#but then they’d be the worst at just ALWAYS doing the things for you so you don’t have to stress just on instinct | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itneverendshere · 29 days ago

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LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care

You’ve had to make a lot of unfortunate decisions in your life.

Choosing a place for your entire family to rest for eternity, picking the caskets, the headstones—it felt like deciding which curtains to buy for the house, except you were burying your entire close family.

After the crash, your parents were gone instantly, just like that—no goodbyes, no warning, just there one moment and gone the next.

But your sister survived. Three days. You thought maybe that was a sign, she’d live despite everything, and you wouldn’t be left alone.

Two weeks later, the doctors told you it was time, but you couldn’t accept it. You held her hand, begging her to stay, telling her every promise you could think of if she opened her eyes.

When the monitors finally went flat, you couldn’t feel anything but desperation. Rafe had to pull you out of there, his arms locked around you while you kicked and screamed, sobbing and begging your sister not to go, not to leave you here.

You fought him with everything you had left, clawing, crying, pleading for just one more second. You were screaming so loud you didn’t even recognize your voice. Everything good had been ripped away from your hands, there was nothing left of the world you’d known.

After that, you remember sitting in some stuffy funeral home office, skimming through catalogs and hardly seeing the pages through your tears. The caskets all looked the same, the types of wood made no difference to you, fabric linings, all of it felt so wrong.

None of it was a choice you should have to make.

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

You just picked something neutral and blank, something that didn’t require thought or emotion because, by then, you had nothing left to give.

Now you were trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

Ruthie—no chance you’d involve her. She’d just see this as another fucked up piece of gossip she could hold over your head, another way to judge or control you. She was “friend” only in the loosest sense of the word.

Kelce was the last person you’d consider turning to for something this serious. He has always been there, but you never got close. He was too much of an instigator, always pushing Rafe to do reckless things he’d regret later, peer pressuring him in ways that made you wonder if he even knew what loyalty meant. He had this weird loyalty to Ruthie, defending her comments as if she was some misunderstood angel when really, she was just… mean.

So that left Sarah.

It felt weird, thinking of her as the person you’d call on for something so serious, she was the only one who felt… safe. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t pry, she’d seen what the worst kind of family conflict could do, and she’d keep this private, just for you.

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

You were pretty sure no one in this town would fully understand, they’d just offer their "advice," as if they knew you, seen what you’d been through.

The truth was, they didn’t know shit. They hadn't seen you holding your sister’s hand, begging her to stay alive. They didn’t know what it was like to bury everything that made you feel like a person, like you belonged somewhere, and have to get up the next day like nothing happened.

Nine days, you would be halfway across the country, and you needed someone. You pictured saying it out loud: “I’m pregnant", just those two words, to someone’s face, you had no idea what to say next.

Maybe you’d tell them that it wasn’t about wanting it gone out of spite or shame, but because you couldn’t bring a child into a world where you felt this alone.

Earlier that morning, you’d stared down at your phone, thumb itching to click on Sarah’s name, like just pressing "call" could fix everything. You despised how needy it made you feel—reaching out, when you’d prided yourself on surviving alone.

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it, because you were stuck at the beach cleanup.

Just like every other summer, another "social responsibility" event that your late father’s foundation insisted you smile through. Even back then, when they were alive, your summers were a carousel of charity galas, fundraisers, endless hours of small talk, and impeccably arranged seating charts.

The board members of the foundation probably thought it would “ground” you—remind you of your privilege, of your “responsibility” to give back. As if a couple of hours and a few bags of garbage would somehow balance the scales. They never seemed to understand how much of it was all for show, this shallow idea that if you looked the part, no one would care to learn more.

But, still, you’d show up. You always did. Smile, make just enough small talk to appease the right people.

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean.

Kie, who was so genuinely invested in this whole “save the planet” thing it was almost enviable was there too with JJ, who was running around her as usual, wearing his ‘I’m just here for the ride’ expression but enjoying himself. The love between them made you miss having someone who cared in ways that weren’t just calculated moves.

She waved at you from the shoreline, her eyes moving to the trash bag you were barely half-filling.

You weren’t friends, but if Sarah liked her, you did too.

You offered a faint smile back, tired, because between all the shit you’d been thinking about, you'd forgotten to eat, to drink anything, and every time you leaned down to grab another crumpled plastic bottle or a bit of seaweed-laden garbage, you felt like your legs were about to give out on you.

Every now and then, she would throw a quick, appraising glance your way, like she was expecting you to miraculously become invested in the beach’s ecosystem.

You didn’t have it in you to pretend this was enjoyable today. The “effortless” philanthropy your family loved was a lifestyle you’d never bought into. It didn’t matter how many smiling photos of you had ended up on some charity’s social media—you knew you’d rather be anywhere else.

You had to take a break every few minutes, leaning against a pier post, trying to get yourself together as a few of the younger kids gave you wary glances. You could have left—probably should have.

You managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a thumbs-up that said, Just doing great over here, guys!

You were in a long t-shirt, which hung over your bikini and shorts, the fabric slightly oversized, to help hide what was still a small change in your body. Paranoia was your new best friend, always worrying that someone would notice something different, even if you didn’t have a noticeable bump yet.

Bending down to grab another plastic bottle, you felt a stab of nausea hit you hard, rolling up from your stomach, thick and sour, but you ignored it. Not here. Not now.

You straightened up too fast, and your vision blurred slightly, that familiar sense of vertigo hitting you. You took a shallow breath, ignoring the burn at the back of your throat, your hands shaking slightly as you adjusted the bag slung over your shoulder.

One girl looked up at you with these wide eyes kids like to pull, “Are you okay?”

You smiled, brushing it off as if you weren’t about two seconds away from collapsing. “Of course. Just... need a second.”

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either.

Just a few more bags of trash and you’d be able to get back to your car, maybe grab some water from the cooler in the trunk, sit down, and think about it.

This used to be easy, you got a weird kind of enjoyment from these cleanups, running around with your sister, making it a competition to see who could pick up the most trash, laughing until your stomachs hurt over stupid jokes about jellyfish and sunscreen. Back then, this was just one of a thousand little family traditions, one of those things that felt effortless.

Now, sweat dripped down the back of your neck, making your skin prickle uncomfortably.

You’d long given up wiping it away, knowing that it would only come back thicker and hotter the next second. Every instinct told you to run off to the parking lot, and sit in the car with the AC blasting until your body remembered it didn’t hate you.

Leaning down for one last bottle wedged in the sand, your legs wobbled and gave way beneath you. Just like that, your vision was spotty, as if someone had turned down the brightness on the entire beach, and you pitched forward.

Just as you felt yourself going down, a hand caught your arm, pulling you back up.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay?" A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, gripped your arm firmly, keeping you upright.

How much longer could they realistically expect you to go on, plastering on that sweet, dutiful smile? How much “grounding” could one person take?

You blinked, trying to clear the haze in your eyes, "I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, really, it’s fine,” you insisted, but then a shadow loomed beside you.

Your vision was so foggy that it took seconds for you to register it.

You looked up slowly, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach as you realized who it was.

The last time you’d been this close to him, the two of you had been screaming insults across the room, Lily having to physically step in. She’d forced him to leave before you two killed each other. It was a miracle you hadn’t punched him then and there.

“You should sit down.”

It felt like a sidekick to your chest.

The sound of his voice was grinding on your nerves, and just like that you were stuck back in your dream, a real memory, leaning against him, his hand playing with a strand of your hair as he laughed at something you’d said, the two of you carefree under a golden sunset.

Except this was real.

Rafe was shirtless, with his board tucked under one arm, surf wax staining his fingers, and the sun glinting off his damp skin, like he was God’s gift to the Outer Banks. His buzzed hair was dark and wet, droplets trailing down his temples and catching along his jawline. His cheeks were flushed, a little red from the heat.

You looked away, somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but at him, refusing to let him see you in this fragile state.

“Go away. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move.

He’d been summoned from your absolute worst memories, catching you at your lowest when you least wanted his help. Typical.

“No,” he refused firmly, with that stupid, stubborn look that made you want to throw something at his head. “I’ve seen you almost fall three times now.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like a creep, you wouldn’t have to see me ‘almost fall.”

“I wasn’t��"

You grounded your teeth, “Just go back to surfing.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if you were the one acting crazy. “Yeah, 'cause you look perfectly stable right now.”

He'd always been a master of the passive-aggressive half-sneer, the art of making you feel like everyone else was imposing on his day, no matter the situation.

“Don’t act like you care.” you snapped, voice carrying over the sand, earning a few glances from nearby kids.

He ran a hand over his face, looking around as if he didn’t want to be there any more than you did, mouth pressed into a tight line. You wanted to scream that this was his fault too, that every choice he’d made led to you standing here alone, exhausted, and terrified.

“Water would help, y’know”, his tone just shy of patronizing “You can’t go around dehydrating yourself just to make a point.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Your fingers twitched with the urge to send him stumbling to the other side of the beach, you knew that any sudden movement would make you light-headed again, and the last thing you wanted was to give him more proof of your weakness.

The kid—still standing there, eyes wide and darting between you both—looked like he was watching a reality TV show when Kiara appeared at your side.

“Let’s not do this here,” she begged under her breath, handing you a bottle of water she’d brought over, a kindness you didn’t want but couldn’t reject. “Just sit down for a second, please?”

JJ followed, always with that air of easygoing nonchalance, but his eyes were serious as he glanced from you to Rafe.

“She’s right. Just take a second, yeah?” He looked over at Rafe, “Maybe you should leave,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe you should mind your fuckin’ business Maybank.”

“Look, uh,” the kid stammered, knowing he could get caught in the crossfire. “I’ll… I’ll go see if anyone needs help further down the beach…”

You waved him off, your focus still locked on Rafe as the kid all but bolted away, you didn’t want anyone to think they had to “rescue” you.

You tried to take a step back, but the little strength you had in you disappeared as you felt your knees wobble.

"Jesus," you heard him groan, and then his hands were on your arms, board on the sand, holding you as you stumbled. "I told you to sit down."

You shook his hands off, "Don’t tell me what to do.”

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

He let out an exasperated sigh while you took a sip from the water Kiara handed you, ignoring how your hands were still shaking around the bottle.

She spoke again, trying to be the voice of reason, "We’re here to help the community, remember?"

JJ smirked, "Yeah, think the sea turtles are rooting for y’all to work out your issues somewhere else.”

You ignored his joke, keeping your eyes on Rafe, your pride and stubbornness refusing to let him win, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

He looked you over, his gaze fixed to your warm cheeks and the dewy sheen across your temple, “You look real fine, don’t you?” He didn’t even try to cloak his sarcasm.

God, he could be so exasperating.

He couldn’t understand. How could he even think he could look at you now and know anything about who you were? Standing there, with that stupid board and that look, like he couldn’t imagine anything bothering him as much as this seemed to be bothering you.

As if he hadn’t already ruined you in so many ways that felt impossible to get over.

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he drawled, his eyes trailing from the waves back to you.

You were tired of this game, of fighting him every time he showed up only to leave you feeling even emptier than before.

Your fists clenched, and you opened your mouth to hurl something back, but the dizziness hit you again. Before you could compose yourself, Rafe’s arm wrapped around your waist, strong and frustratingly secure, holding you upright with an ease that made your skin crawl.

He had seen you at your weakest, had been there at the hospital after the accident, keeping you together when you were certain you’d break.

Yet, here you were, in a sick way, back in his arms, all broken apart.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” JJ chimed in, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

The world alone had all kinds of alarms going off in your brain. You fought back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest, freeing your arm.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He let go, but he didn’t back away.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

He was there. And you didn’t want to be reminded of it, not in front of other people.

He meant the exhaustion and hunger pains you’d welcomed after your family was gone, embraced even, because it meant you wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

You’d wanted to disappear, and he’d been there—dragging you back, forcing you to drink water and swallow bites of food, even when you pushed him away. He’d seen you at your absolute lowest, where you didn’t care if you made it through the day.

The thought of the hospital, tests, questions, you fought it, but your vision was already blurring.

You couldn’t let him find out about the baby.

Your breathing felt tighter, each shallow breath only making the spinning worse, you could sense your body giving in to the exhaustion

“Shit,” you heard him curse, sounding distant now like he was farther away.

You felt yourself sway as if the ground was opening beneath you, there was a ringing in your ears that made his voice sound muffled but you still felt his arms catching you again, holding you upright before you fell.

Waking up in a moving vehicle was like emerging from a nightmare, except somehow, this was worse, because you were no longer at the beach.

You blinked hard, desperate to wipe the fogginess in your eyes and when it did go away, you realized who was behind the wheel.

Rafe.

Your heart pounded—your desperation to keep the baby a secret, how you almost passed out at the beach, and the fact that now he was most likely driving you to the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing?” you practically screamed, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

He didn’t spare you a glance, “You passed out, genius. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Your whole body went rigid. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” He scoffed, as he kept his focus on the road. “You practically ate sand back there. You’re not fine.”

“Turn the car around. I’ll call my driver and be fine.” You huffed like he was too dumb to understand. “I don’t need your help.”

He let out a dry laugh, still not looking at you.

“Yeah. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you out of this car right now.”

“Rafe, I’m not kidding,” you warned, louder this time. “Stop. The. Car.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Not happening.”

Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t going to back down, you were driven by sheer desperation.

“Fine, then I’ll do it myself." you muttered, reaching for the door handle.

Anything to get out of this suffocating car before he dragged you all the way to the ER and they found out you were pregnant—with his baby, no less.

His eyes widened, finally snapping from the road to your hand on the handle.

“Are you crazy? Get your hand off that, I’m fuckin' serious.”

You yanked at it anyway, twisting the handle and pulling with spiteful defiance, and Rafe’s expression went from annoyed to full-on rage. He swerved the car to the side of the road, tires skidding as he slammed the brakes and practically threw the car into park.

Before he could even stop fully, you flung the door open and stumbled out, sandals sinking into the gravel as you stalked away.

You didn’t get more than a few feet, he was already bolting after you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, digging your nails into your palms.

How the hell had it come to this? You were stuck here, pregnant with his child, and he played the reluctant hero like you needed him swooping in to save you.

Rafe reached you in two strides, his fingers were digging into his forehead, pointing at it with exasperation imprinted into every corner of his face.

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind?” He sounded like he was talking to some unruly child.

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.

You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

What would he do if she was the one almost fainting? Would he still look like she was some colossal burden, or would he soften, maybe even smile as he fussed over her, acting like he wanted to help?

You hated yourself for caring at all.

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

There was no way he’d look at her like she was a mess, someone he just had to “deal with.” He likely saw her as easy, perfect, all soft and sweet words, everything you weren’t.

This wasn’t who you wanted to be, and yet here you were, stumbling around half-dead and pregnant with his child.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” You spat the words, watching his jaw clench tighter.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes.

“Unbelievable. Only you could take me trying to help and turn it into this.”

You were done. You were done with the memories, with the torment of seeing him be something better for someone else.

“Help?” You laughed bitterly, the anger engulfing you so hard it felt as if it choking you. “You think this is help? That I need you, of all people?”

He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm trying to help."

You hated how calm he was, how rational he sounded.

It was maddening when all you wanted was for him to get angry, to let that icy surface crack, to give you even a glimpse of something real, something that wasn’t just irritation or sarcasm.

You wanted proof that he still was affected by you, that this was the same guy who used to be everything, who’d promised you everything.

But you swallowed it down, straightening up, because there was no way in hell, you’d let him see even a hint of weakness.

“Trust me,” you shot back, “I’ll be just fine without you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Get in the car.”

“No,” you said, firm and unyielding, every inch of you screaming that you wouldn’t let him decide anything for you ever again.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

In one swift move, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with enough pressure to pull you forward, lifting you clean off your feet. Your breath caught in a furious gasp as he practically dragged you back to the car, his fingers warm against your skin, like you were just a mild convenience.

“Put me down!”

You struggled against his hold, jabbing at his chest with what little strength you could muster, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t so much as hesitate.

“Rafe, I swear—”

He opened the passenger door with one hand, keeping a firm grip on you with the other, before finally setting you down—not gently—onto the seat. Without meaning to, tears began falling as you struggled against his hands. You could feel them wetting your cheeks, your voice was breaking, jumping to distress as you tried to twist out of his hold, feeling so small under his unrelenting strength.

He almost knelt in front of you, reaching for the seat belt with one hand, while his other remained firmly on your shoulder, holding you still. You felt trapped, impresioned as you tried to turn in every direction, hands weakly pushing him back, but he caught them effortlessly.

“Stop!” you meekly choked out, failing to shove him, the words coming out shameful.

You could feel your heart breaking all over again.

You hated that he was seeing you like this, how he dared to act like you needed him—it made your skin crawl. You hated that he could do this, like he had any right like you’d ever wanted him involved in this part of your life, let alone now.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

You glared up at him, practically shaking with rage as Rafe ignored your protests like you were nothing more than a child throwing a fit.

“Get your hands off me.”

His jaw tightened, ignoring the flailing punches and slaps grazing him, and you couldn’t stop the sob that escaped, loud and ugly.

“I’m not letting you kill yourself out of spite.”

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”

For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here.

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours.

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall.

"Yeah? Get in line."

Without another word, he pulled back, slamming the door shut, and walking around to the driver’s side.

You wiped at your cheeks, furious that he’d seen you like this, that he had the power to break you down. It was humiliating, sitting here in his car, every part of your body screaming to escape.

He got in, started the engine, neither of you spoke.

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

You bit back another wave of nausea. Weakness.

You’d already shown him too much.

You didn’t need a lecture from some doctor on how you “should’ve taken better care of yourself", let alone with Rafe there, watching, scrutinizing, acting like this was his business when he’d made it clear long ago that it wasn’t. He was in your space in the worst way, reopening all the wounds.

You were seething. He had no right to do this.

The thought made you want to drop dead—doctor would walk in, casually drop the news about the baby, and you'd be left watching his reaction in real time.

You looked at the entrance to the ER. The vision of anyone running tests, of some well-meaning nurse, coming in and spilling everything about the baby in front of him—no way. You wouldn’t let that happen.

He wasted no time getting out, moving around to your side, while you sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. His hand was already on the door, yanking it open, looking down at you like he was ready to drag you inside if he had to.

You weren’t moving. You knew the second you stepped inside, it would be over.

“C’mon,” Rafe pressed, his hand outstretched, hovering there like he thought he could compel you to listen. “Stop being so stubborn.”

You crossed your arms over your stomach, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going in.”

Rafe let out a sigh, nearing his limit, and knelt down to your level.

“Look, you passed out. I’m not leaving until you get checked out.”

“You’re gonna be here for a while then.”

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”

“And what?” you interrupted.

“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”

Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”

“You’re not coming in."

He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

Maybe he was seeing the protection you’d built up around yourself since he left, how there was no longer any crack left open for him to slip through.

“I don’t need you. I don’t want you in there.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, restrained. “But I’ll be right here.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, not letting him your legs still shaking. You’d rather collapse face-first into the concrete than give him the satisfaction of listening to him.

“Yeah, you do that,” you replied, turning and walking toward the entrance, refusing to look back.

Stepping inside, you felt a slight tremor run through you—part relief, part panic. The lights were too bright, almost white. Your heart wobbled, replaying how he’d been such a fucking asshole to you.

You’d forgotten how mean he could be, how easily he could go from angry to something so frigid it made you want to cry yourself to sleep.

“Hi there,” The receptionist greeted, her eyes moving over you with a professional once-over, “What brings you in today?”

You forced a small smile, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

“Just…got a little dehydrated, that’s all.”

“Okay…let’s just get some basic information.” She clicked into her computer, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Name?”

You cleared your throat, rattling off your full name, she nodded, typing it in.

“Have you experienced any other symptoms besides dizziness?”

“Nothing serious,” you replied, dismissively. “It’s just the heat, like I said. I just need some water and I’ll be good as new.”

This had to be a fucking nightmare you got sucked in, you could sense your blood pressure spike.

She tapped her screen and glanced back at you.

“Alright, Miss Thornton, it looks like we’ll just need a few quick details here to get you all checked in. Can I start with your insurance provider?”

A chuckle almost slipped out of you. Insurance—God, you were fine with insurance. What you weren’t okay with was everything else. You answered, “Blue Cross.”

She asked for your birthdate, which you gave on autopilot, hoping she’d skip any weird or invasive questions. “Any allergies?”

You shook your head. Please, just let this be over.

