized the cost of it all.

The life he had imagined for both of you, the woman he had once loved so deeply, had been crushed under the pressure of his obligations.

The weight of his family’s approval had turned him into someone who could barely recognize himself.

He had traded your warmth, your love, for the cold, suffocating grip of duty.

He had always told himself that the sacrifices he made were for you, that he was doing it for your future, for your happiness.

But now, seeing you in this state, he understood the truth.

He had destroyed everything you once had, all for the approval of people who would never understand what he had lost.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, as he held your hand, praying you would wake up.

Every breath you took felt like a thread he was desperately clinging to, and in that moment, he hated himself.

He hated what he had become.

He had let his family dictate his choices, and in doing so, he had ruined the one thing that ever truly mattered—you.

“I failed you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Sylus sat by your bedside, his hand trembling as it rested lightly on yours.

The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of machines, the bright, harsh lights above—it all felt so foreign, so wrong.

His mind was a mess of thoughts, of guilt, of sorrow.

Sylus buried his face in his hands, the overwhelming weight of his regret threatening to crush him.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you?”

His breath came in short gasps, his chest tight as though the very air had thickened with guilt.

“Please, stop,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “Please, just stop.”

But the memories didn’t listen. They flooded him, relentless, suffocating.

He saw you again, standing in the garden, your hands trembling as you held a single datura flower.

“..stop..”

The plea, broken and fragile, echoed in his ears like a haunting song.

He could hear it over and over again, your voice shaking as he crushed your beloved flowers.

“…please..” you had begged him, and he hadn’t cared.

He wanted to hurt you.

The image twisted in his mind.

He saw you crumpled on the floor, the broken flower petals around you, your heart shattered like the fragile stems you’d nurtured.

“No!” Sylus shouted, slamming his fists into the armrests of the chair.

But the memories surged forward, unstoppable.

He saw your pale face in the dim light of your home, the hurt in your eyes as he had spat those cruel words at you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

He remembered you recoiling, the pain flashing across your face as the reality of his cruelty set in.

But instead of stopping, he had hardened, refusing to let you see the cracks in his own heart.

He clenched his fists, a shudder wracking his body.

“I didn’t see you,” he whispered to himself.

“I didn’t see… what I had. What I was losing.”

His mind flashed to your wedding day, your first slow dance in that abandoned chapel, the way you had glowed with joy.

You had believed in him.

“I will always protect you,”

He had promised you.

But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the weight of that promise.

The memories were suffocating, choking him.

“Stop, please… I can’t take it anymore.”

But they didn’t stop.

They kept coming.

Every word, every action, every moment of cruelty.

He could feel his heart breaking with each one.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked as the memories flooded him, his words slipping into the empty room, as if hoping you could hear him, that you could somehow know he had finally realized the truth.

Then another memory.

“I’ll cherish this datura until I die.”

The voice of the girl he’d once known—the one who had laughed easily and followed him everywhere, her joy as bright as the sun. The girl who had trusted him without question.

“You’re the worst!”

The memory strikes like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Back then, he had only laughed, dismissing your words as playful frustration—a harmless jest from the days when love was simple, unburdened by the weight of what was to come.

It had been routine.

You would pout, he would tease, and the world felt lighter, wrapped in the warmth of childhood’s fleeting innocence.

But now, the memory feels different. Heavier. Bitter.

There is no laughter, no teasing, no safety in the past. The words that once meant nothing now cut deeper than any blade.

Because now, he understood.

He really is the worst.

The worst man to stand beside you.

The worst person to bear the title of the one who was supposed to love and protect you.

And worst of all, he had let it happen.

“Enough.” His voice cracked as he sank deeper into his hands, as it would block them out, the guilt, the shame.

But you cannot turn back time, can you?

He wondered when exactly that promise had been broken—when the boy who vowed to protect you became the man who let you drown in the depths of his cruelty and neglect.

The weight of that memory pressed against his chest, suffocating and relentless.

He had promised to save you, and yet, there you were, drowning in the coldness he had wrapped around you like a shroud.

And he had stood by, he watched, doing nothing.

It wasn’t just the past that haunted him.

