#but if it helps even one person then it will be worth it!

[darkwingphoenix]

My world Damaria's list of this:

First off, rundown: Damaria is roughly 2.5 times bigger than Earth but bearing a gravity only .80 G (Compared to Earth)

Most of the currency is based off of kataka, the equivalent of a really big watermelon that tastes like a mix of bananas, strawberries, kiwi, vanilla and chocolate.

They're relatively pricey (Due to size and the fact a fruit takes 3 years to become ripe). They're less perishable than most fruits, taking 7 weeks for an uncut kataka fruit to rot, but 4 weeks to become too spoiled to be currency. Most modern people use Toka, which is essentially digital kataka.

One kataka is worth about 100 USD, and Toka, based off of a smaller denomination, are worth roughly 3-5 USD depending on the current economic status. The Toka isn't as strictly based off of the kataka anymore, but still has the kataka's look on Toka bills/coins (And most stores will accept kataka fruit someone drags in, mostly just to let the person not have to lug around the 100 pound monsters looking for someone to accept it as tender)

Gold, meanwhile, isn't as valuable as tin, it's still worth more, but not that expensive (It's reasonably easy to find in most regions). It's maybe as expensive as silver

Damaria's days are about 48 Earth Hours, but the clocks use 36 hours, and are 80 minutes long. These minutes are identical to Earth minutes at 60 seconds and split into 4 quadrants of 10 minutes (The hours don't fit perfectly, being set 9 minutes apart, but it works well enough no one minds)

Damaria has mostly the same seasons as Earth, but does have a brief couples weeks were, on most of the planet, it rains fire. This results in massive wildfires in many areas, forcing fauna and flora to become at least able to flee fires, or resist them. Megafauna are forced to become fire resistant, as most can't flee the biggest fires. Luckily, after the fire rains the planet casually rains super cold freezing rain in torrents for a few weeks too.

See above for the firestorms followed by freezing rain torrents

Damaria has 4 moons visible to the surface by humans, and 9 with kolari vision, and about 20 moons total. Mind you, 16 of these are ex-asteroids the size of Deimos and Phobos in stable orbits, only the 4 largest are spherical: Meliva (The biggest, slightly outsizing Earth (We're talking it's 0.01% wider in diameter at the equator) and actually holding life of its own, and even has its own magnetic field and an Earthlike atmosphere), Korai (Lava moon the size of Mars responsible for helping Damaria's otherwise kinda weaksauce magnetic field in the same way Io boots Jupiter's magnetic field: Volcanic activity leading to a lotta charge particles shot out into Damaria's magnetic field, and also boosts Meliva's slightly), Mash'Nagal (Barren moon, about the size of our own with the reflective fun of Iapetus), and Enya (Small water moon 30% bigger than Mars and 65% the size of Earth), also lifebearing). The other moons are, in size order, Laari, Maari, Gaari, Jaari, Zaari, Kaari, Paari, Naari, Haari, Waari, Taari, Baari, Vaari, Xaari, Raari, and Han.

Laari is about 100 KM wide, and Han is barely 8 KM wide. Laari, Maari, Gaari, Jaari and Zaari are all visible to kolari, but nigh invisible from the surface to humans (They'd only be visible by their transits in front of the other moons, especially Korai, which glow bright enough to see in broad daylight if it's not in front of but that'd mean Naari, Vaari, Han, Paari, and Xaari, all either more distant than the farthest big moon, Mash'Nagal, or too small to leave a significant shadow, wouldn't be discovered until we could find them with telescopes).

Damaria has some big rings, extending all the way to Pyrai in a pretty thick band. It's not as big as Saturn's, but they're still big in comparison to Neptune's or Uranus'. They're the remnants of two planets, each the size of Earth, which smashed into Damaria 4.5 and 4 billion years ago. These formed the Big Four (Meliva, Enya, Pyrai and Mash'Nagal), as well as many smaller moons who didn't experience much stability until they finally broke apart in the Big Four and Damaria's gravities, giving an insane night sky to the primitive weird water bugs and strange fish on Damaria, Meliva and Enya 400 million years ago...

...While also triggering the three bodies' first mass extinctions from the rocks flying onto them. This also triggered Pyrai's magnetism more and strengthened the system's overall magnetic field. These rings, along with the reflective properties of the Big Four (And Pyrai's natural glowing), make nights on Damaria very rarely super dark (Though they can get dim, especially when Meliva and Enya are in their new phases and Mash'Nagal has turned to its dark side, these nights are still reasonably bright, the same as a brilliant full moon)

Magical properties are really strong on Damaria, resulting in Pyrai's magnetic particles making auroras on the equator. They can extend all the way to the mid temperate zone on the regular, making the sky of a city near the 35th to 45 parallels INSANELY beautiful (The rings are at their apparent fullest at the 40th parallel, and aurorae regularly reach this far). Many thrones of power have been placed around these parallels

Most roads on Damaria are a brilliant lapis lazuli blue due to sodalite being really fracking common in rocks. Many also have lapis lazuli, sapphire, and other blue rocks.

Lots of jewelry is made from a very common small predator's teeth. The Makan-Ha is a dog-sized mesopredator more like a mix of a crocodile, snake, ankylosaur, stegosaurs, ceratopsians and pachycephalosaurs with great white shark like teeth, which was tamed millennia ago like a dog. Its teeth never stop falling out like a shark, and their owners often use them for jewelry, and many places accept the teeth like coins (Making up another part of the currency). The teeth are often used in jewelry as well, similarly to sharks' teeth, and also in weapons

In the minority of kolari cultures who practice marriage as humans would call it, Kashe'Han, Leiomano/Polynesian shark tooth swords are the primary wedding band equivalent, with almost all of the kolari societies who do human marriage using Kashe'Han. Kashe'Han use Makan-Ha teeth, and come in 7 foot and 3.5 foot versions. Most marriage kolari cultures use one or the other for length, with most using the easier to carry 3.5 footer, but ones in the Tenrare Mountains, an area known for being fraught with non-kolari trying to take the kolari over and try to kill them all, 7 foot blades are more common.

These blades are traded between couples, who take the time to separately buy they own Kashe'Han, and vendors who sell Kashe'Han will actively minimize chance encounters between couples by segregating their stores with wooden walls between the two subshops and make them men and women only. These stores will have the main crafting area near or along the dividing wall. These allow for brides-to-be, with their female family and future female in-laws, to shop separate from their grooms-to-be, who shop with their male family and future in-laws.

Almost all kolari cultures are matrilineal, with males almost always taking their wife's surname. This is a bit more complex, however: All kolari have surnames consisting of their family name (What their father takes in marriage), a slightly modified version of their mother's name, the mother name (Its official term) being gender-specific, and their father's name's first syllable, put between their family name and mother name.

For example, a female kolari named Saphyra Kaiphran with a husband named Kosmorr would have a daughter with the surname of Kaiphran kos Saphyrii, while her brother would have the surname Kaiphran kos Saphyro. This is found in almost 100% of the ones that are matrilineal, with the patrilineal cultures doing it too. Male kolari keep their mother name but take their wife's family name, and replacing his father name with his own name. So, Kosmorr may end his name with Kaiphran kos Tanmiro (His mother's name being Tanmira). If his sister Talana married Saphyra's sister (Pretty much normalized in kolari society, but uncommon due to the rarity of homosexuals overall, even if they're totally accepted), her surname would be Kaiphran tal Tanmirii.

In most kolari cultures, however, marriage is consider a selfish act, keeping each other from others. These more dominant cultures (In number) have men leave their house and enter new, unrelated ones. These males are not beholden to stay, and many young males don't staying for at most a month before moving one, many not staying a single night. They do have duties while in the house, however: They must help out a little if they are staying for more than one night, and they should also preferably mate with at least one female a week.

This is easy for young, horny males to achieve, most going way over their one female a week quota. As males age, however, they begin to seek stability over new prospects, and start to stay in a house for longer, with most at the ages of 28-32 eventually picking a house and staying permanently.

In these cultures, kolari only have their house name and mother name (So Saphyra's kids would be Kaphran Saphyrii or Kaiphran Saphyro), and males will take a house name if they intend on staying permanently, so Kosmorr would be Kosmorr Kaiphran Tanmiro.

Virginity and bastardry are unusual for the vast majority of kolari cultures. Those that use the males-entering-a-house family structure don't even consider children to have a father, as they wouldn't have known who was the dad with any sense of reliability. These cultures, therefore, treat all adult males who have lived there for a year or more as the father, even if the male hasn't had sex in that long (The quota is only for more transient males), and as such those males need to help look after all of the kids.

In more monogamous (Or less house-based) cultures, virginity isn't really considered a holy or even religious matter: For them, virginity is just a religious term to say someone is unmarried (Like in Ancient Greece IIRC). Bastardry is also way less of an issue as the father isn't as important than the mother. Therefore, with the mother being insanely easy to identify reliably without DNA testing, most marriage-using cultures have no concept of a bastard, and barely one for adultery. While adultery is a sin, it's not the issue humans make it to be, as kolari won't need to know the father as much for legal issues, as inheritance normally goes along the mother's line.

Most kolari cultures recognize 5 genders: Bio male, bio female, transmasc, transfem, and nonbinary. Some recognize more, but most recognize those 5. The bio genders are the majority, and are the norm. Transmascs and transfems are a minority but perfectly normal. They're traditionally expected to act like their true gender, but kolari cultures and societies were very quick to end this stigma after a certain point (Culturally, most were around the Victorian era when this switch occurred).

Transgender kolari are more noticeable since kolari have way more obvious dimorphism: Male kolari are facultative bipeds (Meaning they mostly walk on all fours but can rear up to use their hands for whatever) while females are 100% bipedal, and these changes start early in childhood. Gender dysphoria is way easier to spot in a child who's refusing to walk on all fours and tries to walk on two legs as long as she can, and for a boy who is constantly trying to walk on all fours efficiently yet can't.

Luckily, these changes, while irreversible after the age of 10 without magical transmutation (Which is full of risks and side effects), are at least semi-treatable with herbs, as two common herbs, which have the same quirk as dandelions in that they'll grow literally anywhere that is at least semi-horizontal, stationary, and on the ground. These two plants also grow easily in gardens, where they need to be controlled from stealing every other plant's soil.

These two herbs have chemicals in them that normally are used to deter insects, but almost perfectly match kolari estrogen and testosterone, to the point they can be used as a sort of HRT. Most modern trans kolari don't need actual HRT drugs (Stronger than chugging trans tea, as those two herbs' teas have been named by humans) or the trans tea, but many still take some. Most severe gender dysphoria does require transmutation to fix, however.

Nonbinary kolari are an essentially spiritual class. Most children who show signs of being non-binary are given to priests at a local temple to be evaluated for the clergy, and if they are accepted, they are officially adopted by the temple (But can still visit their bio family) and take on new pronouns that aren't equivalent to they/them. They begin training as priests at 6 years old, assisting other priests in their duties. They graduate into the official priesthood at age 16, and must dedicate their lives to religious worship. In more secular societies, kolari enbies are less restricted, but all are still considered part of the clergy, and devoted kolari will house them for free.

Traditionally, kolari enbies are not allowed to marry nor have children, but in more recent eras, lower-level clergy may

The young enbies are also given twice daily trans tea, which is infused with both herbs, which actually stunts their development and makes them an almost perfect mixture of male and female bodies, although the birth gender still shines through stronger, essentially making two nonbinary genders: AMAB enbies and AFAB enbies.

Kolari societies are heavily split between 6 pretty much accepting religions: Pyraism, a ditheistic religion between Pyrai and Meliva, lesbian goddesses of the sun and the moon Meliva respectfully; Korainism, followers of the goddess of the moon Korai and storms; Enyanism, following Enya, the goddess of the moon Enya and nature; Damarianism, the worship of Damaria, the goddess of the planet and basically Earth-Chan but MILF; Almaranism, worship of Almar the Bone Drakon, god of death, pestilence, disease, and the ocean; and the Cult of Mash'Nagal, followers of Mash'Nagal, god of Mash'Nagal, the night, and predators. All 4 faiths are reasonably accepting of the rest, as all of their deities respect each other.

All of these religions except for Pyraism are monotheistic, worshipping only their god while acknowledging the others as powerful, but all 4 religions have no creationist myth, as they believe none of the gods are truly able to completely control the world's creatures. Most early kolari civilizations noted artificial breeding and came to the belief that nature could do that itself, even if it took longer, essentially believing that the planet they lived on was eternal and had always been, but believed that the living beings on it developed over eons.

This belief was eventually confirmed over and over again by paleontology, although the planet being eternal was eventually found to be false. All 6 religions are actually highly focused on giving the people a knowledge of who to serve (Way more efficient as the gods are real and regularly visit) and how to do so than giving any answers, believing the gods want them to learn things themselves. As for children wanting to know why for something unknown, it's perfectly acceptable to tell them you just don't know yet.

Almar, Mash'Nagal, and Korai all don't look like humans nor kolari. Almar takes the form of a great dragon skeleton (Think a dracolich from DND), Mash'Nagal takes the form of a massively built predator with rib bones protruding from his skin, and Korai usually takes the appearance of a cloud of mist. Enya, Pyrai, Meliva and Damaria all take the form of human women, however, even though no equivalent existed for kolari to know of.

While Makan-Ha are the size of dogs like a German Shepherd, they're really more like a mix of dog, cat and tortoise behavior. While they act a lot like cats and dogs in different ways, they do still love being alone, and usually aren't begging for pets once their owners come home. They are social enough to love pets and be good with children, but they do enjoy not being always with someone. They act more like how non-cat people stereotype cats (That being they're standoffish and assholes for no reason), but do enjoy rolling up under their owner's feet and having their backs be scratched.

Essentially, Makan-Ha are the mix of crocodiles, ankylosaurs, stegosaurs, ceratopsians, and pachycephalosaur hardware with cat, dog and tortoise behavior with facultative bipedalism and limited pack structure (More than most felids but less than most canids).

Most societies, including kolari, are perfectly accustomed to the supernatural existence of ghosts, the afterlife, and their gods. Their gods will actively help their worshippers if they are given enough sacrifices and devotion to their tenets, essentially letting plants and structures survive disasters with enough sacrifices and prayers.

Most magical communication is just magical TTS texts. All you really get with all but the most advanced communication magic is just messages you hear in your head. Luckily, it's easy to make magical groupchats.

Their books are essentially wheels with easily removed shells of light plastic (Found in many plants on Damaria). These books are mostly for archival purposes, however, and most books are bound. The shell books start from a wooden base that is at most 1 inch thick, with a half inch shell placed around it by a pair of small clips. Each time the book needs more space for writing, another shell is placed, over and over again until it reaches the maximum size of 1 foot long. Each base pool can be made up to 12 feet long.

Kolari use a lot of body language, enough so that deaf or mute kolari have a minimal language barrier with voiced kolari. This is aided by sign language, so most hard of hearing kolari and mute kolari have minimal issue communication.

Kolari themselves are obligate carnivores, needing meat to survive. They're about as carnivorous as dogs.

The Tenrare Mountains are filled with kolari and herbivorous peoples who cannot eat meat and see meateating as murder, and thus see all kolari as murders and seek to kill them. Most Damarian sophonts are some sort of obligate carnivore or herbivore.

Small fantasy worldbuilding elements you might want to think about:

A currency that isn’t gold-standard/having gold be as valuable as tin

A currency that runs entirely on a perishable resource, like cocoa beans

A clock that isn’t 24-hours

More or less than four seasons/seasons other than the ones we know

Fantastical weather patterns like irregular cloud formations, iridescent rain

Multiple moons/no moon

Planetary rings

A northern lights effect, but near the equator

Roads that aren’t brown or grey/black, like San Juan’s blue bricks

Jewelry beyond precious gems and metals

Marriage signifiers other than wedding bands

The husband taking the wife's name / newlyweds inventing a new surname upon marriage

No concept of virginity or bastardry

More than 2 genders/no concept of gender

Monotheism, but not creationism

Gods that don’t look like people

Domesticated pets that aren’t re-skinned dogs and cats

Some normalized supernatural element that has nothing to do with the plot

Magical communication that isn’t Fantasy Zoom

“Books” that aren’t bound or scrolls

A nonverbal means of communicating, like sign language

A race of people who are obligate carnivores/ vegetarians/ vegans/ pescatarians (not religious, biological imperative)

I’ve done about half of these myself in one WIP or another and a little detail here or there goes a long way in reminding the audience that this isn’t Kansas anymore.

[sylusonychinus]

DadGirl Sylus HC

a/n: one of the lines here are actually spoken by my dad hehe, let me know in the comments which one you think it is :3

DadGirl Sylus who carries his daughter on his shoulders like she’s royalty, calling her “his little queen” while making sure no one so much as breathes wrong in her direction.

DadGirl Sylus who lets her sit on his lap while he’s handling business, completely unfazed as she plays with his hair, paints his nails, or demands his attention—because in his eyes, she’s the only one who matters.

DadGirl Sylus who never lets her lift a finger if he can help it, tying her shoes, cutting her food, and even carrying her around long after she’s old enough to walk—because “why should my princess ever have to tire herself out?”

DadGirl Sylus who sets the highest standards for how she should be treated, telling her, “Anyone who doesn’t treat you like I do isn’t worth your time,” while casually sharpening his knives in the background.

DadGirl Sylus who spoils her endlessly, from custom-made dresses to impromptu late-night drives for her favorite sweets—because if she so much as mentions wanting something, he’s already making it happen.

DadGirl Sylus who carries his daughter in one arm like she weighs nothing, effortlessly balancing her while handling business—because no meeting is more important than keeping his little queen close.

DadGirl Sylus who lets her "boss him around," taking her tiny hand as she drags him through stores, picking out whatever she wants while he just smirks and tells the cashier, “Put it on my tab.”

DadGirl Sylus who kneels down to fix her hair, tying the perfect ribbons or adjusting her tiny crown, whispering, “A queen should always look her best, sweetheart.”

DadGirl Sylus who absolutely refuses to let her cry alone, wiping her tears with the gentlest touch, holding her close, and murmuring, “Anyone who makes my little princess sad won’t be around much longer, I promise.”

DadGirl Sylus who acts like the world is beneath him but will sit at a tiny tea party table, pinky up, sipping imaginary tea because his daughter ordered him to—without a single complaint.

DadGirl Sylus who trains her in self-defense, but only so she can say, “My daddy taught me this,” before taking down anyone who dares disrespect her.

DadGirl Sylus who tells bedtime stories in his deep, commanding voice, making every tale sound legendary, but always ending them with, “But you, my little queen, are the most powerful of them all.”

DadGirl Sylus who, no matter how ruthless he is to the world, melts the moment his daughter tugs on his sleeve and asks for cuddles—because if there’s one person who owns his heart, it’s her.

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: when your favorite member of their house isn't them.

WARNINGS: kaito's gets a little intense!! but its very canon typical. subaru is a little manipulative ngl.

COMMENTS: i am STILL getting used to writing these guys so i am sorry if they are out of character!! please have mercy!!

Jin’s scowl is more sour than usual. He storms up to his room and slams the door shut, jamming his hand in his pocket in search of his cigarettes. The last thing he needs to see right now is you with Tohma, hanging off his arm and making small talk about how lovely the tea smelt and how good he was at chess. Rage twists and burns in his stomach but you’re the last person he wants to take it out on. Even if Tohma will forever hold your affections, he doesn’t want you to think poorly of him. He thinks it would rip him apart.

Tohma isn’t certain what you see in that first year with the silly blonde hair that follows you around everywhere like a lost puppy. Kaito can’t protect you when worse comes to worst, he can’t stand up for you the way Tohma can. He knows it's underhanded, throwing jabs at his poor underclassman, but he can’t help it. Not when it comes to you. Perhaps, one day, you will see how foolish this is and come running into his arms.

Luca respects the captain a lot, and he knows you do too. It doesn’t give him any bad feelings until you see Jin and call him over, your feet dragging you toward the captain and away from him. Luca thinks you may take one, two, maybe three steps away from him, but you walk until Jin meets you and then you turn back to Luca, beaming at him in a way he’s never seen before. Oh, he realizes, you must like Jin quite a bit to have a smile reserved just for him.

Kaito’s one job is to defend your honor, to keep filthy no good men away from you! After all, he’s the only one you should be considering going out with, and any other man couldn’t treat you like he can! So why...why do you look so happy with Luca? What has he done wrong? Is it his cowardice? His lack of money? Was he not calm enough for you? He sees the way you blush when Luca compliments your hair, brushing his fingers over your cheekbone sinfully. It’s not fair, it's not fair! That should be him touching you like that!

Alan thinks his first years have some real potential. He’s glad you’re taking such good care of them, especially Sho. Actually...you seem quite attached to him. Alan briefly wonders if it’s his food truck, and that’s why you’re always eating food with him, but he realizes that that is very much not the case when he catches the two of you smiling and laughing on Vagastrom’s couch. Sho’s arm is slung over your shoulders and you’re leaning into him, smile never faltering. You’ve never looked at him like that.

Sho doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t know why you’re hanging around Leo so much. Of course, he knows he’s only saying this out of petty jealousy, since he’s been friends with Leo since forever, but doesn’t that give him the right to complain at least a little? What does Leo have that he doesn’t? Did you like his followers and fame? He tries his best to grit his teeth and focus on his food, but the sound of your laughter rings constantly in the back of his mind. This sucks.

Leo has never been so emotionally charged in his life. It’s embarrassing honestly, how you cling to Alan and bat your eyelashes at him like he’s actually worth your time. The captain isn’t smart, he isn’t sharp in the slightest and you’re acting like he’s your savior. It makes him want to gag every time he sees you two, your arm linked with his, a dusty blush on his cheeks as you squeeze him closer. Gross, he can’t believe you feel comfortable touching him like that in public. It totally doesn’t bother Leo at all!

Haru knows better than to get in Towa’s way, and frankly, he wouldn’t dare. You two are precious together. Whether you’re dating or not he doesn’t know, but Haru does know that out of everyone in Jabberwock, you are absolutely the closest with Towa. He’s happy to see his friend happy, really! That’s enough for him! He just wishes that you would respond to his texts as fast as you respond to Towa’s...

Towa is alarmed, first and foremost. The interloper? Do you like him? Is it romantic? Is he your soulmate? Oh, no...Dandelion, you can do so much better, he promises! Ren won’t be able to give you half the things Towa can offer you. He isn’t embarrassed to be by your side or shower you in affection or work hard for your sake! He’d do anything for you, and oh does he mean anything.

Ren thinks it’s disgusting. You’re enamored with Haru. He’s caught you two holding hands, quite literally skipping through the meadows with Peekaboo while he sits inside, hunched over his phone. He scoffs, tearing his eyes away from you and your shimmering smile, and tries to kick the sound of your laugh out of his mind. He is, unfortunately, unsuccessful. Ren throws his head back and groans, searching his brain for any reason why anyone would like that boundary breaking clown of a captain. He comes up with nothing. But then again, the list of reasons why you would like him is about the same, is it not?

Taiga isn’t bothered. He’s always unbothered, if you ask him. That’s why when he sees you fawning over Lulu, he doesn’t bat an eye. Yeah, he’s a pretty guy. If anything, you have good taste. He doesn’t want to be treated that way, though, least of all by you, because that would be such a headache and he doesn’t need to deal with you all the time...right. Right. This is how things should be, of course.

Romeo is infuriated. It’s unthinkable that you would choose to admire that bossy first year over him! He calls you into his office time and time again, bringing up meaningless tasks for you to complete and it should be an honor to serve him! However...the second your phone rings you snatch it up with pure glee on your face and excuse yourself, cooing Ritsu! into the receiver with so much affection it makes him sick. Who do you think you are!? Fico is not to be ignored!

Ritsu tries not to feel too upset, watching you with the captain. It’s ridiculous to think that someone who regularly blows off his work and insults him would catch your eye! Of course, he respects the captain...and he needs his signature so he can protect him if a case does arise...but at the end of the day, that has nothing to do with you! Ritsu does not know how to classify his emotions, so he simply stiffles them, having no need for soft squishy feelings. He needs to be sound and logical at all times, lest bias take him by storm.

Subaru’s heart aches. When did you start getting along so well with Zenji? When did he become your favorite person? Subaru thought you two were getting really close after he told you what his stigma was, and he was so happy to have someone who didn’t care about any of it. He was elated to have someone who wanted to be his friend, but ever since you’ve started to see Zenji that’s been taken away from him. He doesn’t like the stabs of jealousy that pierce his heart, it makes him feel evil, so won’t you come back and fix things if he looks at you with all the heartbreak he can muster? Won’t you come back to him?

Haku doesn’t mind, honestly. Sure, he might make a few comments about you and Subaru being close, and if you were perspective enough you could definitely pick up a bit of sadness from his words, but he’ll never be upfront about it. He’ll still tease you, flirt with you, say suggestive things just to get you wound up, but it’s not the same anymore. Not when you find your home at Subaru’s side, leaning into his during assemblies, leaving Haku’s side cold and empty.