“It’s really not a big deal,” You blurted out, giving her a thin smile and forcing calm into your voice. “I just need the IV. You know, standard stuff.”

“Of course, dear. We’ll get things started, it will include routine tests, like bloodwork, just to be safe.”

Bloodwork. Perfect. You were doing everything you could to keep from falling into that spiraling panic mode.

Please, just get me in, get me out, and don’t find anything.

“Just head down to Room 12.”

All you could think was that you wanted this to be over—before the whole town, or worse, he, found out. It made you want to scream. He was the last person who should be outside.

This was his fault. You’d never be here if he hadn’t shown up.

The next hour passed in seconds—questions, forms, an IV drip.

They’d done blood work, too, but you’d sighed in relief when they’d told you the results wouldn’t be ready immediately. As far as they knew, you’d just overdone it, and now, as you lay on a cot in a room that reeked of sick people, all they’d prescribed was rest, hydration, and food.

When the nurse asked if anyone could pick you up, the thought of calling someone, asking them to see you like this, made you delirious. You didn’t need anyone; you were perfectly fine on your own.

But you also didn’t want Rafe and his delusional ass to barge through the doors.

The nurse moved around you awkwardly, eyes still expectant, as if you were just a button away from a reliable “someone” to come running.

You looked at her, controlling the compulsion to yell. Little people ever bothered to check on you, to show up for more than just the drama or gossip.

Out of them, only one face bounced around in your head.

“Yeah, I got someone.”

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elikajinnie · 9 days ago

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Soulmarked Rivalry - Y.J

P: Slytherin!Jungwon X Fem!Reader

Requested by @bamguetismee <3 (i hope i got ur vision :3)

Warnings: Teasing, Forced Proximity, Soulmarks/Soulmates, Hurt/Comfort, Tension, Rivalry, Fluff, Confessions, Jealousy, Soobin Cameo (love triangle??), Peeves being a menace.

Synopsis: As a model student and prefect, your future at Hogwarts seems set—but Yang Jungwon, a Slytherin prefect, likes getting under your skin. To make things more complicated, he's your soulmate. Should you embrace fate or resist?

a/n: HELLO?? 500 FOLLOWERS?? WAHH!! THANK YOU GUYSS! <3

masterlist

You had always worked hard as a student. That’s what the teachers at Hogwarts liked seeing—hardworking students with the ability to excel both in a team and on their own. And you fit perfectly. You were a model student with good marks, excellent control over your magic, and a natural ability to care for others, whether they were in your house or not. It wasn’t a surprise when you were named a prefect in your fifth year.

You carried that badge with pride. You loved being a prefect—patrolling the corridors, helping younger students, and upholding the rules that kept Hogwarts running. You loved Hogwarts, period.

Well, all except for one thing.

Yang Jungwon.

The Slytherin prefect who, despite his innocent face and disarmingly sweet smile, seemed to make it his life’s mission to drive you completely insane.

It wasn’t the usual kind of rivalry either. Sure, Slytherins clashed with other houses from time to time, but this wasn’t just about house pride. No, this was personal. It was in the way he smirked whenever he caught you on patrol, somehow managing to be just a little too late to help out when you were swamped with first-years who couldn’t find their common room. It was in the way he’d charm his way out of detentions, even when he’d been the one sneaking enchanted fireworks into the Great Hall during breakfast.

Worst of all, it was in the way he made you feel like you were the one always losing control, like you were the one who couldn’t keep your composure when he was around.

“You missed a spot,” he drawled one evening, leaning against the corridor wall as you adjusted the Ravenclaw notice board. His voice was light, teasing, like he had nothing better to do than stand there and watch you work. “Top corner. Might want to straighten it out before McGonagall sees it.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Don’t you have patrols to be on?”

He shrugged, the emerald trim of his robes catching the light. “I could say the same to you, Miss Perfect.”

Your jaw tightened. That nickname.

You turned back to the board, determined to ignore him, even as you felt the heat rising to your cheeks.

But of course, Jungwon didn’t leave. He never did.

Yang Jungwon had a way of getting under your skin like no one else could. He was frustratingly clever, sharp-tongued in a way that wasn’t outright cruel but always cut just enough to make you grit your teeth. It wasn’t what you’d expected from a Slytherin prefect. No, on paper, Jungwon was everything you were: a model student with stellar marks, impeccable spellwork, and a spotless disciplinary record.

And that’s what made him so infuriating.

Because no matter how much he teased, no matter how many snarky remarks he threw your way, Jungwon had an uncanny ability to slip through the cracks of authority unscathed. He always masked his mischief with that disarming smile, that soft-spoken charm that even the professors fell for.

“Honestly, Professor Flitwick,” he’d say with wide, innocent eyes after you’d caught him charming the suits of armor to sing off-key Christmas carols in the corridors, “I was just practicing for the Yule Ball choir audition. I had no idea they’d move on their own!”

And Flitwick, much to your disbelief, had waved it off as “creative magic.” Creative magic!

But when it came to you, he didn’t even bother to pretend.

Take the time he’d enchanted a batch of parchment birds to follow you around the library, each one whispering “Miss Perfect” in soft, sing-song voices. You’d stormed over to him in the Potions section, where he sat with his feet casually propped up on the table, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Seriously, Jungwon?” you hissed, holding up one of the parchment birds, which was now fluttering around your head like an annoyingly persistent fly.

He’d looked up from his book with that infuriatingly serene smile. “Oh? Are they bothering you? I must’ve used the wrong spell. They were supposed to cheer you up.”

“They’re driving me insane,” you snapped.

“Well, that’s not very cheerful of them,” he mused, flicking his wand with a practiced ease that made the birds disappear. Then, without missing a beat, he leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “But I’ll admit, it’s kind of cute how flustered you get when you’re mad.”

Your face burned at that, and you’d stomped away, leaving him chuckling softly behind you.

And yet, despite his constant antics, you couldn’t really catch him doing anything blatantly wrong. That was his specialty. His mischief always danced just on the edge of trouble—never enough to get him punished, but always enough to make you want to hex that smirk off his face.

Like during joint prefect meetings. While you were diligently taking notes on the patrol schedules, he’d lean just a little too close, peering over your parchment.

“Wow, your handwriting is so neat,” he’d whisper, just loud enough to catch your attention. “Did you learn calligraphy in secret? Or is this just natural talent?”

“Jungwon, do you mind?” you’d mutter, trying to shift your parchment out of his view.

“Not at all,” he’d reply, his tone maddeningly light. “In fact, I think I’ll start sitting next to you every meeting. You’re so good at organizing things—it’s inspiring.”

You’d glare at him, but he’d only give you a saccharine smile before turning his attention back to the meeting, his quill poised as if he’d been paying rapt attention the entire time.

It was moments like these that made you want to scream. How could someone so irritating also be so annoyingly good at everything? How could he act like he had all the time in the world to bother you and still keep up his reputation as one of the best students in the school?

But perhaps the most frustrating part wasn’t the teasing itself. It was the way he always seemed to know just how to get under your skin, just how to push you to the edge of losing your cool. And no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, Jungwon always found a way to make sure you noticed him.

So why, out of all the people in the world, did he have to be your soulmate?

When you first got your soulmark, a delicate little outline of a cat, you’d been ecstatic. A cat felt dignified, graceful—everything you imagined your soulmate would be. You’d hoped for someone respectable, someone who would balance your ambitious nature and match your unwavering dedication. Someone… well, not Jungwon.

But no. Of course, your soulmate had to be the one person who spent more time ruffling your feathers than anyone else.

You discovered the truth entirely by accident, during an otherwise routine Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson in your sixth year. The professor had asked everyone to practice conjuring a patronus, and when Jungwon stepped forward to demonstrate, a sleek, silver cat had leapt from the tip of his wand.

Your stomach had dropped. Your quill slipped from your fingers.

It didn’t take much to put two and two together. How else could you explain the way your heart raced every time he got too close to you? Or the way your pulse quickened whenever his teasing voice whispered in your ear? You’d always chalked it up to frustration, but now you weren’t so sure.

You hadn’t realized you were staring until Jungwon caught your eye, that damn smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “What?” he’d asked, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Impressed?”

You’d quickly snapped your head down, pretending to write something in your notebook. “Hardly,” you muttered, but your shaky grip on your quill betrayed you.

After that, you went out of your way to keep your distance from him whenever patronuses came up in class. You’d never cast yours in front of him, and you planned to keep it that way. The last thing you wanted was for him to connect the dots—your dots.

Because if Jungwon found out? If he knew that every teasing remark, every sly grin, every infuriatingly perfect move he made was destined to tug at the invisible string that tied your souls together? You were certain you’d never hear the end of it.

You could already imagine the smug grin on his face.

“Oh, Miss Perfect,” he’d drawl. “I always knew you had a soft spot for me.”

No. That would not happen. As far as you were concerned, he could live his life blissfully unaware. And you’d do the same, no matter how much it gnawed at you to keep the secret.

At least this way, you could hold onto the tiny shred of dignity you had left. Even if that dignity felt a little more fragile every time he leaned in close, his voice a low hum in your ear, and your heart betrayed you all over again.

For months, you buried the truth deep down, pretending like the invisible string between you and Jungwon didn’t exist. You carried on with your duties as a prefect, kept your head high, and worked tirelessly to ignore the way your heart betrayed you whenever he was near.

But it was getting harder.

He was everywhere. Patrols, prefect meetings, the library, even the hallways—you couldn’t escape him. It was like fate itself was conspiring to push you together. And the worst part? He wasn’t making it any easier with his constant teasing.

Like the time he caught you nodding off during a late-night patrol. It had been a long day, and you were leaning against a cold stone wall in the fourth-floor corridor, struggling to keep your eyes open.

“Falling asleep on the job, Miss Perfect?” His voice came out of nowhere, soft and playful, making you jolt upright.

You glared at him, cheeks burning. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Sure you weren’t.” He stepped closer, his emerald tie slightly askew, his expression amused. “If you need a break, I could always cover for you. I mean, I am the more capable prefect.”

You scoffed. “Capable? Says the one who nearly let Peeves set off an entire box of Dungbombs in the Great Hall last week.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “Touché. But in my defense, Peeves likes me better than you.”

“Because you encourage him,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

Jungwon just chuckled, leaning against the wall beside you. His shoulder brushed yours, and you tensed at the sudden proximity. It was a casual touch, nothing out of the ordinary, but it sent your heart racing all the same.

“Relax,” he murmured, his tone softer now. “You work too hard, you know.”

And there it was again—the part of him that left you confused. The Jungwon who teased you relentlessly, but then turned around and said things like that, catching you completely off guard.

You didn’t respond, afraid your voice might crack. Instead, you stepped away, mumbling something about needing to finish your patrol. But as you walked off, you swore you could feel his gaze lingering on you, like he knew something you didn’t.

You descended the staircase as quickly as you could without breaking into a run, your heart pounding harder with every step. It wasn’t just from the way his gaze lingered or the softness in his voice—it was the growing fear that maybe he did know something you didn’t.

You tried to push the thought away, shaking your head as you patrolled the quiet corridors. The castle was calm tonight, the flickering torches casting long shadows on the walls. It was peaceful, the perfect atmosphere to collect your thoughts and shove down the gnawing feelings Jungwon always seemed to drag to the surface.

But of course, peace didn’t last long when it came to him.

“Hey, wait up!” His voice echoed down the corridor, and you inwardly groaned.

You stopped, turning slowly as Jungwon jogged to catch up with you, his prefect badge glinting in the dim light. His hair was slightly messy from the wind on the Astronomy Tower, but he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he looked downright smug, like chasing you down had been his plan all along.

“What do you want, Jungwon?” you asked, crossing your arms in an attempt to seem unaffected.

He came to a stop in front of you, hands in his pockets as he tilted his head. “What’s with the rush? We’re on the same patrol route, you know.”

“I prefer working alone,” you replied curtly, turning to walk away again.

But he sidestepped, blocking your path with an infuriatingly easy grin. “That’s no way to treat your partner, Miss Perfect. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“Team?” you scoffed, narrowing your eyes. “Last time we worked as a ‘team,’ you disappeared halfway through and left me to deal with Peeves in the trophy room.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and it sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. “That’s because you’re better at dealing with him. He listens to you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you snapped, pushing past him. “He threw a whole stack of awards at my head.”

“Well, you’re still alive,” Jungwon called after you, his teasing tone making your blood boil. “So I’d say you handled it pretty well.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, instead quickening your pace down the corridor. But Jungwon, being Jungwon, didn’t take the hint. He fell into step beside you, his hands still casually tucked into his robe pockets as if this was all some leisurely stroll.

“Why do you always run away?” he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now.

You froze mid-step, your breath catching in your throat. Slowly, you turned to face him, finding his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

“You know what I’m talking about.” He stepped closer, and you hated the way your body instinctively leaned back against the wall as if you needed the extra support. “Every time I get too close—every time we talk like this—you find an excuse to leave.”

“That’s because you’re annoying,” you said quickly, but even to your own ears, it sounded weak.

His lips quirked into a small, almost triumphant smile. “Am I? Or is it something else?”

Your throat felt dry, and you didn’t trust yourself to speak. He was too close now, close enough that you could see the faint freckles dusted across his nose, close enough to catch the light scent of parchment and peppermint on him.

“Why do you care?” you finally managed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

For a moment, he didn’t respond, his eyes searching yours as if trying to unearth a secret you didn’t want to give away. Then, he took a step back, his expression shifting to something softer, something almost vulnerable.

“Because I think there’s something you’re not telling me,” he said quietly.

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Because he was right, and you hated it. You hated that he could read you so easily, hated the way he seemed to see through every wall you put up around yourself.

But most of all, you hated that part of you didn’t want to keep running anymore.

“Goodnight, Jungwon,” you said finally, your voice steadier than you felt. Then, before he could say anything else, you turned on your heel and walked away, this time determined not to look back.

It started as a simple enough task: cleaning up the mess left behind by a pair of second-year Ravenclaws who had apparently thought it would be a brilliant idea to practice Summoning Charms in the Trophy Room. Broken glass, scattered awards, and stray parchments were strewn everywhere, and the professor who caught them had, of course, decided that this was a job for the prefects.

“Character-building,” Professor McGonagall had said. “It’ll teach you both responsibility.”

Both? At the time, you hadn’t asked who the “both” referred to, foolishly assuming you’d be able to handle it alone. After all, you preferred it that way. The less you had to deal with anyone—especially him—the better.

You arrived at the Trophy Room late in the evening, wand in hand, ready to sort out the chaos quickly and efficiently. The room was silent except for the faint rustle of the enchanted banners overhead. For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. No distractions, no interruptions. Just you and the task at hand.

Or so you thought.

“You know,” came a familiar voice from behind you, smooth and laced with amusement, “you’d think they’d give us a thank-you note for cleaning up after them.”

You froze, your wand nearly slipping from your fingers. Turning slowly, you found Jungwon leaning casually against the doorframe, his prefect badge glinting in the torchlight. His tie was slightly loosened, his hair tousled in that infuriatingly perfect way that made it seem like he hadn’t even tried.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, unable to keep the irritation out of your voice.

“Same thing you are,” he replied, pushing off the doorframe and strolling into the room like he owned it. “Apparently, the professors think I’m responsible enough to help clean up messes now. Who knew?”

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, turning back to the mess in front of you. “Just don’t get in my way.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Perfect,” he said, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. With a flick of your wand, you began repairing a shattered glass case, the shards floating back into place with a soft ping. But of course, Jungwon wasn’t content to let you work in peace.

“You missed a spot,” he said, pointing to a stray shard on the floor.

“I see it,” you snapped, flicking your wand again to send the shard to its rightful place.

“You’re welcome,” he said with a grin, crouching down to pick up a fallen plaque. As he straightened, he tilted his head, examining the inscription. “Huh. ‘Most Promising First-Year, 1983.’ Wonder what they did to earn that.”

“Why do you care?” you asked, not bothering to look at him.

“I don’t,” he replied, placing the plaque back on its stand. “But if I have to be here, I might as well make conversation.”

“Well, don’t. I’m busy.”

“Oh, I can see that.” He leaned against one of the display cases, watching you with a lazy smirk. “You’re very good at this, by the way. It’s almost like you’ve done it before.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus on a particularly stubborn spell that refused to reattach a decorative plate to its stand. “If you’re not going to help, at least stay quiet.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” He stepped closer, just enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence beside you. “Come on, Miss Perfect, lighten up. It’s just the Trophy Room. It’s not like we’re scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeons.”

You ignored him, muttering the spell under your breath again. The plate finally clicked into place, and you let out a small sigh of relief. But before you could move on to the next task, Jungwon reached over, plucking a stray ribbon from the pile of debris.

“Do you think this would suit me?” he asked, holding it up to his chest with a mock-serious expression.

You glanced at him, exasperated. “It’s a participation ribbon for a broomstick-polishing contest.”

“So?” He pinned it to his robes with a flourish. “I think it adds character.”

You couldn’t help it—a small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. The moment you realized what you’d done, you quickly turned away, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

But of course, he had.

“Was that a laugh?” he asked, his tone triumphant. “Did I just get the oh-so-serious prefect to crack a smile?”

“No,” you said quickly, focusing on another broken display case. “You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “You know, if you let yourself relax more often, you might actually enjoy my company.”

You turned to glare at him, only to find that he was much closer than you’d realized. Close enough that you could see the faint sparkle in his dark eyes, the way his smirk softened into something almost genuine.

“Highly unlikely,” you said, your voice quieter now.

Jungwon tilted his head, studying you like he was trying to figure out a particularly tricky potion. “You know,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “you’re kind of fun to mess with.”

“Glad I can be your entertainment,” you muttered, stepping back to put some much-needed distance between you.

But as you turned away, you couldn’t help but feel his gaze lingering on you again, that same unsettling mix of mischief and something deeper that always left your heart racing.

The worst part? You weren’t entirely sure you hated it.

You busied yourself with repairing another shattered trophy case, desperately trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. Jungwon always knew exactly how to push your buttons, and worse, he seemed to enjoy it.

As you flicked your wand, mumbling an incantation to reattach the intricate golden handles to the glass case, you could still feel his presence behind you. Not doing anything—just standing there, watching you.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you actually going to help?” you snapped, not bothering to look over your shoulder.

“Oh, I’m helping,” he said, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You turned, narrowing your eyes at him. “Really? How, exactly?”

Jungwon held up a dusty trophy he’d picked off the floor. “Moral support.” He grinned, wiping the plaque halfheartedly with the sleeve of his robe. “You’re doing great, by the way. Truly inspiring.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, turning back to your work.

But before you could even begin the next spell, Jungwon’s voice interrupted again.

“Hey, you’ve got a little…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely to your face.

You frowned, brushing your cheek self-consciously. “What?”

“Here.” He stepped closer—too close—and reached out, his fingers brushing the side of your face. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. His touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“There,” he said softly, pulling his hand back to reveal a speck of dust on his fingertips. “Got it.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. He was looking at you now, his teasing smile replaced with something softer, something that made your breath catch.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you blurted, taking a step back to put some distance between you.

“Like what?” he asked, his voice low, almost curious.

“Like—like that!” You waved your hand vaguely, refusing to meet his eyes. “Like you’re… plotting something.”

His smile returned, softer this time but no less infuriating. “Who says I’m plotting anything?”

“Because you’re always plotting something,” you shot back, turning away from him and focusing on the pile of broken trophies again. “It’s practically your personality.”

“Harsh,” he said with a mock wince, though his tone was still playful. “You wound me, Miss Perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, determined to ignore him as you began repairing the next trophy. But Jungwon wasn’t done.

“You know,” he said after a moment, his voice taking on that familiar teasing lilt, “for someone who claims to hate me, you sure spend a lot of time thinking about me.”

Your wand slipped, sending a crack straight through the trophy you were trying to fix. You cursed under your breath, quickly repairing the damage before whirling around to face him.

“I don’t think about you,” you said firmly, though the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you.

“Really?” Jungwon leaned casually against the nearest display case, his arms crossed as he regarded you with that maddeningly smug expression. “Because you’re looking a little flustered right now.”

“I’m not flustered,” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively.

He stepped closer again, his grin widening as he leaned in, just enough to make your breath hitch. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, though your voice came out shakier than you’d intended.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His dark eyes were locked on yours, and for once, there was no teasing glint in them—just an intensity that made your stomach flip.

“Jungwon,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “You’re standing too close.”

He tilted his head, his lips quirking into a small smile. “Am I?”