It was the knowledge that somewhere along the line, he had stopped being your saviour and had become the very storm pulling you under.

But it was too late now, wasn’t it?

Too late to reach out. Too late to offer his hand.

—•

The dim light from the single lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the studio, and Sylus felt the weight of it all.

The suffocating air of regret and remorse clung to the walls like a heavy fog.

Your paintings, once a reflection of your love and joy had turned into a grotesque reflection to your agony, each brushstroke a cry he had never heard until it was too late.

The thought of how far you had fallen because of his cruelty tore at him.

His gaze fell on the last canvas you’d worked on, the most twisted of them all.

The datura’s petals stretched like fingers.

Your blood, now cold and dried, had splashed all over it.

He could almost hear you cackle in his mind, a hollow, sarcastic laughter, mocking him.

“Do you like it? Is this what you wanted?”

The question lingered in his mind, reverberating with every beat of his heart.

His fingers twitched at his sides, he wanted to destroy the canvases, to rip them down, to erase the painful reminders.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He already tore your flowers apart once.

“..what..what did you..”

He ran his hand over his face in despair.

“…what did you see in me…?”

His voice cracked beneath it all, as he stared at the countless datura piled in the studio, the cacophony of red laughing at him, mocking him.

His gaze then fell on something different, something that stood out starkly against the sea of dark red.

A sliver of light caught his attention, something vibrant, full of life.

The colours of warm oranges, soft purples, and golden yellows seemed to glow in the dimly lit room.

The contrast was so jarring that it felt as if the painting was screaming at him, begging him to see it.

When he finally pulled it free, his breath caught in his throat.

Two figures, so young, so full of hope.

The field bathed in the golden light of a sunset, the two of you standing side by side, hands intertwined, holding daturas in your hands as you smiled at each other.

The painting was a reflection of everything he had lost—before the cruelty, before the distance, before the world he had shattered.

The sharp contrast of the vibrant colors against the oppressive, angry reds of the daturas surrounding it was almost painful.

The innocence, the love, the peace of that moment—it was all gone now.

His breath hitched as the tears began to rise, each one like a wave crashing against his chest.

“I… I remember this,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“I remember us. I remember you.”

You had stood before him, radiant, as though you had stepped out of a fairy tale.

The way the sunlight caught in your hair, turning it into a halo of gold, it made you seem almost otherworldly.

Your eyes had met his, blinking slowly, as if they were the galaxy themselves, deep and endless, drawing him in.

It was as though he was gazing into the very heart of the universe, lost in the infinite expanse of your gaze.

Your scent, soft and sweet, had been like honeysuckle, delicate and intoxicating, the kind that made him forget everything but you.

He could still remember how your presence had made the air feel lighter, brighter, as if nothing could ever go wrong when you were near.

Your laughter.

Your smile.

You.

That was before everything had begun to unravel.

That was before the cruelty, before the silence, before he had destroyed the one thing that had ever made him feel whole.

Now, the memories of that day were a painful reminder of the cold, broken silence that had replaced your presence.

The pain of losing you, of realizing how deeply he had hurt you, had settled into his bones like a permanent ache.

And all he could do was remember that look in your eyes, the way you had smiled at him like he was the center of your world.

He had believed it too, back then.

But now, he was left with nothing but the haunting emptiness of what he had destroyed with his own bare hands.

The tears fell faster now, unstoppable, as he sank to his knees.

He clutched the painting to his chest, the only remaining piece of you he could still hold onto.

“I was supposed to protect you,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

The words were barely audible, but they clawed at his throat, sharp and suffocating.

“I promised you the world. And I…” He faltered, his breath hitching as his chest tightened with the unbearable ache.

“I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything.”

Every word, every moment of regret, felt like a blade twisting deeper inside him.

The daturas around him were tall, suffocating, like a field of poison that seemed to encircle him, their dark beauty a constant reminder of how he had poisoned your love.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his remorse.

His entire body trembled with the grief that overwhelmed him.

“I’m sorry for every word, every moment I hurt you. For every time I… I pushed you away.”

He could hear nothing but the deafening silence of regret, the oppressive weight of the daturas closing in on him, each one a grim reminder that the love he had once had was now buried under a sea of thorns and poison.