Zenji thinks it’s beautiful, watching love bloom between you and Haku. It’s a new source of inspiration for him! You, and your beautiful eyes, your soft smiles, your bright laughter, and before he knows it his inspiration is only you. He feels guilty, confessing to Haku that he is finding so much creativity in you, and Haku is so easy and patient and kind to him. Zenji doesn’t think Haku gets it, but maybe he does. Maybe he does, and isn’t bringing it up for a reason. And so Zenji aches, showering you in compliments tenfold, being unable to hold all of his affection inside lest he burst.

Edward agrees that Rui is very helpful. You seem to praise him a lot, and such praise is deserved, even if Edward likes to act like he doesn’t recognize what Rui does around the dorm. It’s Rui who resets his YouTube password and fixes the WiFi when it’s down. It’s Rui who cleans up his room and makes those delicious drinks. And apparently, as you have been so kind to divulge to him, Rui is also very sweet to you, always giving you compliments and making you special drinks to suit your exact preferences. It’s interesting. Very interesting.

Rui playfully winces every time you shoot him down, saying that you’re spending time with Lyca today or that you’re eating lunch with Lyca or that Lyca invited you to go for a walk with him. Rui, to his credit, bites his tongue when you turn on your heel and leave him standing there. He loves the thrill of the chase, the allure of someone who plays hard to get, but he knows that isn’t what you are. You’re someone with romantic feelings for a guy that isn’t him.

Lyca is concerned, to say the least. Edward isn’t the type of man you should be hanging around! He’s old and dusty and a total flirt, which makes him all the more filthy in Lyca’s eyes. No, don’t hang off his every word with that smile of yours! Don’t praise him for being brave! Don’t help him to bed when he starts to cough, he’s faking it! Ugh, why don’t you ever listen to him anymore...? Lately that moth-eaten Casanova has been taking up all of your time, and Lyca really doesn’t like it...

Yuri’s brow is wrinkled with frustration that, for once, does not come from working his ass off for days on end. It comes from you, chattering away with Jiro and praising him for his accomplishments. It makes an ugly monster in Yuri’s stomach twist and he knows it’s jealousy, knows it’s bad for him and his research. He slams his hands on the table and commands that you leave in a fit of anger. You look startled, then upset, then you yell something back before storming from the room. He slumps down in his chair, head in his hand, and fights back the tears that follow.

Jiro doesn’t mind, honestly. He’s just there to help Yuri out wherever he can. It makes sense that you adore Yuri so much, he is really smart, just like you say. You tell him he’s pretty and Jiro watches Yuri fumble, cheeks turning pink. It makes Jiro smile, seeing Yuri so happy, even if he doesn’t quite understand why a small part of him feels upset. Maybe you should call him pretty too, and then that feeling will go away.

[helvegen-s]

do I wanna know?

Hozier's version

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: Oscar Piastri wasn't looking for love when he met Amélie in a Monaco nightclub. But their undeniable chemistry sparks a passionate connection that quickly becomes something more. As their secret relationship deepens, her surname, Vasseur, becomes the real problem.

Word count: 12k (stoppp, so long but so worth it)

TW: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, sexually suggestive content, alcohol, strong language...

A/N: I DID IT. Another day, another one-shot. I love Oscar with all my heart. I swear I’ve done everything to make this as little angsty and as least sad as possible. I hope you enjoy it <3

My previous one-shot, Step by step, has received so much love. I adore you all, and thank you for the reblogs, for the comments and the likes!

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

Monaco at night had a different glow. It wasn’t just the shimmer of lights reflecting on the sea or the lingering echo of engines that still seemed to vibrate in the air. It was the luxury, the exclusivity—the feeling that anything could happen in a city that never truly slept.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t the kind of guy who frequented nightclubs. Not because he didn’t like having fun, but because the idea of being surrounded by strangers, with deafening music and alcohol flowing freely, wasn’t exactly his scene. But a couple of friends had come to visit him at his new apartment in Monaco, and after a few beers and plenty of teasing about how boring he was, they had managed to drag him there.

The club was a chaos of strobe lights and moving bodies. The music, a heavy, immersive beat, pulsed through the floor and into his chest. Oscar stayed in a corner, a drink in his hand, pretending to enjoy himself while his friends disappeared into the crowd.

That was when he saw her.

She moved with an almost insolent confidence, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even realizing it. She was dressed in black, her loose hair falling in soft waves, her smirk suggesting she already knew something the rest didn’t. Oscar wasn’t the type to stare at just anyone, but there was something about her that kept his gaze locked.

When their eyes met, she didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled, amused, as if she could read exactly what was going through his mind.

And then she walked over.

"You don’t look like someone who enjoys places like this," she said, leaning in just enough for her voice to be heard over the music.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"And what kind of person do I look like?"

"Someone who’s already calculating how much longer they need to stay before they can leave without looking like a buzzkill."

Oscar let out a laugh.

"And what about you? Are you the life of the party?"

She shrugged, her expression shameless.

"Could be."

Oscar couldn’t help but smile. There was something about her attitude, the way she didn’t give him a break, that had him completely hooked.

"Are you always this quick with words?"

"Are you always this easy to throw off?" she shot back.

He laughed again, more at ease than he expected to be. He wasn’t usually like this with strangers. He didn’t usually let himself go this fast. But with her, it felt inevitable.

They stayed like that, challenging each other with words and smiles, until conversation was no longer enough. He wasn’t sure who made the first move—if it was her or him. Maybe, in the end, it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the exact moment their lips met in the middle of the dance floor, with the music pounding around them and the world shrinking to that single instant.

Oscar didn’t know her name. He didn’t know who she was or where she was from. All he knew was that the night had just become a lot more interesting.

The kiss tasted like gin and danger. The kind that arrived without warning, set skin on fire, and became impossible to ignore.

Oscar wasn’t thinking too much when he had her this close. He wasn’t thinking about the loud club, his friends, or anything other than the way she smiled against his lips, as if this were a game she already knew she was going to win.

His hand instinctively slid to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the way her body fit against his like they’d done this before, like it was meant to happen. She didn’t pull away—on the contrary, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, just to tease him.

"Do you always kiss strangers like this?" she whispered when they pulled apart just a fraction.

Oscar smiled, still holding her.

"No. Do you?"

"Neither do I." She leaned in again, barely grazing his lips with hers, tempting him. "But today seems like a good day to start."

Oscar chuckled lowly, unable to resist the effect she had on him. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t what he usually did. But something about her made him want to play along, to fall helplessly into the pull of her presence.

The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. She took advantage of it, letting her hands trace the edges of his shirt while looking at him with that wicked amusement.

"Do you dance, driver?"

Oscar frowned, half amused, half confused.

"How do you know I’m a driver?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think.

"The way you move. Besides, this is Monaco. Everyone’s a driver here."

"That sounds like a very well-crafted lie."

"Could be." She leaned in again, her lips brushing against the curve of his jaw. "Does that bother you?"

No. It didn’t. Not when he had her this close, the dance floor spinning around them, and the feeling that this was all a mistake—but the kind worth making.

Oscar took her hand and spun her effortlessly, making her laugh. They danced without a plan, without thinking too much about the rest of the world. Her body felt light against his, her laughter vibrating against his skin every time they pushed the limits a little further.

Until, in a moment of clarity, Oscar leaned in and whispered in her ear,

"You haven’t told me your name."

She stopped, looking at him with a spark in her eyes.

"Do you really need it?"

Yes. Probably. But the way she said it, the way she smiled afterward, made him hesitate.

Because maybe, just for tonight, he didn’t need it at all.

Oscar watched her, waiting for an answer. She only smiled, stretching the silence just enough to keep him on edge.

"Amélie," she finally said, savoring each syllable of her own name.

Oscar nodded, repeating it in his mind, making sure not to forget it. Amélie. It suited her.

"Nice name."

"I know."

Oscar laughed. God, she was unbearable. Unbearable and utterly fascinating in equal measure.

They kept dancing, though the music no longer mattered. What mattered were their hands gliding over each other’s skin, the whispers in their ears, the way their lips brushed together, turning into something more. The attraction between them was like an electric current, a dangerous game neither of them seemed willing to lose.

Amélie leaned in, her lips just a breath away.

"Let’s get out of here."

Oscar didn’t think twice.

The Mediterranean breeze was warm as they walked through the streets of Monaco, away from the noise of the club, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

"Your place or mine?" Amélie asked, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket.

Oscar hesitated for a second. His friends would be crashing at his apartment, and the idea of going back with her only to find a couple of drunk idiots passed out on the couch wasn’t exactly appealing. His mind also flashed to the countless unopened boxes, unpacked suitcases, and unassembled furniture piled up in his new place.

"Yours."

"Good choice." She smiled but didn’t say anything else. She simply started walking, knowing he would follow.

Her apartment was in an elegant building near the port, with massive windows and a breathtaking view of the illuminated city.

"Nice place."

"It’s not bad." She shrugged off her jacket with a swift motion, letting it fall onto a chair. Then she turned to face him, that same defiant look in her eyes. "Do you want something to drink or…?"

Oscar didn’t let her finish.

The tension that had been simmering between them all night exploded the moment their lips met again. It was different from the kiss at the club—more urgent, more desperate. Like every second they had spent holding back had only been a prelude to the real moment of the night.

Amélie smiled against his mouth and, in one swift move, pushed him back until his spine hit the wall.

"Are you always this easy?" she murmured, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Oscar let out a low chuckle.

"Are you always this bossy?"

"When necessary."

"I like it."

This time, he took control.

They stumbled through the apartment, kissing and laughing, too caught up in each other to care about bumping into furniture. Clothes disappeared along the way, leaving a trail neither of them bothered to follow.

The way Amélie moved was hypnotic, as if she was in charge without even trying. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath warm against his lips.

"If at any point you want to stop—"

Oscar cut her off before she could finish, kissing her again, deeper, more desperate. Amélie grinned against his lips before pulling him further into the apartment.

There was no rush, yet no hesitation either. They moved with an absurd level of synchronicity for two strangers, as if every touch had been rehearsed a hundred times before.

When the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, he took the opportunity to flip their dynamic, pinning her beneath him with ease.

"So, you like competing off-track too?" she teased, fingers tracing down his back.

Oscar lowered his head to her neck, pressing slow kisses against her skin.

"Always."

Amélie exhaled softly, letting the heat of the moment consume everything.

That night was one to remember.

Because, even though neither of them knew it yet, it was a night that would change everything.

Oscar woke up to sunlight filtering through the curtains.

He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. It took him a second to remember where he was—the spacious bedroom, the messy sheets, the lingering scent of perfume and warm skin in the air.

And then, the body beside him.

Amélie was lying on her stomach, her hair a tangled mess on the pillow, the sheet barely covering her back. Her breathing was soft, completely oblivious to his wakefulness.

Oscar rested his head on the pillow and watched her for a moment. He remembered every detail of the night before—the taste of gin on her lips, the way she laughed against his skin, how they had lost themselves in each other without holding back. It had been wild and sweet at the same time, like they were on the edge of devouring each other yet somehow knew exactly how to touch.

Definitely, one of those nights you don’t forget.

But now came the tricky part—the mornings.

It was never exactly awkward, but it was never simple either. There was something about waking up in an unfamiliar bed, with the faint haze of a night too good to regret, that always brought the inevitable question: Now what?

As if sensing his gaze, Amélie shifted slightly and murmured something unintelligible before cracking her eyes open.

"Mmm… you’re still here," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Did you expect me to sneak out in the middle of the night?"

"I didn’t take you for a coward," she said, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.

Oscar chuckled. He propped himself up on his elbow, taking her in properly for the first time without the dim club lights or the haze of lust clouding his perception. He noticed new details—the way her skin caught the morning light, the faint scar on her collarbone, the relaxed yet mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Do you always analyze people this much when you wake up next to them?" Amélie asked, meeting his gaze.

"Do you always have a comeback ready?"

"I warned you last night."

Oscar smirked, shaking his head. He couldn’t help it. There was something about her that intrigued him. It wasn’t just that she was stunning or that the sex had been incredible. It was the way she carried herself, the confidence, the effortless way she set the pace without him even noticing.

She stretched lazily before sitting up, letting the sheet slide down to her waist.

"I’m making coffee," she announced, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Does that mean you're inviting me to stay?"

Amélie turned around, giving him a defiant look.

"It means that if you touch the coffee machine before it's done, I'll throw you out of my apartment shirtless."

Oscar let out a laugh and fell back onto the bed, arms resting behind his head.

"You're trouble."

"And you walked right into it with your eyes wide open, driver."

With a satisfied smile, Amélie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Oscar with the certainty that this night wouldn’t be something he could forget so easily.

He lay there for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling with a small smile. He couldn’t remember the last time a night had been like this. Not just incredible in the physical sense—because it had been, no question—but fun.

There was something about Amélie that kept him hooked, and that worried him a little. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like any other girl he’d been with before.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before getting up.

Gathering his clothes scattered around the room, he pulled his pants halfway up as he walked out toward the kitchen.

The apartment was modern and spacious, with a spectacular view of Monaco from the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the distance, Amélie’s silhouette moved effortlessly between the coffee machine and the shelves, wearing his shirt—barely buttoned.

Oscar leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms.

"Nice shirt."

Amélie didn’t even turn around.

"Nice coffee machine," she shot back. "Which you still can’t touch."

He chuckled, stepping closer until his hip brushed against hers at the counter.

"And what if I need caffeine to function?"

She turned her head just enough to give him a look filled with teasing amusement.

"You're an F1 driver, not an office worker with a coffee addiction."

"We all have our weaknesses."

Amélie smirked, as if considering his words for a moment, before focusing back on her coffee.

The coffee machine bubbled softly as the rich aroma filled the kitchen. Amélie, arms crossed and feigning exasperation, watched Oscar stir the scrambled eggs he had insisted on cooking—with infuriating ease.

"Seriously, you don’t have to cook," she repeated for the third time.

"And yet, here I am."

"This isn’t your house."

"No, but it’s not a restaurant either, so if I want a decent meal, I’d rather make it myself."

Amélie huffed, leaning against the counter with her coffee cup in hand.

"Are you implying that I can’t cook?"

Oscar shot her an amused look.

"I haven’t seen any evidence that you can."

"You're incredibly arrogant for someone cooking with my pan in my kitchen."

"I call it survival," he said with a shrug.

Their dynamic was captivating. Amélie fired off comebacks at lightning speed, but Oscar kept up, responding with dry, precise remarks. There was no tension, no awkward pauses. It felt as if they had known each other for years, as if this was a routine between them.

As the eggs finished cooking, Oscar glanced toward the living room. From the kitchen, he had the perfect angle to see the main wall, and that’s when he noticed it.

Above the TV, hung proudly, was a massive painting.

It wasn’t a photograph, but a stunningly detailed painting of Monza’s circuit, featuring the faces of Michael Schumacher and Rubens Barrichello, dressed in their iconic Ferrari red suits, holding their trophies with beaming smiles.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Is that Monza?"

Amélie, mid-sip of coffee, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Mhm."

Oscar set down the spatula and turned fully toward the painting.

"It’s incredible."

"It is."

"Did you buy it?"

"No."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, noting how she didn’t elaborate.

"Are you a Formula 1 fan?"

"Mmm… not actively."

"You have a giant painting of Schumacher and Barrichello in your living room, Amélie. I find that hard to believe."

She sighed, as if she had been expecting this conversation.

"It was my father’s. He gave it to me when I bought this apartment."

Oscar tilted his head.

"Is your father a fan?"

"Let’s just say he’s very involved in motorsport."

A small alarm went off in Oscar’s head. Something wasn’t quite adding up, but before he could ask more, Amélie set her cup down and crossed her arms.

"And yes, I know who you are."

He tensed slightly.

"Oh."

"I didn’t sleep with you because you’re famous."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, surprised by her bluntness.

"I didn’t think you did."

"Good. Because I didn’t."

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Amélie’s expression was calm, but with that ever-present challenge in her eyes that made her impossible to ignore. Oscar felt there was more to this, something she wasn’t saying.

But for now, he let it go.

"The eggs are ready," he said, serving them onto two plates.

Amélie gave him a small smile and took hers.

"You’re a decent driver. Let’s see if you’re a decent cook too."

Oscar shook his head, chuckling as they sat down to eat.

Breakfast carried the same strangely effortless energy as the rest of the morning. Oscar couldn’t recall the last time he’d shared a moment like this with someone he’d just met. Maybe never.

They talked about everything and nothing. Amélie teased him about how meticulous he was with the scrambled eggs. Oscar told her the coffee was so strong it could wake the dead. She told him that if he couldn’t handle it, he probably wasn’t man enough to be in her kitchen.

Oscar could only laugh.

And then, it was time to leave.

"I’d stay longer," he said, leaning against the counter, "but I left my friends at a club, and I still don’t know if they’re alive or if one of them ended up in a ditch."

Amélie chuckled.

"I’d say there’s an 80% chance they’re sleeping on your couch and a 20% chance they’re in jail."

"That’s exactly why I need to check."

She set her cup in the sink and nodded.

"Alright."

But neither of them moved.

Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up.

"Want to exchange numbers?"

Amélie raised an eyebrow, as if she hadn’t expected that, but didn’t hesitate for long before taking her own phone and typing her contact into his.

"Call me if your friends are dead. I can help you hide the bodies."

"I’ll keep that in mind," Oscar joked, saving her number.

And then, the real problem arose: how to say goodbye?

A simple “bye”? Too cold.

A hug? He wasn’t sure if that was right.

A kiss? Maybe too intimate for what they really were—two strangers who had just spent the night together.

But when their eyes met, the decision made itself.

Oscar leaned in slightly, and Amélie didn’t step back. Their lips barely brushed—a short kiss, nothing like the intensity of the night before, but charged with something else. Something harder to define.

When they pulled away, Amélie smiled, that mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Don’t let it get to your head, Piastri."

Oscar laughed, shaking his head as he stepped toward the door.

"See you around, Amélie."

"See you."

And with that, he left.

Though, as he walked out of the building, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before he saw her again.

Oscar entered his apartment in Monaco, his body exhausted and his mind scattered. The weekend's race was still buzzing in his head, memories of the paddock and strategy meetings blending with the roar of the engines. He knew he should take a shower, eat something decent, and, most of all, sleep.

But the moment he crossed the threshold, he thought of her.

It had been weeks since he last saw her. Neither of them had written, not even a casual message, as if the night they spent together had been nothing more than a fleeting moment, not something strong enough to leave a mark.

Oscar dropped onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. He had no reason to text her. No excuse. But before he could think too much about it, his fingers were already moving over the screen.

🟠 Oscar: "If you want to see me, come over. I'm exhausted."

The possibility that she wouldn’t reply crossed his mind. It was late. And if he hadn’t bothered to reach out before, why would she now?

But against all odds, his phone vibrated instantly.

🔴 Amélie: "What kind of invitation is that? Doesn't sound very tempting."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

🟠 Oscar: "It's the best I can offer in this state."

This time, Amélie took longer to reply. He pictured her with her phone in hand, debating whether to accept or keep playing along a little longer.

🔴 Amélie: "Alright. But I’m bringing dinner."

🟠 Oscar: "No objections here."

🔴 Amélie: "You should have some. I might bring something terrible just to see your face when you try it."

🟠 Oscar: "If you poison me, you’ll pay for it."

🔴 Amélie: "I love a man who takes risks."

Oscar shook his head, and as he wrote his address in the chat, he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

Whatever this was, he liked it.

The doorbell rang about forty minutes later.

Dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, Oscar made his way to the door unhurriedly. When he opened it, Amélie stood there, a paper bag in hand and a half-smile on her lips.

“Don’t ask what’s for dinner,” she said before he could say a word.

Oscar arched an eyebrow as he stepped aside to let her in.

“That sounds concerning.”

“Come on, trust me.”

She took off her jacket and tossed it over the couch with a familiarity they probably shouldn’t have yet. Oscar didn’t comment on it, but his gaze flickered to the jacket for a second before he shut the door behind her.

“I hope you’re not expecting anything gourmet,” she warned, pulling containers from the bag.

Oscar leaned against the counter, watching her.

“Honestly, as long as I don’t have to cook, I’ll take anything.”

Amélie pulled out two boxes of pasta from an Italian restaurant.

“Not much effort, huh?”

She shot him a sharp look.

“You wound me. This is from one of the best places in Monaco.”

Oscar opened one of the boxes, and the second the aroma hit him, he had to admit—it looked amazing.

“Alright, point for you.”

They sat on the couch, legs crossed casually, no rush. They ate in a comfortable atmosphere, filled with sarcastic remarks and glances that lingered just a little too long.

“So,” Amélie said at some point, twirling her fork in her pasta, “how does it feel to be home after the races?”

Oscar shrugged.

“Quiet. Maybe too quiet.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Does that mean you missed the chaos?”

Oscar watched her for a second before replying, amusement in his voice.

“I think it means I missed the person who brings it.”

Amélie smiled but didn’t reply right away. Still, in her eyes, Oscar saw something—a flicker of recognition, of acceptance.

This game between them was far from over.

Amélie held Oscar’s gaze for a few seconds before flashing a lazy smile.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an accusation,” she said, taking another bite of pasta.

“A bit of both.”

She let out a low chuckle.

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

They kept eating, their conversation flowing as easily as their playful jabs. There were no awkward silences, no need to fill the gaps with unnecessary words. It was strange. Strange because Oscar wasn’t usually this comfortable with someone he barely knew.

But Amélie wasn’t just anyone.

And that’s what kept him hooked.

When they finished eating, she set her takeout container on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch with the ease of someone who had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to text me,” she said suddenly.

Oscar glanced at her while finishing his last bite.

“Oh yeah?”

“No. You seemed like the type of driver who disappears after one night.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what you think of me?”

Amélie tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t know. I’m still deciding.”

Oscar licked his lips, amused.

“And how’s my evaluation going so far?”

She pretended to think about it for a moment before answering.

“A solid seven out of ten.”

Oscar let out a laugh.

“Just a seven?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What would get me a ten?”

Amélie turned her head to look at him, and Oscar caught the subtle glint of challenge in her eyes.

“You’ll have to figure that out.”

The air between them shifted, almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. Amélie kept him right on the edge of what was safe and what wasn’t, and Oscar wasn’t sure which one tempted him more.

He studied her in silence for a moment.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked finally.

Amélie smiled.

“Only if you have decent wine.”

Oscar stood up, shaking his head.

“Picky.”

“Always.”

He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine he had stashed away. He wasn’t exactly a wine connoisseur, but he hoped it was good enough for his guest. When he returned to the living room with two glasses, Amélie had already changed positions on the couch, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her.

“I’ll give you an extra point if it’s good,” she remarked as Oscar poured her a glass.

“Then you’d better lie if it’s not.”

She laughed softly before taking a sip.

Oscar watched her as she did, surprised by how much he enjoyed having her in his space.

“Approved,” she finally said, handing him back the glass with an amused look.

“Great. So am I at an eight now?”

Amélie tilted her head.

“That depends on how the night ends.”

Oscar leaned back against the couch, smirking.

“Interesting.”

And somehow, they both knew the night was far from over.

Eventually, the wine was forgotten on the table.

He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. One joke led to another, a smile turned into a fleeting touch, and now Amélie was straddling him, her legs tangled with his, her lips caught in a kiss that had no intention of ending anytime soon.

Oscar’s hand slid down her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her shirt. Amélie let out a laugh against his mouth before pulling back slightly, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

“For someone who was so tired, you have an impressive amount of energy,” she teased, not bothering to hide the playful lilt in her voice.

Oscar chuckled, his fingers still tracing lazy circles on her waist.

“Must be the high-quality dinner you brought,” he shot back with equal sarcasm.

Amélie arched an eyebrow.

“Then I should feed you more often.”

“Good idea. But, to be fair, it’s not just the food.”

“Oh, no?”

Oscar tilted his head, his lips grazing the skin of her neck.

“Let’s just say the company helps, too.”

Amélie smiled, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“You’re more charming than you let on, Piastri.”

“And you’re more dangerous than you look.”

She let out a soft laugh before kissing him again, her fingers tangling in his hair. And for the second time in his life, Oscar let himself be swept away by Amélie without a second thought.

Somehow, between laughter, sharp comebacks, and hands growing bolder by the second, they ended up in Oscar’s bedroom. It was a whirlwind of discarded clothes, breathless whispers, and a crackling electricity that filled every inch of space. Amélie was a storm—unpredictable, defiant, impossible to ignore. And Oscar surrendered to her without hesitation, without caring that they barely knew each other, without worrying about what it meant.

Because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.

The first thing Oscar noticed upon waking was the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. The second was the warmth beside him—the shape of Amélie beneath the sheets.

For a moment, he simply lay there, watching her in the dim light. Her breathing was slow and steady, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. She looked peaceful, nothing like the woman who challenged him with every word when she was awake.

Oscar smiled to himself before stretching slightly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in his muscles.