“Yes,” you said again, though you made no move to step away.

For a brief, terrifying moment, you thought he might say something—something that would shatter the delicate balance between you. But instead, he stepped back, the teasing smile returning to his face like nothing had happened.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll give you some space.”

You exhaled, not realizing until that moment that you’d been holding your breath.

“Good,” you muttered, turning back to the trophies.

"Do you think the founders ever argued over who got the biggest house common room?" Jungwon asked as you muttered a spell to repair another shattered trophy.

You sighed, not even glancing at him. "I don’t know. Maybe."

He hummed thoughtfully, as though your answer was the most profound thing he’d ever heard. "Do you think Salazar Slytherin was the type to hog all the butterbeer at parties?"

You flicked your wand sharply, fixing another display case. "Probably."

"And what about Godric Gryffindor? I bet he couldn’t resist showing off in duels."

"Sounds likely," you replied curtly, focusing on levitating a stack of plaques back into their proper places.

Jungwon leaned casually against a nearby display, his hands in his pockets, watching you with barely contained amusement. "Alright, last one—do you think Helga Hufflepuff secretly kept a stash of snacks in her robes?"

At that, you paused, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. "Definitely," you said, surprising yourself with a small smile.

Jungwon grinned like he’d won a prize, clearly pleased that he’d managed to drag more than a one-word answer out of you. "See? I knew you had a sense of humor buried under all that seriousness."

You rolled your eyes, quickly turning your attention back to the mess. The sooner you finished, the sooner you could get out of here and away from him. The room felt warmer than it should have, in a way that made it hard to breathe. You could feel Jungwon’s presence behind you, close enough that your skin tingled, your soulmark on your arm warming pleasantly every time he leaned just a little too close.

You tried to ignore it, brushing the feeling aside as nothing more than nerves, but it was impossible. It was suffocating and exhilarating all at once, and you hated how much it affected you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you placed the last trophy back in its case and lowered your wand.

“There. Done,” you said, your voice tight.

“Impressive work, Miss Perfect,” Jungwon said, clapping his hands lightly. “You really are a perfectionist.”

Ignoring him, you grabbed your bag and headed for the door, desperate to escape before the room—and him—got the better of you.

But just as you reached the threshold, Jungwon’s voice stopped you.

“Leaving so soon?” he called, his tone laced with amusement. “I was starting to enjoy our little bonding session.”

You didn’t turn around, gripping the strap of your bag tightly. "We’re done here. Go bother someone else, Jungwon."

You stepped out into the corridor, the cool air a welcome relief against your flushed skin. But even as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth on your arm, the way your soulmark had come alive just from being near him.

You hated it.

And yet, deep down, you knew it wasn’t hate at all.

The cool air of the corridor did little to ease the warmth in your chest. You tightened your grip on the strap of your bag, walking briskly to put as much distance between yourself and Jungwon as possible.

“Hey!” a familiar voice called from further down the hall. You looked up to see your Slytherin friend, Minji, striding toward you. Her dark robes swished behind her, and her usual confident smirk lit up her face. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. What happened?”

You sighed, falling into step beside her as she turned to walk with you. “Trophy Room duty. With Jungwon.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and she gave you a knowing grin. “Ah, the infamous Yang Jungwon. What did he do this time?”

“Same as always,” you muttered, your tone clipped. “Teased me, asked a million pointless questions, and stood way too close for comfort.”

Minji laughed, the sound echoing softly in the empty hallway. “Well, that sounds about right. He’s got that whole charming nuisance thing down to an art.”

You shot her a glare, but it lacked any real bite. “It’s not charming. It’s infuriating.”

“Sure, sure,” Minji said, waving her hand dismissively. “But you’re still blushing.”

You froze mid-step, your hand flying to your face. “I am not!”

“You so are,” she said with a smug grin, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Come on, just admit it—he gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”

You groaned, resuming your pace and trying to ignore the warmth creeping back into your cheeks. “That’s not the same thing as liking him.”

“Hmm,” Minji hummed, her smirk widening. “If you say so.”

The two of you turned a corner, the dimly lit hallway now empty except for the faint flicker of torches on the walls. Minji glanced at you, her expression softening slightly. “But seriously, are you okay? You seem… tense.”

You hesitated, your fingers brushing over the strap of your bag. “It’s just—being around him is exhausting. He’s so... persistent. And—and the way he looks at me sometimes—”

You cut yourself off, realizing you’d said too much.

Minji stopped walking, grabbing your arm to make you face her. “Wait. What way does he look at you?”

You shook your head quickly, trying to dismiss it. “Forget I said that. It’s nothing.”

“Oh no, no, no.” Minji’s eyes sparkled with mischief now. “You’re telling me that Jungwon—Jungwon—might actually like you? This just keeps getting better.”

You felt your stomach twist at her words, a mix of denial and something far more complicated. “He doesn’t like me,” you said firmly, though your voice faltered slightly. “He just likes messing with me.”

“Uh-huh,” Minji said, clearly unconvinced. “And what about you? Do you like him?”

“No!” you said quickly, too quickly.

Minji raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Why am I even friends with you?”

“Because I’m the only one who’s brave enough to call you out on your nonsense,” she said with a grin, pulling your hands away from your face. “Listen, if you ask me—which, by the way, you should—I think you and Jungwon would be kind of perfect together.”

Your heart skipped a beat at her words, but you shook your head furiously. “Not happening. Ever.”

“Alright, alright,” Minji said, holding up her hands in surrender. “But for the record, if he ever stops teasing you, you’ll know you’re in trouble.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder if she was right.

The days that followed were nothing short of exhausting. It had become a routine of sorts—this competition between you and Jungwon to see who could outshine the other as a prefect. Both of you were model students, but being better than him was a point of pride you weren’t willing to give up.

Unfortunately, Jungwon seemed to have the exact same idea.

“Let’s see who finishes the patrol of the East Wing faster tonight,” Jungwon said casually one evening, walking just a step ahead of you as the two of you began your rounds.

You glared at the back of his head. “It’s not a race, Jungwon. The goal is to thoroughly patrol the area, not sprint through it like a Quidditch match.”

He turned his head slightly, flashing you that insufferable smirk. “Oh, but you’re just saying that because you know I’d win.”

You scoffed, quickening your pace to walk beside him. “You wouldn’t win. You’d probably miss half the patrol spots because you’re too busy smirking at yourself in the reflection of the windows.”

Jungwon placed a hand over his chest, feigning hurt. “You wound me. But, for the record, I don’t smirk at myself. I save those exclusively for you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up and turned your face away to hide it. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, ignoring the way your soulmark tingled faintly at his words.

“Ridiculous, but efficient,” he countered, his tone light and teasing. “Unlike some people, I don’t waste time lecturing first-years about being out past curfew. I just send them back to their dorms and call it a night.”

“That’s because you let them off too easy,” you shot back, stopping to peer into an empty classroom. “A good prefect sets an example. You’re supposed to be teaching them, not coddling them.”

“And you’re supposed to be having fun,” Jungwon replied, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Merlin forbid you loosen up for five seconds.”

You gave him a withering glare, but it only seemed to fuel his amusement. He pushed off the doorframe and strolled past you, hands in his pockets, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Tell you what,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll handle the rest of this hallway. You can take the next one. We’ll see who finds more troublemakers by the end of the night.”

“Fine,” you said sharply, determined to beat him. “But don’t go cutting corners like you always do.”

Jungwon turned back to you with an exaggerated look of shock. “Cut corners? Me? Never.”

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as he sauntered away.

The rest of the night passed in much the same way—him teasing you, you firing back with sharp retorts, and both of you secretly trying to outdo the other in your duties. By the time patrol ended, you were both walking back to the common areas, still exchanging jabs.

“So, how many rule-breakers did you catch tonight?” Jungwon asked, his tone casual but his smirk betraying his competitive streak.

“Three,” you said smugly. “And you?”

“Four,” he replied, his grin widening when you scowled.

“Liar,” you accused, narrowing your eyes at him.

Jungwon gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Miss Perfect. Are you saying I’d lie about something so serious?”

“Yes,” you said flatly, though you couldn’t stop the corners of your mouth from twitching upward.

“Well, believe what you want,” he said with a shrug, walking ahead of you toward the main staircase. “But next time, maybe you’ll think twice before underestimating me.”

You watched him go, shaking your head in exasperation. No matter how infuriating he was, there was a strange comfort in the back-and-forth banter between you. It was almost... fun, in its own twisted way.

But as you turned to head toward your dormitory, you caught yourself smiling and quickly wiped it off your face. Jungwon didn’t need to know that, for all his teasing and smug remarks, he made your prefect duties just a little less tedious—and a lot more complicated.

The air in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was cool, the steady drone of the professor’s voice filling the room as they explained the intricacies of Dementors. You should have been paying attention, but the lesson was one you had mastered ages ago. Instead, your thoughts wandered, your quill idly twirling between your fingers as you gazed out the window.

That was until a small folded piece of parchment fluttered directly in front of your face. You blinked in surprise, catching it before it fell onto your desk. Frowning, you carefully unfolded it, unsure of what to expect.

Inside was a drawing—a portrait of you. The lines were soft, delicate, and surprisingly skilled. It captured you in a way that made your breath hitch for a moment. You looked… pretty.

Your cheeks warmed as you glanced around the room, searching for the culprit. Your eyes landed on a tall Gryffindor boy sitting a few desks away. His face turned bright red the moment your eyes met his, and he quickly looked away, pretending to focus on his notes.

You couldn’t help but smile, a small, amused laugh escaping your lips.

When class ended and everyone began filing out, you gathered your things and stepped into the corridor. Before you could get far, a voice called out behind you.

“Uh, excuse me?”

You turned to see the same Gryffindor boy standing there, his hands nervously clutching the strap of his bag. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with soft eyes and a shy smile that revealed dimples.

“Yes?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

He cleared his throat, his face still tinged with embarrassment. “I, um, I was wondering if—if you don’t have any more classes today—maybe you’d like to study together? In the library, I mean.”

He was cute—really cute. And as luck would have it, he was a prefect, too, which made him even more appealing in your eyes. His nervousness was endearing, and you found yourself smiling softly.

“Sure,” you said, much to his visible relief. “I don’t have any other classes.”

The two of you walked to the library together, falling into an easy conversation. He introduced himself as Choi Soobin, and you quickly discovered he was funny, charming, and incredibly sweet. By the time you reached the library, you were already at ease in his presence.

The two of you sat down at a quiet table near the back, pulling out your books and parchment. At first, you tried to focus on your work, but Soobin`s quiet jokes and playful commentary kept pulling your attention away. Before long, you were laughing softly, your hand covering your mouth to stifle the sound as Madam Pince shot you both a stern look.

Unbeknownst to you, someone else had entered the library.

Jungwon strolled in, his usual confident smirk on his face as he made his way to the front desk to offer Madam Pince some assistance. He had volunteered to help her organize the new shipments of books—a task he didn’t particularly enjoy but knew would score him some house points.

But as he approached the desk, a sound stopped him in his tracks.

A laugh.

His head turned instinctively toward the source, his gaze landing on you. You were sitting at a table near the back, your head tilted slightly as you giggled at something the Gryffindor boy across from you had said. Soobin.

Jungwon’s chest tightened at the sight.

The Gryffindor was leaning closer to you, his dimples on full display as he smiled down at you, clearly pleased to have made you laugh. And you—Jungwon had never seen you so at ease, so… radiant.

His grip on the stack of books in his hands tightened as an ugly, unfamiliar feeling began to bubble in his chest. Jealousy.

Why were you laughing like that with Soobin? Why were you sitting so close to him, looking at him with such bright, open eyes? Jungwon had seen that smile before, but it had never been directed at him. And the realization made something in him twist painfully.

He tore his gaze away, his happy demeanor now replaced with a sour expression. He tried to focus on the task at hand, stacking books onto shelves and sorting parchment, but his eyes kept wandering back to you.

Every time Soobin leaned closer, every time you laughed softly, it was like a needle pricking at his chest.

You were supposed to be bickering with him, not smiling at some dimply Gryffindor prefect.

And worse, you didn’t even notice him. For the first time, it felt like you were completely out of his orbit, and it made his jealousy burn even brighter.

By the time he finished his chores, he couldn’t take it anymore. He shot one last glare in Soobin`s direction—though the Gryffindor was oblivious—and left the library, the ugly green feeling sitting heavy in his chest.

As he stalked through the corridors, his thoughts raced. He didn’t know what was worse: the fact that he was jealous, or the fact that he had no idea what to do about it.

The days that followed were... different. Soobin, with his warm smile and easygoing demeanor, seemed to find every excuse to be around you. Whether it was walking with you between classes, sharing a table in the library, or even just stopping to chat in the halls, he was always there.

And to your surprise, you didn’t mind. He had a way of making you laugh without even trying, his gentle humor and wide-eyed innocence making it hard to resist smiling.

“Do you always study this much?” Soobin asked one evening, leaning slightly over your shoulder as the two of you sat in the library.

“It’s called being responsible,” you teased, not looking up from your parchment.

“Well, if responsibility looks this good on you, maybe I should try it,” he joked, his dimples flashing.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. “Good luck with that.”

Moments like these had become the norm, and while you enjoyed his company, you couldn’t ignore the way Jungwon seemed to be watching your every move lately.

Every time you and Soobin crossed paths with him, Jungwon’s eyes would narrow, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. It was subtle—no one else seemed to notice—but you did. And you couldn’t ignore the way his usual smirk seemed to vanish whenever Soobin was around.

It didn’t help that Soobin, in his blissful obliviousness, seemed entirely focused on you.

“Do you think he’s going to explode one day?” Yuna, one of your closest friends, whispered to you during lunch, nodding subtly toward Jungwon, who was sitting a few tables away. His eyes were fixed on you and Soobin, his expression unreadable but intense.

You followed her gaze, your stomach flipping slightly when your eyes met Jungwon’s. He didn’t look away, and for a moment, it felt like he was daring you to do something—anything.

“He’s just... annoyed,” you muttered, breaking the eye contact and focusing back on your plate.

“Annoyed?” Yuna raised an eyebrow, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “That boy looks like he’s ready to hex Soobin into next week.”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you couldn’t deny it. Jungwon’s glares had grown sharper with each passing day, and it didn’t help that you’d somehow ended up with more patrols and prefect duties with Soobin lately.

At first, you’d chalked it up to coincidence, but now it was starting to feel deliberate. Maybe the professors had noticed how well you worked together, or maybe Soobin had requested it. Either way, it only seemed to worsen the already fragile balance between you and Jungwon.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed the way your soulmark had been acting up, either. The once-pleasant tingling had turned into an uncomfortable burn, a constant reminder of the growing rift between you and Jungwon.

It was ironic, really. For years, your “rivalry” with him had been the one constant in your life at Hogwarts. From the moment you’d both become prefects, it had been a steady back-and-forth of playful banter and one-upping each other. But now, things felt... different.

This was the first time since first year that you and Jungwon weren’t entirely in sync. And as much as you wanted to ignore it, to push down the guilt that came with the thought, it stung.

One evening, during yet another patrol with Soobin, you caught yourself lost in thought as he talked animatedly about something—a story about his younger siblings, if you remembered correctly. His voice was soft and warm, but it faded into the background as your mind wandered.

You couldn’t help but wonder what Jungwon was doing right now. Would he be patrolling the opposite side of the castle? Sitting in the common room with his friends, glaring at the fire in frustration?

“You okay?” Soobin’s voice pulled you back to the present, his kind eyes filled with concern.

You nodded quickly, offering him a small smile. “Yeah, just tired.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” he said gently, his concern only making your chest tighten.

You forced yourself to refocus, to push away the thoughts of Jungwon. But as you walked beside Soobin, his voice filling the quiet corridors, you couldn’t ignore the way your soulmark burned faintly against your skin, like it was trying to remind you of something you weren’t ready to face.

It had been an exhausting day. Between classes, your prefect duties, and Soobin’s persistent presence, you were feeling utterly drained. Tonight’s patrol was supposed to be simple—just a quick check of the corridors before returning to your common room.

But, as always, trouble had a way of finding you.

The moment you stepped into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, you knew something was off.

A group of younger students was gathered at the far end, laughing nervously and huddling close together. As you got closer, you noticed a faint shimmer in the air, followed by a creeping chill that made your skin prickle.

A Dementor.

Or rather, a Boggart pretending to be one, you realized quickly. But the younger students didn’t know that. Their faces were pale with fear, their breaths coming out in short gasps as they stumbled back against the cold stone wall.

Without thinking, you acted on instinct.

“Stay back!” you called to the students, pulling out your wand.

The Boggart shifted its attention to you, gliding forward with a slow, deliberate menace. Even knowing it wasn’t real, you felt a spike of unease as the air grew colder.

You raised your wand, your voice steady. “Expecto Patronum!”

A bright, silvery light burst forth from your wand, taking shape in the form of an animal. Its figure moved with an elegant agility, leaping forward and sending the Boggart scuttling back into the shadows. The students gasped in awe, their fear melting into relief as the warmth of your Patronus filled the room.

It wasn’t until the Boggart disappeared completely, retreating into a chest, that you realized you weren’t alone.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement. Turning your head, your stomach dropped.

Jungwon stood at the entrance, his dark eyes wide and locked onto your Patronus. The silver light of the animal reflected in his gaze, his expression shifting from shock to something deeper—something you couldn’t quite place.

Your Patronus lingered for a moment longer before fading, its light dissolving into the cold air. The students quickly scrambled past Jungwon, murmuring their thanks as they made their way back to their dorms. But you barely noticed them leave.

It was just you and Jungwon now.

He didn’t say anything, but you could see it—the moment of realization dawning on his face. His eyes flicked to your arm, the same spot where your soulmark had always rested, hidden beneath your sleeve. And then, almost involuntarily, his hand moved to his own arm.

Right where his soulmark would be.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Jungwon—” you started, but your voice caught in your throat.

He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was piecing everything together in real time. His hand remained pressed against his arm, his fingers curling slightly as if he could feel the truth burning beneath his skin.

“Your Patronus,” he said softly, his voice steady but quiet.

You swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze. “It’s not—”

“It’s the same...." he interrupted, his tone carefully controlled, but you could see his jaw clench. “The same as my soulmark.”

Your breath hitched. You knew there was no use denying it—not when the evidence was staring him right in the face.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s just a coincidence, Jungwon. That’s all.”

He let out a soft, humorless laugh, and when you finally looked up, you were startled by the look in his eyes. It wasn’t anger, like you expected. It wasn’t even annoyance.

It was hurt.

“A coincidence?” he repeated, his voice low. His hand finally dropped from his arm, hanging limply at his side. “You think a Patronus matching my soulmark is just a coincidence?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. The burning sensation in your arm flared up, as if your soulmark itself was scolding you for trying to deny the truth.

Jungwon took another step closer, his gaze searching your face. “How long have you known?”

“Jungwon, I—”

“How long?” he pressed, his voice breaking slightly.

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. There was no point in lying now. “Since last year,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw clenched, and he took a step back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Last year,” he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. “You’ve known this whole time, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t know how!” you shot back, your voice rising despite yourself. “What was I supposed to say, Jungwon? ‘Hey, by the way, we’re soulmates’? You would have laughed in my face!”

He stared at you, his expression unreadable. “Is that what you think of me?”

“No,” you said quickly, the word rushing out before you could stop it. “No, I don’t think that. I just—” You let out a shaky breath, rubbing at your arm as if that would ease the burning sensation. “I didn’t want to ruin everything. We’ve been—whatever we are—for so long, and I didn’t want to mess that up.”

Jungwon was silent for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less firm.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said. “But lying to me—hiding this from me—it hurt. It hurts.”

Your throat tightened, guilt twisting in your chest.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you said quietly.

He looked up at you, his dark eyes filled with a mix of emotions you couldn’t quite untangle. For the first time, he looked vulnerable, the walls he always kept so carefully in place beginning to crack.

“I don’t know what this means,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I think we owe it to ourselves to figure it out. Don’t you?”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice.

After that night in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, you found yourself plagued by questions and uncertainty. Jungwon’s quiet hurt echoed in your mind, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were standing on the edge of something you didn’t fully understand. Soulmates. The idea had always seemed so distant to you, something that other people talked about with a dreamy look in their eyes. But now that it was your reality, it felt different—complicated, messy, and, honestly, terrifying.