And as he sat there, clutching the painting tighter to his chest, he realised it.

Nothing could bring you back.

Not the apologies, not the tears.

All he was left with was the haunting reminder of his failure, surrounded by the overwhelming, mocking presence of the daturas.

He had created this hell, and now he was trapped in it.

He wept.

The sobs racked his body, raw and uncontrollable, each one like a jagged shard of agony lodged deep within him.

His chest heaved with the weight of it, the pain too great to contain, too great to silence.

Tears poured from his eyes like rivers, hot and relentless, each drop an excruciating reminder of the destruction he had wrought.

It wasn’t just you he had lost.

He wept for the shattered man he had become, for the love that had once bloomed between you, now choked under the crushing weight of his mistakes.

The tears were an outpouring of everything he had denied—guilt, regret, longing, and a deep, gnawing sorrow for what was irreparably broken.

This was the last thing he had of you, the only remnant of the woman you had been before the darkness had consumed you both.

If only he could reach back into those moments, pull you back to him, make things right.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped through his tears, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unspoken apologies.

“I’m so sorry… for everything… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you. Please…”

The room felt colder, darker, as if the very air had thickened with his regret.

The bright contrast of the painting only amplified the emptiness around him, so full of life once, now nothing but a hollow echo of what had been.

The memory of you, once so vibrant, now faded, buried beneath the weight of his sins.

The memories were cruel.

The day of your first dance came rushing back—the soft echoes of your footsteps in that abandoned chapel.

He remembered the warmth of your hands in his, the joy on your face when he’d finally gotten the steps right.

“You’re terrible at this, Sy,” you giggled back then, your eyes sparkling.

“I’ll get better,” he’d promised, holding you close. “As long as you don’t let me go.”

But now, he chuckled bitterly to himself, tears running down his face.

“But I let you go, didn’t I?” His voice cracked.

“God, I let everything go.”

—•

Sylus woke to the sharp sting of daylight piercing through the room, and for a long moment, he didn’t move.

His body ached with exhaustion, weighed down by the weight of his emotions and the remnants of his guilt that clung to him like an unbearable fog.

The floor was cold beneath him, and as his blurry eyes focused, he realized that he was still on his knees, the stillness of the room almost suffocating.

His hand instinctively went to his face, feeling the roughness of dried tears, the lingering evidence of the storm that had raged within him the night before.

His chest tightened, his breath shallow.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this hollow.

The guilt was a constant ache in his chest, an ever-present reminder of how he had broken the one person who had meant more to him than anything.

You.

It was painful, the weight of his failures pressing down on him.

His heart clenched at the thought of you.

The woman he loved, the woman he had torn apart with his pride, his cruelty, his selfishness.

The thought of living the rest of his life knowing he had destroyed the woman he loved, knowing he had caused you so much pain.

It was unbearable.

“What now?” he asked himself, the question hanging in the air like a cruel, unanswered prayer.

He thought of you, still lifeless in that sterile hospital room.

The silence around him was deafening, a constant reminder of the space you no longer filled.

He was waiting for something, some sign, some miracle that would pull you from the void you had fallen into.

He could still see you in his mind’s eye.

Your face, pale and tranquil, the softness that had always been there now lost behind a veil of uncertainty.

When would you wake up?

Would you even want to look at him?

These questions rattled in his mind, each one more suffocating than the last.

“Please,” he thought, almost as a silent prayer, though he couldn’t find the words.

He couldn’t escape the gnawing fear.

That you might never return.

—•

He sat in his study, the cold glass of whiskey heavy in his hand, the amber liquid swirling lazily within.

The burn of the alcohol down his throat was a familiar, fleeting solace—a cruel balm to the wounds that festered in his chest.

His thoughts were scattered, his mind a blur of regret and self-doubt, but the sharp sting of the drink helped him forget, if only momentarily.

Time stretched on in the dimly lit room, the silence thick and oppressive, when a voice—soft, haunting—slipped into his consciousness.

“You promised.”

At first, it was just a faint whisper, a sound barely louder than a breath, but it made his hand falter.

He froze, the glass poised before his lips, his entire body stiffening.

The voice came again, this time clearer, more real.