"Do you always stare at people when they’re sleeping?" Amélie’s voice, husky from sleep, pulled him from his thoughts.

Oscar blinked, a little surprised to find her awake.

"Only when they try to kill me with their sense of humor," he replied, smirking.

Amélie cracked one eye open, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Don't blame me if you can’t handle it."

Oscar let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

"I might need some intensive training."

"I doubt it. You handled yourself pretty well last night."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Pretty well?"

Amélie shrugged, feigning indifference, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

"I don’t know... I might need a second evaluation to be sure."

Oscar studied her for a second before rolling over, pinning her beneath him once again.

"That can be arranged."

And before she could say anything else, he kissed her, swallowing the breathless laugh that slipped from her lips.

They weren’t exactly sure how they made it work, but every time Oscar returned to Monaco, somehow, they ended up together.

It wasn’t planned. They didn’t text ahead of time or make promises to see each other again. It just happened—Oscar would come home after a race weekend, drop his bag, sink into the couch, and before he could think too much about it, he was already typing out a message to Amélie.

And she always answered.

Some nights, she was the one who showed up at his door with takeout, her hair tied up, a playful smirk on her lips, as if the last thing she wanted to do was admit she’d been waiting for that message too. Other times, he was the one crossing the city, ringing her doorbell with some vague excuse about ordering too much food and not wanting to eat alone.

Either way, the outcome was always the same.

An accidental touch on the couch that turned into something more. Oscar’s hands finding their way to her waist, tangling in her hair as he kissed her with the same intensity as the first time. Amélie murmuring something teasing against his lips before pushing him onto the mattress, or him pulling her into his arms, refusing to let her get too far. The feeling that every night with her was an inevitable spiral, a pull neither of them could resist.

It was easy. Natural. As if it couldn’t be any other way.

But there was something—something Oscar couldn’t quite figure out.

Every time he mentioned the idea of going out, Amélie’s answer was always the same.

"Go out? For what?"

Sometimes, she said it with a smirk. Other times, just a simple shrug, as if the thought of walking through Monaco together or going to a restaurant was unnecessary. And in the end, they always stayed in, watching a movie neither of them really paid attention to.

Oscar swore it didn’t bother him. It really didn’t. They didn’t need to go out to enjoy each other’s company. They didn’t need formal dates or candlelit dinners to keep doing whatever this was.

And yet, there was something about the way Amélie avoided it that didn’t quite sit right with him.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask.

At least, not yet.

Until one day, in a surge of something he couldn’t quite name, he decided to push back.

"Why don’t you ever want to go out with me?"

It was blunt, direct. They were in her living room, a movie playing in the background, a half-eaten pizza between them. Amélie, her legs draped over his lap, looked up, caught off guard by the question.

"Where’s that coming from?"

Oscar held her gaze.

"From the fact that every time I suggest it, you dodge it."

She picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite, far too calm.

"Because I don’t like going out."

"That’s not it." He shook his head. "It’s going out with me that you don’t want."

Amélie chewed in silence, eyes locked on his. For a second, Oscar thought she’d throw back a sarcastic remark, a joke to deflect the conversation. But instead, she just sighed and set the pizza down.

"I don’t want you to take this the wrong way," she finally said. "I like what we have. I like you. But I’d rather keep it… like this."

"Like this?"

"Private."

Oscar frowned.

"Private or secret?"

She didn’t answer immediately.

And that was enough for Oscar to understand the difference.

"I’m not saying we have to make our… whatever this is, public—nothing like that," he said, trying to keep his tone steady. "I just want to understand why the idea of going to a damn restaurant with me bothers you so much."

Amélie crossed her arms, her expression hardening.

"It doesn’t bother me. I just don’t see the need. We’re fine like this, aren’t we?"

"Are we?" Oscar let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Because, honestly, it doesn’t feel like it."

She clicked her tongue, as if the conversation was testing her patience.

"Oscar—"

"No, seriously. I like being with you. I don’t know what this is, and I don’t care about putting a label on it, but… I feel like I only exist within these walls. Like I’m a secret you’d rather keep hidden."

The atmosphere in the room shifted in an instant.

Amélie parted her lips, as if to respond, but said nothing.

Oscar let out a slow breath, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Look, I don’t want to be the guy who makes a big deal out of this. We’re not together, I have no right to demand anything from you, but—"

"Exactly." Her voice was sharper than usual. "You have no right to demand anything from me."

Oscar blinked, taken aback.

"It’s not a demand, Amélie. It’s a conversation."

She shook her head, exasperated.

"There always has to be a problem, doesn’t there? We can’t just enjoy what we have without overanalyzing it."

Oscar felt something inside him tighten even more.

"I’m not questioning what we have. I’m questioning why we have to keep it hidden."

"Because it’s easier that way."

The answer came instantly. But the way she said it… Oscar saw something in her eyes. Something she was trying to hide.

"Easier for who?" he asked quietly.

Amélie clenched her jaw, looking away.

And there it was. The confirmation he didn’t want.

Oscar felt a weight in his chest, an uncomfortable knot in his throat.

He stood up from the couch.

"Okay," he said, his tone colder than he expected.

Amélie frowned.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, if that’s what you want, I won’t push."

She got to her feet too, watching him closely.

"I’m not saying you matter less to me just because I don’t want to be seen with you in public."

"No, but it sure feels like it."

Anger flickered in her eyes for a split second, but she said nothing.

Oscar grabbed his keys from the table.

"I’m gonna go."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

Amélie looked at him, a mix of confusion and wounded pride in her expression.

"I thought you weren’t the kind of guy who walks away in the middle of an argument."

Oscar turned to the door.

"I also didn’t think you were the kind of person who was afraid to be seen with me."

He didn’t wait for a response.

He walked out, closing the door behind him.

And even though he tried to shake it off, tried to convince himself he had no right to feel this way, the truth was that the idea of being just a secret to her burned more than he was willing to admit.

The days turned into weeks.

Oscar fell back into his routine, throwing himself into the world of F1 with an almost obsessive intensity. More hours in the simulator, more technical meetings, more training until exhaustion. Anything to keep his mind off her. But no matter how hard he tried, Amélie always found a way to creep back in.

He saw her in the most absurd moments. In the reflection of a window when he least expected it. In a woman’s laughter at a restaurant that sounded too much like hers. In the damn jasmine scent that had once lingered on his pillow. And he hated it. Hated it because she was the one who walked away. Because she was the one who put up walls between them. And yet, he was the one paying the price.

He swore he wouldn’t reach out. Told himself he had his pride. But every time he landed in Monaco after a race, the battle started all over again. He turned off his phone before temptation could win. Repeated to himself that she wasn’t worth it, that if she wanted him out of her life, he wasn’t going to beg to be let back in.

But, fuck, it was getting harder.

Amélie, for her part, stood by her decision. But with every passing day, it became more difficult.

Meetings with investors and networking events became her escape. She made sure her schedule was packed, leaving no room for solitude—no chance for her mind to wander where it shouldn’t. But the problem was that even in a crowded room, her thoughts always found their way back to Oscar.

Every time she saw a headline about him, every time his name came up in a passing conversation with her father, her chest tightened. She wasn’t searching for him, but the world insisted on reminding her.

And the worst part? At night, when she closed her eyes, guilt consumed her.

She had fallen for him more than she ever wanted to admit. More than she should have. And by the time she realized it, it was too late. Because she knew that if she had stayed with him, she would have dragged him into a scandal, into a shadow he’d never escape.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

She let him go to protect him.

So why did it feel like she was doing the wrong thing?

And then, the invitation came.

Monza. Ferrari’s home turf. The race that electrified the entire country.

Her father’s voice had been calm, expectant, as if he already knew what her answer would be before she even said it. "It’s been years since you’ve been to a race," he had remarked casually. "Come. Enjoy yourself for once."

She knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was a reminder of where she came from, of the legacy she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried.

And more than anything, she knew Oscar would be there.

He would see her. He would learn the truth—who she really was, who she had been all along. And maybe, just maybe, he would hate her for it.

But what did it matter anymore?

They weren’t together. They never had been.

She told herself that as she accepted the invitation, as she packed her bags, as she prepared to step into a world she had spent so long keeping separate from him.

For once, she wouldn’t think about consequences. She would let herself breathe. Even if it meant standing face to face with the one person she had tried so hard to forget.

The roar of the engines filled the air, vibrating through her chest as Amélie stepped into the paddock. Monza was alive, electric with anticipation, and the sea of red surrounding her was almost suffocating.

She had been here as a kid, too many times to count, but this time was different. This time, she wasn’t just the daughter of a powerful man in motorsport. She wasn’t just another face in the Ferrari hospitality suite.

This time, Oscar was here.

And at some point, he would see her.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her nose, letting her expression settle into something unreadable. She had no reason to be nervous. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for her father, for Ferrari, for the world that had shaped her long before Oscar Piastri had stumbled into her life.

And yet, as she moved through the paddock, as she exchanged polite greetings and forced smiles, she felt the weight of it pressing against her chest.

Would he be angry? Confused? Would he even care?

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But then, she saw him.

Oscar was walking towards the McLaren garage, deep in conversation with an engineer, his expression serious—focused. But as if he could sense her presence, as if something in the air had shifted, he suddenly glanced up.

Their eyes met.

For a second, everything around them faded. The noise, the people, the flashing cameras—it all disappeared.

Oscar’s face didn’t betray much. There was no immediate reaction, no flash of surprise or recognition. But there was something in the way he held her gaze, something unreadable and sharp, that sent a shiver down her spine.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, he looked away.

And continued walking.

Amélie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

So that was it.

Oscar didn’t understand why seeing her there had shaken him so much.

It wasn’t like she had no right to be in Monza. After all, she had once mentioned that her father was a big F1 fan. Maybe she had simply come to enjoy the weekend, like any other fan with the right connections to wander through the paddock without restrictions.

That had to be all.

And yet, something inside him twisted with discomfort.

He had spent weeks suppressing any impulse to look for her, forcing himself to bury her deep in his mind. But now, with just a single glance, she was back—settled in his head as if she had never left.

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she affected him.

So he did the only thing he could. He forced himself to look away, to keep walking as if nothing had happened.

But while his body moved forward, his mind stayed behind.

Because seeing her there, in a place so intimately tied to his world, made everything he had tried to forget resurface with even greater force.

The last time they had been together, she had looked at him with sadness before pulling away. Now, however, she seemed calm, indifferent, as if nothing between them had meant enough to leave a mark.

And for some reason, that infuriated him more than anything else.

The day of qualifying unfolded like any other. Oscar was focused on his team, on preparations, on lap times, on making sure his weekend in Monza was solid.

Or at least, that was what he was trying to do.

But every time he moved through the paddock, his eyes searched for her.

Not on purpose. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

And then, he saw her.

She was in the Ferrari garage, surrounded by mechanics in red overalls, laughing with them as if she were part of the family. One of the engineers handed her a water bottle with the same casualness as if he were passing it to a driver. Another whispered something in her ear, and Amélie rolled her eyes with a smile, giving him a light shove on the arm.

That wasn’t the attitude of a mere spectator.

But what truly made something tighten inside Oscar was when he saw Charles Leclerc approaching her.

The Monegasque driver greeted her with the familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time—an embrace that lasted too long, a kiss on each cheek. He spoke to her calmly, comfortably, with that ease that wasn’t shared with just anyone. Amélie responded just as naturally, with that half-smile Oscar knew all too well.

The same one she had once given him.

And suddenly, something twisted in his stomach with rage.

He didn’t know what hit him first.

How did she know Leclerc? Why had she never talked about him? She knew about Formula 1, she knew who Oscar was—why had she never mentioned she knew Charles? Especially when, in front of the Ferrari garage, they spoke like lifelong friends.

Or maybe it was something more.

Oscar’s mind began to spiral, to descend into the worst possible explanations.

Had Amélie done to Charles what she had done to him? Seduced him, lured him into her bed, had her fun, and then tossed him aside like nothing?

Maybe to Amélie, it had all been just a game.

Maybe he had never been more than a fleeting adventure, just another amusement in her world of luxury, connections, and opportunities he hadn’t even realized she had.

Maybe, while he burned inside trying to understand what had happened between them, she had already forgotten him completely.

Oscar could feel the anger building in his chest like a bomb about to explode. His jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists, and no matter how hard he tried to focus on something else, his gaze kept drifting back to the Ferrari garage.

Back to her.

He didn’t know what infuriated him more.

The thought gnawed at him. Was there something between her and Charles? Had there ever been? Had he just been a passing distraction?

"Alright, mate, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Lando appeared beside him, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between concern and exasperation.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Lando scoffed. "Come on, Oscar. You’re standing there looking like you’re about to murder someone. I’ve seen that face before, and honestly, I’d rather you not make a scene right before qualifying."

Oscar let out a sharp breath, running a hand over the back of his neck.

"It’s just…" He pressed his lips together, struggling to find the right words. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to say it out loud because that would make it real. But Lando was watching him with that look—the one that said I’m not leaving until you tell me—and Oscar knew there was no way out.

"It’s complicated."

Lando snorted.

"When is it not with you?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare but continued anyway.

"I met someone. In Monaco. We… saw each other a few times. Okay, not a few, a lot. But we ended it. Or she did. Doesn’t matter. The point is, she’s here. In the Ferrari garage."

Lando blinked, processing the information.

"Okay… Wait. Are you telling me all this rage is over a girl?"

"She’s not just ‘a girl,’" Oscar growled before realizing he had just given himself away.

Lando raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes gleamed with the excitement of someone who had just stumbled upon something juicy and wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, alright. She’s not just a girl. She’s her. And what’s the problem with her?"

Oscar shook his head.

"It doesn’t make sense for her to be here. I mean, she told me her dad was an F1 fan, but this… This is something else. She moves around that garage like she lives there. Like she knows everyone."

Lando tilted his head, studying him. His gaze flickered toward the Ferrari garage, and suddenly, something in his expression shifted.

"Hold on a second… Are you telling me that the girl you were seeing is Amélie Vasseur?"

The surname hit Oscar like a sledgehammer.

Vasseur.

Ferrari’s team principal.

A hollow feeling settled in his stomach, quickly followed by a wave of fury that made his teeth clench so hard his jaw ached.

Everything clicked into place.

That’s why she was so comfortable in the garage. That’s why everyone treated her like family. That’s why Charles Leclerc knew her as if they had grown up together.

She had played him.

She had never told him the truth. Never even given him a hint of who she really was. And while he had spent weeks agonizing over what had happened between them, wondering if it had meant anything, she had simply moved on with her life like it was nothing.

His blood boiled.

If he had been angry before, now he saw nothing but red.

Lando was silent for a second before bursting into laughter.

"Wait, wait…" He leaned slightly toward Oscar, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. "Are you telling me you didn’t know who she was? Seriously?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare, but that only made Lando laugh harder.

"Mate!" Lando exclaimed, still chuckling. "How the hell did you not recognize Vasseur’s daughter?"

"Because I’ve never seen her before. And she never told me" Oscar growled, feeling the anger rise in his throat like fire.

"But it was right in front of you! The French accent, the ‘I’m going to destroy you but with elegance’ sense of humor, the way she never shuts up—" Lando shook his head, grinning. "Damn, now that I think about it, it’s so obvious."

Oscar, however, wasn’t amused.

He was furious.

Not because she was Vasseur’s daughter. Not because she had been surrounded by the world of F1 her entire life.

But because she had never told him. Because she had kept everything from him. Because she had walked away without even giving him a damn chance to understand.

Because he, like an idiot, had thought that what they had mattered.

And now he realized that, to her, it had probably just been a game.

Qualifying had been one of the best of his career.

Second place, right behind Lando. An incredible result for McLaren, a statement in Monza—Ferrari’s territory. But while the mechanics celebrated in the garage, while his team congratulated him, while the cameras captured his serious expression during the post-qualifying press conference, Oscar could only think about her.

About the last name she had never told him. About the laughter she had shared with Ferrari’s mechanics. About the way Charles Leclerc looked at her with the kind of familiarity that only came from having someone in your life for a very long time.

The anger still boiled inside him, pulsing with every breath, with every damn image his mind replayed.

He went straight to the hotel after the interviews, not lingering with the team, not responding to the congratulations with the enthusiasm expected of him. Locked in his room, he paced back and forth, replaying every moment, every conversation, every fucking lie disguised as omission.

Why?

Why had she never told him? Why had she let him make a fool of himself, thinking she was just another girl, when in reality, she belonged to this world even more than he did? Was it a game to her? Had she laughed at him once he was gone?

Every time he tried to sleep, his mind dragged him back into the same spiral. He tossed and turned, shifting positions over and over until finally, when the clock hit 3:00 AM, he made a decision.

He had had enough.

If he couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t either.

Throwing on whatever clothes he could find, he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel without a second thought. Anger, frustration, and the need to confront her pushed him forward, stronger than reason. He walked through the rain, not caring that the water seeped into his clothes, not caring that his breathing was uneven from the fury coursing through him.

He knew where the Ferrari team was staying.

And when he arrived, soaked to the bone, he asked for Amélie Vasseur’s room at reception and went up without hesitation.

He didn’t even think before raising his fist and knocking.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

There was movement on the other side.

Then, the door opened, and there she was.

Amélie blinked, still groggy, her hair a mess, wrapped in a sweatshirt far too big for her. It took a second for her to process what she was seeing—Oscar Piastri, drenched, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury, his eyes burning with something far more than just anger.

“Oscar?” Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but mostly, from sheer surprise.

He stared at her, silent for a moment, as if he needed to remind himself why he was there.

Then, with his jaw clenched, with the storm still raging inside his chest, he said,

“Tell me the truth.”

Amélie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She knew exactly what he meant.

She sighed, casting a quick glance down the hallway before stepping aside to let him in. Oscar crossed the threshold without hesitation, dripping onto the floor with every step, shoulders tense, eyes locked onto her as if she were an enemy, not someone he had once spent entire nights with.

“Let me explain,” she started, closing the door behind her.

“Explain what?” Oscar let out a dry, humorless laugh. “How you played me this whole time? How you laughed at me while I thought—” He stopped abruptly, like saying it out loud would hurt even more.

Amélie felt the pang in her chest, but she kept her composure.

“I never laughed at you.”

“Oh, come on.” Oscar scoffed, running a hand through his wet hair. “Do you have any idea how fucking stupid I feel right now? The entire goddamn paddock knew except me. Lando knew, the engineers knew—Jesus, Amélie.”

Amélie clenched her jaw.

“Oscar—”

“And meanwhile, I was here wondering why you never wanted to be seen with me in public, why you always seemed like you were hiding something.” His words were sharp, cutting, like he wanted to hurt her just as much as he felt she had hurt him. “Was it fun? Did you enjoy watching me, completely clueless about who I was actually sleeping with?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Amélie snapped, her voice louder than she had intended.

Oscar fell silent for a second, taken aback by her reaction.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

“I didn’t do it to laugh at you. I didn’t do it to play with you. I did it for you, Oscar.”

He let out a bitter laugh.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain to me how lying to my face for months was for me, because, honestly, I’d love to understand.”

Amélie felt her own anger rise.

“Because if people found out about us, if it got out that we were together, the first thing they would do is question you.” She pointed at him, her voice firm. “They’d say you were with your rival’s daughter, that Ferrari was favoring you, that your seat at McLaren was in jeopardy. You don’t need that kind of shit on your shoulders.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

“And who decided that was your problem?”

“It became my problem the moment this turned into something more. The moment it stopped being just a fling,” she shot back, her gaze burning into his. “Do you think it was easy? Do you think I wanted to walk away from you?”

“I don’t know what you wanted, Amélie. You never said anything, you never explained anything.”

Silence fell between them like a heavy wall.

For a moment, Amélie saw something in Oscar’s eyes beyond the anger.

Something that hurt even more than his words.

Disappointment.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Oscar was breathing heavily, water still dripping from his hair, his clothes clinging to his skin. He didn’t care. Not when anger burned in his chest, when confusion suffocated him.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rougher than he intended. “Did you have something with Charles?”

Amélie blinked, surprised by the question, but her expression remained unchanged. There was no trace of guilt or nervousness. Only exhaustion.

“No,” she said firmly. “Never. Ew”

Oscar let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. She took a step toward him, but Oscar remained rigid. “Charles and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s like a brother to me. Nothing more.”

Oscar stared at her, searching her face for any sign of a lie, anything that would reveal she was hiding the truth. But all he found was sincerity.

And yet, it wasn’t enough to ease the knot in his stomach.

“Then explain it to me,” he murmured, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. “Explain why you did what you did. Why you never told me who you were. Why it felt like you were trying to hide me.”

Amélie pressed her lips together, looking away for a moment. When she met his gaze again, there was something vulnerable in her expression.

“Because I never thought this would go this far,” she confessed. “I never thought I’d fall in love with you.”

Oscar felt the air ripped from his lungs.

Amélie swallowed hard and continued. “At first… I thought it was something fleeting. Something fun. But then I realized that every time I saw you, I wanted to see you more. That when you left, I missed you more than I should have. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, trying to process her words.

“I was scared,” she whispered.

He watched her, his chest rising and falling with every restrained breath. “Scared of what?”

Amélie exhaled in frustration, running a hand through her hair. “That if people found out, they would use it against you. That my last name would harm you. That this would stop being ours and turn into a scandal.”

Oscar let out a bitter laugh. “So you chose to push me away? You made me feel like I meant nothing to you?”

Amélie clenched her fists, her gaze burning. “Oscar, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before! I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do—you can’t expect me to have all the answers to my life.”

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve figured it out. We could’ve found a way to make this work. Together.”

The pain in his voice hit her harder than any shout could.

For a moment, she said nothing. She just looked at him, eyes glistening, chest rising and falling as if her words weighed too much.

Finally, in a voice so soft it sounded like admitting it would break her, she whispered:

“I think I love you.”

Oscar felt his world shift beneath his feet.

Amélie swallowed. “And that terrified me.”

The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t the same.

It was broken. Uncertain.

One that only Oscar could decide if he wanted to fill with something else.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, as if trying to release all the anger, frustration, and pain built up inside him. But something still remained stuck in his chest.

“Amélie…” His voice was no longer sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. It was caught somewhere in between—that thin line between anger and understanding.

She didn’t look away. She faced him, vulnerable but steady, as if ready to take whatever response, whatever emotional blow he had to give.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Do you know what hurted me the most?”

Amélie didn’t answer, but the tension in her shoulders was telling.

“It’s not that you’re Vasseur’s daughter.” He shook his head. “It’s not that you were in the paddock, in Ferrari, with Charles, with all those people who always knew who you were and I didn’t.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, as if confessing something he never wanted to say out loud.

“It’s that you made me feel like I didn’t matter.”

Amélie’s eyes shone with an emotion she couldn’t hide.

“Oscar…”

“You made me doubt everything,” he went on, his voice rough. “Whether what we had meant anything or if I was just a distraction. Whether everything I felt was real or if I was the only one feeling it.”

Amélie closed her eyes for a second, as if his words cut through her. When she opened them again, her expression was softer, more open.

“It wasn’t just a distraction.”

Oscar let out a dry laugh.

“It wasn’t,” she insisted, stepping closer. This time, Oscar didn’t move away. “It never was.”

He looked at her, searching for something in her eyes. Something that told him he could believe her. Something that said all the anger in his chest could finally start to fade.

Amélie let out a nervous laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only uncertainty.

“I’m not good at this,” she murmured, running a hand through her tangled hair. “At… feeling things so quickly. At not being in control.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, watching her more intently.

She sighed. “I always thought it was better to keep my distance. Not get too attached. But then you came along.”

Oscar felt his heart pound harder.

“I didn’t expect to feel this,” she continued, a small, resigned smile forming on her lips. “And when I realized I was already too deep, I got scared.”

Oscar’s anger didn’t disappear all at once, but something inside him started to loosen.

Because he understood.

God, he understood her more than he wanted to admit.

Amélie looked at him with a silent plea, as if waiting for him to tell her that it wasn’t too late.

Oscar lowered his head for a second, exhaling slowly. Then, without a word, he reached out and took her wrist, his touch barely there.

Amélie trembled at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

Their eyes met again, and this time, the anger between them had softened.

“And now?” Oscar asked quietly.

Amélie swallowed. “Now…”

She took another step closer, until only inches separated them.

“Now I don’t want to keep running.”

Oscar’s heart skipped a beat.

She wetted her lips, and with almost fearful softness, slid her hand over his.

Oscar looked at the gesture—the warmth of her skin against his, the way their fingers fit together like they had done this a million times before.

And without thinking too much, he intertwined his fingers with hers.

Amélie let out a breath, as if she hadn’t realized how much she needed that touch until now.

Oscar lifted his gaze and met hers.

There was no fear anymore.

Only them.

And with the slightest movement, Amélie leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss so slow, so sincere, it seemed to erase everything else.

Because in the end, love always won.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if they both needed to make sure it was real. There was no urgency, no desperation—only a mutual need to find each other again, beyond the anger, beyond the doubts.