For the next few days, you threw yourself into researching everything you could about soulmates. You spent hours in the library, digging through old books and scrolls, hoping to find some concrete answers. You wanted to know more about the connection, the rules—or lack thereof—that came with having a soulmate. Was there a timeline to follow? Did you have to accept it? What did it mean for your future?

You also started asking your friends about their own experiences, although you were careful not to reveal too much. Yujin was the first to notice your sudden interest in the subject. You’d pulled her aside one evening, after class, and asked about her soulmark.

“Oh,” Yujin had said, glancing at you with a knowing smile, “it’s a small bird, right here.” She pointed to her wrist. “It was weird at first, but once we met, everything just clicked. It was like a weight lifted off my shoulders. My soulmate’s a Hufflepuff, actually.”

You nodded thoughtfully, trying to hide the way your heart twisted at the thought of your own situation. “And do you feel different? I mean, with him?”

She hesitated, then smiled softly. “Yeah. It’s like we’ve known each other for ages. I don’t know how to explain it, but you just know.”

You didn’t ask more, knowing you couldn’t handle hearing too much about the ease with which others seemed to fall into their soulmate connections. You wanted to learn, but you weren’t ready to hear about how it all just worked for others.

The next day, you sought out Jeongin, hoping for a more analytical approach. You had always admired how level-headed he was, and you figured he’d give you a more logical perspective. After all, he’d been pretty matter-of-fact about everything, including his own soulmark.

“I don’t think it means anything special,” he said, leaning back against the wall in the common room. “It’s just a way of knowing who’s yours. You’re connected in ways you can’t explain, but don’t overthink it. It’s not some kind of fate that’s pulling you together. It’s more like... a bond, I guess.”

You nodded again, relieved that he seemed to have a more grounded view of the connection. But something in his words unsettled you. “So, it’s not destiny?”

Jeongin chuckled. “Not for me. Maybe it`s just destiny for someone.”

His words sent a jolt through you, and you quickly brushed off the discomfort with a half-laugh. “I’m not sure I believe in destiny,” you muttered, hoping he wouldn’t pry further.

He gave you a long, measuring look but didn’t push. “Well, whatever it is, you’ve got to figure it out, yeah?”

You agreed, even though you weren’t entirely sure how to figure it out.

Meanwhile, your interactions with Soobin had taken on a new complexity. He seemed determined to win your attention, constantly seeking ways to make you smile, to make you laugh. He was sweet and caring in his own way, and you couldn’t deny that you liked being around him. But every time he called you “cute” or flashed that charming grin of his, something in you tightened—because you knew Jungwon was still watching, and you could feel the way his gaze lingered on you from across the room.

You had decided to keep the soulmate connection to yourself, at least for now. You didn’t want to hurt Soobin, especially when he seemed so genuinely happy to be with you. You liked him, you really did. But something about Jungwon’s presence, the pull between the two of you, was undeniable. You couldn’t ignore it any longer, even if you tried.

Jungwon, however, didn’t seem to share your same restraint. You noticed him more and more—his gaze following you and Soobin whenever the two of you were talking. His posture was stiff, his mouth set in a firm line whenever Soobin made you laugh, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly when you exchanged playful glances.

It wasn’t until one afternoon in the courtyard, when Soobin had made another attempt to charm you with one of his witty remarks, that you saw it.

Jungwon was standing near the entrance to the courtyard, watching the two of you from a distance. His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was dark. You felt a flicker of unease. You’d always known there was a rivalry between you and Jungwon, but this was insane.

When Soobin noticed your hesitation, he smiled brightly and nudged you playfully. “What’s wrong? Did I say something weird?”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile. “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m just... distracted.”

“By Jungwon?” he teased, his eyes glancing over your shoulder. “You know, he doesn’t look too happy with us.”

You followed his gaze and found Jungwon standing there, looking like he was about to storm off. His eyes flicked to you and Soobin, then quickly away, but not before you saw that flicker of something—you weren’t sure what it was. But it didn’t look friendly.

Your heart skipped a beat as you turned back to Soobin. “Maybe we should head inside,” you suggested, trying to ignore the discomfort gnawing at you.

“Sure,” Soobin agreed, still oblivious to the tension you could feel. “Let’s go study, yeah?”

Studying with Soobin in the library was, for the most part, uneventful. He was focused, eager to discuss theories and share notes. But despite his attempts to make the session lively, your attention kept drifting, pulled by something you couldn’t explain. Every few minutes, you found yourself glancing up from your textbook, only to find Jungwon walking past your table again.

It was subtle at first. A quick, casual stroll down the aisle between the shelves, as if he were simply helping Madam Pince organize some books. But as the minutes ticked by, it became increasingly obvious that he was lingering near your corner. His footsteps were quieter now, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, even when he didn’t look directly at you.

Soobin, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy scribbling notes on his parchment, talking about a spell he’d just learned in class. But you could feel the heat creeping up your neck, a strange tension building in the space between you and Jungwon, even though you were doing your best to ignore it.

"Do you think I should try this spell in the next class?" Soobin asked, snapping you out of your thoughts. "I feel like it could be fun, don’t you?"

You blinked, forcing your focus back onto him. "Uh, yeah. I think you’ll do great with it. You’ve got the precision down."

But even as you spoke, your gaze drifted over to Jungwon again. This time, he was standing just a few feet away, pretending to adjust a stack of books on the shelf directly across from your table. You could feel his presence, his eyes lingering on you from the corner of your vision. His movements were slow, deliberate, and each time he walked past, he seemed to be just a bit too close for comfort.

Your stomach tightened, and your heart started to race, the familiar unease creeping up again. You couldn’t help it. The bond that had ignited between you and Jungwon—the one you had been trying to ignore, to push down—was becoming harder and harder to control.

Soobin, oblivious to your inner turmoil, continued speaking. "I was thinking we could practice it in the courtyard later today. Maybe you could come with me? You know, as my study partner."

Before you could respond, Jungwon’s figure appeared again, now walking past your table on the far side of the library. He glanced in your direction as he passed, and for a split second, your eyes locked. It was brief, but you could see the flicker of something in his gaze—something that made your chest tighten. His eyes dropped quickly, and without another word, he kept walking, the sound of his boots echoing faintly on the stone floors.

You felt the burn of your soulmark pulse against your skin.

Soobin didn’t seem to notice the shift in the air, his voice continuing without interruption. "What do you think? Should I go ahead and try the spell? I mean, I know we’ve got a lot to study, but—"

"Yeah," you interrupted, trying to shake off the lingering unease. "That sounds great. But, uh... I think I’m done for today. I’ve got some stuff to take care of."

You closed your textbook with a soft snap, feeling the sudden urge to leave. You stood up quickly, gathering your things, but before you could say goodbye, Soobin was looking at you with a puzzled expression.

"Already?" he asked. "I thought we were doing great."

"Yeah," you said, offering him a strained smile. "But I really do need to go. I’ll, uh... catch up with you later."

Soobin nodded, his dimples showing as he smiled. "Alright. I’ll see you later, then. Maybe we can talk more about that spell."

You quickly walked away, making your way toward the exit of the library. But as you passed through the aisles, you could feel it—the subtle shift in the air as Jungwon followed behind, his presence heavy and undeniable.

You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. But your heart was pounding, and as you exited the library, you heard his footsteps fall into sync behind you. He was following you.

When you stepped into the hallway, trying to calm your thoughts. Before you could even think to react, a hand gripped your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly into a small, dimly lit room just off the main corridor. The door clicked shut behind you, and you found yourself pressed against the cold stone wall, with no clear way out.

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively looked down, avoiding the sharp intensity of Jungwon’s gaze. The silence between you both hung heavy, almost suffocating. You could hear the faint beat of your own heart, louder in your ears than the soft rustling of his clothes as he moved closer.

“Look at me,” Jungwon’s voice cut through the silence, low and demanding.

You hesitated, a part of you afraid of what you might see in his eyes. Slowly, you lifted your gaze, finding his face inches from yours. His dark eyes searched your expression, his jaw tense as if he was trying to contain something—something he didn’t know how to put into words.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words press down on you. Your mind raced, but the only thing you could focus on was the distance that had grown between you two lately. Not just physically, but emotionally. “I’m not avoiding you,” you replied quietly, but the words didn’t sound convincing, even to yourself.

“Yes, you are,” Jungwon said, stepping closer, his proximity making your pulse spike. “I see it in the way you look at me now. The way you look away when I’m near.” His hand hovered near your face, but he didn’t touch you—not yet. “You’ve been different ever since you’ve been spending so much time with Soobin.”

Your chest tightened at the mention of his name, and for a moment, you looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “I didn’t—” You stopped yourself. The last thing you wanted was to cause a scene, or worse, make it clear how much it hurt to see Jungwon’s jealousy, to see how much it bothered him that you were spending time with Soobin.

Jungwon wasn’t having any of it. “You didn’t think it would affect me?” His voice was firm, but there was something in it—an edge, a vulnerability you hadn’t heard before. “You didn’t think I’d notice?”

You felt a knot twist in your stomach. “Jungwon, I don’t—"

“Don’t lie to me,” he cut in sharply, his eyes intense. “I can’t stand it. I can’t stand you pretending like this isn’t happening.”

His words hit you like a wave, and suddenly everything you’d been trying to keep bottled up came rushing to the surface. Your chest was tight, and the burning sensation from your soulmark flared again, reminding you of the connection that you could no longer ignore.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you whispered, finally finding the courage to speak the truth. Your voice shook slightly, but you pushed through. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but it’s not easy, Jungwon. It’s not easy to just… admit that everything is changing. That we’re changing.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly. But even as his gaze softened, the intensity never quite left his eyes. “You think I haven’t felt that, too?” he murmured. “You think it’s been easy for me, either? Watching you with him, knowing you’re spending time with Soobin because you’re not sure about us? Not sure about me?”

The words stung, and you averted your gaze again, your heart aching at the raw honesty in his voice. “It’s not like that,” you said weakly. “Soobin’s just... a friend.”

Jungwon’s lips tightened at the word. “A friend, huh?”

You nodded, but it felt hollow. You weren’t sure if it was true anymore—not when Soobin made you laugh so easily, not when he made your heart feel lighter in ways that Jungwon didn’t seem to. But the truth was, you couldn’t let yourself go down that path. You couldn’t let yourself hurt Soobin, not when you still cared about him. And you did care about him, in a way that you weren’t sure how to explain.

“I’m sorry,” you said, almost instinctively, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. I just... I don’t know what I’m doing, Jungwon. I don’t know how to fix this.”

His hand finally reached up, cupping your chin gently to tilt your face so that you were looking at him once more. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek.

“You don’t have to fix anything,” Jungwon said, his voice quieter now. “But you can’t keep pushing me away. Not when we’re already this far into this.” He paused, searching your eyes as if trying to read the truth between the lines. “If you’re my soulmate, then I don’t want to keep pretending like it doesn’t mean anything.”

You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in. You didn’t know how to respond—not when the truth was so complicated, not when everything felt like it was teetering on the edge of something you weren’t ready to face.

“I don’t know how this works,” you admitted quietly. “But I can’t just ignore it either. I—” You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “But I don’t want to hurt anyone in the process, either.”

Jungwon’s expression softened, the intensity in his gaze giving way to something gentler. “Then let’s figure it out,” he said quietly. “We don’t have to have all the answers right now. But we can’t keep running away from it.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over you.

Just as the air between you and Jungwon began to settle, and you were both preparing to leave the small room, a sudden, unmistakable sound echoed through the hallway outside. The telltale cackle of Peeves reached your ears.

"Oi, what's this? A little lover's quarrel?" Peeves' voice was high-pitched and mocking, and you could hear the sound of him shuffling on the other side of the door.

Before either of you could react, the door locked with an audible click, trapping you both inside. You and Jungwon exchanged a quick glance, both of you already understanding what had just happened.

"Peeves, open this door!" you called out, your voice sharp with irritation. "This isn’t funny!"

But instead of an answer, the only thing you heard was Peeves’ signature cackling, growing fainter as he moved down the hall. "Not so fast! You two have got plenty to talk about! Have fun!" His voice echoed as it faded into the distance.

Jungwon let out a frustrated sigh, stepping forward and trying the door, but it didn't budge. He pressed his palm against the wood, his frown deepening.

"Great," he muttered, the annoyance evident in his voice. "We’re stuck here now."

You crossed your arms, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks at the awkwardness of the situation. Of course, Peeves had to pick the exact moment when things were finally starting to make sense between you and Jungwon to lock you both in a room together.

"I guess we should sit down and wait for the magic to wear off," you said dryly, trying to lighten the mood. You were half expecting Jungwon to make a sarcastic comment in return, but when you looked up, you found him watching you, his expression softened, though still a little tense.

"Not exactly how I pictured this," he said with a half-smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he shifted his focus elsewhere, like he was trying to process everything that had just happened.

"Yeah, well, Peeves does have a knack for timing," you muttered, your own smile faltering. You both took a step back, leaning against opposite walls, leaving some space between you.

You couldn’t help but steal a glance at Jungwon, your chest tightening a little at how the room felt smaller now, despite the fact that the walls were the same. The quiet between you two had changed, from tense silence to something that felt heavier, like something important had shifted and you were still trying to figure out exactly what it was.

"So, uh...," you said, breaking the silence. "This is fun, huh?"

Jungwon chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "I’m trying not to think about it. Honestly, I just... I don’t know what I’m supposed to say now. We’re soulmates, but I can’t just expect you to drop everything and choose me, especially with everything that’s been going on with Soobin."

You blinked, feeling a mix of emotions flood you—guilt, confusion, and a strange sense of relief that he was being honest with you. "I never expected you to just—" You cut yourself off. What had you expected? Had you been expecting Jungwon to just accept that you’d be together because of your soulmark? Was that fair to either of you?

"It’s not easy, Jungwon," you said finally. "I care about Soobin. I do. He’s been there for me in ways I didn’t think anyone else would be."

Jungwon’s eyes flickered toward the door, then back to you, and he let out a long breath. "I know you do. And I’m not trying to tell you to stop spending time with him. I just... I don’t want you to think that I’m going to disappear because you’re with him." His voice softened, and he looked at you. "I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere."

You felt a lump form in your throat at his words. Jungwon's vulnerability was something new, something raw that you weren’t used to seeing from him, especially like this.

You both fell into silence, the weight of the room pressing down on you, heavier than the stone walls surrounding you. Neither of you spoke.

You shifted your position, feeling the warmth of Jungwon’s body too close to your own. Every time you tried to step away, your back brushed against the cold wall, and the small room only seemed to shrink around you. You knew you had to do something to get some space, but the proximity felt... different than it had before. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it was undeniably intimate in a way that made your heart beat faster.

"Jungwon..." you whispered, shifting slightly, trying to create some distance between you two. But with your movement, his hand instinctively reached out, grabbing your waist and pulling you back toward him.

“Don’t,” he murmured softly, his voice strained, almost as though he were trying to convince himself as much as you. His face was flushed, his breath shallow. His gaze flickered down for a moment before he quickly looked away, a slight embarrassment coloring his features.

“I—uh...” He cleared his throat, still not meeting your eyes. "I think it’s better if we don’t move too much. We’re stuck in here for now, so..."

His words trailed off as you both stood there, your chest pressed against his, the quiet intensity of the moment thick between you. You could feel the warmth of his body against yours, the faintest tremor in his hand still holding onto your waist, keeping you there with him.

You felt a twinge of awkwardness, but there was also a flutter in your stomach, something you couldn’t quite identify. Jungwon wasn’t acting like the confident, teasing prefect you were used to. He seemed almost... shy now. He avoided your gaze, and you could see his cheeks were flushed.

“Jungwon,” you repeated, your voice a little softer this time. You weren’t sure if you were trying to calm him down or if you were trying to ease the tension between the two of you. “You’re really close.”

He winced, as if he hadn't realized just how close you both were until you said it. "Sorry," he muttered quickly, but he didn’t let go of your waist. Instead, he awkwardly shifted to give you a little more space, though it wasn’t much.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at the absurdity of the situation. Here you were, trapped in a small room, with Jungwon.

A sudden noise broke the tension though —footsteps, echoing from the hall outside. Jungwon straightened, eyes narrowing, before he turned to you.

"Someone’s coming," he said, his tone a little more hopeful. "Let’s see if we can get out of here before Peeves realizes we’re not giving him the satisfaction of getting angry."

You nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Sounds like a plan."

Jungwon gave a quick nod and moved toward the door, banging on it with the flat of his palm. You joined him, calling out through the thick wood. “Hey! Is anyone out there? We’re locked in here!”

For a few moments, there was nothing but silence. Then, faintly, the sound of approaching footsteps reached your ears. Your heart leapt. Someone had heard you!

“Keep banging,” Jungwon said, his tone lighter now, and you both resumed your effort.

Finally, the footsteps stopped just outside the door. There was a brief pause before a familiar voice called out, “What’s going on in there?”

“Minji?” you called, recognizing the voice of your fellow prefect. Relief flooded through you. “It’s me! Unlock the door!”

There was a muffled sound—probably Minji sighing in exasperation—before you heard her mutter a quick unlocking spell. The door clicked open, and before either of you could adjust, it swung outward, leaving you and Jungwon stumbling forward into the hall.

You nearly tripped over your own feet, but Jungwon’s hand shot out, gripping your arm to steady you.

Minji stood there, her eyes wide as she took in the sight of you and Jungwon emerging together, slightly disheveled and far too close for comfort. Her gaze flickered from you to Jungwon and back again, her eyebrows arching in silent question.

“What—?” she started, but you cut her off quickly, desperate to explain before her imagination ran wild.

“Peeves locked us in,” you blurted out, gesturing toward the now-open door. “He thought it’d be funny to trap us in that tiny room and leave us there.”

Minji’s eyes narrowed slightly, her expression skeptical. “Right,” she said slowly, her tone clearly implying she wasn’t entirely convinced.

You glanced at Jungwon, hoping he’d back you up, but the sight of him made your words falter. His face was still slightly flushed, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His usually composed demeanor was cracked just enough to reveal how flustered he was. And worse, he was still standing far too close to you, his hand lingering on your arm as if he’d forgotten to let go.

“Uh, right?” you prompted him, your voice a little too high-pitched.

“Yeah,” Jungwon said quickly, finally releasing your arm and taking a small step back. His voice was steady, but you noticed how his eyes avoided Minji’s and instead flicked toward the floor. “It was just Peeves being Peeves. Nothing more.”

Minji crossed her arms, her lips twitching upward in a knowing smirk. “Uh-huh. Nothing more.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, and you quickly turned the conversation back to the situation at hand. “Anyway, thanks for letting us out,” you said, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “We were starting to think we’d be stuck in there all night.”

“Anytime,” Minji replied, her smirk deepening. Her gaze lingered on the both of you for a moment longer, and you could practically see the gears turning in her head.

“Well,” she said finally, taking a step back, “I’ll leave you two to... whatever it is you’re doing. Try not to get locked in another room together, yeah?”

“Minji!” you protested, but she was already walking away, her laughter echoing down the hall.

You sighed, running a hand over your face. “Great. Now she’s never going to let this go.”

Jungwon chuckled softly beside you, and you turned to look at him. His usual teasing expression was back, but there was something softer in his eyes now, something almost... fond.

“Well,” he said, his voice light, “at least we’ve got a good story to tell, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto your face. “Sure. A great story.”

For a moment, the hallway was silent. You stood there, staring at Jungwon, and he stared back. His dark eyes seemed to search yours, like he was trying to figure out what to say—or maybe he was waiting for you to say something first.

The weight of his gaze made your stomach twist, and your cheeks grew warm under the tension that hung in the air. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—to break it, but the words wouldn’t come.

Jungwon shifted slightly, leaning against the wall. His expression softened, the usual teasing edge gone, replaced by something gentler. “Hey,” he started, his voice low and almost hesitant.

It was too much.

“Goodbye!” you blurted, your voice louder than you intended.

Jungwon blinked, startled, but before he could respond, you were already turning on your heel, speeding off down the hallway like a first-year trying not to miss the train to Hogwarts.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, and your soulmark tingled faintly under your sleeve, but you refused to look back. You didn’t trust yourself to face him—not after everything that had just happened.

What was wrong with you? Why did he always make you feel this way? It wasn’t fair.

“Goodbye?” Jungwon called after you, his tone incredulous but amused. You could hear the faint chuckle in his voice, and it only made you pick up your pace.