“You promised me.”

His heart stuttered, the glass slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor with a shattering thud, but his mind was focused entirely on the voice—your voice.

He could hear you.

He could your presence like a faint caress, reminding him of the promises he had made long ago.

The world around him seemed to tilt, his vision blurring as he closed his eyes, fighting to hold on to the fragile reality he knew was slipping away.

“No…” he whispered to himself, a desperate denial, but the voice only grew stronger.

“You said you would protect me. You said you would never leave me…”

The words cut deep, their weight sinking into him like an anchor.

He staggered back, his breath ragged, as if he had been struck. The guilt surged again—unrelenting, suffocating.

The cruel truth of it, too much to bear.

His trembling hands reached for the desk, gripping the edge as he bent forward, staring down at the empty space before him.

“I promised… I promised and I—”

The words died in his throat, a raw ache strangling his every attempt at expression.

For a moment, everything seemed to still.

The fog of regret, the numbness from the alcohol, it all began to fade away, leaving only the undeniable clarity of his failure.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but it was enough.

The voice in his mind grew faint, but still, he could feel it, still lingering in the shadows, soft and fragile, like a thread connecting you across the space he had destroyed.

He wanted to deny it.

Wanted to escape it.

But the past was a ghost he could never outrun.

His thoughts strayed to you, to your laughter, to the way your eyes glistened under the sunlight.

He could still picture it so clearly.

The two of you, young and hopeful, in the meadow, surrounded by flowers you loved so much..

You had been alive then. Together.

Now, all he had was emptiness, and the broken pieces of the person he had become.

The ghost of his regret came again, softly.

“You can’t undo the past.”

But Sylus shook his head, trying to shake the noise out.

“No, but I can start over.”

“You can’t.”

“I will be better,” a tear ran down his face.

“You destroyed them.”

“N-No..!” His voice cracked.

“You killed her.”

“I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us.” He was desperate.

“She’s never coming back.”

“…no…”

#lads drabble #lads x reader #lads sylus #sylus x non mc reader #sylus angst #sylus x you #sylus qin #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus #sylus oneshot #lads #lnds #l&ds #love and deepspace x reader #angst

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sleepdeprivedfrfr · 9 hours ago

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your husband nanami never really had much to look forward to in his life rather than making enough money to retire and relax, until you came along. he has never failed to make you happy. you were his number one priority. the reason he worked such excruciating hours. all of pain and suffering that went into the money he made meant nothing if he couldn't spend every single penny towards your happiness. I mean the saying is 'happy wife happy life,' right?

except you've noticed how drained of life your husband was chasing money all the time, he would constantly come home exhausted from working over time. you would often find yourself massaging his tense shoulders while he's drifting off in your lap, still dressed in his work clothes. you began baking pastries and other sweets for him while at home because you felt bad for all the work he had been putting himself through,

"sweetheart, these are delicious, where did you learn how to bake like this?" his usual tired and monotone voice was gone, it was replaced with the slightest amount of shock and delight.

"ken I appreciate you being sweet, but it was my first time making it so its okay to tell me if its bad." you smiled up at him.

"my love what makes you think im just being sweet? this is amazing."

from there on out he would nanami would always compliment your baking exceedingly, getting on his knees in front of you right as he walked through the door and the smell of freshly baked buttery sweet bread hit him.

it still hurt your heart to see him so exhausted all the time. so you had the idea to take on a job at a bakery, your interview went well and the manager loved the sample pastry that you made, he gave you the job and the pay wasn't too bad. you were so excited to tell your husband about your new job when he came home because it meant that he wouldn't have to put so much strain on himself anymore and he could relax.

little did you know that it would lead to a small argument, where kento was being the stubborn one, for once.

"love I just don't understand, am I not doing enough?" he placed a hand on your hip and one on your cheek, his eye brows pushed together in confusion.

"ken you don't get it. youre doing TOO much." you grabbed his hand from your face and held it in yours. "you need a break. plus it would be good for me to get out of the house, I can't stand being at home and doing nothing knowing that you can barely get a full night of rest."

"that's not something you need to worry about-"

"ken."

"hm?"