Neither of them moved. Amélie still had her fingers intertwined with Oscar’s, her forehead nearly touching his, breathing the same air.

It was Oscar who broke the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well… that was intense.”

Amélie let out a breathy laugh. “The kiss or the fight?”

Oscar tilted his head, thoughtful. “Both. Though if I had to choose, I think I’d rather keep the kiss.”

She smiled, playing with his fingers. “Good, because the other thing was exhausting.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle. “Tell me about it. I literally walked through the rain like some dramatic movie idiot.”

Amélie burst into laughter. “You did.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “If this were a romantic cliché, someone was definitely watching us from a window with sad music playing in the background.”

“Let me guess,” Amélie said with a teasing smile. “In the movie of your life, who would play you?”

Oscar pretended to think. “Mmm… obviously someone handsome. Ryan Gosling, maybe.”

Amélie raised an amused eyebrow. “Gosling? That’s ambitious of you.”

“Excuse me?” Oscar looked at her, feigning offense. “Are you saying I don’t have Gosling-level attractiveness?”

Amélie shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re not handsome, but…” She rested a hand on her chin, analyzing him. “I see you more as… a Tom Holland with a boyish face.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “I feel both flattered and offended at the same time.”

She smiled and, in a spontaneous gesture, ran her fingers through his damp hair. “But seriously, you didn’t have to come all the way here soaking wet. You could’ve just texted me and avoided looking like a stray puppy outside my hotel door.”

Oscar looked at her in mock indignation. “How disrespectful. This was a romantic gesture, obviously, not a tantrum.”

Amélie laughed, but soon her smile softened. “Do you really want to try?”

Oscar sighed, looking at her directly, all traces of humor gone. “Of course I do. But I don’t want you to disappear again. I don’t want to be a secret. I don’t want you looking at me like you’re about to run.”

Amélie lowered her gaze for a second, biting her lip, before meeting his eyes again.

“Okay,” she finally said, with a small smile.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “‘Okay’? That’s it?”

Amélie huffed in amusement. “Okay, let’s try. I won’t run, I won’t hide, I won’t play mysterious—well, maybe a little, because it suits me—but I promise not to run from you.”

Oscar studied her with a half-smile, as if making sure she was serious.

“So that means I can take you to dinner in public without you throwing a smoke bomb in the middle of the restaurant?”

Amélie rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”

Oscar grinned. “Perfect. But I warn you, if this gets too romantic, I’m going to assume we’re in a cheesy rom-com and start calling you ‘my love’ out loud just to annoy you.”

Amélie playfully shoved his chest. “If you do that, I’ll be forced to pretend I don’t know you.”

Oscar leaned in slightly, his smile turning mischievous. “And if I kiss you in public? Will you pretend not to know me then too?”

Amélie looked at him, her eyes shining with that same ever-present challenge. “Depends on how good the kiss is.”

Oscar let out a laugh, and without wasting another second, kissed her again.

Because if there was one thing they knew for sure, this game between them was far from over.

Amélie pulled away, a peculiar light shining in her gaze, a foolish smile stretching across her lips. “This is going to cost us a fortune. McLaren and Ferrari are going to have to spend a ridiculous amount on PR to manage this scandal and the press.”

The Monza sun filtered timidly through the curtains, but neither of them had any intention of moving.

Oscar had no idea what time it was, and honestly, he didn’t care. The only thing he knew for sure was that Amélie’s bed was much more comfortable than his and that the warmth of her body against his made any other thought irrelevant.

Amélie stirred slightly beside him, her breathing still steady. She half-opened her eyes just enough to look at him and smile—that lazy, satisfied smile that made Oscar feel a small tug in his chest.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

Oscar, still with his face buried in the pillow, huffed.

“No idea. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so don’t worry.”

Amélie let out a soft laugh and stretched before snuggling against his chest again.

“We can stay like this a little longer.”

Oscar slid a hand down her back, pulling her even closer.

“Sounds like a perfect plan.”

And so they stayed. Letting laziness wrap around them, the distant sounds of the hotel waking up nothing more than a faint murmur. For the first time in months, they weren’t in a hurry.

Until someone knocked on the door.

Both of them froze.

“Were you expecting someone?” Oscar whispered.

Amélie frowned. “No…”

Another knock, this time more insistent.

And then, a voice unmistakably cut through the silence.

“Amélie, open the door.”

Oscar felt his soul leave his body.

Amélie went completely still. Then, without moving a single muscle, she slowly turned her head toward Oscar.

They looked at each other as if they had just seen a ghost.

Frederic. Freaking. Vasseur.

Still in bed, all Oscar could murmur was:

“Oh, shit.”

Amélie covered her face with her hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Oscar darted into the bathroom with the reflexes of a driver avoiding a crash. He shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it, taking a deep breath as if that would make him invisible.

From the other side, he heard the hotel room door open, followed by the unmistakable voice of Frederic Vasseur.

“Amélie,” her father greeted, his tone casual—the same tone he used right before ruining someone’s day. “Bon matin.”

“Dad,” Amélie replied, trying to sound natural, but with a slight hint of panic. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I was passing by and thought, ‘I’ll check in on my daughter, have breakfast with her, make sure she’s not getting into trouble…’”

Amélie watched him cautiously. If she was lucky, this would be a short visit.

But then, her father stilled.

His gaze drifted toward the window.

More specifically, to Oscar’s clothes—a pair of pants, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt with the McLaren logo—strategically draped over a chair to dry.

Amélie followed his gaze.

Shit.

Very slowly, Vasseur turned his attention back to his daughter.

She tried to think fast. “It’s—”

“Don’t.” Vasseur raised a hand to stop her, his face the very picture of paternal disappointment. “Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

He turned, crossing his arms. “Amélie,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Who’s hiding in the bathroom?”

Silence.

Amélie looked at the bathroom door.

Then at her father.

She tried to smile.

“…No one.”

Vasseur closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and then, without hesitation, walked straight toward the bathroom door.

Oscar’s eyes widened in horror.

Amélie sighed dramatically. “Dad, please. Don’t assume things.”

“Oh, I’m not assuming anything,” Vasseur said, clearly amused. “I’m just analyzing the evidence. Let’s see: wet McLaren clothes. A nervous daughter. A locked bathroom door. Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire.”

Oscar felt the doorknob move.

He held his breath.

Then, three firm knocks.

“Knock, knock,” Vasseur said, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

Oscar closed his eyes. “Shit.”

“Oh! He speaks.” Vasseur’s voice sounded even more entertained. “What a surprise! I wonder who it could be.”

Oscar felt like he was living a nightmare.

He sighed and rested his forehead against the door. “I’m in my underwear, and I’m coming out, okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Vasseur replied, in the tone of someone having the time of his life. “Whenever you’re ready, champ.”

Oscar slowly turned the doorknob and stepped out like a prisoner about to receive his sentence.

Vasseur looked him up and down with a lazy smirk, crossing his arms.

“Piastri,” he greeted, as if they were old friends.

Oscar tried to maintain his dignity. “Mr. Vasseur.”

“Tell me, son,” the Ferrari team principal said, tilting his head. “How desperate does one have to be to show up here in the middle of the night, soaking wet?”

Oscar felt Amélie stifling her laughter beside him.

"I…"

"I mean, your hotel must not serve a good breakfast. Did you come here just for croissants, or did my daughter offer a more interesting menu?"

Amélie burst out laughing and immediately regretted it when Oscar shot her a glare.

"Sorry."

"What was your plan if I caught you?"

Oscar blinked. "Hide in the bathroom?"

Vasseur looked at him with absolute disappointment. "Terrible strategy. Verstappen, at least, would have jumped out the window."

Amélie let out another laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.

Oscar sighed. "Sir, with all due respect, is this going to last much longer?"

Vasseur grinned. "Oh, absolutely. I'm enjoying this way too much."

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment. "Great."

Vasseur patted him on the shoulder. "Relax, Piastri. This could have been worse."

Oscar looked at him skeptically.

"Oh yeah? How?"

Vasseur’s grin widened.

"My daughter could be fucking Lando Norris. At least you're the good half of McLaren."

Amélie burst into loud laughter.

Oscar just dropped his head into his hands, accepting his fate.

The sun was slowly setting over Monza, painting the sky in golden hues as the tifosi roared, celebrating the victory they had longed for. Charles Leclerc stood at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, carrying the love of Ferrari on his shoulders while the Italian anthem echoed with an almost sacred intensity. Beside him, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri completed the scene, their smiles shaped by the effort of the race, by the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins.

But Amélie wasn’t looking at Charles. She wasn’t even truly paying attention to the podium as a whole. Her eyes were fixed on Oscar.

From where she stood, surrounded by mechanics, engineers, and Ferrari executives, wrapped in her father’s embrace, she felt something strange in her chest. It wasn’t just happiness, nor was it simply pride. It was something deeper. Something far more terrifying.

Because she had never thought she would care so much about someone outside of this world of engines and strategy, beyond her surname, beyond the pressure of Formula 1.

And yet, here she was.

Oscar was searching for her in the crowd.

She swallowed hard as their eyes finally met.

Words weren’t necessary.

They understood each other in an instant, as if they had already had this conversation a thousand times before.

And in that gaze—laden with everything they had been through, the arguments, the fears, the secrets, the doubts—they made a silent promise.

They wouldn’t run anymore.

Amélie felt her heart pounding too fast, as if she were running her own race.

Without realizing it, she clung a little tighter to her father’s arm.

Vasseur, who had been watching in silence, let out an amused huff.

"Looks like someone has extra reasons to celebrate today."

Amélie turned sharply, frowning.

“Dad, please…”

“No, no. Don’t look at me like that,” he replied, raising his hands in feigned innocence. “I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you this focused on a podium before.”

She rolled her eyes, but the small smile that slipped through betrayed her.

“Whatever.”

Vasseur chuckled, giving her a pat on the back.

"You know, if Piastri has already survived breakfast with me, maybe he’s not entirely useless after all."

She shot him a glare, but he only shrugged, clearly entertained.

"I say this for his own good, you know? I wouldn’t want him to get run over by everything that comes with being with you."

Amélie narrowed her eyes.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

Vasseur smirked.

"It means I come with the package."

She scoffed, but a laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

Her gaze returned to the podium.

Oscar was still there, trophy in one hand, champagne glass in the other, but his eyes were searching for her again.

The noise, the crowd, the madness of Formula 1—it all faded into the background.

They had found each other.

And for the first time, Amélie had no desire to run.

@smoooothoperator

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[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TRIGGER WARNING: the aftermath of surviving a suicide attempt. SUICIDAL IDEATION, DEPRESSION, possible past-eating disorder. depersonalization-derealization, detailed writing of vomit.

This story is written from the perspective of a biased omniscient narrator, keep this in mind as you read and don't take everything they say as absolute truth.

Please proceed with caution and consider your personal comfort and wellbeing before continuing.

Nine months of your inception. Within your mother's womb, you were cradled in warmth, your arrival anticipated without reservations—it seemed to matter not if you were nobody, if you were just you. What mattered was your very birth, the fact of your existence. Milestone after milestone was marked—your first word, your first stumbling step—each met with joy, creating an illusion that despite still grasping the basics and balancing on two clumsy feet, you would always be loved.

Lies. They are all lies. As you grow up, you realize the world is not as it seemed, and love is not that unconditional. You have to be something, someone, in order to be loved.

Being human means wanting to be unique, but not so different that it results in being deemed "troubled." Being human means having people insist you have dreams only to be forced to bury them deep and never revisit them. Being human means standing between two contradictions that ultimately make you a hypocrite. Being human is reaching for something and nothing. Being human is always wanting to be loved, loved, and loved.

You long to be an ordinary daughter, with no talents, no remarkable qualities. Just you. With a father who would take you out for ice cream simply because he loves you, not because you got an A in class; with a mother who cooks your favorite meal simply because it brings you happiness, rather than as a means to keep you confined at home during the weekends.

But that doesn’t get you anywhere, you know. There’s no celebration in being ordinary, no celebration in breathing another day. So you turn your life into one long series of attempts to be something worth staying for, worth loving. What a pathetic woman, one might say—always harping on about love, love, love. Shallow. Cliché. But I can’t help that that’s me.

You tried many times to persuade that little girl—who persisted inside you as you grew older, blowing out candles without a cake, with hopes that were gradually pared down until only one obstinate one remained: God, please, just once, I want to be happy. She lives somewhere inside you, permanently; you can’t get rid of her even if you wanted to (there’s something absolute about humans always trying to burn away their past selves—which, you think, is to fool the world that they were born this way).

You dislike her. That girl and her curiosity to keep searching for the light. Like a trapped baby animal, her little hands clawing at your pancreas every time you neglected her dreams—the old, worn-out dreams that you had buried to the depths of your soul. Made only to be forgotten. Unfortunately, she would never understand this—still believing that the world was so benevolent to give her what she desired.

And unfortunately, you don't have the heart to tell her either.

So, here you both are—you and the little girl—dancing in a denial created by one or the other. She in her naivety, you in your rejection of her. A deadly, dissonant duet; a bleak and morbid song that gnaws at your flesh. The burden of her hopes for the future bends your back; your sternum pops as she tries to find her way out of the confines of your ribs.

You dislike her—the girl—but you endured the sting her nails left as she carved red crescents into you. You also refused to let her leave—scooping her small body from the ichor-covered floor as gently as her father had done to her. This was your distraction for her, your coaxing to keep her. So she could only see you through the lying mirror in the bathroom. So she wouldn’t see the reality of who she was growing up to become.

Maybe it's shame. Maybe it's guilt. How she dreams of softer days—with flowers and citrus stains on her dress while basking in the glow of the spotlight, but you've become a rotting fruit, sour, bitter at the end. The blood inside you clots; black ink pours from your heart. Never will you reach that house. She dreams of being the brightest star while, once again, you let her down and-

You left the stage.

Your own consciousness feels like a tidal wave, pulling you back and forth between sleep and reality. The world around you feels hazy, the edges of your vision blurring as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings.

Something wet brushed against your cheek. Confused, you tried to jerk your head back, but the movement only spread the dampness further. You can barely recognize your own voice as it came out as a pathetic whimper of pain. Forcing your burning eyes open, you blinked into consciousness. You shifted again, your brow furrowing as you felt something rising through your gut and throat.

Without warning, you find yourself retching, your body convulsing as you expel the contents of your stomach onto the bed. The acrid taste filled your mouth, and you could smell the vomit staining the sheets beneath you.

It was at that moment that all of your senses rushed back to you. You hold your throbbing head; your body feels weak, and yet, your heart is beating so very fast. Extending your hand, you try to reach the glass sitting on the nightstand and finish it in one go. You no longer care where the glass ends up. Waiting and waiting, you hope the water can do something to alleviate every single pain you're feeling.

To your dismay, it does nothing more than ease your throat of the remaining bile. Your heart is still racing, your hands are still shaking, and your stomach feels like it’s being twisted and stabbed from within. Curling up into the fetal position, disregarding the pool of vomit you're lying in. Your fists are pressing into your abdomen, trying to dull the suffering, but all you get is another of your cries.

You feel like a stinky mess. Your hair is damp, matted, sprinkled with tiny particles of foul, sour smell. For an hour, you lie there like the dead, occasionally letting out a small groan from how torn your stomach is. The nagging feeling of needing to vomit keeps crawling up your throat, but time after time, it would pass, and nothing would come up, just a release of pent-up gas.

An hour later, the pain finally gives in, dulling. You scramble out of bed, walking towards the door, using the wall as support for your wobbly limbs. Reaching the bathroom, you try as hard as you can to ignore the empty pill bottles scattered on the floor and yank the cabinet open. You pop a few activated charcoal into your mouth, hoping it will at least do something. To make the pain go away.

You sit on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the tiled wall. The coolness of the surface is a welcome sensation on your sweaty body. You are aware of the thoughts brewing in your mind. You try to avoid them and look for distractions around you—a crack in the wall, a thin spiderweb at the corner.

But you’ve never been known for being a good escape artist. One thought slips out, and you’re left crying in the bathroom. You cry for yourself—you think this is the first time you’ve ever genuinely felt sorry for yourself. Funny, to feel so guilty when you’re the one who brought this on yourself. You feel like a narcissistic, self-pitying woman who somehow always manages to paint herself as the victim.

Knowing that you don’t deserve this—everything that led you here and the way you’ve treated yourself. In the rare moments of self-compassion, the many previous versions of you come running to you. You could almost guess what they’re thinking: "You erased me just to create this wretched person you’ve become?"

A chuckle escaped you, devoid of humor, yet full of the arrogance that only humans can possess. But it was short-lived, as tears quickly filled your eyes and broken sobs wracked your body. The untamed flame crawled up and licked your throat, preventing you from speaking. In fear that if you did, you would string together another word you would regret. You guess that's what you are, a human full of nothing but regret.

From how hard your heart beats, you can follow its rhythm without putting your hand to your chest. Thump, thump, thump. You wonder if the sound of its beats is bouncing off your rib cage, broadcasting as if it were an announcement.

The owner tried to kill it, but it survived.

It's unsettling, this feeling. The awareness that you are owed an apology, and yet you are the very person who caused yourself pain. Always looking at your imperfections with a magnifying glass but never acknowledging the good you try to offer. Always yearning to be someone else when it was you who brought yourself here. Despite your disgrace, you should have tucked yourself in as gently as you would have done anyone else.

The silence of your lonely apartment holds up a mirror that has been forced upon you. It demands that you face yourself—to stop seeing what isn’t there, to accept who and how you are. Your virtues and your vices. Your virtues. Your vices.

But with your black-and-white vision, you don’t have that ability. If you're not entirely good, then you're a terrible person, and vice versa. You consider half measures as crime, as inconsistency. Since when did you developed this perspective you didn't know. Given your mother, you suspect it’s hereditary—or if not, perhaps taught at an early age. This makes you realize that you will never make up for how horrible a person you are.

You sat in the bathroom for two hours. Once you feel a little better, you try to find your footing and stagger into the kitchen. The light from the refrigerator you opened casts a parallelogram of light into the dark room. You reach for whatever leftovers are inside, scooping up the cold pasta you made the other day with your bare hands and stuffing it into your mouth. A frown forms at the unfamiliar temperature, but you keep chewing. You quickly swallow, then move on to the next unheated meal.

You don't even know what to hope. You're unsure if stuffing your belly with food will help to calm your racing heart and trembling body, just as it did in the past when you purposefully denied yourself meals.

By some miracle (or perhaps some intricate bodily mechanism that you don't understand), it worked. After two more hours of dozing off in front of the television, you’re no longer sweating, and you no longer feel like you’re going to die right then and there. But not much else had changed. The silence in your apartment lingers on, and the numbness inside you is still there, if not yawning to the point of conjuring your brain into a state of stasis.

Getting up, you make your way back into your room. The sight is almost normal, except for the stains on your pillow and bedspread. You strip the sheets off the bed and throw them into the laundry bin—to your relief, the vomit hasn't seeped into the mattress underneath. You quickly replaced them. Everything seems normal, as if you hadn’t just tried to take your own life.

You always have the same way of arranging your four pillows—the plain one in the back, the two with floral covers in the front. You spread a new blanket on your clean bed before placing a warmer one on top.

Walking to the nightstand, you gather up the used tissue balls and your empty glass. You grab basically any trash you see and carry it out of the room. Reaching the main living area, you scan the room—by the window, at your stretching area, at the brown chair at the far end of the room, at your ivory couch, in between the piles of pillows, and at the perfectly square coffee table.

You lowered your eyes to the overflowing ashtray sitting in the middle. The object looks strangely out of place in your home because you don't smoke. You don't, but someone else used to.

With caution, you approach slowly like one would a wild animal. You stood right in front of the table. In front of the ashtray. The accumulated cigarette butts sit on the ashes that have long since cooled.

You pinch the edge of the ashtray with three fingers and pour the contents into the plastic bag you carry. Tilting the ceramic, you can see how it has gone gray underneath from the embers and cigarettes that were rubbed against it. There will never be another use for it. You tossed the ashtray in with the rest of the rubbish.

Finishing your frenzied cleaning, you step into the shower and rinse yourself under the cold water. Normally, the steady rhythm of the water flowing would relax your body, and it would be a signal for your mind to wander—to give you something to fret about. But today, there was nothing—just a vast, empty expanse of plain white, awfully quiet like the aftermath of a storm.

You ran your fingers through your hair, searching for a sensation. Nothing. There was nothing. It was as if your hands couldn't even touch your head—like a phantom unable to hold anything because it was from another world and did not belong in this reality.

Though as unusual as it is, you’ve experienced similar experiences before, leaving you somewhat used to it but still not able to deal with it. So, you accept it unwillingly, watching yourself go through your routine: “You” scratched at your scalp with your nails, digging deeper. White suds from your shampoo pooling in the shower drain. “You” finish your shower, wrapping a towel around yourself, and head to the bedroom to get dressed.

“You” sat down on the yoga mat, taking a moment to look in the mirror to ensure you're in the correct position for stretching. Next to the mirror is your duffel bag, filled with your ballet necessities – which has been sitting there for days, untouched because ballet has become nothing to you.

But “she” touches it—the “you” in your body. After finishing her stretches, she stands and rummages through her bag like you always do before class and rehearsal. A meticulous doppelganger, this one. She ties your hair into a bun with the same efficiency as you; glancing in the mirror a second time to make sure everything is perfect before she shoulders the duffel bag and heads for the door.

Wait, what is she doing?

Where is she taking you?

No ballet today—and there will be no ballet in the future. So where is she heading?

A skilled copycat. She knows just which subway line to take and precisely when to get off. You watch her climb the steps you've ascended countless times before, proceeding straight ahead and then turning onto the sidewalk where the crimson-painted flower shop is located. She walks and walks, seemingly unaware that her presence at the opera house will be questioned and unwanted. You want to scream at her to stop, to spare herself and you the embarrassment of rejection, but this invisible glass wall is so thick, it smothers your voice, preventing it from reaching her.

She continued down the deformed corridor, ignoring the surprised looks from the other dancers. At the end of the hallway—right where the open door to the prima ballerina’s dressing room was—stood Henri, his expression not much different from the others as he watched her barge in and immediately sit down at the dressing table like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place.

You hear Henri say your name, but wait for her response. He shuts the door behind him for more privacy before dropping his voice to almost a mumble, “What are you doing here?”

Unbothered, the doppelganger began to arrange her powders and makeup on the vanity table. She glanced in the mirror, making eye contact with the director. “Isn't tonight's show day?” she asked, remaining calm and composed as if she belonged here.

Henri stood there, baffled, the wrinkles on each side of his mouth accentuated by a frown before he called you again. The more he said your name, the more foreign it sounded to your ears.

“We’ve talked about this—Claudine is going to be the one playing the Swan Queen for tonight’s show and the next few performances.” He said in a no-nonsense tone, not up for discussion, not up for full-on defiance.

“You” averted her eyes back to her own reflection in the mirror, then dragged her foundation-stained fingers across her face, leaving a paler shade of her natural skin tone. “Just because I failed at the first show,” she pumped another dollop of the product, “doesn’t mean I can’t redeem myself.”

At her words, Henri opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but didn't. In his silence, the doppelganger saw the obvious cracks in his “inviolable” decision—it carved a smug smile on her face.

“So, where is Claudine now?” she questioned, a rhetorical one.

“She’s…”

“Late again?” she guessed (though it sounded like she was finishing the sentence for him), and his subsequent expression confirmed that her hunch was correct. She arched a brow in a “told you so” manner. “Claudine’s always got a problem being on time, didn’t you know?”

A sharp exhale escaped Henri. He pinched the bridge of his strong nose, muttering a curse under his breath in French. “You’re on,” he said, then approached the chair where “you” were sitting. “But for God’s sake, don’t disappoint me. I have a lot at stake here, and I don’t want any more disasters from you or Claudine.”

Leaning down, he brought his head closer to hers, their gazes locked in the mirror. “Perfection itself is imperfection,” he told her.

Having stated his piece, Henri straightened his back and turned to leave the room, leaving your doppelganger alone. The woman continued her makeup; applying contour according to the White Swan makeup portion, tapping the bristles on the blush and bringing it to fill in your cheeks, and finishing with a setting spray to set everything in place. It was all your exact routine.

Even though you weren't in her body, you could tell what she was thinking as she put the white faux feathers to either side of her head. She smiled at her reflection, proud of the end result of her appearance.

You’re not sure how Henri relayed the news to Claudine, but somewhere out there, she must be grieving for the opportunity that once again slipped through her fingers. Her dream was just a reach away from her—an almost—before it was cruelly snatched away from her. If you were a better person, you would feel sorry for her. You would also find similarities between the two of you.

But you and “she” both know that there is only one person eligible to play the lead role—the story of a swan floating aimlessly can only be played by a bloated corpse of a dreamer girl.

Nothing happened. And you are the Swan Queen.