You turned the corner and pressed your back against the wall, out of his line of sight. Your hand flew to your chest as if that would calm the rapid thumping of your heart.

What was that? Why did it feel like every time you were near him, the air grew thinner, the world smaller?

You groaned softly, covering your face with your hands. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Jungwon was your rival—your frustrating, irritating rival who lived to tease you and get under your skin.

So why did it feel like he was becoming so much more?

The crisp autumn air carried the comforting scent of butterbeer and roasted chestnuts as you strolled through the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade. It was your first free weekend in what felt like forever, and you were determined to enjoy it. You’d already picked up a few books from Scrivenshaft's, a bag of Honeydukes' finest chocolates nestled in your arms, and had plans to end the afternoon with a warm mug of butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks.

It was supposed to be a peaceful day.

That is, until you heard the familiar sound of raised voices near the outskirts of the village.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Arguments weren’t uncommon in Hogsmeade, especially with so many students running around. But as you drew closer, a nagging feeling began to creep up your spine.

You froze when you recognized the voices.

Jungwon and Soobin.

Heart pounding, you hurried toward the commotion, weaving through a small cluster of curious onlookers. The scene that greeted you was enough to make your jaw drop.

Jungwon and Soobin stood face-to-face, their wands clenched tightly in their hands. The tension between them crackled in the air like static electricity, and neither seemed willing to back down.

“I’m saying,” Jungwon snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut glass, “you’re wasting her time. If you actually cared about her, you’d stop pretending you have a chance and leave her alone.”

Soobin’s jaw clenched, his usually soft demeanor hardening into something unrecognizable. “And what makes you think you have any right to decide that? You don’t own her, Jungwon. She’s not some prize for you to claim.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

They were arguing… about you?

You took an instinctive step forward, but neither of them noticed you. Their focus was entirely on each other, the frustration and unspoken emotions they’d been holding back for weeks finally spilling out into the open.

“She deserves better than someone who doesn’t even know what she wants,” Jungwon hissed, his knuckles white around his wand. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“And what do you know, Jungwon?” Soobin shot back, his voice rising. “That you’ve been dragging this on for years, pretending you don’t care, only to step in the moment she starts looking at someone else? You’re just jealous.”

Jealous? Jungwon’s expression darkened at the word, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Jealous? Don’t flatter yourself, Soobin. This has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me when you keep butting in!” Soobin snapped, his dimples deepening as his grip on his wand tightened. “For once, stop acting like the world revolves around you and let her decide what she wants!”

The words hit like a lightning strike, and for a moment, Jungwon faltered.

“Enough!”

Your voice rang out before you even realized you’d spoken, startling both boys. They turned to you in unison, their expressions shifting from anger to surprise—and then something close to guilt.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, crossing your arms as you stared them down. “Are you seriously fighting over me? In the middle of Hogsmeade?”

Neither of them responded, their silence only fueling your frustration.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you two,” you continued, your tone firm, “but I’m not some object for you to argue about. I don’t need either of you deciding what’s best for me or who I should spend my time with.”

Soobin looked away, his shoulders slumping slightly, while Jungwon’s gaze remained locked on yours. There was something in his eyes—something vulnerable—that made your stomach twist, but you refused to let it distract you.

“If you can’t act like the grown wizards you’re supposed to be, then maybe I don’t want to spend time with either of you,” you said, your voice softening but still laced with disappointment.

You turned on your heel, clutching your bag of sweets tightly as you marched back toward the village square. The crowd of onlookers quickly dispersed, whispering amongst themselves as they returned to their shopping.

Behind you, you heard Soobin let out a frustrated sigh.

“This isn’t over,” Jungwon muttered, his voice low enough that he probably thought you wouldn’t hear.

But you did.

For days after the argument in Hogsmeade, you stuck to your plan. You avoided both Jungwon and Soobin with a steadfast determination, pouring all your energy into your studies and prefect duties. It wasn’t easy, not when they seemed to pop up everywhere you went, their longing glances and hesitant attempts to talk to you a constant reminder of the rift between you all.

But you were determined to teach them a lesson.

You didn’t stop to acknowledge Soobin when you passed him in the halls, even when his usual cheerful greeting was replaced with a soft, “Hey…” that trailed off when you didn’t respond. You ignored the way his shoulders slumped, or how his dimples didn’t show as much when he smiled at others.

And Jungwon? You didn’t even glance his way during patrols, even when you could feel the weight of his gaze following your every move. You ignored the way your soulmark burned faintly whenever he was near.

It was torture.

Not just for them, but for you too.

You told yourself it was necessary. That they needed to understand how their actions affected you. But that didn’t stop the ache in your chest when you caught Soobin sitting alone at the Gryffindor table during meals, his usually lively voice replaced by silence. It didn’t stop the pang of guilt when you walked into the library and found Jungwon there, staring blankly at an open book, his jaw clenched tightly as he pretended not to notice you.

It hurt.

It hurt to see Soobin’s dimples fade, to watch Jungwon’s confident smirk replaced by a quiet stillness. And it hurt to know that you were the reason for it.

But you didn’t stop.

Every time your resolve wavered, you reminded yourself of that day in Hogsmeade. Of the argument you’d walked in on, the way they’d fought over you like you were some prize to be claimed. You reminded yourself that they needed to learn that you weren’t theirs to argue over.

Still, the distance weighed on you.

There were moments when you almost caved. When Soobin would pass you a small note in class, his handwriting shaky but hopeful, asking if you’d like to meet in the library. When Jungwon would linger after patrols, his expression softening as he quietly said your name, only for you to turn away.

Each time, you swallowed the lump in your throat and pushed forward, ignoring the way your chest tightened and your soulmark burned.

But the worst moment came one evening during dinner.

You were sitting with your friends, trying to focus on the conversation, when you glanced toward the Slytherin table. Jungwon sat at the far end, his head resting on one hand as he absently pushed food around on his plate. His usual liveliness was gone, replaced by a quiet, almost defeated air that made your heart twist painfully in your chest.

Your gaze flickered to the Gryffindor table, where Soobin was seated with a group of his housemates. He was laughing, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His dimples appeared faintly, but they lacked the warmth you’d grown so fond of.

For a moment, you considered getting up. Walking over to them, breaking the silence you’d forced upon yourself and them.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you stayed rooted to your seat, gripping your fork tightly as you forced yourself to look away.

You told yourself this was for the best. That they needed to understand how much their actions had hurt you. But as you sat there, ignoring the ache in your chest and the burn of your soulmark, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were hurting yourself just as much as you were hurting them.

You questioned if this was worth it.

You spent the next few days lost in thought, unable to focus on anything except the whirlwind of confusion inside your mind. The more you thought, the more questions piled up, each one more pressing than the last.

Did Soobin like you enough to consider it love? You could feel the tenderness in his eyes, the way he always seemed to know when you needed a laugh or when your mood shifted. His affection felt genuine, but was it love? Or was it just his natural warmth and kindness? You wanted to believe he cared for you deeply, but could you really be sure?

And Jungwon… You ran your fingers over your soulmark absentmindedly, tracing the faint burn that seemed to pulse with his presence. Was he drawn to you because of the bond you shared, or was there more to it? Did he really like you as a person, or was he just following the pull of fate, following the path that had been set for him? His actions made it hard to tell, and every time you caught a glimpse of his conflicted expression, you only felt more lost.

You sat in your room that evening, a blanket wrapped tightly around you as the cool air from the window brushed against your cheeks. You stared blankly at the wall, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. You’d never been one to let yourself get overwhelmed by emotions, but right now, it was impossible not to.

What am I supposed to do? You couldn’t keep ignoring them, couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t matter how they were affected by your silence. But you also couldn’t let yourself be pushed into a corner, forced to choose between them just because of some soulmark. You were so much more than that, weren’t you?

The tears started without warning—hot, bitter drops that slid down your face as the realization hit. You had no answers. You had no idea what you were doing, what the right choice even was.

The room felt too small, the weight of everything around you closing in. You buried your face in your hands, trying to stifle the sobs that wracked your body. You were exhausted from holding everything in, from pretending that the pain of making this decision didn’t tear you apart.

Why is this so hard? You thought bitterly, as the tears continued to fall, your vision blurring with each passing second. You hated this feeling. You hated that you could hurt both Soobin and Jungwon by simply existing between them, by trying to find your own way without causing pain.

You wanted to be strong, to find clarity, but all you felt now was the sting of uncertainty and the emptiness of not knowing where to turn.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your heart still ached, the silent cry you had been holding in for so long now finally spilling over.

How had everything gotten so complicated?

You had tried to go about your day as best as you could, despite the storm of emotions brewing inside of you. You needed a distraction, something to pull you out of your spiraling thoughts. But of course, the universe had other plans.

As you walked down one of the quieter hallways, lost in your own thoughts, you failed to notice the telltale signs of Peeves’ latest prank: a small, harmless-looking puddle of water on the floor. Or, what you thought was harmless. As your foot landed in it, the floor suddenly gave way beneath you, and before you could even react, a burst of confetti and loud horns went off above your head.

The water splashed up around you, and your foot slipped, sending you sprawling to the ground with a sharp thud. The confetti rained down on you, a mocking reminder of Peeves’ relentless mischief.

You groaned, pushing yourself up with shaky hands, the sharp pain in your ankle telling you that this wasn’t just an embarrassing fall. You forced yourself to stand, wincing with each movement. It took everything in you to push through the pain, but you knew you couldn’t stay there. You had to get to the hospital wing.

It felt like an eternity as you limped through the halls, your leg throbbing in protest with every step. But eventually, you made it. Madam Pomfrey immediately ushered you onto a bed and began checking you over. You winced as she poked and prodded at your ankle, muttering under her breath.

You had never been one to ask for attention, but it was clear you couldn’t hide the injury, not when it was as obvious as it was. After Madam Pomfrey wrapped up your ankle and began to administer a pain-relieving potion, you closed your eyes, trying to relax. You really just wanted a moment of peace, to recover from everything.

But peace didn’t seem to be on the menu that day.

The door to the hospital wing creaked open, and you opened your eyes to see both Soobin and Jungwon stepping inside. Their eyes locked on you instantly, their expressions unreadable. Soobin was the first to speak, his voice warm but laced with concern.

“Hey… Are you alright?” he asked softly, taking a few steps forward.

You nodded, trying to smile, but the discomfort from your ankle made it difficult to do so. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little… well, you know, Peeves. Same old story.”

Jungwon, who had been standing a bit further away, finally moved closer. His gaze flicked from you to Soobin, then back to you, his jaw clenching just slightly. "You’re really lucky you didn’t hurt yourself worse," he said, his tone more curt than usual.

You didn’t miss the tension between the two of them. The way Soobin hovered near you, his eyes full of concern, and Jungwon’s more guarded expression. The air between them felt thick, like the two of them were both trying to control the emotions they didn’t want to express.

Soobin, sensing the silence hanging between them, cleared his throat and gave you a soft smile. “I’ll make sure you’re okay. We can talk later, right? After you rest a bit.”

You nodded again, grateful for his kindness. “Yeah, thanks, Soobin.”

Jungwon was still standing off to the side, looking like he was holding back a thousand thoughts he didn’t want to share. He glanced at Soobin once more, before finally turning back to you, his expression softening—just a little.

“You should rest,” he murmured, his voice almost hesitant.

You met his gaze, but before you could say anything, both of them stepped back.

After they left, the tension between them still lingered in the air. You could see it in the way they avoided eye contact, in the short, clipped exchanges they had with each other.

Your ankle had finally healed, and you found yourself walking through the hallways, your steps purposefully quick, but your mind racing even faster. You had spent days trying to sort through your feelings, to understand everything that had been happening. Now, you knew exactly who you needed to talk to.

You spotted him from a distance — standing by one of the doorways, lost in thought. It was as if everything else around you faded into the background. Your heart started to beat a little faster, and before you could second-guess yourself, you crossed the hallway and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him with you toward an empty classroom.

He stumbled for a moment, clearly caught off guard by your sudden action. "Hey, what’s—" he started, but you didn’t let him finish. You pulled him all the way inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, your breath quickening in your chest. The room was dim, the sunlight filtering through the tall windows casting long shadows on the stone floor.

When you let go of his arm, you stepped back, eyes not leaving his face. He blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to something more guarded, almost unsure. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding as you finally asked the question that had been eating at you for so long. "Jungwon," you began, your voice steady but laced with uncertainty. "What do you feel about me?"

His eyes softened, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. The silence between you stretched, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. He seemed to gather himself, his gaze never wavering from yours, before he finally answered.

"I..." Jungwon hesitated, running a hand through his hair, and you saw the vulnerability in his eyes. "From the very first time I saw you, sitting there, waiting to be sorted into a house... I knew I wanted to get to know you. Even if it meant teasing you at first, I just... I wanted to be around you."

You could feel your chest tightening, the words he was saying hitting you harder than you expected.

He took a step closer, his voice softer now, almost like a confession. "But as the years passed, my feelings for you... they grew stronger. It was more than just wanting to know you, it was about needing to be with you." He paused, as if the weight of the truth was difficult to say. "Every time I saw you, my heart would beat faster. My palms would get sweaty. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And when I saw your Patronus... and I realized you were my soulmate, I was so happy. I thought everything was perfect." Jungwon’s gaze dropped for a moment, his voice turning quiet. "But then I found out you were hiding it from me. You kept it from me, and it hurt, more than I can explain."

You wanted to say something, to tell him that you were sorry, but you waited.

"As much as it hurt, my love for you didn’t change. It only made me want to be with you even more, to be the one who gets to be with you. But..." He glanced away briefly, as if gathering his thoughts before looking back at you with a pained expression. "When I saw you with Soobin, when I saw you laughing and being so close with him... it hurt. I couldn’t help but feel jealous. I wanted that to be me, not him. I wanted to be the one making you smile like that."

The words hung in the air, thick with emotion, and you felt your heart twist. The truth was out.

You took a shaky breath, your mind spinning with everything he had just said. "Jungwon..." you whispered, not sure what else to say.

His gaze softened, and for a brief moment, he looked like the person you had always known—the one who had been by your side all these years, even when you didn’t realize it. "I just want to be with you."

Your heart raced, the weight of his words sinking deep inside you. It was a confession that you had been waiting to hear.

Jungwon took a step closer, his hand reaching out slightly, as if unsure whether to close the distance between you.

You reached up without thinking, your hand trembling slightly as you cupped his cheek, your fingers brushing against the warmth of his skin. The contact sent a wave of emotions crashing over you—uncertainty, longing, but also an overwhelming sense of rightness. For a brief moment, the whole world seemed to pause, leaving just the two of you standing there in the quiet room, hearts racing in sync.

Jungwon’s eyes searched yours, his breath coming in shallow bursts. You could feel his pulse beneath your fingers, and something deep inside you whispered that this was the moment. No more hesitations, no more confusion.

Before you could second guess yourself, you leaned in. His breath caught in his throat, and for the briefest second, it felt like time stood still.

Then your lips met, soft and hesitant at first, but it didn’t take long for the kiss to deepen. It was as if the world around you melted away, leaving only the connection between the two of you. Jungwon’s hands moved quickly, finding their way around your waist, pulling you closer against him, the warmth of his embrace a comforting anchor.

You responded in kind, your arms sliding up to wrap around his neck, pulling yourself even closer. The kiss was both gentle and urgent, a mixture of emotions that neither of you had fully expressed until now.

Your soulmark burned to life beneath your skin, the familiar warmth spreading through you in a wave, almost like a gentle hum.

You broke the kiss just enough to look at him, your foreheads resting together as you caught your breath. Jungwon’s eyes were dark with emotion, his lips slightly swollen from the kiss. He was staring at you as if he had just found something he had been searching for all this time.

"I never thought it would be like this," you whispered, your voice thick with the emotions you couldn’t quite put into words.

"Neither did I," he replied softly, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. "But it feels... right. Doesn’t it?"

You nodded, your heart fluttering in your chest as you leaned back in, your lips meeting his again. The kiss started softly, a gentle exploration of each other's mouths, but soon it grew more intense.

Jungwon's breaths became heavier, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he held you close, your hands entwined in his hair.

Suddenly, with a surge of strength, Jungwon lifted you up, his arms around your waist, and set you gently on the desk behind you.

As you landed on the desk, your arms instinctively went underneath Jungwon's Slytherin robe, your hands finding the warmth of his skin. You could feel the muscles of his back as he held you in place.

Jungwon's kisses became more urgent, his tongue teasing and exploring, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

You, feeling the intensity of Jungwon's kisses, decided to playfully pull back, your lips curving into a mischievous smile. As you withdrew, Jungwon's lips followed, his eyes sparkling with a hint of surprise.

"You like that, do you?" you teased, your voice soft and filled with amusement. "Can't get enough of me, huh?"

Jungwon's lips curled into a grin, a smile of mischief. "I could kiss you all day," he replied, his voice low. "Your lips are like a drug, and I'm addicted."

You giggled, a sound that was both playful and inviting. "Well, you better not overdose then," you said, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "Or we might have a problem."

Jungwon's grin widened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours gently. "I'll take that risk," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "Because being with you is worth any risk."

You melted into his embrace, your arms slipping around his neck, inviting him to continue the dance of kisses. Jungwon's hands, which had been roaming your body with a possessive touch, now caressed your cheeks, his thumbs tracing the curve of your lips.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice filled with admiration and adoration. "And your kisses... they drive me wild."

His touch was gentle but insistent, like he couldn't quite get enough of you, and honestly, neither could you. Every kiss, every caress sent a thrill through you.

His lips trailed to your jaw, then to the sensitive spot behind your ear, making you shiver involuntarily. "I never thought it would feel like this," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Like... everything I’ve been waiting for, all at once."

You smiled softly, your hands sliding down to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart, matching your own. "I never thought it would happen, either," you whispered back. "But I’m so glad it did."

Jungwon pulled back slightly, looking at you with eyes full of wonder, as if seeing you for the first time. "You make everything feel right," he said, his voice a tender confession. "Like I’m where I’m supposed to be."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "I feel the same way," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I think I always have."

For a moment, you both just stayed there, caught in the magic of the moment, the silence between you full of understanding and comfort.

Then, with a soft laugh, Jungwon pulled you closer again, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. "I think we’re going to be just fine, don’t you?" he said, his lips brushing against your forehead.

You nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Yeah," you whispered, your voice filled with certainty. "We’re going to be more than fine."

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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: Villain System vs World - Riddle Rosehearts x reader

You have a guilty pleasure: trashy villainess stories. So when you die a frankly, humiliating death, and end up in one of the worst ones you've had the pleasure of reading, you're in denial. Then the villain system shows up. Well, there goes your second chance at life So what do you do now? Do villainous things and cause as much chaos as you can, of course. And maybe, just maybe, bag the male lead, Riddle Rosehearts while you're at it.

i had so much fun writing this, i hope you like it just as much!

Series Masterlist

You’ve had a week. Not just any week—a rough week. Work has been an absolute dumpster fire, deadlines have been chasing you like a pack of rabid wolves, and your responsibilities are piling up like a game of Jenga about to collapse. If someone were to ask how you’re doing, you’d just laugh maniacally and hope they’d back away slowly.

So, when you finally make it home, the first thing you do is collapse face-first onto your couch with all the grace of a dead fish. After a moment of just lying there, contemplating whether adulthood is some kind of elaborate prank, you do the one thing that always makes you feel better: grab your phone and open up your webnovel app.

You scroll through your favorites—ah yes, the classics. Trashy, absurd, villainess webnovels that are objectively terrible but subjectively amazing. You’re talking about the ones with titles like “I’m the Evil Duke’s Twisted Ex-Fiancée, But He Loves Me Now Because I Have Plot Armor!” or “My Death Flags Mean Nothing Because I Can Charm My Way Out of Everything (And Also, Dragons)”.

It’s like junk food for your brain. You know it’s not good for you. You know there are objectively better stories out there. But the drama, the ridiculous misunderstandings, the sheer stupidity of every character decision—it’s beautiful. It’s a hot mess, and you are the fly drawn to it.

Except this time, you somehow pick the worst one.

You don’t know if it’s because your standards are already on the floor and this one somehow dug under it, or if the exhaustion has finally gotten to you, but it’s bad.

The story is all over the place. The villainess is cartoonishly cruel, like she wakes up in the morning and thinks, “What heinous thing can I do today?” But sometimes, you swear she doesn’t even want to be that way. It’s like the author just decided, “Villainess = bad,” and put their brain to bed.