"youre being stubborn. just let me try for a little while, and you can see what its like to have a break hm? if you REALLY don't like it, then ill quit okay?"

"do you really think that you need to take on a job dear? I-"

"kento."

"okay. but if you really don't like it then just tell-" you cut him off with a sweet kiss to his lips. you knew how much your husband hated working, but you also knew he was too stubborn to ask for help.

months had passed and its safe to say that your deal worked out as you and your husband were walking back from the beach during your week long vacation in Malaysia in celebration of your anniversary.

"ken look how pretty that orchid is!" you pointed high up into a tree at a beautiful fully bloomed white orchid that had hints of yellow and pink in the middle.

"hm." was all he replied with a small smile. I reached up and easily picked the flower due to his tall frame, he placed the flower behind your ear and admired it.

"looks even prettier now." he said as he gently cupped your face and pulled you in slowly for a kiss.

now every year on your anniversary without fail, your husband buys you the same exact white orchids with a hint of yellow and pink in the middle imported from Malaysia just to see your face light up all over again.

guess the saying was true.

a/n: this is not proofread and im aware this is ass but does it look igaf...

#can you tell I yearn for a healthy relationship hahaha #nanami #nanami kento #domestic nanami #jujustu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu nanami #nanami fluff #kento fluff #jjk kento #kento nanami #nanami x reader #kento x reader #nanami x you #nanami drabbles #nanami smut #this is so sweet youre gonna get diabetes

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ranneondeeznuts · 2 days ago

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Imagine a Yandere! Idol who sings every song based on you.

𖹭 You met Ivys when you two were 8. It was the cliché childhood bff trope.

𖹭You guys were stuck to the hip since his mom was your mom's boss and they were actually pretty good friends. You two hung out a lot. Well, often because you were forced to as Ivys was quite clingy, and when meeting up, he'll kind of force you by his side. You were used to it anyway.

𖹭Growing up, Ivys was like, your only friend, Well, true friend, actually. He was a handsome young fella and you were just… Well. You. He was popular and talented. And you were just a little fly around him (Well, according to your classmates)

𖹭Whenever Ivys was absent, the others will put down their masks and start insulting you, claiming that Ivys would just throw you away when he'll get bored of you.

𖹭It got so bad, that you started getting uncomfortable around him, trying to push away the haunting words of those stupid bullies.

𖹭But, no matter what you did, he won't budge. He's in every corner, no matter where you go and it's sort of creepy. But, you think he's just being nice, right? I mean, if he avoided you, you'd probably still try to catch up to him, right?

𖹭Thankfully, when you're with him, no one will disturb you, He liked everything that you like and you didn't really hide anything from him. You gave him your interests, and one of them was to be an idol (Just pretend guys)

𖹭You were saddened when during fourth year high school, he left because his family had a new country to continue his business. But, it was how life went. So, you needed to move on.

𖹭You expected the bullying to continue, but it stopped. Even after he moved out.

𖹭Ivys loves you. He always did. Even after he moved away (He punched the glass of his mirror and wall when he found out he was moving away)

𖹭He was considered the perfect boy. Handsome, talented, and smart. But, of course, not everyone is perfect.

𖹭He always knew about the bullying. He always knew about your insecurities. He always knew your interests. And those were idols.

𖹭He silently thanks the bullies because he could comfort you and wrap you to his side tightly. Sure, you were being quite stubborn because you feared the bullies, but don't worry, sweety. He'll chase them out. (He doesn't need to cuz a single glare will let them run away)

𖹭He knows your likes, dislikes, hobbies, and every little thing you do! Like, chewing on your pen to focus, squeezing your pillows to make them more comfy, and swaying around when you get bored. Oh, so so cute!

𖹭And he knows your current fixation on idols. Its so cute when you chatter about them, saying how they're so handsome, have pretty voices, and nice dance moves (Hm? No, he's definitely not planning for their demise)

𖹭So, when he moved away, he immediately sought your attention. Even if you aren't together. So, he's following his dream. Technically, no, but it's what you want! To be an idol.

𖹭Imagine a few years later, you're staying at your cheap apartment, eating some lame-ass ramen noodles. It was your average Saturday until the show you were watching had an ad. You sighed and tried to click the skip button. But your hand froze when it flashed a familiar name.