Around twenty minutes later, a knock came at the door. “White Swan is up in ten!” a voice called out from the other side. The doppelganger turned her gaze in the mirror, examining her reflection one final time. Satisfied, she rose from the vanity chair and left the room to the backstage.

You watched as the swan flocks exited the stage in a graceful, synchronized glide. And then, without hesitation, “you” jumped into the spotlight, and the audience burst into applause at the entrance of the White Swan. Odette, with her arms spread wide like wings, opened her chest and pulled her spine back. She stood on pointe; her long legs took step after step, all in time with the harmonious plucking of the string instruments.

The pale light of the moon cast a silvery hue upon the solitary lake, a place that she and her flock of “swans” had been forced to call home for so long. During the day, they gather under the sheltering shade of the weeping willow tree that stands at the end of the lake. But when evening falls and the shadows grow long, they try to adapt to the unfamiliarity of the soft earth and the limbs of the girl they once were.

It was supposed to be yet another night of her cursed existence. So, when a man revealed himself from the darkness of the shadows and approached her, Odette couldn't help but feel terrified and flee, extending her arms as if she was about to take flight.

Who are you, stranger? She wandered in her thoughts. Was it coincidence that brought you here tonight, or is there another intent behind your appearance? Do you intend to harm me, just like the others who have come before you?

The crossbow in his hand should have spoken volumes (in another life, it would have been a worn and faded all-black leather jacket), should have been enough for her to stop wondering and run. To spare herself from more agony, to spare herself from piling on another curse she would have to endure. She ran—but not too far, still within his reach if he were to pursue her further. The only attempt at defense was her shielding her face with her hand—forgetting that she was no longer in swan form.

The man set down his crossbow and approached her slowly, stating that he meant no harm. Despite his reassurances, she still tried to elude him. Curious, he asked her why she was here. She halted her escape and attempted to stand still, explaining to him that she was the queen of the swans and that there was a lake nearby that was created from her mother's tears. And not far from here, there was a powerful evil sorcerer named Von Rothbart—it was he who cursed her into becoming a swan.

But—

You observed as your doppelganger placed her hand over the spot where her heart beats. "If the one who loves me marries me and swears to be faithful, then I will no longer be a swan.”

So gentle was his touch as he held her, as if she would perish if he were to apply any more force. She had always seen herself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of her—devoid of hope since her dreams had already been extinguished. Long had she borne the weight of this curse, believing that no such man—or such love—could ever prove her wrong.

But being in his arms now reignited the dwindling ember in her. She fell to his feet, her frail bone like brittle twigs. Before she knew it, his name spilled from her lips in a plea—for him to save her—for him to love and save her.

When he protected her from the sorcerer, she perceived him as a kind of savior. Were you the one written in the prophecy? To soothe her aching joints and tell her that she was worth saving—that she was not as far gone as everyone had led her to believe. Wide-eyed, she watched him declare his love—his promise to return for her. The scene came to an end, leaving the enchanted lake alone again.

(My heart is an overripe pomegranate; will you be the one to harvest it?)

The crimson curtain fell, signaling the end of the act. You watched as the doppelganger rushed off the stage. She passed by Henri, who stood in the wings, his expression full of concern as his head turned to follow her as she disappeared behind the door.

Entering the dressing room once more, the doppelganger shut the door behind her. Slowly, she approached the vanity table, sitting on the chair. She stared back at her image in the mirror, but her expression was similar to that of someone offering it to a complete stranger. Carefully, she began to remove the pristine white headpiece, placing it on the table's surface. She opened her eyeshadow palette and prepared to do her makeup for the Black Swan.

The white costume had been replaced by a lustrous black ensemble, adorned with sequins on the torso. Her makeup was bolder now, with heavier and more pronounced strokes around her eyes that would be visible even from the farthest reaches of the theater. On top of your head, a new headpiece rests, fancier and heavier.

It didn’t take long before a knock came at the door, and “you” left to return backstage.

With the heavy castle doors opening to the sound of trumpets announcing her entrance, Odile was confident she would win the favor of this prince. In her fiery blood that boiled like bubbling potion in a cauldron, she was well-versed in such things—gracing elegant balls in a flashy black dress that contrasted sharply with the unfortunate girl suffering under her father's curse and captivating everyone's attention without even trying.

Odile was made to be a social butterfly, albeit borrowing Odette’s appearance.

It was a mere game to her, nothing more than a side pleasure. When she caught sight of the unsuspecting prince, she struggled desperately to suppress a victorious smile. Even before she danced, this callow man seemed ready to offer her his heart on a silver platter. No wonder her father was so worried—this prince truly loved the white swan girl.

Poor soul, indeed. To perceive love as something lavish, rather than something to be used and thrown aside at will. How naïve. Odile would never be like that. If she were to speak truthfully, they would make a good pair—this swan girl and this prince.

And no, she had not come here in hopes of his love. Such a thing wasn’t in her lexicon. Love was a repugnant thing. She saw it as nothing more than a tool to manipulate, to control someone—like a rein on a horse, a whip on a cow. Love was a repugnant thing; it left you fretting about what someone thought and felt about you. She wouldn’t allow anyone to define her.

Under no one's critical eye, Odile flourished into who she wanted to be—dancing in whichever direction she desired. Agile, sharp, seductive. Brimming with confidence. Immune to the murmurs and jeers of others—let the dog bark, she wouldn’t allow anyone to define her. She wanted to be a star and she knew she would become the brightest star in the universe.

The red lip of that doppelganger curved upwards into a smile that was almost identical to the one the girl from the club had. If she were speaking verbally instead of in pantomime, you were sure her voice would sound exactly like hers.

Odile danced and danced, eluding the prince's grasp. But, unlike the timid Odette, she seemed to indulge in the thrill of the chase—a prize rather than a prey, toying with the man who so desperately desired her. Love was a repugnant thing, indeed. She continued this dance of cat and mouse. This game in which she knew full well who would emerge victorious.

(Instead of her falling at his feet, it was he who knelt before her.)

The doppelganger launched into the 32 fouettés, her body spinning with speed and precision. You hear the applause of the audience. The muscles in her legs rippled beneath the fluffy, black tutu as she spun and completed the variation.

You couldn’t remember how you made it backstage, but you find yourself on your knees—your stomach twisting itself into a painful knot. It's the same sensation you experienced hours ago—the unfinished consequences demanding your attention. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you're clenching your fists, and your face turns a deep shade of red as you grimace in pain.

The sound of multiple footsteps is heard as several dancers and crew members rush to your side, including the director—Henri. You can hear their concerned voices, one of them asking if it was cramps and another already rushing to find the medicine box they keep on hand. The backstage area turns into a chaotic scene, with you becoming the focus.

“Mon dieu!” Henri exclaimed. “What is happening? Tell me, where are you hurt?”

Trying to hold back your pained voice, you spoke in a breathless tone, “It's—it's nothing. I… I just… I need a moment.”

But Henri wasn’t buying it. Turning to one of the other dancers, he said, “Get Claudine. she’ll have to take over the rest of the performance.”

“NO!” You screamed, face flushed with a mix of pain and anger. How could it be so easy for him to replace you? How could he abandon you and find someone else who doesn't even know him as well as you do, thinking that is enough to fill your place? After hours of feeling empty, you almost forgot how burning anger can be. “I can do this. I know I can! Just give me a moment. I can finish this.”

Forcing yourself to get up as you had done a thousand times before, you bit your lower lip to hold back the excruciating burn. You clutched your abdomen, focusing your brain only on putting one foot in front of the other as you made your way down the corridor and into the dressing room.

When you turn to face the mirror, there you are waiting—you in your body. Slowly, you walk to the vanity, sinking down in the chair and hunching forward. You allow yourself a maximum of twenty seconds to steady your breathing, as well as to allow the suggestion to convince your mind and body that the pain isn't as excruciating as it feels, so it can stop exaggerating it.

Gritting your teeth, you reach for the cotton pads and makeup remover, wiping off the heavy, dark eye makeup of the Black Swan. The white is stained with black, tossed aside in a nearby trash bin. Then, you grab the same eyeshadow palette and use the brush to apply it across your eyelids.

As you lean in toward the mirror, your eyes narrow at a small patch of black that you missed—a stubborn remnant of the Black Swan makeup. Instinctively, you try to scrape it away with the tip of your nail. The action stings, causing your eyes to water. You try again, but the stain remains as a blemish on the supposedly pristine White Swan makeup. It will never be as clean as it was at the start.

At that moment, you did the last thing you thought you would do. You laughed. Tortured by the agony in your stomach and the stubborn black stain that marred your appearance, you laughed. You’ve never felt so alive—pain made you feel truly alive; anger made you feel real. Throughout your existence, you’ve seen yourself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of you. But now? Now, you’re filled with resentment, with betrayal. Up until now, you've been grieving, but now your grief has turned into anger.

Staring at your reflection, a mix of loathing and pity fills your heart. Why did you make me like this? What did I do wrong that you made me like this? Is it because I am a horrible person? Who made me a horrible person? Why did you let me live if I am such a horrible person? If I am truly irredeemable, why did you let me live instead of letting me die?

You laughed again, as if daring yourself to find a trace of real amusement in it. There was none. You kept laughing, your eyes locked on your own gaze in the mirror, waiting for that genuine spark of joy to ignite it—it never came. It was then that you realized that every time you performed this little “act,” the only person you had been fooling was yourself. Your lips began to wobble, a shaky breath escaping you as you lowered your gaze, your head bowing slightly. The stinging tears dripped onto the surface of the vanity table, dampening it.

When you stepped back onto the stage, the world was inundated in an overwhelming light, so bright that it almost burned your eyes. The flocks of swans around you scattered in pandemonium, aware of their imminent doom. You dance the dying swan—feeling every flabbiness of her joints, the trembling of her limbs as the curse seeped deeper into her blood – forever transforming her into a swan. The infamous Tchaikovsky score swelled around you as everything grew more intense.

In the hope of a happy ending, you find yourself scattered. If this were a pain of your own causing, perhaps you would find satisfaction in self-destruction. But this is not the case. The betrayal inflicted upon you is flaunted—paraded as a display of how foolishly you placed your trust. The artificial moon hanging overhead seems to gloat in your suffering.

You felt your steps lighten as you made your way up. As you reached the edge, the orchestra played to a climax, the drums echoing throughout the hall. Turning to face the prince, you met his gaze one final time before launching yourself off the surface.

The drums reached a deafening volume as you hit the mattress. Instantly, your surroundings seemed like a fever dream, with phantom sensations all over your body. You could hear the hurried footsteps of someone rushing towards you and the touch of something warm against your cold, sweaty forehead. “Something’s not right,” they said, “call an ambulance!” they shouted. It was odd how panicked they sounded when all you could think about was that empty chair in the front row—the one reserved for the man you were still waiting for even now.

Deep within your consciousness, a memory surfaces from your first recital in elementary school—where the younger you stares at the empty chair right next to Mother’s. It should've been occupied by the man the eight-year-old you had been waiting for—Daddy. He had promised to bring you flowers, to come and watch. Yet, the chair remained empty.

In both of those broken promises, somehow you find consolation. There's a peculiar reassurance in knowing that you’ve survived through something similar before, so you’ll overcome this one too. This is how most humans continue on, accumulating wounds atop wounds.

When you open your eyes, you blink against the blinding fluorescent light that illuminates the unfamiliar white ceiling above you. Confused, you sweep your gaze around for answers, trying to make sense of your situation. It takes you a few minutes to finally realize that you are in a hospital, on a patient bed, and connected to a dripping IV hanging from a steel pole next to you.

Memories of what had happened flood back into your mind, and instinctively, you search for any traces of pain. Strangely, it's nowhere to be found. You're unsure if this numbness is a product of another episode of detachment or if the pain has been dealt with. Nevertheless, you're grateful for it.

You furrow your eyebrows and reach for the call button. Within moments, a nurse appeared with her tired face, making you wonder how long her shift has been. It's just the two of you in the room, provoking the "stranger danger" in you until she flashes you a warm, kind smile that instantly dispels your concerns. She slowly approached your bed.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, you wonder how to answer the question. “I feel strange” is the best you can come up with. “What happened to me?”

The nurse's expression shifted. “Well now, it seems you may be suffering from a touch of… medication poisoning, love.” She meets your gaze,  indifferent to the awkwardness you feel. “Luckily, it appears your liver is still in good shape—if we'd gotten to you even a bit later, the outcome might have been different.”

It wasn't hard to understand what she was implying. The difference. Of course it was poisoning, you scoffed inwardly. There was no way you had taken those pills and mixed them with alcohol and not expecting this. But you couldn't bring yourself to admit it out loud, not with the nurse watching you so intently so you just nodded wordlessly.

“Now, while this may have been unintentional, I’m afraid the psychiatrist will still need to have a chat with you, just to make sure everything is on the up an’ up.”

Your head shot up at her words. “Psychiatrist?”

“Yep,” the nurse emphasized the ‘p’ with a pop. “We've seen cases like this before. Sometimes it's an accident, sometimes..." She paused, considering whether to continue, but ultimately decided not to. “Anyway, we just want to be absolutely certain you're getting the proper care and support you need so you leave the hospital healed an’ happy.”

Forcing a chuckle, you tried to play it off as nothing more than a simple silly mistake. “It was just a bit of a mix-up, that's all. I took some pills and had a few drinks; nothing to worry about, really.” You give her a sheepish smile, hoping it will convince her.

But then again, you know that being here means there’s little you can do to avert the truth. They have their ways of uncovering the real story—they had access to all sorts of analyses and evidence, and you’re sure they've probably already run tests on your bodily fluids when you were brought in unconscious. These people have spent years studying biology and chemistry, yet you believe you can fool them with half-baked excuses and foolish smiles.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” you murmured, voice lowered to a barely audible whisper. “It was just an accident, I swear. I never..”

The poorly constructed lie might seem very obvious to the woman—especially with the way you’re behaving right now. Fortunately, she didn’t call you out on it directly. If she suspected something, she didn’t voice it.

“This is just standard procedure, a’igh? Nothin’ to be afraid of, I promise!”

Fairly speaking, since she entered the room, this woman has displayed nothing but kindness and non-judgmental advice. She is a good, reassuring person, and you wish you could be a better patient for her. But you are not.

The immeasurable fear inside you has spread and seeped too deep for someone to pull you out. A psychiatrist. The thought of someone competent to dissect your head like an organism under a microscope—to effortlessly pinpoint every sore spot and chronic abscess, uncover the roots of your actions, and link them to your past and present selves. To have them write down a diagnosis of what's wrong with you, a label that ties everything together, fills you with both dread and impotence.

And what if, on the flip side, there was nothing wrong with you at all? What if this was all just a product of your own design—a wounded person’s need for another wound?

Out of concern, the nurse offered, “Would you like me to have her come in?”

“Her?”

“Sorry! Uh, seems when you came in, the first emergency number we had on file was disconnected. So we had a go at the second one on the list. Sabrina, right?”

At the mention of your cousin's name, you're reminded that you've listed her as your second emergency contact. While the thought of disturbing her honeymoon period is met with a pang of guilt, you find yourself nodding in agreement.

“Yes, please,” you murmured. “I… I would appreciate that.”

“Alright, love, I’ll fetch her for you straight away.”

As the nurse exited the room, a hush fell over the space; the only audible sounds were from the soft purr of the air conditioner and the muffled voices from the hallway outside. You adjust the pillow behind your back to find a more comfortable position. Waiting, your eyes keep darting towards the door for Sabrina to come through that door.

When the door finally creaks open, you feel a surge of relief, expecting to see Sabrina's blonde hair and cheerful presence. For her to rush to your bed and hug you just like she used to when you were children.

But when it dawned on you who the person was, your sense of relief dissolved as you sharply inhaled. It wasn't your cousin—it wasn't Sabrina. The middle-aged woman stepped through the threshold, the shape of her eyes bore a striking resemblance to yours. It was, you prayed, the only trait that you had inherited from her. From your mother.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull @olives10 @cricricorner @idrkman @strrynigghts @mims900

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Never mind I had one more in the tank.

‘Who’s you’re favourite person?’ Sam asked once.

‘Joaquin.’ You replied without hesitation.

Sam’s brow quirks upwards as a amused smile crept on his face, the same face that you and Joaquin had teased him constantly that made him look as though he knew something about you both, he didn’t understand the joke but that only made it funnier for you and Joaquin. ‘Why?’ He said.

You shrugged. ‘Why not. He’s my favourite person because when I’m with him I can be myself, I can be a little silly and not feel bad about it. I can be stupid and instead of laughing at me, Joaquin is laughing with me.’ You smiled to yourself when you remembered how you tripped over thin air, only for Joaquin to catch you as he tells you to be careful, only for him to trip over his own feet seconds later which lead to the pair of you laughing at the irony of the moment; To you that was the beauty of Joaquin Torres.

‘Joaquin is someone who I can go to in conference, knowing he’ll always have my back, offer wise sage like advice even when it’s like three in the morning and we’re both half out of our minds. As long as I know k have Joaquin in my corner, then I can take on anything and everything for he’s my friend, my other half, my person whom I can’t live without as I don’t want to ever think of having to live without him anymore.’ You continued as you remembered how often you spent in his room more then your own at this point, always feeling that warmth within your chest whenever you saw him after mission and how happy you were to see him come back from his without so much as some minor bruises and cuts.

You remembered how often you’d find yourself tucked protectively within his embrace after movie nights and how you’d give just about anything just to stay like this within his arms forever, protected and protecting him when you found his head on your chest on the rare occasion where he needed your comfort, never once withholding it from him as he was more then deserving of anything and everything. You couldn’t help but swoon when you remembered the nights where you both would go to the roof of the compound to watch the stars, only to find yourself looking at them as they visited within his eyes, the man was beautiful and he knew it and you weren’t one to let him forgot it either.

‘He’s my favourite person because he’s authentically himself, never giving up his true self just to fit in with the rest and I admire him for doing so. He’s my person because without him I’ve got nothing, he’s my person because he makes life brighter and more worthwhile and worth running the risk for and I can’t thank him enough for being my person.’ You finished telling Sam, who had been looking over your shoulder the entire time, which made you furrow your brows as you looked to see what had caught his attention, only to see that Joaquin was stood in the doorway behind you with his arms crossed over his chest; smiling.

‘He’s asked you the same thing huh?’ He says with a playful air to his voice, but his eyes held a sense of sincerity as he pushed himself away to move to your side, leaving your feeling a rush of warmth wash over you from the close proximity when he moves his head so it was near your ear. ‘But I’m glad to hear that I’m your favourite person, the feelings more than reciprocated my love.’ He whispered before pressing a kiss to your forehead tenderly, making you lean into his touch and smiling stupidly, but that was the effect he had over you without having to try though that’s what you loved most about him.

[edamameimei]

crawling back

"do i wanna know if this feeling flows both ways?"

pairing: daniela avanzini x reader

synopsis: daniela knows you and her live completely different lives, and maybe that's why she couldn't admit to herself what she has truly felt for you all along.

mostly angst, i apologize. read to find out what type of ending it'll be!

a/n: this is a part two of do i wanna know? if you haven't read that fic yet, i highly suggest you do! also, as always, i just want to put out there that this is not a REAL portrayal of the people mentioned in this fic. all events are fictional and are for entertainment purposes only.

wc: 3143 words

now playing: do i wanna know? (live at the bbc) - hozier

The reason why you joined Dream Academy in the first place was to escape. 

After one too many mental breakdowns, you took a chance at the skeptical email that was sent to you. The rest after that was a blur. The auditions, the training period, all of it was not what you expected. When you first started training and development, you knew you weren’t on the same level as the other girls. You didn’t even come close. You were a random girl from a very small town. Your current TikTok following doesn’t even compare to the others whom consider themselves “influencers.” Deep down, you knew you didn’t have the personality to be a “Global Pop Star.” What was supposed to take a year ended up taking two years of your life and still, to this day, you aren’t sure if it was worth it. 

Especially when you ended up losing more than a chance to debut. 

The first day of training was hell for you. So much so, you found yourself during the 15 minute break crying in the bathroom. You hunch over the toilet, sobbing. You feel pathetic. Quite inadequate. The dance teacher had to repeat herself so many times to you and you still couldn’t get it right. You knew you were way over your head and this exact moment proved it. You continue to cry, debating if you should just give up and go back home. 

But at some point, you hear the door to the bathroom open. You cover your mouth, trying to stifle your cries but you know you’ve been caught. The person begins to approach the stall you were currently occupying and for a moment, they don’t say anything. They stand there, silently. You try to think of an excuse if the person were to ask you what was wrong but before you could say anything, the person finally speaks up. 

“I can help you with the dance… one-on-one…” Daniela’s voice echoes throughout the bathroom and it makes your cheeks flush slightly. You don’t say anything. You just sit there quietly, biting your lip. Daniela speaks up again, her voice soft. “Let me help you… Honestly…” You can hear the sincerity in her voice and it makes your chest flutter. You sigh, knowing you won’t be able to back away from the proposal Daniela gave you. You stand up, smoothing out your shirt before unlocking the stall door. You look at Daniela, a pout evident on your face. The Latina frowns when she notices how red your eyes are and your tear streaked face. She places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it gently. 

“Come on… Let me show you… She’s kind of a bad teacher, anyway…” The comment makes you giggle softly. You look into Daniela’s eyes, searching for any pity in them. But the only thing you can really focus on is how pretty her eyes were. You used to think Daniela was so intimidating. Her eyes always held an intense look in them, somewhat fiery. But the way she looks at you right now makes you second guess your judgements. 

Daniela takes your hand and basically pulls you out of the bathroom. 

And after that moment, Daniela knew you would turn her whole world upside down. 

She knew how particular you are about certain things. You were put together, collected, always one step ahead. Your bed was made every morning no matter how tired you were and you always had to stick to your routine. Your view on the world was perfectionistic, orderly. There wasn’t a single wrinkle in your clothes and you kept everything tidy– just how you like your life. 

Daniela, on the otherhand, was none of those things. 

She lived her life freely, with no cares in the world. Life is too short to worry about the little things. Life is too short to make your bed every morning. She proudly embraced the chaos and wanted to live in it for as long as she could. She was young, she had every right to. 

But when Daniela meets you, it’s almost magnetic. She never met someone like you. Someone so gentle, so kind. She couldn’t believe someone like you existed, especially at the same time as her. You could be ripped to bits and pieces, chewed down to the bone, and spat out like nothing but you’d still find the strength to go back to the practice room. You could sit in the studio and pretend it was another Thursday. The other girls on Dream Academy always found this trait of yours intimidating. Even under the pressure of the whole world and so much more, you still fought your way until the very end of Mission 3. 

Daniela wonders if that’s why she was so enthralled by you. She had to know what was underneath that calm exterior. Day after day, she made it her own mission to understand who you really were. Maybe, she would have an excuse to love you less. Maybe you’d be so flawed, there would be a reason to give up on whatever feelings she found herself developing for you. 

But after that night you two shared, Daniela got up extra early that morning. She quietly slipped out of bed, kissing the top of your head. She left the hotel room with a weight lifted off her shoulders and a wide smile on her face. She returns with two cups of coffee in her hands. However, her smile falters slightly when she sees that the bed was made. She hears you humming in the shower and when she thought the weight she felt before has finally gone away, it comes back tenfold. 

When you finish showering, you walk out of the bathroom, expecting to see Daniela. However, you return to see the sweater she always borrowed from you messily thrown onto the floor. 

You pick it up, folding it nicely. You place it back on the bed, intending to put it in Daniela’s suitcase so she won’t forget it. 

She has a tendency to do that, forgetting things, no matter how important. 

When Daniela is told there would be a Dream Academy reunion for their one year anniversary, her mind instantly becomes filled with thoughts of you. 

No matter how hard she tried, she can’t seem to rid herself of the memories that contain you. Every picture she took, every thing she ever did, you were right there next to her. It never dawned on her how much of you consumed her life until after her debut. When asked questions about Dream Academy, it almost pains the Latina. 

(What’s her favorite memory? Late night walks outside the dorm because you two couldn’t sleep. 

What did she do in her down time? Read a book, curled up next to you in either her bed or yours. 

Who was she closest to? You.) 

So a whole event dedicated to that era of her life makes her sick. Especially when she hears not only did you say you’d return for the reunion, but Ezrela accepted the invite as well. Not only that, but made it clear you two would show up together. That ugly feeling that always gnawed away at her chest, the one that would only show up when she saw you and Ezrela together, comes back with a vengeance that she didn’t even think it had. She clenches her phone tightly in her hand, her knuckles turning ghostly white as she rereads the attendance list over and over again. 

This time around, she doesn’t have the right to pull you away. 

She won’t be able to insert herself into your conversations. 

It would be as if you two were two world’s apart, yet only five feet away. 