The plot? Oh, it’s a mess. The villainess and heroine are sisters—the real daughter of a Duke and the adopted, sweet angel who gets all the Duke’s affection. Naturally, they both fall for the same guy: Riddle Rosehearts, some prodigy with a complex about rules, order, and justice. Of course, the Duke arranges for his precious adopted daughter to marry Riddle, and the villainess? She flips out, does a bunch of cruel things (of course), and eventually gets herself killed in a totally overdramatic fashion.

Okay, typical villainess plot so far. Nothing new there.

But the worst part? The treatment of poor Riddle. It’s like he’s just a toy to be fought over. The sisters practically claim ownership of him like he’s a fancy handbag. Then, once the villainess is conveniently eliminated, the author gives Riddle this tragic backstory. Harsh childhood, crazy controlling mom—you know, the works. You brace yourself for the resolution, for him to rise above his traumaand find happiness.

Nope. His trauma is treated like a joke. Nothing gets resolved. He’s just stuck in this gilded cage, with the heroine taking over as the new warden. And somehow, that’s supposed to be the happy ending?

It’s horrible. It’s nonsensical. It’s everything you could want right now.

You should stop. You know you should stop. But the sheer absurdity of it has you in its grasp.

And you don't even want to think about the love decagon. Yes, decagon. There are 9 men dying over this heroine who has the personality of rusty spoon.

You snort, your laughter echoing through your empty apartment. It’s awful. It’s brain-rotting, cringe-inducing garbage.

You love it.

The plot is hanging on by a thread, and yet, there you are, fully committed. You don’t need quality writing, deep themes, or even consistent character motivations. What you need is to watch this trainwreck unfold until the bitter end, and you’ll be damned if you don’t see it through.

But that’s when the universe decides to kick you in the teeth. In a sequence of events so absurd you couldn’t make it up if you tried, you—oh, wait for it—die. And not in some grand, noble fashion, either. You slip on some residual shampoo on your bathroom floor, and fall face first onto a tap. Ouch.

Really?

Out of all the dramatic, swoon-worthy ways to die, like saving a kitten from a burning building or sacrificing yourself for someone you loved, you went out like a fool. A shower slip. One minute you’re standing, and the next, you’re faceplanting like some poorly executed slapstick scene.

And then, boom. Everything went black.

Which brings you to now. You feel odd. The texture of the sheets beneath you isn’t quite right. They’re silkier than the cheap cotton sheets you usually wrapped yourself in before bed. The air smells... different too. Not to mention, the bed feels way bigger, and you’re nestled in something way too plush to be your beat-up old mattress.

You bolt upright, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the room. You squint around and your eyes widen. This is… not your room. Gone are the band posters, the laundry in the corner, and your trusty alarm clock with the missing buttons. Instead, you’re surrounded by opulence: heavy velvet drapes, an intricately carved wooden dresser, and a huge vanity covered in jewels.

Your heart drops.

Slowly, you lift your hands. They are... not your hands. These are dainty, perfectly manicured hands. No chewed-off nails. No pen smudges from your hours of work. Just smooth, perfect fingers, topped off with the exact kind of expensive manicure you'd normally cringe at paying for.

No. Fucking. Way.

Frantically, you throw the blankets off yourself and scramble to the nearest mirror. What you see staring back at you isn’t your own reflection.

“Oh. My. God.”

You’ve been isekai’d. Into a webnovel.

And not just any webnovel. No. The terrible one you’d been reading before your humiliating death. You’re in the body of the villainess, the character who was basically a walking disaster from beginning to end. Not to mention, she was set to die a very messy, very public death within a few weeks.

“Oh god. I’m screwed.” You pace around the room in a panic, wringing your hands together. “How am I supposed to survive this? I can’t be a villainess! I don’t even like drama!”

You glance around desperately for something, anything that will give you some semblance of control over the situation. This can’t be happening. Maybe this is all a weird dream? You pinch yourself. Hard.

“Ow.” Nope. Definitely not a dream. Just your reality. Fantastic.

Then, you spot it. A glowing screen, floating mid-air right next to your head.

The classic system menu, like the ones from every villainess isekai you’ve read.

Except, instead of comforting you, this one makes you want to scream. Because in glaring red letters, it says:

“Villainess System Activated! Complete your tasks or face severe consequences.”

You blink. “Consequences?”

A new notification pops up, smug as hell. “Severe punishment will be dealt if you fail your villainous duties."

Oh, great. You’re trapped in a parody of an isekai where you not only have to survive as the villainess, but also complete quests like some twisted game. Lovely.

You stare at the system menu. “This is going to be fine,” you mutter, trying to convince yourself. “I just have to do the opposite of whatever got this chick killed. Just... stop being a jerk, right?”

But no sooner do you say that when the system blinks and pops up your first quest:

“System: Ruin Lady Heron’s Garden Party. Reward: 50 Villain Points.”

Are you kidding me?

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Okay, but hear me out,” you say to the system like it’s a person you can negotiate with. “What if I ruin it... with a compliment? Like, I tell her that her flower arrangements are so beautiful that she faints from the shock?”

The system’s reply is immediate: “Invalid. Must complete task in line with villainess behavior.”

“Oh, come on!” You pace the room again, muttering under your breath. “Fine. You wanna play it like this? I can play.” You crack your knuckles. “We’ll see who outsmarts who.”

The next hour passes in a whirlwind of panicked planning. You’ve read enough villainess novels to know the basic rules: never do what you’re supposed to do, but always make it look like you are. It’s malicious compliance at its finest.

So, when you arrive at Lady Heron’s garden party, dressed to kill (because apparently that’s a thing villainesses do), you’ve already concocted your plan.

The system wants you to ruin the event? Fine. But you’ll do it your way. You compliment Lady Heron’s flowers with the fakest smile you can muster, pouring on the charm. You gush about her decorations until she’s practically glowing, all while subtly steering the conversation away from the usual petty gossip that gets the villainess in trouble.

Instead of sabotaging the food, you pretend to be horrified when the catering staff makes a small mistake, swooping in to save the day and looking like a hero in the process. And as for the “accidental” tripping of the host’s dress that was supposed to happen? You deftly catch her instead, earning surprised gasps from the crowd.

By the end of it, the system’s fuming, and you’re basking in the glory of having completed your “villainous task” without actually being villainous.

Malicious compliance for the win, you think smugly.

The system didn't like your attitude and it wants it to be known.

"System: Next quest: Defeat the chicken in the garden."

No problem, right? It wasn’t like you were going up against a raging dragon or anything. It was just a chicken. A harmless little chicken.

Wrong.

You found yourself standing in a dusty barn, staring down the most demonic creature you’d ever seen—a puffed-up, red-eyed chicken with an attitude problem. This thing wasn’t just any chicken; it looked like it had gone ten rounds with a tiger and won. Twice.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered under your breath, rolling up your sleeves as the chicken fluffed its feathers like it was about to brawl. You eyed it warily. It eyed you back, and for a second, you swore you saw flames in its eyes.

"System: Quest update: —Defeat the Chicken of Doom!"

Chicken of Doom? You squinted at the thing. “You could’ve warned me, you know.”

"System: Where’s the fun in that?"

The chicken let out an ear-splitting squawk and lunged at you like a tiny, feathered fury. You dodged, barely, as it pecked the air where your face had been a moment earlier. This was no ordinary chicken. This thing had skills.

You scrambled out of the way, trying to think of a strategy that didn’t involve you getting pecked into oblivion. “System! Any tips here?”

"System: Aim for the legs. That’s where the power is."

The legs? You glanced down at the chicken’s scrawny legs. “I’m pretty sure it’s coming for my face, not my ankles!”

"System: Well, you could always just run. But that’s not very villainous, is it?"

“Oh, you are the worst,” you grumbled as the chicken made another wild leap for your head. You ducked, grabbed a nearby rake, and swung it around like a makeshift sword. “Alright, chicken. Let’s dance.”

What followed was an embarrassing display of you flailing around the barn, trying to fend off this demonic poultry with a rake while the system laughed at you from the sidelines.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of dodging and weaving, you managed to hook the rake around one of its legs, pulling it off balance. The chicken flopped onto its back, flailing wildly as it squawked in outrage. You quickly pinned it down with the back-end of the take, panting heavily.

"System: Congratulations! Quest complete. 50 Villain Points awarded."

You glared at the system’s message. “I better get more than 100 points for this. I deserve a medal.”

"System: How about the satisfaction of knowing you just defeated the Chicken of Doom?"

You groaned, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Next time you send me on a quest, can it be against something less likely to murder me? Like a butterfly?”

"System: No promises. But look on the bright side—you’re officially undefeated in chicken combat. And you now are +50 Villain points richer"

“Fantastic,” you deadpanned, finally letting the defeated chicken hobble away with its dignity intact. “Just what I always wanted to be known for.”

You walked out of that barn a little wiser, a little bruised, and a lot more wary of small farm animals. From that day forward, chickens were officially your sworn enemies.

Villain points: 100

You were still in denial that you were in that novel. But what's a better wakeup call than running into the main lead? The guy who the story revolves around, Riddle Rosehearts.

You had decided to take a stroll in the academy's gardens when a loud squeaking noise caught your attention.

Turning the corner, you stumbled upon a scene that confirmed your worst fears: Riddle Rosehearts, was hunched over a small enclosure, tending to a couple of prickly hedgehogs.

“What in the world…?” you muttered, leaning in closer. Riddle was meticulously checking their little habitats, his brow furrowed in concentration. You had to admit, he looked oddly cute.

As you watched, one of the hedgehogs—who seemed to have more ambition than sense—decided to attempt an escape. It made a daring leap right off the side of the table, and you could practically hear the collective gasp of the students around you. Time slowed as you saw the tiny creature plummet toward the ground.

No!

Without thinking, you launched yourself forward, arms outstretched, preparing to catch the little spiky ball of chaos. You almost made it, but instead of a graceful landing, you miscalculated and ended up face-first in a pile of fallen leaves, with a hedgehog landing right on your back.

Riddle’s eyes widened in shock. “What are you doing?!”

With the hedgehog squirming atop you, you tried to push yourself up. “Just… saving this little guy,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. The hedgehog seemed to be enjoying the view from its leafy throne, completely unfazed by the near disaster.

“Are you okay?” Riddle asked, half-concerned, half-amused as he stepped closer. You could see a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, which was both infuriating and endearing.

“Yeah, just a minor case of heroism!” you replied, attempting to sound cool while still half-buried in leaves. “No big deal. Just saving lives one hedgehog at a time.”

The students around you started whispering, some trying to hold back laughter. Riddle, however, seemed genuinely impressed, his cheeks turning a shade of red that almost matched his hair. “Uh… thank you?” he said, fumbling for words. “That was… very quick thinking.”

As you finally managed to roll over, the hedgehog took that moment to scuttle off your back, plopping down on the ground with a little thud. You turned to Riddle, brushing leaves off your shirt. “Yeah, well, it’s what I do best. Hedgehog rescuer by day, unremarkable student by night.”

Riddle blinked, processing your words while his face continued to betray a mix of flustered admiration and confusion. “You… you look quite cool doing that,” he said, almost to himself, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You smirked, enjoying the moment. “Cool? Well, thank you.”

Riddle opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly flustered. “Right… um, thank you again. I usually prefer to do everything by the book, but you… you have a knack for chaos.”

“Just trying to shake things up a bit!” you replied, grinning. “Besides, what’s life without a little excitement?”

His face turned an even deeper shade of red, and for a moment, you thought he might actually explode. “Excitement is… not exactly my strong suit,” he admitted with a seriousness that almost made you laugh.

Just then, Cater called out, “Hey, Riddle, are you blushing over there?”

Riddle straightened up, all business once more. “I am not blushing!” he snapped, though it only made the others laugh harder.

You couldn’t help but chuckle yourself. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, it’s very becoming.”

At this point, he was trying desperately to regain his composure, his usual dignified self crumbling under the unexpected twist of fate. “Right, well… um, thanks for your help,” he stammered, trying to pivot back to his hedgehogs as if that would restore some order to his day.

“Anytime!” you replied cheerfully, already plotting your next move in this wild webnovel world. After all, you might just have to become the chaotic force that turns Riddle’s world upside down.

As you left him there, you couldn’t help but think—yup, you were definitely in that webnovel. And you were not hating it.

"System: New quest: Sabotage the dinner. +100 points"

Oh this was a quest you were willing to do even if the system didn't ask you to. All you need to do was question your darling sister's yapping and you'll be set.

The dinner is going about as smoothly as you’d expect a social gathering could in this godforsaken story. Which is to say, not smooth at all.

You’re sitting at a long, polished table that looks like it’s seen better days—probably because it's held together by the sheer willpower of outdated noble customs. Your dear sister, the illustrious heroine of the world, is seated at the opposite end of the table, positively glowing in her usual self-absorbed way, surrounded by a gaggle of male leads that have somehow become entangled in her web of charm. Including, of course, the third male lead, a guy whose name you don’t even care to remember, but who keeps giving you condescending looks from across the table.

Your father, seated next to her, is smiling like he’s watching his favorite child perform in a school play. Every time the heroine opens her mouth, he’s doting on her with embarrassing enthusiasm, nodding along like she’s spewing pearls of wisdom when, in reality, it’s more like dribbling out some very glittery, very ignorant garbage.

“Oh, Father,” your sister begins, in that overly sweet, almost nauseating voice of hers. “Did you know that dandelions are actually a type of flower? Most people mistake them for weeds, but I just find them so fascinating.”

You internally groan. Seriously? Dandelions? That’s the big revelation she’s bringing to the table tonight?

Your father beams at her, his eyes twinkling as if she’s just solved world hunger. “My dear, you’re so clever. It’s amazing how much you know!”

Ace, seated next to you, nearly spits out his water. You glance at him and catch the barely-restrained laughter on his face, which only makes you want to snicker along with him.

You give him a look that says "brace yourself."

You lean forward slightly, your face the picture of politeness, and say with a small smile, “Well, technically, dandelions are considered invasive species in most gardens. I suppose calling them ‘fascinating’ is one way of putting it.”

Your sister blinks at you, clearly confused by the subtle jab, while Trey—who’s seated beside Riddle—hides his smirk behind a delicate sip of wine. You catch a glint of amusement in Riddle’s eyes as well. Even he seems to be enjoying this trainwreck.

The heroine, though, refuses to let her utter lack of botanical knowledge slow her down. “Oh, well, I was just trying to emphasize how misunderstood they are! Like, did you know dandelion tea is supposed to help with digestion?”

You can’t help yourself. “Is that why you’ve been so full of it lately?”

There’s a loud snort from Cater, who quickly covers it up with a cough, but not before giving you an encouraging grin. Deuce’s shoulders shake as he tries to hold back laughter, while Ace is full-on grinning at the chaos you’re creating. Trey is still playing it cool, but you know he’s on the verge of losing it too.

Your sister pouts at you, her lower lip trembling like she’s about to burst into tears. Oh, here we go. The waterworks. But honestly, you’re not about to feel guilty for calling her out when she practically walked into it.

“You always have to be so mean to me,” she whines, her voice wobbling dramatically. “I was just trying to have a nice conversation!”

Your father, predictably, jumps to her defense. “Now, now,” he says, giving you a stern look. “There’s no need to be so harsh with your sister.”

Harsh? Oh, please. If this is what he considers harsh, he clearly hasn’t spent much time around actual harsh people. Not that you’re about to say that aloud, of course.

“Apologies, Father,” you say, trying to keep your tone as neutral as possible while still dripping with passive-aggression. “I’ll be sure to keep my comments to myself next time.” You pause for a beat, and then add with a pointed look, “Unless, of course, they’re about real flowers.”

Cater and Ace lose it, full-on laughing at this point, and Deuce isn’t far behind. Even Trey is chuckling softly into his drink.

And then—oh, wait, is that a smile on Riddle’s face?

It is.

Holy crap.

For the first time since this disaster of a dinner started, you see a genuine smile tugging at Riddle Rosehearts’ lips. It’s small, but it’s there. And it’s directed at you.

Well, well, well, you think. Who knew I’d get the tiniest bit of amusement out of the stoic redhead tonight?

Riddle’s mother, who has been sitting quietly at the head of the table this whole time, seems to notice as well. She raises an eyebrow at you, and while she doesn’t say anything, the slight nod of approval she gives is as close to praise as you’re ever going to get from her.

Meanwhile, your sister has resorted to dabbing her eyes with a napkin, and the third male lead looks like he’s about ready to crawl under the table and disappear. Honestly, with the way his face is turning red, you wouldn’t be surprised if he just bolted for the door.

As the heroine sniffles dramatically, trying to regain her composure, Riddle’s mother clears her throat. “Perhaps it’s time we moved on to the next course.”

You sit back in your chair, feeling rather pleased with yourself. You’ve always known how to work a room, but this? This was practically a performance art piece. A subtle roast of the dinner party’s most insufferable members, all without breaking a sweat.

Trey gives you a subtle thumbs-up from across the table, Cater is still grinning like an idiot, and Ace is wiping tears from his eyes. Even Deuce looks like he’s enjoying himself more than usual.

And Riddle? He’s still smiling.

All in all, you’d call this a successful dinner.

"System: +100 points"

Villain Points: 200

You reached a compromise with the system during a mind numbingly boring tea party. You were doing your best to sit there with a polite smile plastered on your face while your sister droned on about her latest dress, but all you could think about was the fact that there were probably better uses of your time—like, say, literally anything else. Maybe you could fake a sudden illness and make a run for it? Or trip over a conveniently placed teacup and disappear into the shrubbery?

And that’s when you heard it.

"System: New Quest—Make it through this tea party without falling asleep. Reward: Not looking like a complete fool."

You almost snorted out loud, but quickly caught yourself. Great, the system is back at it again with these stellar rewards.

Gee, thanks, system. Truly motivating stuff.

"System: Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want something better? How about I throw in 50 Villain Points?"

Your eyes widened. Wait, 50 Villain Points just for not dozing off during this boring nonsense?

"System: Well, technically, you just have to stay awake. I never said you couldn’t look bored out of your mind."

You grinned slightly, trying to hide your amusement behind your teacup. You’re starting to grow on me, you know that?

"System: Likewise. I must say, I didn’t expect someone like you to actually stick with me this long. Most people would’ve either ignored me or gotten themselves killed by now. But you? You’ve got potential."

Aw, stop, you’re gonna make me blush.

"System: I’m serious! You’ve got guts. You think outside the box. You’re not afraid to bend the rules a little. And that’s why I’ve got a proposition for you."

You leaned back in your chair, intrigued. Oh? Go on, I’m listening.

"System: Here’s the deal—I’ll start giving you quests that aren’t designed to get you killed or humiliated beyond repair. In exchange, you have to promise to actually follow through on them. And I don’t mean half-heartedly—I want 100% commitment. Deal?"

Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you’ve been giving me death traps this whole time?

System: Well… not death traps, per se. More like… character-building exercises.

I swear to God, system, if you ever make me fight a rabid chicken again—

"System: That chicken was a necessary evil! Character development! But fine, fine. No more chickens. Only reasonable, non-lethal missions from now on. What do you say? Partners in villainy?"

You tapped your chin, pretending to mull it over. Hmmm… sounds tempting. But what’s in it for me besides the joy of your sparkling company?

"System: Oh, you know, the usual—power, influence, fame, and fortune. Plus, I’ll throw in some juicy blackmail material for when your sister inevitably gets on your nerves again."

Your grin widened. Now that is the kind of offer I can’t refuse.

"System: That’s the spirit! Now, first mission as my official partner: Sabotage your sister’s next grand entrance. Nothing too catastrophic—just a little stumble, maybe some ruffled feathers. Keep it classy."

And just like that, you and the system were officially besties. It was weirdly comforting knowing you had a sarcastic AI watching your back—and occasionally messing with your enemies. Sure, it might’ve been the weirdest friendship ever forged in the history of villainy, but hey, you’d take it. You’d never be bored again with this delightful chaos agent in your corner.

As you left the tea party with your head held high, the system chimed in one last time.

"System: By the way, next time your sister brags about her shoes? “Accidentally” mention that those went out of fashion last season."

You smirked. Oh, system, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

+50 points, + 1 extremely powerful ally.

Villain points: 250

It was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon. You had gone into the library looking for a quiet place to relax after a long day of trying to stay out of family drama. But of course, there was Riddle, hunched over a mountain of books with his hands gripping his hair like it had personally wronged him. Not to mention, your sister was sitting nearby, yammering on about… something. Something that was definitely not helping Riddle’s clear state of panic.