"Ivys Yveonne!"

𖹭You almost choked into your noodles. "What the fuck." she stared at the screen. He looked handsome as always. But way more handsome now. Then, it showed his concert address and ticket cost. It was happening in your town! And the ticket was only 300 dollars!

𖹭You wanted to see him again. Not in an obsessive way, but in an "I miss you" kind of way. It's been 8 years now and this was a good opportunity.

𖹭Little did you know that he planned all of this.

𖹭Ivys was shaking in excitement. He planned all of this. He easily got into the agency, got famous, and ordered some agents to track where you were. He literally didn't have to wait because, after a week, you were located.

𖹭He immediately scheduled a concert in a week (By blackmailing his managers) and already made the list of all the songs he was gonna sing. (Love songs)

𖹭Nah, it isn't particularly love songs. You know those Japanese songs that sound innocent and have a catchy beat but in reality, it's about suicide and cannibalism? Yeah. But in his case, its about him wanting to sleep with you, keep you in his basement, marrying you (Forcefully)

𖹭Imagine his excitement when he sees you in the crowd. His non-existent is basically wagging in a hundred miles an hour. And when you ask his managers if he did good, they will all say the same thing. He sang like it was the end of the world.

𖹭You had a free VIP seat (Somehow), and you were amazed. He was majestic even. The lights shining his white hair and his yellow eyes looked like golden jewels. His movements were swift yet smooth, like a river.

𖹭You were cheering your heart out, supporting your friend, but you were afraid he already forgot about you. Well, he probably already did. You were just your average overworked business girl, stuck in an office with paper work.

𖹭He was looking at you. He noticed you the moment you entered. Of course, he had to keep his eyes to the crowd, knowing he'll get a scolding if he doesn't.

𖹭When the concert was over, you wanted to go up to him and hug him, but of course, you can't, too afraid to get rejected and let the body guards get you.

𖹭But, when you were just about to go to the exit, you were blocked by large bodyguards, "Please come with us," they said. Without waiting for your answer, they immediately took a hold of you and dragged you to the back stage, despite your protests.

𖹭You were scared for your life. Were you about to die?! Did you do something?! But, you were seated on a chair, as the bodyguards went back to guarding the entrances.

𖹭You looked around, frightened. Just as you were about to ask and probably scream, a pair of familiar yellow eyes was in your sight, the same white fluffy hair that you have missed so dearly.

"Hello, love." 𖹭

#missrannewrites!#male yandere x reader #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere drabble #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere male #yandere idol #yandere thoughts #male yandere #obsessive yandere #obsessive love #obsessive thoughts

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halsteadlover · 20 hours ago

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𝐀𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲

*Pics not time credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader.

• Requested by anon: Reader x Charles Leclerc where he’s gets a remote control vibrator during his press conference and he’s trying not to to come or moan and he’s hiding it and when he’s done reader teases him and finally makes him cum really hard.

• Warnings: smut, oral sex (m. receiving), explicit language, dirty talk, use of sex toy.

• Word count: 2K.

• A/N: PLEASE READ THIS ONLY IF YOU’RE 18+. I hope you like this one, please let me know what you think and comment, like and reblog ❤️ Thank you so much for your support xx

Charles knew from the moment he saw the mischievous smile plastered on your lips that something was wrong. He definitely didn’t believe that your sweet and innocent smile would lead to nothing but trouble.

At first, it had been the usual, your playful teasing while he got ready, brushing up against him, bending over while casually wearing very revealing shorts, whispering things you knew would drive him insane.

It didn’t take much to drive Charles crazy though, he had no self-control whatsoever when it came to you, even the mere flutter of your eyelashes was enough to have him at your mercy.

“What are you trying to do cherie?” He had murmured in your ear as he grabbed you from behind, wrapping his arms around your hips and pressing his body against yours.

You moaned as you felt his erection pressed against your ass and he hissed as you—not innocently at all—rubbed yourself against him.