“You know, if you stare even harder, I’m scared she would end up blowing up…” Daniela whips her head towards Manon, glaring. She scoffs, taking a sip from her cup. “I’m not… Staring.” The Latina’s response causes Manon to raise an eyebrow, sneaking a quick, knowing glance at Lara and Emily whom are standing right next to them. They all follow Daniela’s gaze, their eyes settling on you. You’re engaged in a conversation with Ezrela, Adela, and Megan. They watch as Adela says something that causes you to throw your head back, laughing loudly. When Ezrela places a hand on your shoulder, the girls turn their heads back to look at Daniela. They watch the evident frown beginning to form on her lips and Lara decides she has had enough. 

“Dani, I love you, but this isn’t fair.” Daniela’s glare hardens even more at her member’s words. She looks at her, rolling her eyes. She responds, her tone a bit harsh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lara crosses her arms and lets out a loud sigh. “Look. During Dream Academy… We all thought the obsession you had with Y/n was funny…” Daniela is about to counter her statement but Lara holds her hand up, not wanting to be interrupted. She continues, her tone serious, “but then shit happened in Korea– which we still have no idea about by the way– and suddenly, it wasn’t even funny anymore. It was just… Sad.” The mention of their trip to Korea causes Daniela’s mouth to go dry. She looks away, silently confirming everyone’s suspicions that something did happen in Korea that caused you and Daniela’s relationship to go awry. 

Manon places a hand on the Latina’s shoulder and squeezes it gently. She looks at her, concern written in her eyes. “Dani… Just talk to her. It might help with… Whatever ‘this’ is.” Daniela looks up at the girl, pouting slightly. She knows she’s right but Daniela has always been so stubborn. But as she looks at you, sees you smiling with that crinkle in your eyes that she has missed so much, she almost considers it. 

Instead, she finishes whatever is left in her cup and walks away from the group, getting farther away from you. 

But as fate would have it, with its genuine sense of humor, Daniela walks into the bathroom and sees Ezrela fixing her makeup in the mirror. 

Daniela freezes. She wants to turn around and walk away. She wants to pretend that she didn’t feel her heart drop seeing the small girl and wants to act as if she has not held a dislike towards her for years. But, Daniela stays, not wanting to make the situation even more awkward than it already feels. Ezrela looks away from the mirror and smiles widely, immediately putting down her lipstick to greet the Latina. She runs up to Daniela, wrapping her arms around her tightly. The action makes Daniela feel even worse than before because there really isn’t any other reason for the Latina to dislike Ezrela. The Aussie always showed Daniela kindness to which she was only repaid with the cold shoulder.

When Ezrela pulls away, she beams at Daniela, walking back to the bathroom counter to continue fixing her lipstick. She takes a glance at Daniela, her eyes twinkling with excitement. She says, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you! How is everything?” Daniela stands there awkwardly. She isn’t really in the mood to talk to Ezrela. If she were being honest, she isn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. Since she got to the reunion, she has wanted to go back home and continue pretending Dream Academy never happened. But of course, she would find herself having a conversation with the last person she would ever engage with. She puts on a brave face, knowing she will have to get through this conversation for it to be over. 

She smiles small, responding softly, “everything is great. It still feels unreal…” The Latina’s words causes Ezrela to giggle. She nods, putting the cap back onto her lipstick. She looks at Daniela with a sincere smile. “I bet. I’m really proud of you guys, you know?” Daniela smiles in response, a genuine smile. They continue talking, catching each other up on their lives after Dream Academy. At some point, Daniela finds herself so comfortable in the conversation that she isn’t able to stop the words that come out of her mouth next. “You and Y/n look happy together.” 

The statement causes Ezrela to freeze. Daniela’s eyes widen when she realizes what she just said. 

Ezrela looks at Daniela with a confused look in her eyes. She tilts her head, chuckling. “What are you talking about?” Daniela stammers out a response, a bit embarrassed, “well… You know… You and Y/n have always been close so I just thought…You guys finally got together…” But the thing is, Ezrela has no Earthly idea what the Latina is talking about. Sure, you and her had a very close friendship but to the Australian girl, that’s all it ever was. She knew like everyone else who you belonged to at the end of the day. Ezrela shakes her head at Daniela’s words, surprised that the Latina would even consider that a possibility… That you were ever not Daniela’s. 

She speaks in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the words that were coming out of her mouth were common knowledge. “Are you… Kidding?” She can’t help the giggle that escapes her lips when she continues, “Y/n was always in love with you… If anything… Everyone else is surprised that you two aren’t together.” The Latina feels her breath catch in her throat at Ezrela’s words. She looks at her, her eyes wide with disbelief. Ezrela looks down at her hands and shakes her head, smiling. “She always came to my dorm and talked about you… You were all she could ever talk about, actually.” She looks up from her hands, looking at Daniela with an incredulous look. 

“All the girls were making bets on how long it would take for you two to start dating…” Ezrela clicks her tongue. She walks up to Daniela, jabbing her pointer finger into the girl’s shoulder playfully. “I lost $20 because of you two! I really thought you guys would have at least got together at the end of Dream Academy…” The playful look on the Aussie’s face is suddenly replaced with a more serious expression. She places a hand on Daniela’s shoulder and speaks softly, “Do… What you will with that information…” Ezrela takes a step back from the Latina, walking past her and out of the bathroom. Daniela stands there, her bottom lip trembling. 

Daniela had always been so curious about you and Ezrela’s relationship. But now that she was given an answer, she isn’t really sure how to feel. 

Right now, she just feels so stupid. 

She remembers going to Ezrela’s dorm one morning, wanting to grab a charger to borrow from the girl. 

Daniela remembers how when the door opens, she is met with Ezrela already put together at 8 AM. Her hair perfectly curled, her makeup done, and her smile wide as if they didn’t have a late practice last night. 

When Ezrela walks away to grab said charger, Daniela peers into the dorm and sees Ezrela’s bed made neatly. Her things were in order. Daniela could even describe it as being perfect. 

And as Ezrela hands Daniela her charger, the Latina realizes something. 

She realizes, you will never belong to her. Not when her life is so chaotic. Not when she can’t even make her bed Every. Single. Morning. 

Daniela finds you alone, standing outside, looking up at the sky. 

When she looks at you, the memories you two share comes at her with a force that takes her breath away. She thinks about your late night drives, watching you from the passenger seat and seeing you sing along to a song at the top of your lungs. She thinks about cozy nights spent in the dorm, you two cuddling and talking about everything while a show plays in the background. Daniela remembers the way your hand felt in hers, the way your arms felt around her waist. She remembers your daily routine like the back of her hand, she remembers your quirks, all of the little things that makes you you.

And it suddenly clicks in Daniela’s head. 

Daniela Avanzini is in love with you. She always had been. 

Daniela walks up to you with determination in every step she takes. She speaks up, her voice firm, “every time you were around Ezrela, it drove me fucking crazy and I didn’t know why,” you turn immediately, looking at the Latina with wide eyes. You were sure the girl would avoid you all night. Not only does it surprise you to see her right in front of you, but it shocks you even more that this is the way she would greet you. You try to respond, your voice shaking, “Dani-?”

“I wanted– no, I needed your attention to be on me 24/7. If it wasn’t, I’d literally crash out because what if–” she stops for a moment, taking a deep breath. She knows the ball is in her court, she knows she can’t runaway this time. Daniela takes a step closer towards you, her tears falling freely down her cheeks. She whispers, “What if… When you aren’t with me, you’ll realize how much of a mess I am?” She shakes her head, gesturing to herself wildly as she continues, “What if you realize that I’m not what you need?” 

You look at Daniela, shock evident on your face. Her words stir something inside you. It’s a feeling you have pushed away for so long. Ever since you left Dream Academy, you told yourself you’d leave it all there. You told yourself for a whole year that you would never find yourself back here again, especially with Daniela. 

But who were you kidding? This was Daniela. Your Daniela. 

You reach out to her and for a second, you hesitate. The last time you reached out to Daniela, she wanted nothing to do with it. The Latina senses your hesitation and immediately wraps her arms around your neck, buying her head into your chest. You wrap your own arms around her and you can’t help but feel as though you are finally home. The emptiness that settled in your chest after Dream Academy is finally full and it’s all because of her. It will always be her. 

“I always needed you, Daniela.” She pulls away slightly to look at you, a sad look in her eyes when she realizes your statement was in past tense. 

She whispers, “needed me?” 

You chuckle and whisper back, “still need you.” You look at her, your eyes challenging her to make the next move. 

She holds you tighter, her face inches from yours. Daniela smiles softly, placing a hand on your cheek. 

“Still need you.”

a/n: hopefully for those who wanted a part two are satisfied with the ending i came up with <3 giving these two either a happy ending or a sad ending was a mixed poll so i honestly flipped a coin LMAO fate said: a happy ending! let me know what you guys think and just know i am open for any requests or any random messages/thoughts!

[sucker-just]

I really get Desperately Wanting A Vitamin. Right now I'm trialling light therapy glasses (just blast the shit out of your eyes in the money and bam you're doing more stuff) and retrying vitamin D (had a test come back literally undetectable levels and my feet have started hurting again). I'm going to try THC this year too maybe, it might help with some stuff if used judiciously.

I always feel like I'm a failure positing that there could be Another Vitamin, like I'm some soulless husk of a wellness junkie for saying hey, maybe taking up running again would be nice. Maybe a sleep study. Maybe I need iron tablets again. Add in the fish oil and the b vitamin and some magnesium. Maybe try another antidepressant or get a more structured food plan. Fantasize about hey, maybe if I got a formal diagnosis on some stuff I could try better treatments for that. Maybe I should try psilocybin or something just to see if it helps. Maybe I need to do my floor practise (getting up from the floor no hands style) or lift weights or pat my cat more or do any particular thing to improve things.

As if it's an admission of failure to want things to be better, like if I was strong enough to be better by this point I would be and it's pure wishful thinking to want to have been broken in some easily fixable way this entire time, a way to abdicate responsibility for the pain of admitting that failure. I think it's from years of mental health problems being equated by people with authority over my life as simultaneously with "attitude", something that is supposed as entirely within my control, and being fundamentally irredeemable as a person, which is not, in a pattern of shifting rhetoric that places the fault on whatever is most convenient for the placer. That and a fear of being in any way like those dead eyed people who run to sun their testes or fast for days on end drinking nothing but salted water or take ozone enemas to run away from some glaring internal crisis, oftentimes interpersonal sometimes their own mortality or such, and never really seem "okay". They always seem deeply hurt or deeply hurt covered with a manic glee at how great the new thing they have found is, how much it will or is going to fix, until it doesn't again. You see a lot of those guys on the internet. I get stuck in a dual dilemma of, you just need to have the right attitude to get better a choice you are making actively but unknowingly constantly and forever but could totally stop any time so you don't need to do something to make it better but also you'll never really change and how stupid you look here with your dumb glasses that blast your eyes and new migraine meds and vitamins and hopes for maybe more energy.

I think sometimes it gets so mortifying to even think, like imagining how you would save all your friends in a fire or cow those who've hurt you, a juvenile fantasy best suited for some romantic fantasy manhwa. But like, this one is worth betting on a little maybe. Better living is possible maybe and hey if it doesn't work at least you get to tell people how much keto really sucks (so so so bad) and that blasting your eyes has been tried already. I'd be living worse if I hadn't learned to brush my teeth or gotten an IUD (one of the most premium Vitamins for me), maybe there's more. Maybe there's more for most people.

My deepest darkest fantasy is that I collapse on the street and I am rushed to the hospital. They perform a bunch of tests and find out I am severely deficient in some kind of vitamin. Then I start taking the vitamin and I become the happiest cleverest person alive because all my problems were caused by this one deficiency

[psicheanima]

Gregor Linguistic Analysis

Hello. I just finished Canto 1, so as I said, here are some things I found fun about the way Gregor speaks. I’ll do Rodya after Canto 2, and so on and so forth.

Do not mention any events after Canto 1 in the notes or tags of this post, thank you.

Gregor’s sentences are short to mid length, maintaining a natural, almost casual rhythm. His syntax is straightforward, avoiding complex subordinate clauses or elaborate phrasing. This reflects his laid-back and nonchalant attitude— his speech is efficient, unpretentious, and devoid of pretense. His words flow with a conversational ease, almost never rushed or clipped (despite his habit to drop subjects, compare him to someone like Ishmael, for example— he’s more warm), reinforcing his uncomplicated nature, which is something he really wants others to see— he wants to be a simple, regular man. He does not want to be seen as someone important.

He uses shortened constructions—such as omitting subject or auxiliary verbs—which gives his speech a relaxed, even offhand feel. In particular, when he talks about his past, he almost never talks proactively.

Fitting his casual speech and “action-oriented” past, Gregor also uses phrasal verbs in a casual context quite a bit. This also ties in with his tendency to downplay his personal struggles by speaking as if they were just ordinary events. When he does this, he also tends to pass the responsibility to his superiors, placing himself in the position of “but I’m just a guy, it’s (external thing).”. (His landlord, his manager).

Gregor is, however, quite the normal guy when it comes to how he speaks, so though there’s no much to say about his word choice outside of some strangely old-timey whimsical words every now and then (absolutely used to make him seem more warm, affable, and distinctively NOT like a strict military guy.) But there is quite a bit to say about what he “chooses” to say.

When talking about serious or painful things, he keeps it brief but adds this elliptical phrasing that lets the weight of his words sink in without outright stating it. He never spells out his emotions—his restraint makes the pain obvious without needing to say it. It’s less about what he says and more about what he holds back.

However, the most standout thing about the way Gregor speaks is the way he always subjugates himself whenever joking. Gregor himself says he does this.

However, his jokes about his arm will always hold more passive aggression and underlying hurt than his more elaborate, whimsical jokes about his previous military position— the topics that make him most upset.

He eases not only outright— but any potential hostility with humor. Consider the way he uses a mild, almost playful, word like “pest” to describe his condition—it reflects the level of detachment he’s employing in his suffering, a detachment that very much is the only thing helping him manage that suffering. He can’t open about how much discomfort it causes him, so fashions it as a palatable thing others can laugh at WITH him, instead of AGAINST him.

He believes people will always mock him, and even more importantly thinks there is something worth mocking about him, so this humor is always light hearted and easy to ignore. He does not challenge others cruelty towards him.

It’s not so big of a deal that people see him as something other if he’s not dangerous. He’s a monster, but just a small one. A pest. Insignificant.

In this same way he often uses rhetorical questions and double negatives to get his point across on this topic. For example, when he says the above, he’s highlighting the unpleasantness of his arm without directly addressing the actual discomfort it causes others. It’s his way of communicating subtly— avoiding bitterness or confrontation, trying to force himself into the “joke” of how revolting he is. Another way he does this is by referring to the other soldiers as “things”. Othering himself.

So despite his ease with small talk (being the first to introduce himself to us), his deeper emotions often surface in the spaces between words. He lets the quiet do the heavy lifting, as he is unwilling to say things plainly.

His distaste for status is reflected most simply in how he speaks to Dante.

“Manager Bud” → “Bud” softens authority. It reflects his preference for informal, cordial relationships rather than professional ones. The very concept of a work life similar to the military structure he knows is something he is absolutely terrified of. He does not like putting people higher or lower than him.

Gregor’s speech register is informal, with a blend of

- Working class pragmatism

- Older, slightly rustic quirks (usually one off words like “bugger”)

- Military lingo (in particular, he mentions “getting medals” a lot where others would say “rewarded”.)

In conclusion: He is someone who has been through a range of social settings but refuses to perform “proper” speech anymore in any effort to seem like a regular citizen, something he feels deeply he is not, and so he uses humor to feel as if he is “in” on the joke of how revolting he is.

[jobean12-blog]

Sunshine

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 6.4K

Summary: It's a beautiful day that turns even more beautiful when you run into the most handsome man you've ever seen...and the grumpiest. Will his good looks be enough for you to stick around and get to know him?

Author's Note: I love a grumpy!Bucky and a reader who just won't give up on him! Kind of sunshine/grumpy trope with enemies/lovers mixed in a little too. This was fun to write and I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy 🥰

Warnings: fun, flirty tension, a tiny bit of angst, grumpy!bucky, fluffy sweetness too

Waiting in line at your favorite coffee shop is always worth it and today, after a restless night, you really need the extra boost. Even though you’re behind schedule the stop is a necessity and despite the busy morning rush the line is moving quickly but apparently not fast enough for the person behind you who lets out a loud and frustrated huff.

Trying to be discrete you turn and look out of the corner of your eye.

The sight of him strikes you in a way you’re not prepared for.

Then the barista calls your name. You blink, dazed but thankfully able to recover well enough to give the barista a warm smile and thanks.

As you grab your napkins and gather your things you can’t help but steal glances at the man. He’s tall and broad shouldered, wearing a leather jacket that shows his biceps shaping the fabric, his long legs are clad in well fitted dark denim, and he’s the perfect mix of masculinity and male beauty.

His brooding expression doesn’t falter as he retrieves his drink order, but he does say ‘thank you’ and to your continued surprise, ‘excuse me,’ to whomever he passes.

With one last longing glance you head for the door, walking out into the sunshine and crossing the street to your favorite bench to enjoy your coffee before work.

You’re focused on your phone while you sip slowly so at first you don’t notice the dark shadow looming over you. But the rumbly and gruff voice startles you.

“You’re in my seat.”

You look up, shielding your eyes from the sun to see nothing more than a large shadow.

“What?” you ask, feeling discombobulated.

The shadow shifts and your eyes widen when you see the man from the coffee shop, his glower ferocious despite your now big smile.

“This is your seat?...It’s a whole bench.”

“Yeah…well.”

You look at the open space next to you and offer out a hand. “There’s more than enough room for both of us.”

His eyes narrow but he sits.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” you say brightly.

“I’m here almost every day,” he answers.

You keep your smile in place.

“Well, I’m running late so that must be why I haven’t seen you before.”

“Then why are you sitting on this bench talking to me?” he asks.

You bristle inwardly but your smile doesn’t falter.

“I still have time. I usually get in early, so it won’t be a problem.”

He stares at you, the breeze catching his scent and blowing it your way.

You try not to inhale, focusing on the fact that he’s super grumpy instead of the fact that he’s super hot and smells really good.

“I enjoy sitting out in the sunshine. It helps me feel grounded before I really start the day.”

The words tumble out unprompted but under his narrowed gaze you find yourself feeling less confident than usual.

He just “hmphs” in response and looks away, taking a sip of his drink.

“You say you sit here every day so what’s with all the…” and you motion to him, “grumpy? Is the sunshine not good enough for you?”

He turns your way again, lips pressed together but his eyes flaring with surprise. Before he can respond his phone rings. He looks at the screen with another mild puff of air then swipes his thumb over it.

“Wilson,” he says gruffly.

His voice drops low, and you look down at your phone, trying not to listen. Most of the conversation on his part is a series of grunts and mumbled responses so it’s hard to follow anyway.

After hanging up he stands abruptly and looks down at you, his gaze lingering before he gives you a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement and starts to walk off.

You yell after him, “I hope you find some sunshine!”

He doesn’t turn around but you’re sure you see his steps falter for just a second.

It’s only after you finish your drink that you stand and start the short walk to work, surprised to catch sight of the grumpy stranger across the street at the local VA, squatting down in front of an older man with a dog.

The grumpiness is gone, replaced by a warm smile that crinkles his eyes. All the air goes out of your lungs.

He looks up at that moment, noticing you stopped in the middle of the sidewalk across the street. His smile fades and you drop your head, speed walking away.

It’s Saturday morning and you’re standing outside the bakery, texting your friend to get their donut order. The door opens and you barely have time to register the whiff of familiar scent that floats by you when you look up and lock eyes with Mr. Grumpy himself.

You smile in greeting.

“You,” he answers.

Your grin widens. “Me. What are the chances? Your favorite bench stealer!”

He sighs heavily and glances back at the door to the bakery before pinning you with his stare again.

Now that the sun isn’t shining in your eyes you have a better chance to see the color of his. They’re blue. A gorgeous ocean colored blue framed by long, dark, and thick lashes.

His attention strays down your body and you feel tingles everywhere his eyes touch.

“Here for something sweet?” you ask.

He never gets the chance to answer because a man comes up behind him and grabs his shoulder, giving him a slight shove to move in front and say hi.

“Barnes! Aren’t you going to introduce me to your beautiful friend here?”

You smile warmly.

“Sam. Sam Wilson,” the friend says in introduction.

“Hi Sam!” you greet and give him your name.

“Barnes didn’t tell me he made a new friend,” Sam says.

“Barnes?” you repeat.

You direct your question to Mr. Grumpy whose been standing there silently murdering Sam with his eyes since he appeared.

Sam smiles triumphantly. “This here is James, but his friends call him Bucky.”

“Hi Bucky. Nice to officially meet you!”

Your tone is light and airy, and you wave.

“Hey,” Bucky answers, then turns to Sam. “Let’s go, the guys are looking forward to these donuts.”

“Is he always this grumpy?” you ask Sam.

Silence falls between you all, but it only lasts a moment, broken then by Sam’s loud cackle.

“Oh, I like her already!” Sam says.

Ignoring your comment-and Sam’s-Bucky repeats, “let’s go Wilson!”

Sam returns the favor, ignoring Bucky and focusing on you. “You should come down and visit us at the VA sometime. He’s never grumpy around the guys.”

“So just me then?” you ask with a laugh.

“That’s just because he thinks you’re beautiful,” Sam winks.

You steal a glance at Bucky and note the slight pink color that paints his cheeks.

“It was nice meeting you Sam. And you too Bucky.”

With those last words and a smile, you skirt past them and walk into the bakery. After placing your order you’re shocked to find Bucky standing at the pickup counter, hands in his pockets and shuffling on his feet.

“Miss me already?” you tease.

He doesn’t answer and instead hands you a business card. You take it and look down, reading the information for the VA and Bucky’s name.

“Thanks,” you say, meeting his eyes again and noting the pink still coating his cheeks.

He doesn’t answer but you think you see his lips lift into what might be a small smile before he casually strolls off.

His jeans are molded perfectly to his perfect ass, and you sigh.

“Are you going to go visit him?” Diana asks through a mouthful of donut.

“Nah,” you answer.

Diana’s eyes bug out of her head with a gasp.

“Um you said he was insanely hot. I don’t’ get it. You don’t NOT go visit.”

“You do if he’s a grumpy jerk.”

Diana laughs. “Maybe he needs to eat more of these donuts!”

You roll your eyes. “He had a whole box of them. He was with his friend Sam who was also hot. I should go visit him.”

“Ohhh make Mr. Grumpy jealous. I like it.”

You shove the card into your bag and grab a donut.

“I think we need more donuts for this day,” you retort.

After a long donut filled debate with Diana you decide to make the call to the VA office. To your happy surprise Sam answers.

“Hi Sam,” you say and tell him your name, thrilled he remembers you.

“I was just thinking I’d like to bring some treats down to the office this week. Is there anything in particular I should get?”

You can practically hear Sam’s smile through the phone. He rattles off some orders and then tells you the days and times that would work. When you hang up you feel lighter just knowing you could do something kind.

You’ve never been in the VA building before even though you’ve passed by it many times. The interior is warm and inviting and has a large walnut desk and matching benches nearby.

At the sight of the benches, you laugh to yourself, wondering if Bucky claimed these seats too.

“Hey.”

You barely catch the quiet greeting but look up to see Bucky standing by a doorway. You suddenly feel hyperalert, every inch of your sensitive tingling and awake. You almost forgot how gorgeous he is, his light blue henley fitted around his broad chest and his dark jeans showing off those long and muscular legs.

Your heart flutters as he crosses the hallway, hard expression on his face, before he stares down at the box of donuts.

“You can’t eat them all!”

He gives you a quelling look, though you’re sure you catch a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“I can actually,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, “but when I’m here I share.”

“What if I want one?” you ask, feeling brave and maybe a little flirtatious.

It takes him a moment to answer as he holds you under his keen regard, sweeping his gaze down your body before it lingers on your lips and finally returns to your eyes.

“Maybe,” he grumbles, then turns on his heel. “Follow me.”

You enter a room with tables and chairs set up and one long counter and cabinets in the back where you see a coffee machine, refrigerator, and small microwave.

“Do you have a favorite?”

His question surprises you and it takes you a minute to realize he’s referring to the donuts.

“OH, yeah definitely. The Bavarian cream is the best!”

“Hm,” he replies.

He doesn’t indulge you with his favorite, so you decide to ask.

“What about you?”

“Glazed,” he says, then adds, “with sprinkles.”

You stare at him for a beat then a laugh bursts out of you.

“I was not expecting the sprinkles!”

You’re too busy laughing to notice his smile.

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I visit,” you tell him when you finally catch your breath.

“You want to come back?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

You don’t have a chance to answer because Sam enters the room with a boisterous greeting.

“There you are!” he says. “So glad you stopped by to see us.”

“And I brought donuts!”

“Perfect,” Sam says, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You look back at Bucky as Sam leads you out of the room. “Don’t eat any of those!”

Bucky’s scoff is the last thing you hear before you step out into the hallway.

After Sam gives you a tour you meet some of the veterans while you share donuts. It’s wonderful to talk with them and make them laugh and you’re happy you made the visit.