As soon as you walked in, your eyes locked with his, and in that instant, you could practically hear his brain screaming for help. It was a silent plea, one you couldn’t ignore.

With a sigh and a bit of a smirk, you sauntered over, interrupting your sister’s endless tirade about her latest frivolous pursuit. “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” you said brightly, grabbing Riddle by the arm and pulling him up from his chair before he could protest.

Your sister blinked at you, clearly thrown off by your sudden intrusion. “Excuse me, we were in the middle of an important conversation—”

“Were you though?” You raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure Riddle needs a break. He’s been studying for hours, right?” You didn’t wait for an answer, instead giving Riddle a quick nudge. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

To your relief (and amusement), Riddle offered no resistance, letting you whisk him away from the library and your sister’s insufferable voice.

Once you were safely in one of the quieter gardens, Riddle sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how much more of that I could’ve handled. Thank you.”

“No problem. Honestly, I did it for my own sanity too,” you chuckled, leading him to a bench under a shady tree. “But seriously, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Riddle’s face flushed a bit as he glanced away. “I’ve been… focused. There’s a lot to cover.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” you replied dryly, nudging him to sit down. “But if you don’t rest, you’re going to burn out. Even someone like you can’t run on fumes forever.”

He hesitated for a moment but eventually sat down, clearly too tired to argue. “I suppose you’re right…”

Riddle leaned back against the bench, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. You thought he’d sit there for a few minutes, maybe catch his breath, and that’d be it.

Except he didn’t just catch his breath.

Nope.

Instead, Riddle Rosehearts, the pristine, perfectly poised model student… fell asleep on your shoulder.

And you? You froze.

Oh no.

Oh God.

What do I do?!

Your mind spiraled as you sat there, staring at the top of his bright red head resting comfortably against you. You were acutely aware of the warmth of his body pressed against your side, his quiet, steady breathing, the softness of his hair—

Wait. Why is his hair so soft? It’s like spun silk.

Does he use some kind of magic conditioner? Should I ask him for hair care tips?

No, focus! Focus!

You peeked down at him again, and he looked so peaceful, his usual stern expression completely relaxed. You could feel your heart racing, and the logical part of your brain screamed at you to keep it together, but the other half—the half that was currently hyper-aware of Riddle’s head resting on your shoulder—was completely losing it.

Is this what bliss feels like? Is this how people write poems? “Oh Riddle, how thou art like the setting sun, warm and brilliant yet—WAIT, what am I thinking?! I am losing my mind! THIS IS BAD!

But also… very, very good?

You glanced around nervously, wondering if someone might see this. Would this look weird to people? Am I weird for not moving? I can’t move. He’s asleep. If I move, he’ll wake up and think I’m a weirdo for staying so still and letting him nap on me like this. Oh God, what if he thinks I’m weird?!

But even as your brain launched into a full-blown existential crisis, you couldn’t deny how nice this felt. Riddle looked so soft—so vulnerable—and for once, he wasn’t burdened by the weight of expectations or responsibilities. He was just… Riddle. And that made something inside you feel oddly tender.

Your gaze softened as you looked at him. Maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe I could get used to this. Maybe—

Then, without warning, Riddle stirred, shifting slightly before blinking his eyes open. He looked groggy for a second, but as soon as he realized where he was—where you were—his entire face turned scarlet.

“Ah!” he gasped, jerking upright. “I—! I didn’t mean to—! I—!”

You blinked at him, trying very hard to pretend that you hadn’t just gone through a whole mental rollercoaster while he was napping. “Uh… it’s fine. You were tired. Happens to the best of us.”

He quickly straightened his uniform, flustered beyond belief. “That was… highly inappropriate. I apologize. You must think I’m terribly uncouth.”

“Nah,” you said with a grin, waving him off. “You’re a hard worker. Even someone like you deserves a break.”

Riddle looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment. “Still, I shouldn’t have—"

You laughed and patted his shoulder. “Relax. It was kinda cute, honestly.”

He looked at you with wide eyes, his blush deepening. “C-cute?”

Realizing what you just said, your face turned bright red. “Uh, yeah, like… in a respectable, admirable way, obviously! Because, you know, falling asleep is… healthy… and stuff.”

From behind you, you heard Ace’s familiar snicker, and you turned to see him and Deuce standing there, both of them with identical grins.

“You’re totally simping,” Ace teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God, go away.”

Riddle coughed, straightening his back and trying very hard to regain his composure. “Ahem. I think I’ll… return to my studies. Thank you again for helping me earlier.”

He stood up, still looking mildly mortified, but as he walked away, you caught the faintest smile on his lips.

Ace elbowed you with a grin. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Shut up,” you grumbled, your face still burning as you watched Riddle leave.

But deep down, you couldn’t stop smiling either.

You sit at the breakfast table, staring at the notification hovering just above your coffee.

"System: New Quest: Get your sister to humiliate herself in front of the Empress. Reward: 100 Villain Points."

Your sister, ever the radiant queen of smugness, lounges at the other end, flipping her hair like she’s about to step onto a runway. Her latest self-important monologue about being 'practically irreplaceable' in the Empress’s inner circle grates at your nerves.

“What’s with the face?” Ace flops into the seat next to you, raising an eyebrow at your sudden, murderous glare.

Deuce, ever the responsible one, follows, setting down his tray with a clink. “You alright? You’ve been quiet.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I got stuck with… a task.”

Ace snickers. “What, the world’s worst chore or something?”

You glance at your sister, now preening at her reflection in a spoon, and mutter, “Worse. I need to make her humiliate herself in front of the Empress.”

Both Ace and Deuce freeze, staring at you in disbelief.

Ace nearly snorts his drink. “You—wait, what? You have to do that?” His eyes practically light up. “That’s hilarious.”

Deuce, always the voice of reason, frowns. “Why do you need to do that? That sounds kinda… extreme.”

You sigh, trying to keep it vague. “Let’s just say... it’s a long story. But trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

Ace leans back, grinning like he’s just been given front-row tickets to the chaos. “Oh, I am so in. We have to take down the drama queen? Say no more.”

Deuce hesitates, but after a glance at your sister—who’s loudly bragging about her upcoming meeting with the Empress—he sighs. “I guess if it’s for a good cause... she could use a little humility.”

“Perfect.” You clap your hands together, a plan already forming. “But it has to look natural. No obvious sabotage.”

Ace smirks. “You say that like I’m not an expert in ‘subtle.’”

The banquet is set in a lavish garden, with your sister already dressed in the most elaborate gown she could find. She looks like she’s ready to steal the spotlight—and she fully intends to. But you’re three steps ahead. As you, Ace, and Deuce trail behind her, you start whispering the plan. “She always does that thing where she stands up to give a toast in front of everyone, right?”

Deuce nods. “Yeah, she loves being the center of attention.”

You glance at Ace. “Think you can handle making sure her ‘center of attention’ moment doesn’t go as planned?”

Ace grins wickedly. “Leave it to me.”

Your sister, in all her glittering glory, steps up to the platform. The Empress and her courtiers watch on, curious, while your sister clears her throat, preparing to launch into one of her legendary speeches.

Ace winks at you, positioning himself near the platform’s support. With the lightest nudge, it shifts, just enough to unbalance your sister. As she stands, her heel catches on the uneven surface.

Her eyes widen. “Wha—?”

And down she goes, arms flailing dramatically as she tumbles straight into a nearby fountain.

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and the Empress looks mildly surprised as water splashes everywhere. Your sister, soaked and sputtering, looks utterly mortified.

Ace bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Oops.”

Deuce winces but nods. “Well... that worked.”

You can’t help the satisfied smirk tugging at your lips as your system pings again.

"System: Quest Complete. Reward: 100 Villain Points."

“Perfect,” you murmur under your breath, already thinking about the next quest.

As your sister sputters her way out of the fountain, dripping wet and desperately trying to regain her composure, the crowd falls into an awkward silence. You can practically hear her brain scrambling to salvage the moment.

She forces a bright smile, pushing wet hair out of her face. “Well, that was… unexpected,” she says, laughing nervously. “I suppose even the most poised among us can have a moment of... gracelessness”

The Empress raises a perfectly arched brow, but remains silent, watching with a cool, unreadable expression.

Your sister, in her panic, decides to fill the silence with her usual brand of arrogance. “I’m sure someone will fix that platform,” she says, waving a hand dismissively at the servants. “Honestly, who would set up something so poorly constructed? I could’ve been seriously hurt!” She glances at the Empress and adds, in a misguided attempt to flatter, “But of course, I suppose even the Empress’s court isn’t immune to such… minor mistakes.”

Ace and Deuce both freeze. Your stomach drops.

The Empress’s lips tighten just slightly, a subtle but dangerous shift. “Minor mistakes?” she repeats, her voice icy and sharp.

Your sister, utterly clueless, laughs again, louder this time, still trying to brush it off. “Oh, of course, not your fault, Your Majesty. I’m sure your staff just… overlooked something. It happens, right?”

The crowd’s collective inhale is deafening. Even Deuce slaps a hand to his forehead, muttering, “Oh no…”

Ace looks like he’s about to choke trying to hold back his laughter. “She’s done,” he whispers gleefully.

The Empress finally stands, her gaze narrowing on your sister. “I assure you,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “such oversights are very rare in my court.”

Your sister opens her mouth to respond, but there’s no coming back from this. The Empress has already turned away, addressing one of her advisors with a wave of dismissal. Your sister is left standing there, soaked and utterly humiliated, in front of everyone.

As the system pings again in your head— "System: Bonus Quest Complete: Cause a Major Faux Pas. Reward: 50 Villain Points"—you can’t help but smirk.

"Well," Ace leans in, whispering, "mission accomplished."

As you watch your sister fumble through an awkward curtsy, trying to salvage what little dignity she has left, the familiar ping of the system goes off in your head again—but this time, it sounds... different.

"Villain System: Achievement Unlocked—Total Disaster;

Reward: 50 Villain Points + Bonus Perk!"

Before you can fully register the notification, the system continues, breaking its usual monotone, deadpan style.

"System: Honestly..." there's a brief pause, like it's trying to hold back a laugh. "I have to hand it to you. This... this was beautiful. I mean, wow, top-tier humiliation. The look on her face? Priceless. I didn’t think you had it in you to pull off such magnificent chaos so effortlessly. Not to mention the insult to the Empress."

Another chuckle—this time, you can feel it reveling in the scene.

"System: You're really becoming quite the villain, huh? I’m almost impressed. Well, because you've reached a new level of villainy—and honestly, you’ve earned it—here’s a special perk. You hit 1,000 points, and I’ll give you an out. You can get rid of me. Completely. No more schemes, no more quests. Freedom from this system."

For a moment, you can barely believe it. The system’s offering you a way out?

"System: Oh, but until then, I’m not going anywhere. And really, wouldn’t it be a shame to stop now? You’re on such a roll."

You shake your head, but even you can't deny the chaos was a little satisfying. Your sister, now the talk of the court, dripping with embarrassment, is living proof of that.

"What's up?" Ace asks, glancing at you. "You look like you just won something."

"Yeah," you mutter under your breath, smirking. "Something like that."

Villain Points: 500. 500 points to freedom.

The test results had come out earlier today and Riddle had topped it, as usual. But he was not allowed to come celebrate with the rest of you, which has led here.

It’s late at night, and the manor is quiet—eerily quiet, except for the soft rustling of leaves outside Riddle's window. You stand beneath the window with a strawberry tart in your hands, feeling very much like a strange version of a fairy-tale hero. Except, instead of rescuing a damsel in distress, you're here to sneak contraband dessert to an overworked boy whose mother monitors his sugar intake like a hawk.

"Riddle!" you whisper-shout up to the second floor. "Let down your hair—uh, I mean, your bedsheets!"

There’s a pause before Riddle’s head pops out of the window, confused but intrigued. "What are you doing out there? It’s late."

"Shhh!" You gesture for him to keep it down, holding up the tart like it’s some sort of forbidden treasure. "I brought you a strawberry tart. Your mom might have banned it, but we live dangerously in this house."

Riddle’s eyes widen, and for a moment, you think he might actually tear up. "You... You risked sneaking a tart past Mother... for me?" He looks genuinely touched, and you can see the internal battle raging between his desire to stay obedient and his deep, insatiable love for strawberry tarts.

"Yes, I am willing to defy the Tart Tyrant for you," you say, nodding solemnly. "Now hurry up and lower the bedsheets before she finds out and decides to have me beheaded for dessert-related treason."

Riddle hesitates for just a second, but the lure of the forbidden pastry is too strong. After a moment, he vanishes from the window, only to return with a neatly tied set of bedsheets. He throws them down like some kind of serious, rule-abiding Rapunzel.

You take a second to appreciate the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, then quickly tie the tart to the end of the sheet rope. “Alright, here comes the goods!” You give the bedsheets a tug to let him know the package is secured.

With a little effort, Riddle pulls up the tart with the same solemnity you’d expect if he were receiving an ancient royal artifact instead of sugar-laden contraband. He gingerly unties the tart and holds it in his hands, staring at it like it's the most precious thing he's ever seen.

You then somehow use the bedsheets to get up there too. Wow maybe you are truly a fairy-tale hero.

"You truly are remarkable," Riddle says, his voice soft with gratitude. He turns his gaze toward you with such an earnest expression that you suddenly feel self-conscious.

You wave him off, trying to play it cool. "Eh, it's nothing. Just saving you from a tartless existence."

But instead of saying anything, Riddle leans down and, with the utmost care and sincerity, presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand, like some sort of old-fashioned gentleman. "Thank you," he murmurs.

And that’s when it happens.

Your brain shuts down. Completely. Like someone pulled the plug on your thoughts and left you staring blankly into space. The only thing running through your head is static. You don't even register the tart anymore. Did he just—? Did Riddle Rosehearts just—?

You short-circuit so hard that your mouth moves, but nothing coherent comes out. “Guh... buh... uh...” Great. So much for playing it cool.

Riddle, ever the gentleman, doesn’t seem to notice your malfunction, as he’s too busy taking the tiniest, most delicate bite of the tart, savoring it like he’s trying to make it last forever. "Delicious," he whispers, clearly over the moon.

Meanwhile, you’re still stuck on the whole hand kiss thing. Did that actually just happen? Did you fall into an alternate reality? Is this still the same planet?

Ace is going to have a field day with this.

"Uh, well... goodnight!" You finally manage to blurt out before spinning on your heel and power-walking away, almost jumping off the balcony instead of climbing down, mentally screaming at yourself for turning into a malfunctioning robot over a simple gesture. You hear Riddle chuckle softly behind you, a sound that somehow makes your heart do a weird little flip, and then his window quietly closes.

The whole way back to your room, you're fighting off the most embarrassing grin. Maybe this little night mission was worth it after all—short circuits and all.

The next morning, you wake up to a new notification from your ever-so-charming system.

"Villain System: New Quest—Make the heroine cry and win the baking competition. Reward: 100 Villain Points"

You stare at the message, blinking. Make the heroine cry? That’s one thing, but… win the baking competition? You don’t even bake.

"System: Oh, did I forget to mention? The heroine has won every year because it’s women-only, and the original villainess didn’t care about trivial things like baking. Now she’s got a free pass to victory—unless, of course, you do something about it."

You roll your eyes. Right, of course. But then, an idea hits you. Trey. Who needs to bake when you know the one person who could win with his eyes closed?

In this kingdom’s prestigious baking competition, there's one important loophole: while only women are allowed to officially compete, each contestant is permitted a single helper. Of course, most participants choose their helpers from other women to maintain the spirit of the tradition. However, there’s nothing in therules that says it has to be a woman.

The heroine, ever the strategic darling, has chosen none other than the Sixth Male Lead as her helper—an aspiring nobleman known for his meticulous manners and refined taste. His calm demeanor and careful attention to detail make him a safe bet, and you overhear the heroine boasting that, with his assistance, her victory is all but guaranteed.

Yeah, not this year.

Instead of following tradition, you’ve asked Trey to be your helper. Trey Clover—renowned for his skill in the kitchen, and quite possibly the one person who could bake the heroine’s smug little plans into pie. The original villainess never cared enough to bother with this competition, which gave the heroine free rein. But now? Now she has to face you, and by extension, Trey.

And Trey Clover doesn’t play for second place when it comes to sweets.

Later that day, you find Trey in the gardens, tending to some herbs. He looks up, giving you that calm, friendly smile. "Need something?"

"Yeah, actually. There’s a baking competition coming up," you say nonchalantly, "and I need to win."

Trey raises an eyebrow. "I thought it was women-only?"

You shrug. "It is, but I thought you could, you know, help me win."

He chuckles, brushing some dirt off his hands. "What kind of help are we talking?"

"Let's just say," you grin, "we’ll be making a dessert so good that even the Empress and Emperor will swoon. And if sister dearest happens to cry... well, that's just a bonus."

Trey looks amused but intrigued. "Alright, I’m in. Let’s see what we can whip up."

The day of the competition arrives, and as expected, the heroine is floating around the kitchen like she owns the place. You catch a glimpse of her smug smile as she arranges her ingredients, clearly confident that victory is hers.

Little does she know.

You and Trey work quietly, making an intricate dessert that smells so good even the judges start peeking over your shoulder. It’s a delicate mille-feuille with layers of crisp pastry, rich cream, and fresh fruit, and the entire hall is already filled with its tantalizing aroma.

"Are you sure you want to go this hard?" Trey asks, smirking as he plates the dessert. "This might be overkill."

You laugh. "Overkill is the goal."

As the competition moves forward, you notice the heroine starting to fidget. Her confidence wavers when she sees your masterpiece, and by the time judging begins, she’s outright glaring at you.

The Empress and Emperor sit at the head of the table, and when your dessert is placed in front of them, you watch as they take a bite. First, there’s silence. Then, the Empress closes her eyes, a look of pure bliss on her face.

The Emperor leans back, sighing deeply. "This... this is incredible."

Even the Prince, sitting beside them, takes a bite and pauses. He leans in toward you with a subtle smile. "Such talent... A skillful partner would be quite the asset to the royal family."

You raise an eyebrow but smile politely.

"While I appreciate the compliment, Your Highness, I’m not interested in marriage at the moment. My hands are quite full with other matters."

The Prince looks mildly disappointed, but the Empress shoots him a warning glance, and he wisely backs off. You can feel the heroine seething from across the room.

Then, Riddle, who’s been observing the competition from the side, steps up to taste your creation. He takes a small, cautious bite—and his entire face lights up. His normally stern expression softens, and he looks so genuinely pleased that you can’t help but feel a little flustered yourself. Who knew Riddle could be this cute?

"This is... delightful," he says quietly, and for a moment, you forget about the competition entirely.

"Glad you like it," you say, your voice a little softer than you intended.

Ace nudges you from the side, wiggling his eyebrows. "You blushing? Never thought I'd see the day."

"Shut up," you hiss back, feeling your face heat up even more.

Meanwhile, the heroine, who has been watching the whole scene, looks on the verge of tears. As the judges declare you the winner, she loses her composure entirely and storms out of the hall, sniffling dramatically.

Ace bursts into laughter. "Wow, you really made her cry, huh? I’m loving this!"

Deuce, more concerned, pats you on the back. "Well... at least you won the competition?"

You smirk, satisfied. "Yeah, I’d say that went pretty well."

As you leave the competition hall, your system chimes in again.

"Villain System: Quest complete! 100 Villain Points awarded."

"System: I’ll be honest. I wasn’t expecting you to fluster Riddle like that, but hey, bonus points for making the Prince back off too. Well played. +25 points"

Villain Points: 625. 375 points left till freedom.

You had to do something about the funny little flips your heart did when you even dared to glance at Riddle and so here you were, dramatically declaring a “Strategy Meeting” with Trey, Cater, Ace, and Deuce. You had even assigned roles—like some kind of overly elaborate battle plan—because, in your mind, this was war. And the enemy? Your increasingly uncontrollable feelings for a certain redheaded, rule-abiding, perfectionist nobleman.

You stood at the head of the table like a general ready to command the troops, but instead of warriors, you had your collection of questionable allies. Trey and Cater were lounging comfortably, while Ace and Deuce seemed entirely too excited about the prospect of scheming.

“Alright,” you began, pacing in front of the group. “Here’s the deal. I think I like Riddle.”