“What’s the matter, baby, are you needy this morning? Is my princess horny?” He whispered, grinning against your skin as he began to kiss your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

“Mmmh yeah, I want you so much,” you replied, in that sultry voice that drove Charles crazy as he cupped his hands on your breast, making you sigh in pleasure. “But I wanted to give you something before you go.”

He was intrigued but reluctantly let you go. He watched you take a small black velvet box from the closet, and he didn’t miss the spark of mischief in your eyes.

“Wear these for me, baby.”

He knew it.

He should’ve known better. Should’ve known you were up to no good. But Charles Leclerc? He always loved a challenge, especially when it came from you, because he knew how it would end.

But now, sitting under the harsh fluorescent lights of the media room, he regretted indulging you, with every fiber of his being.

The vibrating boxers were a menace. An absolute menace.

He shifted in his seat, trying to keep his face neutral while the journalist droned on about tire degradation and race strategies. But he wasn’t listening to a single word, his attention was totally focused on that low, persistent buzz pressed right against his dick, just enough to make his skin prickle, his pulse race.

Charles cleared his throat away from the microphone, fingers twitching where they rested on the table. He threw a glance toward the back of the room and, of course, there you were. Leaning against the wall, looking like an evil but gorgeous goddess.

God, you were breathtaking, and Charles was so horny and frustrated he didn’t know if he wanted to fuck you first or punish you for the torture you were subjecting him to.

You weren’t even paying attention to the questions. No, your eyes were fixed on him, eating him completely. And when you lifted your phone—just slightly—his stomach twisted.

You wouldn’t.

The smirk on your lips said otherwise.

A sudden jolt of vibration surged through him, again, and Charles sucked in a sharp breath, barely disguising it as a cough.

Max, seated beside him, raised an eyebrow. “You good, mate?”

Charles forced a tight smile as he felt his face grew hotter. “Oui. Yes. Uhm… Just—eh, I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine.

Not when you kept pushing the intensity higher, till the point he was afraid of busting a nut there in front of the whole world.

His thighs tensed under the table, and he pressed his heels into the floor, desperate to keep himself composed. His mind spun, not with racing lines or lap times, but with thoughts of your hands, your mouth, and the wicked gleam in your eye when you knew you had him right where you wanted him.

And right now? You definitely had him.

Another wave of pleasure rolled through him, a teasing pulse that had him gripping the mic a little too tightly. The moderator called his name, and it took everything in him to process the question.

“Uh… yes. The car… feels good. A strong package this weekend.”

Of all the words he could’ve chosen.

He glanced at you and saw how you bit your lip to stifle a laugh, and his jaw clenched as he narrowed his eyes at you.

By the time the press conference ended—and it felt like an eternity—he was on his feet in seconds, slipping past the other drivers and heading straight to you, internally praying no one would notice the huge hard on in his pants.

The moment you were alone in the hotel room again, he backed you against the wall, his voice low and rough in your ear as his hands groped your ass. “You think you’re so funny, huh?”

You giggled softly, fingers grazing the waistband of his jeans as your nose brushed his, without kissing him. “Actually, yes. But don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it baby, I know you loved it.”

You weren’t wrong. As much as you drove him crazy, he craved every second of it. But in that precise moment he craved you, he wanted you, every inch of you.

“Turn it off.”

“Hmm.” Your nails traced his hipbone, featherlight and taunting, making his skin shiver. “Make me.”

Without another word, he grabbed your throat and slammed his lips on yours, in a deep and pornographic kiss, so messy and passionate it made you literally moan into his mouth. His other hand was in your hair, having you completely at his mercy as he took the soul out of your body.

You returned his voracity, his desire with equal passion, making him almost lose the ground under his feet. His patience, already hanging by a thread, snapped the moment your hands started to wander again, this time caressing his hard dick over his pants.

“On your knees, chérie,” he ordered, voice thick with frustration and desire. “You made this mess. You fix it.”

Your smile was nothing short of victorious as you sank down in front of him, your eyes always fixed on his.

He looked at you with such an adoring expression, almost like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have such a beautiful creature on her knees for him.

It took every ounce of his strength not to come right there and now when your fingers started fumbling with his belt and the buttons of his jeans. The mere image of your face next to his dick was too much, especially when all he had done was imagine the feeling of your warm mouth around him all day.