Right before you leave you run into Bucky who’s hovering over the last of the box of donuts.

“Slim pickings huh?” you say as you look into the mostly empty box.

“Yeah,” he huffs with a scowl.

“Lucky for you,” you say and open the cabinet above your head, “I stashed one in here earlier before we gave them out.”

You pull out the paper plate and take the napkin off to reveal a glazed donut with colored sprinkles.

He studies you in such a way that your thighs press tightly together in reaction. His expression is irritatingly unreadable as your eyes meet again.

He shifts as if he’s uncomfortable, an awkward silence hanging between you, before he blurts out, “thanks doll.”

His expression morphs into one of surprise and it matches yours, but you recover quickly enough with a warm smile.

“You’re welcome Bucky. Thanks for having me.”

You’re just getting situated with your book on the couch, rain pelting the window outside, when your phone rings.

Sam’s name lights up the screen and you answer with an excited, “Ghostbusters, whaddya want?”

The silence your met with is unexpected as you were hoping for one of Sam’s bright laughs.

“Tell me that’s not how you answer your phone normally.”

At Bucky’s weary comment your smile falls. “Bucky? I thought it was Sam?”

“You sound disappointed,” he points out.

“Only because you seem bothered by my amazing phone answering skills. I’m sorry that one got lost on you. Sam would have loved it.”

“So, if you knew it was me calling what would have said?” he asks.

“Uh…hello?”

“Uh hello?”

“No…just, hell, ugh! Why are you calling me from Sam’s phone.”

Silence again.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah…I didn’t have your number and wasn’t sure you’d answer if I called from mine so…”

“Ok,” you say. “And now that you have mine just text me and I’ll have yours.”

He’s quiet again before he continues in a rush of words.

“So, we’re having our annual fundraiser gala soon and Sam mentioned that you said you’d like to volunteer more, and we could use some help planning.”

“I’m definitely interested,” you cheer. “When should I come by?”

You get all the information you need from Bucky and then hang up, his conversation stilted when you started getting more excited and telling him that you were looking forward to working with him and helping. He hung up with a mumbled goodbye and never text you to give you his number.

It makes your thoughts of his disinterest solidify and you try to let it go and focus on the good you’ll be doing.

The week moves slowly but when Friday comes around you feel the same lightness from the last time you visited the VA. It gives you renewed energy, and you open the door with a smile, searching for the familiar face of Sam or Bucky.

You don’t see either of them, so you head down the hallway to the small dining room. Sam is at the front by one of the windows. He waves, pointing to his phone to signal he’ll be right off, and Bucky is at the counter.

He turns to face you, and you walk over.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hiya doll,” he answers.

Confusion washes over you at his sweet endearment, but you push it down and focus on what he’s holding.

“More donuts!” you exclaim.

“We always have them,” he says lightly. “I got you a Bavarian.”

At your silence you feel his eyes on you, and you drag them away from the perfectly powdered and filled deliciousness in the box.

“Why didn’t you text me?” you ask without thinking.

“What?” he says, his brow furrowed.

“You never text me to give me your number.”

His attention never leaves you, his gaze drifting from your head down to your feet. When he reaches your face again he stares and pulls his phone from his back pocket.

“Can I have your number?” he asks quietly.

“Sure,” you say and take his phone to program it in.

“Thanks,” he says.

“And thank you for my donut,” you finally say. “That was really thoughtful.”

He nods and grabs a glazed before motioning for you to follow him. The rest of the day is spent pouring over invites and food orders as well as any little detail that needs to be squared away before the event.

Most of the time it’s you, Sam and Bucky seated at a table, but Sam leaves occasionally to take a phone call or manage something in the office.

During the down time you learn more about Bucky, asking questions and mostly getting abridged but not unfriendly answers. He seems genuinely interested in what you have to say and that, again, confuses you more as to his intentions-if he has any at all.

Once the sun has set and you’re worn out you help them clean up then gather your things.

“How are you getting home?” Sam asks as you walk together to the door.

“I think I’m gonna walk,” you tell him.

Bucky makes a sound of disapproval behind you.

“What?” you turn and ask.

“It’s late,” he states.

“And?” you answer.

“It’s not safe.”

“I appreciate your concern but after sitting most of the afternoon I want to walk.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

At Bucky’s statement both you and Sam give him a wide-eyed look.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell Bucky.

“Nah, he’s right,” Sam chimes in. “He should go with you. I would offer but I’m in the opposite direction.”

Sam tries to hide his smirk, but it’s written all over his face, so you just smile and accept Bucky’s kind and gentlemanly offer.

“Just gimme a sec. I want to grab something from my bike.”

“Bike?” you murmur as you track his movement toward a sleek black motorcycle parked at the curb.

Holy shit.

He doesn’t say a word as he walks back toward you.

“I didn’t know you had a motorcycle,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says while running a hand through his hair. “You know…easier in the city.”

“Smart and badass. It’s beautiful.”

That’s when he smiles at you, a real smile, for the very first time.

You nearly swoon.

“Yeah?” He looks boyishly pleased about your reaction.

You nod and give the bike one last look before you fall into step beside him. You chat about everything from the upcoming event to how he met Sam and even find out more about his motorcycle. He’s more open and comfortable and indulges you with more details about anything you ask.

As you pass by a bar a large crowd of young people come out, clearly drunk and rowdy as they sway and swerve as a mass toward you.

Bucky links your fingers together and deftly slides you out of harms way. Your skin tingles, little sparks of feeling shooting up your arm and it’s all you can concentrate on until the group passes by and continues down the street in a clamor.

“They seem like they’re having fun,” you giggle. “Thanks for the save there.”

The corner of his mouth starts to tilt upward and then he remembers he has a hold on your hand and his eyes drop and widen and he quickly let’s go, clearing his throat and mumbling, “no problem.”

“Did you ever go out like that and get wild?” you ask after a beat, hoping to lighten the mood again.

“Who me?” he asks and blows a raspberry. “Nah. I’m not really into big crowds much.”

“Then you should really enjoy the gala next week,” you say wryly.

“Right?” he answers. “If it weren’t for such a good cause and important to me, I’d skip it all together and stay behind the scenes.”

“Well at least you’ll have Sam!” you say in support.

“Actually…he’s usually caught up in everything since I leave all the talking and canoodling to him.”

“Canoodling,” you repeat and cover your mouth to stifle your laughter.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I can’t imagine you not wanting to canoodle.”

Your delivery drips with sarcasm, and he throws you another killer smile.

He has the sexiest smile ever. Of course he does. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t smile a lot, because of its killer effect? Or is he really just Mr. Grumpy? One or the other.

When you reach your apartment you walk toward the double doors, thanking him for walking you home. Searching for your keys in your bag you end up dropping your phone, bending to pick it up at the same time Bucky does.

You bump heads and he immediately apologizes and rests his hand gently on your forehead.

“You ok?” he asks, rubbing his thumb soothingly.

“Yeah,” you say, slightly breathless.

His gaze drops to your lips and lingers before coming back to your eyes.

“Hey um…” he starts, those beautiful blue eyes studying you, sweeping over your features, as if tallying every little detail he finds.

“Yeah?” you ask, giving him a sweet and reassuring smile.

“Uh, thanks, for the help today. I’ll see you soon.”

You deflate at his quick departure; telling him it was “your pleasure and you’ll see him later.”

You’re not even to your apartment door when your phone chimes. You retrieve it from your pocket and see Bucky’s name on the screen.

You open the text and nearly drop your phone again.

'Do you want to be my date to the fund raiser?'

Like sunshine bursting through a cloud, you feel butterflies erupt in your stomach, a fluttery warning that you’re way in over your head.

“What are you going to wear?” Diana asks as you stand in front of your closet.

“I have no idea!” you sigh. “I asked for a dress code, and he said ‘formal’…and that’s it. Then I asked what he was wearing, and he said, ‘a tux.’”

“Not very chatty, is he?” she mutters.

You shrug at stare at your closet that has nothing appropriate in it.

“Looks like we’re going shopping,” Diana says as she jumps off the bed and grabs her bag. “Come on, we’re gonna find you something that will knock his socks off.”

Bucky picks you up in a town car, and you smile graciously as he opens the door for you, your internal nerves wild as you wait for his reaction to your appearance.

Unfortunately, his reaction isn’t worth the nerves because he stares blankly at you before giving you an abrupt nod of greeting.

All the while you try not to drool over him in a tux.

When you arrive inside you can’t hide your beaming smile. It looks beautiful. All the details having come together perfectly to create an elegant yet comfortable atmosphere.

“You’re really doing wonderful work here,” you tell Bucky.

He holds out his arm for you and smiles. “Thanks doll.”

“You’re here!”

You turn at the familiar voice. Sam hurries over and takes you in.

“Wow,” he says, raising his brows. “Lucky man Barnes.”

He claps Bucky on the shoulder. “Enjoy yourselves. I’ll be around if you need me.”

Bucky places his hand on your lower back and leads you across the room to the table. Your breath catches at the sensation of his hand on your bare skin, but you try to shake it off.

His hand presses deeper into your back, and you follow his guide. People greet him and he says hello, but he doesn’t stop to chat.

“Shouldn’t you be taking the time to talk with these people?” you ask.

“Probably,” he says as he pulls out your chair.

You snort because he sounds like he couldn’t care less.

You’re the first people at the table and you stare at the fancy centerpiece.

“It really does look amazing in here.”

Bucky glances over it all, bemused.

“It does. I guess it’s necessary.”

“What do you mean,” you ask.

“I come to these events for Sam and the veterans. I want to raise money and help but if it were up to me it would all be quiet and low key. This kind of socializing isn’t my first choice.”

Turning to study his handsome face, you smile. “Is any kind of socializing your choice?”

He throws you a dark but amused look. “You’re funny”

You hold back more laughter and touch his knee, giving it a soft squeeze. His eyes meet yours and you swallow around the sudden sensation of your racing heart.

Needing to break the intense eye contact, you turn to observe the room, noting that more people are heading to their tables.

You spot Sam talking to a lovely woman and you feel Bucky’s smile.

“Sam likes her,” Bucky says quietly.

“Who is she?” you ask in a whisper.

He leans into you, his breath tickling your cheek as he murmurs, “the daughter of one of our veterans. They’ve met a few times, and I can tell he’s totally taken with her.”

You turn your head slightly, bringing your faces just inches apart. “She’s lovely. I’m sure she likes him too.”

His attention moves from Sam to you, and his eyes narrow as he realizes how close you are. But he doesn’t move back. Instead, he searches your eyes.

Your heartbeat skips and you’re almost afraid to breathe.                      

Needing to break the tension once again, you wrench your gaze away and find Sam shooting you a quick glance.

“I have the sudden urge to run over there and embarrass him,” you say with a devious smile.

Bucky’s answer is to move away but only because he throws his head back in laughter.

“I’d pay to see that,” he replies, mischief dancing in his eyes.

Before long, your table is filled, and Bucky introduces you to the people he knows. The older couple sitting nearest to you is just smitten with both you and Bucky, peppering you with questions and hanging on your every word.

They tell you their life story too, how they found each other and fell in love and have been together ever since. It warms you and you give his thigh another squeeze under the table.

He places his hand over yours and brushes his thumb across your knuckles.

The food comes and you turn his way, lightly tugging on your hand.

“I need that to eat,” you giggle.

“Oh, right,” he says with one more sweep of his thumb before he releases you with a soft expression.

The food is delicious, and you find yourself smiling between every bite.

“You two look like you’re having a good time.”

Bucky stiffens next to you, and you wait for his move before following his gaze to the older woman standing behind you.

“Don’t you look handsome as always James,” she comments then flits her eyes to you but doesn’t say anything more.

Bucky smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mrs. Whitman. How are you?”

“Fine, just fine. Now I need to steal you away for a moment.”

Bucky’s eyes lift over Mrs. Whitman’s shoulder and his lips turn down in a frown.

“I can’t, sorry Mrs. Whitman. I’m here with someone.”

He looks at you and smiles.

Mrs. Whitman sighs, clearly annoyed.

“You can’t spare just a moment?” she pleads, trying to appear genuine.

“Sorry,” Bucky says as kindly as he can.

Without a goodbye she huffs off and you wait until she’s far enough away before looking at Bucky. His frown melts away as your gazes lock.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Her husband was a veteran, and he recently passed. She’s been trying to set me up with her daughter since, but I’m not interested.”

“I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble,” you tell him.

“No. Not at all doll. She can be rude sometimes, but I think she’s just struggling with grief and doesn’t know what to do with herself. I feel bad, but like I said. I’m really not interested.”

You smile reassuringly then excuse yourself to the bathroom, needing a little air. When you return, you see Bucky hasn’t moved from his seat and his gaze is zeroed in on the hallway to the bathroom.

As you cross the room toward him, his eyes drift down your body. His gaze lingers on your bare shoulders and the sway of your hips and by the time you reach the table, you need another restroom break to cool off.

He doesn’t move out of the way, so you have to brush up against him to sit back down. When your eyes meet, his are heated. You stare at each other, the music and chatter around you fading away.

The lovely old woman next to you breaks you out the haze when she asks where the restroom is. You point her in the right direction, telling her you’ll happily escort her, but she refuses kindly and slowly makes her way through the crowd.

Once she’s safely down the hallway, you look away and find yourself staring at Bucky. His face is close.

Too close.

Or maybe just close enough depending on how you look at it.

His eyes search yours and you ignore the rushing in your ears as you close the distance between you and gently brush your lips over his.

Your mouth tingles from the brief touch as you pull away.

He scowls hard at your mouth, but you’re not sure if it’s because you kissed him or because you barely kissed him.

“What…?” he starts to ask roughly, but a loud banging at the front of the room, startles you and pulls your attention away.

Sam stands at a small podium, a smile on his face as he greets everyone.

Nice timing Sam.

‘How’s work today?’

You smile at you phone and Bucky’s name on the screen.

‘It’s going…’ you type back. ‘How about you? I know you said your day was going to be busy.’

‘Up and down. We made some really good progress with one of our veterans today, but we lost one of our oldest members to cancer.’

‘Oh Bucky. I’m sorry it’s been a tough day. Do you need anything? I can come by on my lunch break.’

‘Thank you doll, I appreciate it. But it’s unfortunately something I’ve gotten used to. Comes with the territory.’

‘I’m here if you need anything.’

‘Thanks.’

You’re just clearing your desk at the end of the day when your phone rings. You smile at the sight of Bucky’s name, and you’re not surprised considering you’d received a text to inform you that your delivery had been successfully made.

“Hey,” you greet.

“Hey.” His voice is low, a little hoarse. He clears his throat. “You sent me donuts.’

You grin at how confused he sounds. “I did and cookies.”

In fact, you sent him a dozen glazed- with sprinkles of course- donuts and a box full of assorted cookies from your usual favorite bakery.

“I wanted you to have a little treat after a long day. I know you might be used to it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard on you.”

He’s quiet so long you have a horrible feeling that you may have crossed a line. But then he speaks.

“Thank you doll. I really appreciate it.”

You smile and try to quell the butterflies dancing around your stomach. “You’re welcome!”

“I’ve never had so many glazed donuts to myself!” There’s a teasing tone to his confession.

“But you have to share the cookies!” you tell him, trying to sound stern.

“Yeah, I’ll do my best,” he laughs. “But really, thank you.”

“It was nothing,” you say trying to shake off the giddy feeling he’s giving you with a shrug he can’t see.

His voice is gravelly when he promises, “it’s not nothing to me.”

You teeter on your feet. “Well, I’m glad it cheered you up a little. I’m just heading out of work so…”

“So, I’ll let you go.”

Did you hear a smile in his voice?

“I’ll see you this weekend for Sam’s BBQ?”

“Yes! Looking forward to it,” you say.

“Great doll, see you then and I am too.”

With that, he hangs up and you stand at your desk and try to slow the rapid beating of your heart.

Bucky picks you up on his bike and you’re barely ashamed at how excited you are to ride with him.

He revs the engine when he pulls up at the curb where you’re standing and settles the bike with his leg on the sidewalk.

“No helmet?” you ask with a wave.

He sucks in a breath and his eyes are glued to your legs.

“Wrong outfit?” you say as you track his gaze. “I can go…”

“Nope,” he says quickly.

He hops off the bike and offers a hand to help you get on, squeezing his eyes closed when you get close to him and your shoulder brushes against his chest.

“Are you ok?” you ask him, looking up into his blue eyes.

“Yep. All good,” he says, voice strained.

You narrow your eyes at his sharp tone but take his offered hand and help onto the bike. Once you’re wrapped around him and pressed to his back you lean up and say, “what’s going on? You seem grumpy today?”

“Nothing,” he replies before revving the engine and pulling away from the curb.

It doesn’t take long to get to Sam’s and when you arrive Bucky parks his bike and hops off lithely and you wait for him to offer his hand to help you off.

To your surprise he takes you by the waist and lifts you off the bike in one easy movement. Your body is plastered to his as your feet slide to the ground.

You shiver at the contact.

“You cold?” He frowns at you.

“Nope,” you answer, looking away and straightening the bottom of your dress.

Over his shoulder you see Sam walking your way.

“There you two are!” he yells.

You wave and smile.

“You look gorgeous as always,” Sam says.

Sam leads the way to the backyard and Bucky places a hand at your lower back. Your brain fritzes and it’s all you can think about as you walk through the yard saying hello to people as you pass.

When you reach Sarah, Sam’s sister, you greet her with a warm hello, having met her once before at the VA. Bucky joins in the conversation, his fingers still warmly pressed into your skin when he starts to draw little circles on your lower back.

You suck in a breath and trip over your words and then he splays his palm and slides it around to your hip, drawing you into his side.

Your heart stops.

Sarah doesn’t seem to notice or if she does she doesn’t make it known and when Sam calls for her help she rushes off with a promise to come back and chat after.

“You seem to be in a better mood now that we’re here,” you say as you turn your eyes to Bucky.

His eyebrows draw in. “I…you look gorgeous.”

Your lips part and your mouth falls open.

“You always do. You did at the fund raiser. You do today. It’s just…I’m not good at…”

He trails off, his words dying on his lips and his cheeks turning your favorite shade of pink.

His words fill you with relief and you swear that it’s the lingering heat of that barely there kiss from the gala that you can’t seem to forget because the next thing you know you’re grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling his lips down to yours.

You intend it to be a quick kiss, but he brings one of his hands to the back of your neck and the other presses deep into your back as he takes over. Your small gasp turns into a moan, and it ignites him. He deepens the kiss, hungry and desperate and it sets every inch of you on fire.

“Uh, there are children present.”

Sam’s voice cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water and you move back. Bucky’s hand flexes at the back of your neck as if to stop you from moving away from him. You breathe hard and state at each other.

Best. Kiss. Of. Your. Life.

Bucky appears dazed enough for you to believe maybe it was for him too.

The party around you comes back to life and Sam’s broad smile fills your vision. He claps Bucky hard on the back. “I knew ya had it you Barnes!”

Sam saunters off with some extra pep to his step and you watch him walk back into the house. Bucky’s fingers close around yours and he tugs you away from the crowd.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer but just holds tightly to your hand until you reach a small garden enclosed by a low white fence. At the back there’s a wrought iron bench just big enough for two.

“This is so pretty,” you whisper as he walks you through the garden.

When you reach the bench he turns your way.

“You’re really going to share the bench with me?” you ask playfully.

His answer is to lift his hand to cup your jaw, his eyes dropping to your mouth. You hold your breath as he leans in. The first contact he makes is just a brush of his lips over yours. The briefest sweep.

“I’m sorry I was such an ass that first day we met,” he whispers against your lips. “I was having a rough day but it’s no excuse.”

“It’s ok,” you breathe out. “I forgive you.”

He does it again. Sweeps his lips along yours and you hear the quietest moan escape his throat as he leans in closer, pressing his soft, strong mouth to yours and taking your top lip between his.

With a smile forming against your mouth, he tilts his head and kisses you with a heat that rivals the one only minutes ago. His free hand slides around your waist and smooths along the curve of your spine, dragging you up against his body.

Without an audience he kisses you long enough to have you pulling back for need of air.

“Bucky,” you whisper, grabbing his biceps for support.

“I really am sorry,” he murmurs.

“You’re good at that.”

“At what?” he asks, distracted by your mouth again.

“Kissing.”

He hums. “That’s only because I’m kissing you. And I plan to keep kissing you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

“Forever sounds good,” you whisper at the feel of his lips hovering over yours.

“Won’t be long enough but it’s a start doll.”

[shadamyheadcanons]

Headcanon #313

For her whole life, Amy always made a point of telling people she cared about that she loved them—not just with sweet gestures and gifts, but out loud with a big, bold “I love you.” In public or not, often with a hug, but always a full “I love you” for every greeting, farewell, or heartfelt moment. Friends would often shrug it off with a simple “you too,” maybe with a casual, often awkward side-hug thrown in for good measure. Their texts were signed with thumbs-ups emojis, “same to you,” or a simple goodnight. One time in person, Sonic even jokingly replied with “cool beans” and a pair of finger guns. Amy wasn’t amused. He smiled apologetically and added a sheepish, “love you too” before she could reach for her hammer.

She knew Sonic cared. It shouldn’t have mattered.

Even with close friends like Cream, Amy was always the one who said “I love you” first.

She knew Cream cared. It shouldn’t have mattered.

Romantic partners often opted for the shortened “love you” or merely signed their texts with hearts. She was the first in a relationship to say “I love you” without fail, and no one ever said it as often as she did. Some partners even said it more quietly in public, as if they were ashamed.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

Amy knew she shouldn’t care.

But...

By the time Shadow asked her out, Amy was practically starving for love and affirmation. She didn’t hold out hope that Shadow would be any different than the others given how reticent and formal he was, but she’d always admired him for his quiet heroism and devotion, so she decided it was worth a shot.

But it was that formal demeanor that made him a perfect match for her.

In his own way, Shadow was just as dramatic and intense as she was. His direct manner of speaking didn’t allow for casual, blasé phrasing. Every time he expressed his feelings for her, it was with a full, serious “I love you.” He said the words first, too; he’d harbored strong feelings for her from the start, even before they’d turned romantic, and he didn’t hesitate tell her so.

Amy gushed about how much his blunt affection meant to her one day. To her surprise, he admitted that he wasn’t as open and blunt around anyone else. With her sincerity and big feelings, he could be as intense as he wanted because he knew she’d never shy away.

She started to say “I love you” in response, and she couldn’t help but laugh when he beat her to it.

[deathlygristly]

I find myself saying this phrase so often online these days: When I was 9 I read every book the local library had on the Holocaust. I remember being 9 or 10, looking up at the blue sky on a beautiful sunny day, and imagining the smoke rising.

WW2 became a special interest. In 8th grade we did a group project in social studies and each group got to pick a war. I told my group we were doing WW2, I did all the work, and the teacher told the other people they should kiss my feet for the A+ we got. I got that autism special interest power in me.

So it was pretty clear to me where we were headed when the hate and dehumanization started after 9/11. I remember in the days right afterward, I had hope. Hope that we'd come together, that we'd learn. But then the hate started, and the bombing, and the existential despair that I've been dealing with for over 24 years because we've been on this track since at least then. Some of us were on it well before, like for example Rush Limbaugh's Dittoheads in the 90s, but I think it was around then when it metastasized and started to spread to the rest of the body.

I don't try to warn people anymore. Well, I mean, warning now doesn't make sense because it's here, it's in your face, and if you still can't see it that's a personal choice that I can't help you with. But back in the day, I tried to warn people.

But they couldn't hear me, because Nazis were Other. They were Monsters, they were Evil, they were Them, not Us. Never Us. Even now I occasionally see people who support Trump and Musk who get offended at the comparison and immediately downplay it because to them Nazis are some weird amorphous Evil Other and/or just a word that "the libs" use as an insult, and not a clear example of what can happen when humans get deep into hate and hierarchy and othering and projecting their personal issues on people they deem of lower worth and denying reality.

On the other hand I have seen at least one example of a person who realized how many Nazis were agreeing with them and they started getting out and finding other perspectives, so there's that.

There's a phrase I often say: "Humans are gonna human." I use it to mean that humans are going to be short-sighted, impulsive, selfish, unthinking, conforming to a group no matter what, obsessed with status and hierarchy, irrational, and liable to do things that are extremely destructive to themselves and to others and to the planet. These are things that all humans do, and if you can't recognize it in yourself it's highly likely that it's because you're denying it and projecting it on to others in order to keep your idea of yourself as a moral righteous individual and to fit in with your clique of fellow moral outragers. That's a thing that humans do. ;)

If you can't give grace to others for being human you probably can't give it to yourself either, and you'll keep denying reality and projecting and hating and spewing your self-hate on to others in the grand human cycle of hatred and violence and destruction. The only way I know of to stop that cycle is to realize you're part of it and to work on yourself while giving grace to yourself and to others.