When his fingers tangled in your hair, Charles thought you were worth all the trouble in the world. He let out a shaky breath, his entire body thrumming with anticipation. He was already so wounded up, so desperate for relief, that the slightest brush of your fingers against him sent a fresh wave of frustration coursing through him.

“Fais quelque chose, chérie…” His voice was rough, strained, filled with barely contained hunger. God, he wanted you so badly, so desperately he felt like he was dying.

You hummed in amusement, dragging your nails along his lower abdomen before finally tugging down his jeans and boxers in one slow, torturous motion. His dick sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip flushed and leaking from the relentless teasing you had subjected him to all day. The sight alone made your mouth water.

“Look at you,” you murmured, wrapping your fingers around him, relishing the way his breath hit the contact. “So worked up for me. Was the press conference hard for you, baby?”

Charles let out a low, almost pained groan. “I’m hating you so much now.”

Your laugh was pure mischief as you leaned forward, trailing your tongue along the underside of his length, slow and teasing, not giving him nearly enough. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, but you pulled back just in time, keeping control and making him curse under his breath.

He lets out another frustrated groan, his hand clenching around your hair. “Arrête tes conneries.”

But you only smiled up at him, your lips brushing over his sensitive tip. Your tongue drew imaginary circles around his tip, tasting and licking away him precum. You whispered, “Make me.”

That was all it took for Charles to snap.

His grip in your hair tightened, and with a deep, guttural moan, he guided you forward, urging you to fully take him into your mouth. The second your warm, wet heat enveloped him, his head slammed back against the wall with a curse.

“Merde… oh, putain, bébé…” His thighs trembled, and his fingers flexed against your scalp as he fought not to thrust too hard, too fast. He wanted to savor it, to punish you by making this last, but you were already setting a devastating pace, your tongue swirling, your lips tightening around him in a way that made him see stars.

Charles had always prided himself on his control. On the track, in his career, even in moments like this, he knew how to hold back, how to prolong the pleasure.

But you? You stripped him of that control effortlessly.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his accent thick, voice rasping as his hips started to move, matching the rhythm of your mouth. “You take me so well, chérie. So perfect…”

You moaned around him in response, and the vibrations sent a shudder through his entire body. His abs tensed, his grip turned bruising, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer, not when your hands kept massaging his balls like he loved it.

Your eyes were fixed on his, on his face twisted with pleasure and the pure sight was an aphrodisiac. You loved seeing him like this, you loved having control over him, you loved driving him so crazy that he didn’t even know how to act anymore.

He threw his head back, the column of his throat so sexy you wanted to lick every inch of it, his jaw defined and clenched, his chest rising and falling rapidly. God, he was breathtaking.

“Baby,” he warned, his breath ragged as he looked at you again. His free hand rested on your cheek, his thumb drawing imaginary circles on your skin, smearing the mascara running down your face even more, a gesture so sweet and in total contrast to the filthy things you were doing. “Yes, fuck, oh yes… Don’t stop. I’m going to come in your mouth and you’re going to swallow every single drop.”

But you had no intention of stopping. If anything, you doubled down, hollowing your cheeks, sucking harder, letting your fingers stroke what your mouth couldn’t take.

And that was it, he was completely done for.

A deep, wrecked groan tore from Charles’ throat as his entire body tensed, pleasure crashing over him like a tidal wave. He spilled into your mouth with a shuddering gasp, his muscles trembling as you took every last drop, not stopping until he was completely undone.

It took him a moment to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling as the aftershocks of his release still pulsed through him. Slowly, he looked down at you, and the sight nearly undid him all over again—your lips swollen, your eyes dark with satisfaction, your mascara smeared, your tongue darling out to collect the last traces of him.

Charles exhaled sharply, a breathless chuckle escaping him as he pulled you up to your feet. “You... Mon Dieu. You’re going to be the death of me.”

You grinned, draping your arms around his shoulders. “But you love it.”

His hands settled on your waist, tugging you flush against him, and despite the exhaustion still tingling in his limbs, he smirked.

“Oh, chérie, you have no idea how much,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with a promise before crashing his lips on yours. “And I’m going to love it so much more now that it’s your turn.”

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