And no, that doesn't mean letting people who do serious harm get away with it. Simplistic black and white thinking like that is another thing that is humans being human and that we have to work on. It just means that, I don't know, if you're ever in the position to punish people who did serious harm you do it with justice instead of just doing what they did to you back to them. You can be imagining them suffering the way they made other people suffer the whole time. That's okay. But you can't actually starve them or beat them to death or put them in camps or gas them and burn their bodies in crematoriums, because then you have become them.

Basically, inside of you there are two wolves. ;) One is Fenrir, ready to set the world on fire. The other is just a normal wolf trying to live its life and be a natural part of its ecosystem. You gotta do your best to feed the normal one, because if you let Fenrir go you'll be the one turning other humans into smoke.

I thought it was fairly normal to feel empathy for bad people.

I thought it was common, even.

But after my Elon/Grimes post... now I'm wondering if I was mistaken about that.

I wrote a post about Trump being traumatized after his assassination attempt and a post about his poor adaptation to aging. I expressed sympathy for him in both cases. But I still maintain my white hot hatred of him and wish for him to face consequences.

Elon was abused by his father. Some of the stories are incredibly tragic. Hearing those stories triggers an involuntary response in my emotional systems that I can't stop no matter how much I despise present-day Elon. I also wonder if that abuse never occurred maybe we wouldn't be dealing with this current clusterfuck.

I have never held so much anger towards a single person as I do my brother. But I also see him as a victim of abuse. I know he was once a really good person and he was slowly corrupted. I feel sorry for him. I mourn the amazing person he used to be. And I still love him.

But that doesn't make me any less angry.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The Blind Demon

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

( A continuation of Humans are weird: An army of heroes )

“Where is our empress?”

It was the one question the human delegation would not relent on. Despite the Sygonic diplomat’s best attempts to steer the conversation towards more fruitful topics, such as a cease fire between their two powers or even a complete cessation of hostilities, the human’s would not open discussion until they could verify the state of their captive empress. A notion lead delegate Harken was doing everything in his power to avoid.

Before the war between the Sygonic and Terran Empire had broken out their empress, Imelia Asghar, had surrendered herself to the Sygonic people. Officially she stated her reasoning was that she would not risk the lives of her people in war without risking her own, but in reality Harken and many of his colleagues suspected it was more of a propaganda tool for the human masses.

Things had been going well with her as their captive. The Sygonic Senate had afforded her every luxury, going so far as to treat her as a noble guest rather than the ruler of their sworn enemies. They couldn’t decide on if to use her as a bargaining chip down the road with the Terran government or political pawn, but they wagered for the interim keeping her happy would keep all parties content for now.  

Then Lord Commander Abarax Caston had demanded a meeting and things went straight to hell.

During their discussion the empress goaded and prodded at the lord commander’s ego and intellect, or lack of, until Caston took hold of a glass bottle and threw it at the empress. The bottle smashed against her face with such force that one eye ruptured into a gory mess and her face was scared with a dozen glass shards slicing her skin.

Medical professionals from across the Sygonic domain had been transported to tend to her but even with the physical injuries healed and a freshly cloned eye the damage was already beyond fixing. All the empress needed to do was to open her mouth and tell her people that she had been brutalized by none other than the Lord Commander himself and the peace talks would fall apart like quicksand beneath their feet. 

“As I’ve said before,” the Sygonic diplomat repeated yet again, “Empress Asghar is currently unable to attend this meeting and we should proceed without her.”

The human diplomats shared several expressions ranging from disbelief to sheer outrage.

“How can we negotiate in good faith when you will not present our head of state to us?” the lead human diplomat, “Conner” the Sygonic diplomat thought their name was, spoke. “How can we be sure she is even alive?”

With the concern finally spoken aloud it spread like a virus through the entire human delegation. If he did not act soon they would most likely leave and the peace talks would-

With a loud groan the door to the room slowly opened cutting off the growing murmurs of discontent and drawing the eyes of everyone in the chamber.

“Please do sit down, gentlemen.” The voice was soft yet authoritative as the speaker slowly entered the room. “I was hardly worth this much commotion even before I became a prisoner.”

To the relief of all, Empress Imelia Asghar strode into the room. She wore a flowing gown of the richest emerald and a simple crimson Fascinator Hat that made her the center of attention immediately with hardly any effort. The calming effect she had over her delegation was not lost on the Sygonic delegates, but it was only momentary as the humans noticed something off-putting.

Asghar’s face was hidden behind a mask of pure marble white carved to her exact likeness. In place of her eyes were two pitch black lens’s that hid her eyes. It was like looking into the eyes of a doll and it quickly dampened the human’s enthusiasm to see their empress.

Why is she wearing a mask? The Sygonic diplomat thought to themselves. The surgeries should have repaired any physical damage.

“Empress Asghar….is that you?” one of the human’s asked uncertainly.

The empress took a seat on the Sygonic side to symbolize her continued imprisonment and turned her gaze across the table to the human delegate.

“Have you so quickly forgotten me Bradlin? And here I thought you were my favorite diplomat.”

Her coy response left Bradlin flatfooted and bumbling as he was unsure of what to say next. The other diplomats were not so easily dissuaded though.

“He does make a good point, we need to first confirm your identity.”

With a nod Bradlin pulled out a small scanning device and swept it over the empress. It beeped several times before flashing bright green.

“Scans say it is our Empress.” Bradlin said, though he still looked unconvinced.

“Would you kindly remove your mask for facial recognition?”

It was here the empress appeared to hesitate. Nothing verbally said but her body language tensed for the briefest of moments.

“The scans should have been enough.” Asghar replied with a hint of annoyance.

“Scanners can be fooled,” the diplomat countered, “and as you said we are your favorite diplomats; who better would recognize you?”

Tilting her head to look at the Sygonic delegates, Asghar slowly reached up and removed the stone mask. A collective gasp of horror came from the humans as they laid eyes on their empress once more.

Her face was a patchwork of cuts and gashes; some still fresh and leaking thin trails of blood. A collection of purple and greens dotted her face from deep swelling bruises. Her lips were split in several places but worst of all was the hollowed eye sockets that gazed out at the gathered dignitaries.

“What in the seven hells have they done to you!?”

Bradlin directed the question at his empress but his gaze was squarely directed at the Sygonic delegates. “Is this what you do to your prisoners!?!”

The Sygonic’s had no response and stammered fruitlessly. None of this made sense. The empress was perfectly fine after her surgeries; they had even seen her in person and she had shown nothing but perfect health.

“It is nothing I cannot endure for my people.” Empress Asghar replied as she picked up the mask and returned it to her face.

“There has been a grave misunderstanding.” The Sygonic’s began but the humans would hear none of it.

“You sick monsters will pay for this! Guards, get in here!!”

From outside the room a platoon of human guards followed shortly by their opposite numbers of the Sygonic guards. The pair drew weapons and pointed at each other while shouting orders back and forth. Several delegates ducked under the table or hid behind chairs as the tension continued to mount.

“ENOUGH!”

The gathered rabble was silenced by the dominating voice of the empress as she stood up from her chair.

“This is a place of diplomacy! Put away your weapons and stop acting like children!”

“But Empress-“ Bradlin countered.

“But nothing!” Asghar silenced him. “We are Terran’s, and we do not forsake the code of diplomacy for anything.”

No one dared move for fear of starting a war as the empress’s words slowly calmed the heads of her delegates, the fate of the war hung by the thinnest of threads. ----------------------------------------------

The meeting broke up not long after that. The humans visible deterred about the treatment of their empress and were already spreading news of her treatment back to the entire Terran Empire. The Sygonic delegation was all but assured that the war would not cease any time soon as a result of her viewing.

As the empress walked by the lead delegate grabbed her by the wrist.

“What did you do?!” they demanded. “You were healed, your injuries things of memory!”

The cold mask of the empress turned to face the delegate.

“They were.” She admitted. “So I inflicted these wounds on myself.”

The delegate let go of her and took a step back in horror.

“How do you think my people will react when they hear you have not only tortured their beloved empress, but have brutalized her in unimaginable ways and yet still remains unbroken?”

She took the stone mask off and revealed a bloody smile; the very act of smiling opening wounds and causing small streams of blood to run between her teeth.

“Did you think I would sweep my treatment under the carpet and act as if nothing happened? Did you think your surgeries and cloned eye would earn you my sympathy?”

The delegate looked into the hollow eyes of the empress as she shook her head. “Your Lord Commander signed your death warrants the moment he struck me, and I have just provided the final nail in your coffin.”

[gothamite-rambler]

Duke: Bruce will do the most extreme dumbass nonsense, be emotionally unavailable, be a douche and we try to call out that flaw he's like, "Hey, my parents got shot and even though most of your are orphans, my tragedy trumps everyone else's grief. For I am a true victim. You haven't gone through the same grief. Not the one who watched his parents die, the one who had a drug addict step mom that loved him, a negligent dad, a bitch of a betraying mom and was brought back from the dead, Tim who lost his parents after becoming Robin, and Damian who is related to a demon Lord, right? I'm the victim."

Duke paused, taking a long drink from his water as the others listened and waited for him to continue.

Stephanie: Lubricate the throat before you finish your verbal beat down. Respect.

Duke: "Or the one, Duke, great man by the way, who's parents are permeantly insane due to Joker toxin, or Stephanie who I treated like garbage even though her dad is Cluemaster or Cass who was raised by assassins. No, I'm clearly the victim here and I deserve pity and to be listened to at all times nobody questions what I say. Ever." And I'm like, oh God he's hurt, he's egotistical and so hurt. And I love the man, but... He can be an asshole. You know what I mean Bruce?

Everyone except for Bruce was laughing at Duke's dramatics. Bruce crossed his arms.

Bruce: That's not accurate at all.

Jason: Yeah, you don't want pity, you just want to be the boss no matter how annoying you are.

Tim: Remember when he tried to tell Dick he doesn't understand the loss of parents to win an argument and Dick started fake crying?

Dick: Yeah, I'm going at fake crying and he had it coming.

Jason: It also helped you did this in front of his hero friends.

Bruce (walking away): I didn't think we were going to have lunch and I'd be personally disrespected.

Duke: Hey, we're happy you're in therapy at least! It's with Harley Quinn, but she's crazy like you!

Bruce: I can ground you don't test me!

Duke: It'd be worth it.

Stephanie nodded still laughing.

[animeyanderelover]

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, clingiess, manipulation, isolation, abduction, death

Tags: @flaming-vulpix @lovley-valentine7 @ladydoe8

Sweet s/o doesn't think they're worthy of love

Sohma Hatori

🐉​Well, perhaps misery really does love company as both of you just happen to be in the exact same boat as each other. Hatori and you both do not see yourselves as worthy of love yet at the same time both of you believe that the other one is more than just deserving of finding a significant other that will treat them with love and affection. Hatori's heart doesn't open its doors easily for just anyone, not after he put the woman he loved so much through pain and was forced to erase her memories. He has witnessed himself how happy she is without him and that has led him to believe that he could never attribute to someone's happiness as a lover. Yet you bang dangerously on a heart that continues to soften with thoughtful gestures. There's nothing that makes his heart flatter quite as much as when you walk in on him having fallen asleep on his desk and he wakes up with a blanket drapped over his shoulders or the drinks and bento boxes that you bring him whenever he is working too long. The fear presses heavily down on his chest as Hatori fears that history will repeat itself yet at the same time he cannot surpress his longing for eternity. His heart is unable to turn itself off.

🐉​So Hatori starts returning the affection you show him, showers you in the same care and attention that you have given him even though he doesn't think that he is worthy of it. He may not be worthy of your love but you are worthy of all the love and even if it may not be much he is willing to give it all to you. Throughout his own low self-worth it only now occurs to him that perhaps you have been harboring a very similar mindset as him. He hears it when your friends excitedly ask you about Hatori and you firmly reply that the both of you only care about each other as friends, jokingly replying that someone like him could never love you. It's only meant to lighten the mood but his heart drops when he hears those words, catches the glimmer of self-depreciation within those beautiful eyes. It is such a familiar sensation to him that it almost hurts to realise that all this time you have been feeling this way and he has never noticed it until now. Hatori beats himself up silently over it later that night, disappointed and angry at himself that he has never known about your own low self-worth. You, the person that he wishes to cherish the most on this planet.

🐉​It doesn't matter that he thinks of himself as unworthy of love. After all the memories he has stolen and lives of fellow Zodiac members that he has ruined as a result of his abilities he deserves all the guilt and the loneliness. You on the other hand have done nothing wrong in your life. In Hatori's eyes you are just a joy to the world and to the people around you so he can't even fathom why you would believe yourself to be not deserving of love. It just hurts to see how you continue to tell yourself that no one can ever love you and it pushes Hatori to grow slightly more overbearing. He feels the need to help you see yourself in the same way that he sees you, tries to discover what is the root of those self-dismissive thoughts. Insults that friends jokingly direct at you or questions that your family asks you in regards to your lovelife are suddenly met with an air of defensiveness from Hatori's side as his heart grows more sensitive on your behalf, worried that even such words could only hurt you secretively more. There is an increase in affection that Hatori gives you, not enough to be counted as overbearing but definitely enough for you to react confused and somewhat worried.

Kamo Choso

🩸​Choso struggles immensely at the beginning of his obsession. It is a lot for him. He has just recently been reborn in a vessel, thrown into a world unfamiliar and strange to him yet he has been on the front lines from the very beginning. The only anchor he has is his younger brother Itadori as the young boy is the only family that Choso has left in this world now. He is familiar with brotherly love yet when you stride into his life, he doesn't understand what he is feeling. Your gentle smile has his heart pounding, your voice has his head buzzing pleasantly and whenever you touch him gently and ask him if he's alright his ears turn red. Initially Choso almost believes that he is sick yet not only does he have to almost immediately rule this possibility out as he is not a human but he also notices that you are the trigger of all of these symptoms. Yet instead of seeking a cure Choso finds himself actively seeking you out, longing for more of those strange sensations that only you can eilicit out of him. He wishes to protect you very much like he wishes to protect his brother yet there is something more that he wants and it is that something that has him struggling. He doesn't know what it is.

🩸​Choso adapts though, albeit slowly, to the world that he has been thrown into. Adapting means realising what it is he is feeling from the information he picks up around him. The moment Choso can name what he is feeling for you and knows what it implies on a basic level, he starts courting you. It is far from your average prince in a fairy tale but it is adorable in its own rights. Flowers that he buys for you and hands you with softly spoken words, warm hands that cling to you whenever you are close and adoring eyes that cannot separate from you whenevr you are within his view. Unable to understand fully what you mean when he overhears that the two of you are only friends, the sharp pain doesn't strike his heart until later when he grasps the meaning behind them. Choso is everything but subtle about it either as he asks you what it is that he has been doing wrong, begging for advice on what he can do better so that he may become your significant other and protect you from everything and everyone. He struggles to understand what your words mean as you merely tell him that he is probably just being confused right now and his first assumption is simply that there must be someone behind this.

🩸​Protecting his loved ones has so far almost meant defending them from physical threats. This is not something he can fight using his powers though. This is a burden that you carry within your heart and unable to figure out how to help you kills Choso on the inside. In his eyes you are the most beautiful person in the world, someone who doesn't deserve to have any harm ever be directed your way. It is a constant tug of war game that happens within his heart as in some moments he swears that there has to be someone responsible for your feelings and that he just has to hunt that someone down and in the next moment he can only be overwhelmed by anxiety as he wonders what he could do better to help you and that he isn't doing enough. The intentions to help you and comfort you come from a pure place but Choso only knows how to express them in the most overwhelming ways possible. He glues himself to your hips and starts showering you in affection and love, praying that it'll help your wounded heart. Every word that is spoken to you and that Choso interprets as an insult to you can end deadly for the culprit if you aren't there to stop him.

Canute

👑​What could possibly be more sweet than you, a maid who works closely for the king? Freshly employed with an optimism that is still settled within reality, you take your duties seriously as you look out for the king and always make sure that he too gets his rest. Canute tends to get lost in the burden of a king, sees hallucinations of his own father who mocks him for how the crown has poisoned him too. In such moments you almost appear like an angel, your mere presence silencing his father's voice like the light does the darkness at the beginning of a new day. As cruel as Canute tends to be and as much as you sometimes condemn him for the cruelty that he directs against the innocent people, you have also witnessed the side of him that he is unable to expose to those who obey him. Heavy is the crown after all and perhaps in order to be respected and to not be betrayed he just needs to be feared by others. Sometimes you think of the crown decorating his head as a cage and so you decide to do what you can do as a mere humble maid to give Canute some brief moments of peace where he too can enjoy being a human free of all burden and expectations.

👑​Never have you ever expected something in return. It is your duty after all to serve Canute to the fullest of your abilities and you are aware of the vast differences between the two of you as he is a king and you only a humble servant. Still, unaware to your own eyes you have started to catch his interest. Care and attention can go a long way after all and though Canute may not openly admit it, he does appreciate every little thing that you do for him. Especially since he knows that you don't do it with any backhanded motives in mind. You do not wish for any affection directed your way or for any rewards, you do it because you wish to treat him nicely. It is a quality that could be easily stepped on as kindness is something that he has forgone in favor of achieving his goal yet within you it is rightly placed. It starts very subtly with praises given to you when the two of you are alone, words you humbly reject every single time. Then Canute starts asking you for any wishes that you may have, for physical treasures you may desire yet instead you always request for help for your family or your friends as there is nothing that you desire to receive from him. You are humble. Far too humble.

👑​It is a shame that you sell yourself so short, especially since it is a king who pries for your affection and love. Honestly, Canute is unsure if he should feel amused or somewhat offended by your constant rejections of his indirect courtings as you do not believe yourself as worthy to be loved by him. His words are final so all Canute would have to do is to demand from you to become his lover yet it is exactly because he has the luxury of that option that he decides against it. This is a matter of personal pride now to see just how he can be able to infiltrate your heart enough for you to love him and to seek him out than the other way around. It doesn't go unnoticed by the people surrounding him how he constantly keeps you around even when there is no need for your services at the moment and rumors quickly start spreading. Canute mostly ignores them until someone badmouths you in which case the king is quick and merciless to silence anyone who dares to insult you in his face. You can scarcely remember when you were able to stray from Canute's side and visit your family and friends yet whenever you ask him that question he merely lets you know that he still needs your services.

Gauche Adlai

🪞​In comparison to most other first meetings that Gauche had, he must say that the one between him and you is far more pleasant. That is only because you are introduced to him as someone who greatly cares for his little sister Marie and who looks out for her. Marie's fondness for you adds to the good impression even if there is a twinge of jealousy whenever she talks so much about you. However, he stops pretty soon with those jealous glares whenever you only reply with a smile or immediately walk over and ask him what is wrong, unfaced by the ill-mannered attitude that puts so many others off. Unable to handle that sheer amount of kindness and afraid to be called a meanie by his little sister, Gauche stops quickly with those dark looks. You speak highly of Marie whenever Gauche visits as you know that he is often busy as a Magic Knight which is why you decide to tell him little stories of Marie and obviously he listens, his chest growing with pride whenever you speak of something she accomplished. He is a little bit strange but you still tell him that you think of him as a good human, something he denies as he averts his eyes, his heart suddenly pounding within his chest.

🪞​At one point conversations aren't just about Marie anymore. Suddenly Gauche starts showing an interest in you as well and though you often try to guide the discussion back to Marie, that only works for so long until Gauche insists weirdly intensely that he wants to know more about you. So you see yourself unable to reject him as you hesitantly reveal bits about your own life. Presents that used to be solely for Marie are suddenly split up as you too start receiving gifts from Gauche. At the beginning you always tried to reject them but Gauche is awfully persistent and far too seriously until he has successfully tired you out and you just silently accept everything. The drama starts anew whenever he visits and realises that you aren't wearing any of the clothes or accessories that he has bought you, his gaze so displeased and offended that you often hurry back home to put on new clothes. The nosebleed that he gets every time worries you and it doesn't stop, especially when you stand far too close and press the tissue against his nose. He starts dragging you along with Marie every time he visits, especially once Marie asks you to accompany the two of them.

🪞​He finds out through Marie one day about your thoughts and feelings as the girl approached you to ask what you think of her brother as his own feelings have been glaringly obvious for a while now. Gauche, with no thoughts of being considerate, approaches you soon after and asks you if you are truly feeling like you do not deserve love, specifically his love. Far too blunt and harsh with his choice of words and his heavy stare, you are unable to answer that question properly as you instead scurry away. Normally Gauche would have stopped you but in that moment Theresa is watching and he knows that she would immediately stop him if he were to chase after you. This is far from over though. Gauche is very possessive, all the more since it isn't easy for someone to even reach the importance he would usually only give his little sister. The main reason why he can rest somewhat easy is simply because he knows you wouldn't accept it if anyone else were to confess to you besides him though obviously he would be quick to threaten all possible competition. Needless to say though, he is going to get you to be his one way or another and he isn't necessarily shy of using force.

Jinx

𝄞Perhaps you are the little bit of sweetness that someone like Jinx has always needed in her life. She is in the firm belief that people are always going to abandon and betray her, even her own mind constantly lets her down as she is haunted by voiced and faces of the past. Essentially Jinx feels like there is no one that she can trust, not even herself. That all seems to change when she bumps into you though. Within the chaotic life of the Undercity you seem to be so out of place. You're kind, honest and far from the type who would backstab anybody. This is why it is somewhat hard for Jinx to initially believe that you are truly as gentle and kind as you seem to be, especially once you direct that warm attention at her. She isn't used to such open care and love, at least not since Vi left her all by herself. She has never forgotten the pain of being left by the person she thought would stay by her side and love her no matter what though which is why she constantly asks you for reassurance if you are being honest with her. You always tell her that you are but that doesn't have to mean that you truly mean those words. She would know best after all as her older sister promised her the exact same thing.

𝄞Nevertheless, as your presence becomes a constant in her life, Jinx starts to actively seek you out. Random knocks on your window in the middle of the night or her suddenly bursting through your frontdoor. There is always that subtle tension in her body that melts the moment you greet her with that sweet smile as if she came to your house in the fear that you wouldn't be there anymore. Whenever she is bothered, whenever the past catches up to her and she feels her chest tighten Jinx always comes to you without a fail. The voices don't go away and they probably never fully will but you provide her with a comfort and stability that makes everything more bearable. There have been admittedly times where she accidentally hurt you when she was in the throes of the voices and faces assaulting her but even then you always stayed with her. It is when she witnesses this, how you still stay even when she is at her lowest and even hurts you, that Jinx decides that she wants to believe that you are different and that you are never going to leave her. This is how the delusional tendencies start and this is how she cranks up her affection to a 12, her clinginess undeniable as she even crawls into your bed with you.

𝄞The emotions that you feel and the thoughts that you harbor are things that she struggles to process and understand. Not because she struggles with the concept of emotions but because she is too emotional for her to be rational and calm. All that Jinx hears is that you do not want her which clashes with her newly adopted delusional tendencies as you are meant to be the one person who is never going to betray her. In a impulsive outburst so typical for her she ends up abducting you on the spot as you wake up tied to a chair with Jinx pretty much placed on your lap, muttering and talking to herself and the voices that once again have come to haunt her which is why she has searched for sanctuary on your lap. When she notices that you are awake she asks you if you feel sorry for what you have told her earlier, rejecting her love for you, and only once you nod does she remove the tape covering your mouth. Almost immediately she demands of you to apologise to her now though since your words were quite hurtful for her. Safe to say, you aren't going anywhere anytime soon. No, instead you will have to mend the cracks within Jinx's delusional thoughts. Be careful with your words from now on.

[generallemarc]

That is not a Christian thing at all. We have the idea of martyrs, but the idea of seeking martyrdom actively is exclusively Islamic-to be martyred for one's faith is first and foremost a tragedy, and while we remember and honor those who were slaughtered for the crime of believing in Christ by the various anti-Christian regimes throughout the millennia, I can't think of a single denomination that has actively encouraged people to put themselves in those situations. Even with the Crusades, which you could (tenuously) argue were invoked in spirit by some few radicals during the Iraq War, the idea was to fight and win in the name of the faith, not just go out there and die. Life is indeed worth living, which is why I find this more saddening than upsetting. This person is needlessly shortening their life, their irreplaceable life, for no reason beyond borderline-delusional moralism with no basis in any actual morals.

I believe that most instances of suicide cannot be considered sinful as they are committed by the mentally ill, and thus are not decisions made with full agency(speaking from years of experience helping a dear friend and from a month or two of dealing with it personally, you are 100% not in your right mind if you're depressed/anxious enough to be having those kinds of thoughts), however this is one of the relatively rare cases where a person who seems to be fully rational is choosing to end their life, seemingly just out of spite. And to destroy what God has given you for such hateful reasons can only be sinful.

Just saw a tiktok from someone about their professor who refuses to continue chemo cancer treatment until the biomedical company providing it stops doing business in Israel.

Comments are calling it a beautiful act of resistance.

The video scrolls through the multi-page letter by the professor, but too fast to actually be read. But I did see that the last page says something about Nazi Germany… I wonder what that was about.