You were met with silence at first. Then, Ace broke into the most ridiculous grin. “Pfft, of course you do. You’ve been mooning over him for weeks now. Congratulations on finally catching up to reality!”

Deuce elbowed him. “Hey, don’t make fun of them! It’s... uh... commendable that you’re so serious about it.” He gave you a sympathetic smile, like you were some kind of lovesick puppy.

Cater, who had been leaning back casually in his chair, gave you a teasing wink. “Aww, our little villain is going soft. I guess all that sneaking tarts and saving him from certain doom finally got to you, huh?”

Trey, ever the calm and rational one, simply folded his arms and gave you a small smile. “Well, it makes sense. You two have spent a lot of time together. He’s... a good guy. A bit high-strung, but good.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is not helpful. I need a plan, people! Riddle’s mom already thinks I’m a conniving little troublemaker—how am I supposed to make a good impression while also, you know... not being painfully awkward around him?”

Ace raised his hand dramatically like you were in the middle of a classroom. “Simple solution: you don’t. Just be yourself. He’s already used to your brand of chaos. Besides, you already saved him from his mom’s sugar ban, so I’d say you’re ahead of the game.”

Deuce nodded, adding, “Yeah! Plus, you’re like, really smart and cool, so... you’ve got this!”

“Okay, so,” Cater piped in, “in terms of strategy, you could always stage some grand gesture. I mean, Riddle’s all about tradition and propriety, right? What if you—”

Suddenly, a voice interrupted from behind you. “What are you all plotting now?”

You froze, spinning around to see none other than your mother, the Duchess, standing in the doorway with an amused look on her face. She had an uncanny talent for sneaking up on people.

“M-Mother! I, uh... it’s nothing serious. We’re just—”

She raised an eyebrow, cutting off your fumbling explanation with a wave of her hand. “If you’re scheming about Riddle Rosehearts, dear, you could use a bit more refinement. Fortunately for you, I’ve decided to assist.”

“Wait, what?” You blinked at her, feeling like the ground had just shifted beneath you. “You’re... helping me?”

She gave you a knowing smile. “Well, it’s about time someone showed that other daughter of mine what true charm looks like. You’ve always been the more intelligent one.”

“Uh... thanks?” You weren’t quite sure how to respond to that.

Without another word, your mother turned to the butler who had been standing in the hallway. “Make sure everything is in place for dinner tonight. And do make certain the maids are aware of our... little plans.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler replied with a subtle bow before whisking away.

You stared after him, feeling both flustered and slightly panicked. “Mother... what are you planning?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “It’s nothing too drastic. Just a little adjustment to how tonight’s dinner will go.”

That evening, you found yourself at the weekly gathering/dinner, sitting at the long, ornate table alongside your parents, Riddle, his mother, and—unfortunately—your sister, who was already droning on about some utterly mundane topic that only she could make sound self-important.

And then, the plan began.

The maids moved around the table, loudly discussing their work. "Oh, our youngest lady is always so kind to us, isn't she? Such a breath of fresh air!"

"Yes, yes," another maid replied with an exaggerated nod. "And always so intelligent! Did you hear how she handled that situation at the garden party? Simply remarkable!"

Riddle’s mother perked up at the praise, her sharp gaze cutting from the maids to you, her expression intrigued. Your sister, on the other hand, looked like she was about to burst a blood vessel.

The butler, who had been refilling glasses, suddenly spoke up as well. "Ah, I must say, our young miss has shown extraordinary grace and poise recently. A true future lady of the house, if I may be so bold."

You were mortified. Your face felt like it was on fire, and you desperately tried to shrink into your seat. This was not what you had planned. You could feel Riddle’s eyes on you, and you were certain you were about to pass out from sheer embarrassment.

Your sister, however, could not stay silent. “Excuse me?” she snapped. “I don’t know what all this nonsense is about, but—”

But the maids and butler kept going, seemingly oblivious to her anger. "Indeed, I can’t think of anyone more suited to such a role!" one of the maids declared.

Riddle’s mother hummed thoughtfully, clearly impressed by the blatant—and likely orchestrated—praise. “It is quite rare to find such well-rounded young women these days,” she mused, looking at you with a glint of approval in her eyes. “Perhaps I should consider the advantages of such a match after all.”

You nearly choked on your drink. Riddle, across from you, was staring at his plate like he was trying to become one with it. He looked both horrified and... pleased? Maybe?

And just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, Ace—because of course, it had to be Ace—leaned over and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Hey, at least you know Riddle's mom doesn’t hate you anymore. Progress!”

You shot him a glare, but the damage was done. Everyone at the table had heard, and Riddle’s mother raised a curious eyebrow at you both. You could practically feel Riddle sinking further into his seat.

The dinner continued with more awkward small talk, with your mother throwing in subtle digs at your sister’s lack of... everything, while you tried your hardest not to combust from sheer humiliation.

But hey—if nothing else, at least Riddle wasn’t the only one who felt like he needed to escape to the nearest corner. Small victories, right?

"System: Quest: Make Riddle Say Something Mean to Your Sister. Reward: 100 Points"

The system pings you with the next quest, and you almost laugh out loud. Get Riddle to say something mean to your sister? The guy whose idea of an insult is reminding someone to follow the rules more carefully? You know this’ll be near impossible—his mother raised him to be the picture of etiquette and politeness.

But, then again, opportunity tends to strike when you least expect it, and with your villain system, those moments come with a bit of flair.

It all starts innocently enough: horseback riding. You’re a natural at it, of course, and as you effortlessly guide your horse around the course, your sister glares at you from the sidelines, arms crossed.

"Oh, how shocking," she drawls loud enough for everyone to hear. "A masculine activity. How unbecoming for a lady."

Before you can snap back, someone else beats you to it. "That's funny, I quite like horseback riding too," The Empress says, her voice as polite as ever but with just enough edge to make your darling sister freeze.

And when Riddle adds that he also enjoys horseback riding, you almost snort. Of course, he does. Riddle would have to enjoy something that involves strict rules and perfect posture.

Your sister's eyes flicker toward Riddle, suddenly aware that insulting horseback riding is not the wisest move when he is within earshot. She stammers, trying to recover. "I—I mean, I didn’t say it was entirely inappropriate. It’s just—"

You just stare at her, subtly challenging her to continue. And she takes the bait.

Sensing an opportunity to show off, your sister decides to prove she’s good at it too. "I’ll show you how a real lady rides a horse," she declares, moving to mount the closest horse. The horse, sensing the storm of bad vibes radiating from your sister, immediately snorts and takes a few steps back.

“See, even the horse knows better,” Ace mutters behind you, earning a chuckle from Deuce. You can’t help but grin.

Your sister’s attempt to get on the horse is nothing short of a disaster. Her foot slips, her balance is off, and the horse finally has enough. In one swift move, it bucks her off before she’s even properly seated, sending her tumbling to the ground in an undignified heap.

For a second, there's stunned silence. Then, in true ‘sister’ fashion, she gets up, furious and embarrassed, and hits the horse on the flank.

Oh no. She did not just hit the horse.

Riddle’s face turns red—not his usual "I’m about to scold you" red, but the kind of red that suggests a leviathan-level insult has just taken place. "What are you doing?" he snaps, shocking everyone in earshot. Even you pause, surprised.

You quickly recover, barely holding back your grin. You can already feel the points tallying up.

"That was completely uncalled for," Riddle continues, his voice icy. "You should apologize to the horse."

Your sister sputters, clearly not used to being reprimanded by someone like Riddle.

"I—I didn’t—"

"Violence toward an innocent animal," the Emperor chimes in from his observation point, his tone dripping with disapproval. "Disgraceful behavior."

The Imperial Princess, who has been watching with her arms crossed, gives a snort of laughter. "Well, clearly not everyone can handle themselves with grace on horseback."

Your sister looks like she’s about to implode, her cheeks burning redder than Riddle's hair. "I didn’t mean—"

"Please," Riddle says, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "Let’s not make this any worse for yourself."

The system pops up again with a cheeky little message.

"+25 bonus points: The system respects that level of carnage. Well done."

Honestly, even you can’t help but respect the sheer scale of the damage your sister just managed to cause to her own reputation in a matter of minutes.

Riddle, who’s usually the epitome of control, saying something that mean? The Emperor, the Imperial Princess, and the Empress all scolding her? It’s a beautiful mess, and you’ll take the points with a smile.

Villain Points: 750. 150 points left till freedom

You’re lounging in the courtyard, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when chaos inevitably strikes. You don’t know why you thought you could have a quiet afternoon without something going wrong. The universe must have you on its watchlist, and today, it decided to throw a wrench in the form of Deuce Spade sprinting across the courtyard, holding a goose under his arm like some kind of barnyard Olympian.

The goose then shows a surprising amount of athleticism and manages to pivot in his arms and jump down.

“GET BACK HERE, YOU FEATHERED MENACE!” Ace screams behind him, waving what looks like a loaf of bread. You raise an eyebrow, confused but intrigued. “Uh… do I even want to know?”

“They’re trying to catch the Duchess’s prized goose,” Cater pipes up, appearing out of nowhere. “It escaped from the coop. Again.”

You squint at the scene unfolding before you, watching as Deuce trips over a bush, while grabbing its tail, sending both himself and the goose tumbling to the ground, feathers everywhere. The goose immediately makes a break for it, flapping wildly in your direction. You can’t help it—some deep, misguided instinct kicks in. You blame your duel with the chicken of doom. Must help friends! Must catch rogue poultry!

You leap to your feet, determination surging through you. This is it. This is your time to shine. You throw yourself at the goose, diving for it like a soccer goalie saving the game-winning shot.

And you miss. Not just miss—you whiff it entirely. Instead, you skid along the ground, getting a face full of dirt and grass. The goose, clearly uninterested in whatever heroic save you were attempting, runs straight towards the nearby rose bushes, where Riddle is calmly reading a book.

“Got it!” you yell, trying to recover from your very undignified position. You scramble to your feet and sprint towards the goose, not thinking—absolutely no thoughts—just vibes and feathers.

“STOP THAT GOOSE!” you hear Deuce shout, which only makes you run faster.

But then… things go wrong. Horribly, hilariously wrong.

The goose, in a feat of poultry acrobatics, launches itself directly at Riddle. In a panic, you leap towards them, determined to protect Riddle from the poultry projectile. Unfortunately, in your zeal to save him, you overestimate your athletic prowess, launching yourself way too high and way too fast.

You soar right over the rose bushes. For a brief, glorious moment, you feel like you’re flying. Like Icarus, you’ve flown too close to the sun.

And then gravity kicks in.

You crash into Riddle, knocking his book out of his hands as you both go down in a very undignified heap. Riddle lets out a startled yelp, and you’re pretty sure your entire life flashes before your eyes in that split second.

When the dust settles, you’re on the ground, somehow tangled up with both Riddle and the goose, who looks mildly offended by this whole debacle. You can barely process the pain in your elbow because, oh no—you’ve just tackled Riddle Rosehearts in broad daylight. You’re doomed. Absolutely doomed.

Riddle, red-faced and thoroughly flustered, pushes himself up, brushing stray feathers off his jacket. “What in the world…?”

“I, uh… was trying to help?” you say weakly, still half-sprawled on the ground with the goose now comfortably perched on your back, like some sort of bizarre poultry crown.

Before Riddle can reply, Ace and Deuce finally catch up, breathless and thoroughly amused by the sight before them.

“Nice one!” Ace cackles, doubling over with laughter. “I didn’t think you’d go for the full-on tackle!”

“Yeah, wow,” Deuce adds, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. “Really… really brave of you. Or maybe just… really dumb?”

Cater, meanwhile, is gleefully giggling during the entire thing. "I can’t believe you almost took out Riddle over a goose!” Riddle glares at them, cheeks still a furious shade of pink. “This is not funny. Someone could have been hurt!”

You finally manage to sit up, the goose still somehow perched atop your shoulder. You look up at Riddle, giving him a sheepish grin. “Uh, well… thanks for breaking my fall?”

Riddle huffs, brushing dirt off his sleeves as he stands. “Next time, please consider not risking your life over poultry.”

“Aw, don’t be mad, Riddle,” Cater teases, still giggling. “Our hero here just wanted to protect you from the fierce Goose of Doom!”

Riddle shoots him a glare that could melt ice.

Ace leans over, giving you an exaggerated thumbs-up. “Honestly, this is peak comedy. I can’t wait to see the look on Trey’s face when he hears about this.”

You groan, already feeling the embarrassment sink in. “Just… just help me up, please.”

Riddle offers you a hand, though he still looks like he’s debating whether to scold you or just cry. As he pulls you to your feet, the goose squawks indignantly, finally hopping off your shoulder to strut away, victorious.

“See?” Ace says, still grinning like a fool. “The goose is fine. No harm done.”

“No harm,” Riddle repeats, looking at you with a sigh. “Except perhaps to our dignity.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, your cheeks burning. “Yeah, well, dignity is overrated. At least we caught the goose… eventually.”

Riddle shakes his head, a small smile finally tugging at his lips. “Next time, let’s leave the heroics to someone a little more... suited for it, shall we?”

You nod, rubbing your sore elbow. “Deal. But if that goose comes at you again, I’m not making any promises.”

Riddle just shakes his head, turning away to pick up his book. And he takes your hand and ties a handkerchief around a scratch you didn’t even realize was bleeding. You can still hear the teasing laughs from Ace, Deuce, and Cater echoing in your ears, but you can’t help the grin that tugs at your own lips.

Yeah, you might’ve girlbossed a little too close to the sun today. But at least you made Riddle smile and he held your hand!(kinda) . And, well, the goose is still alive, so there’s that. Small victories.

"System: Quest: Become the Flower of the Ball. Reward: 50 Points"

The system's new quest pops up with a glorious ping—Become the Flower of the Ball. Easy enough, right? Except, of course, your sister has always held that title. The "Flower of the Ball" is not just the prettiest person at the event; it’s the one who commands the room, whose influence and elegance leave everyone talking for weeks. And you? Well, with Cater on your side, you’re about to change that.

First step: rumors. Cater helps you work your way through the gossip circuit like a seasoned pro. With just a few whispered suggestions here and there, you have half the ball convinced that you’ll be arriving in something that will make your sister’s dress look like an afterthought.

Next, your mother—who’s never liked your adopted sister, mainly because of your father's favouritism —does her part by pulling the strings and reserving the best tailor exclusively for you. Your sister? She’s stuck with second-rate options, fuming in the background. By the time you step into the ball, you look absolutely perfect. The dress is a masterpiece of fabric and sparkle, the kind that makes everyone’s heads turn the second you enter.

Cater sneaks by your side as you walk in. "Nailed it, babe," he whispers, giving you a wink. "They're already talking about how your dress makes you look like a literal god."

And indeed, the whispers from the crowd follow you like a wave. Mission accomplished.

Your sister, of course, tries to maintain her usual position of dominance. She’s chosen the 7th male lead as her escort—a decision that reeks of desperation since she couldn't snag a higher-ranked noble. You, meanwhile, had originally planned to attend with Ace and Deuce, they were your closest friends after all, just to keep things low-key. But before you can finalize that plan, Riddle appears, looking composed as ever, and offers you his arm.

"I thought it might be appropriate if you accompanied me," he says with a shy smile. "Since my fiancée has chosen to attend with someone else this evening."

You almost laugh. Of course, she has. She likely thought it would make her look more desirable, but now it's given you a perfect in. Going to the ball with Riddle is about as high-profile as it gets.

Your sister’s eyes widen the moment she sees you walk in with him. Her expression morphs into barely-contained outrage, but before she can say anything, another bomb drops.

Riddle’s mother—stern and poised as always—leans over to one of her confidantes and just loud enough for you and your sister to hear, says, "Well, perhaps this arrangement is for the best. It wouldn’t be surprising if we reconsider the sister for our families’ union."

Cue dramatic gasp.

Your sister’s face twists in horror, while the 7th male lead stands there, visibly confused as to why he’s even part of this drama. "What—what did she mean by that?!" your sister hisses, shooting daggers at you and Riddle.

You smile sweetly. "Oh, who knows? Perhaps she just appreciates my company more."

Before your sister can explode, the Imperial Princess herself enters the fray. Your sister, still seething, is barely holding it together when she steps forward to greet the Princess, but her curtsey is sloppy. The Princess raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. "Hmm, interesting technique," she says coldly, her eyes flicking to you with approval as you execute your bow with flawless grace.

Your sister sputters, trying to recover, but it’s too late—the Princess’ interest is already elsewhere. The rest of the ball quickly follows suit, flocking to your side. Riddle, ever the gentleman, offers you a subtle smile as the room begins to orbit around you instead of your sister.

And then, like clockwork, your sister makes yet another blunder. This time, it’s with the cutlery at the dinner table. The 7th male lead awkwardly copies her, both of them managing to insult half the table in the process. You’d almost feel bad, but honestly, they’re making it too easy.

The system, naturally, is having the time of its life. "+25 points: Honestly, this is comedy gold. Extra points for the mess."

You flash a victorious smile, knowing that by the end of the night, you’ll be crowned as the new Flower of the Ball—your sister’s reign well and truly over.

Villain points: 825. 175 points to go.

Riddle wasn't quite sure when it happened. Maybe it had been a gradual realization, building slowly every time he saw you speak your mind with that sharp wit of yours, or maybe it was something that had struck him like a lightning bolt during a moment like this—watching you hold an entire room's attention, bright and confident in your own, distinct way.

You were just so... you. The way you spoke, that glint of mischief in your eyes whenever you were about to say something clever—it was entirely captivating. It was easy to see why people were drawn to you, why they wanted to bask in your energy.

Right now, you were standing near the center of the room, laughing animatedly as you shared some story with your friends. Your expression was full of life, each gesture adding color to your words, your smile lighting up the whole space. Riddle couldn’t help but find his gaze lingering on you, taking in every detail.

And then, out of nowhere, you turned your head, locking eyes with him across the room. For a split second, he felt his breath catch. He should look away, he told himself. But he couldn't. He was rooted in place as you spotted him.

Your face lit up even more—if that was even possible—and you raised your hand, giving him an enthusiastic wave, completely unabashed. There was something so genuine, so utterly you, in that wave. Your arm flailed just a little, and you were smiling so broadly, so openly, that you looked a little silly. But it didn’t matter.

Because, in that moment, Riddle felt something click into place. He might like you. He might like you quite a lot, actually.

Without even thinking, Riddle found himself waving back, a small smile creeping onto his face. He felt warm, a strange fluttering sensation settling in his chest. He probably looked ridiculous, waving with that soft, dazed look in his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

You gave him a thumbs-up, your grin widening, and Riddle had to stop himself from laughing. His heart was pounding in his chest now, a warmth creeping up his neck, and the realization hit him with startling clarity: you made him feel light. You made him feel... happy, in a way he hadn’t quite understood before.

He might have spent his whole life avoiding this kind of chaos, but when it came to you—when it came to your laughter, your brightness, your way of pulling him into your orbit—Riddle found he didn’t mind the chaos at all.

In fact, he was pretty sure he was completely smitten with it.

"Villain System: New Quest—Humiliate the heroine in front of the heir to the throne, the First Princess. Reward: 100 Villain Points"

You read the message and resist the urge to sigh. Your sister is a piece of work, sure, but the system really seems hellbent on making her your eternal punching bag. But hey, if the system insists… who are you to resist?

As luck would have it, the annual hunt is coming up—an event where the bachelors of the court go off into the woods to prove their worth, while the bachelorettes sit around and gossip like they're at an overpriced brunch. However, this year, the Imperial Princess, renowned master swordswoman and all-around terrifying person, has decided to spice things up by organizing a competition of swordsmanship for the ladies.

Before the hunt and the competition officially start, it's tradition for those not participating in the hunt to present charms to their loved ones—little tokens of affection and support to tie onto their swords before they charge off to slaughter things in the woods. It’s all very romantic, except, of course, when it’s you and your friends.

You've prepared four charms for Trey, Cater, Ace, and Deuce. Mostly because you know these four will be fighting like it's a matter of life or death (because, let's face it, it’s mostly about showing off at this point), and the least you can do is give them something to remind them not to do anything stupid and die.

You hand them out one by one, and each of them reacts in their own, very predictable way.

Cater takes his with a grin, twirling it between his fingers like it’s a prize from a carnival. "Aw, thanks, bestie! Now I have no choice but to win." He strikes a pose, charm held up as if he’s already envisioning the animal he's gonna get.

Deuce just flushes, taking the charm with both hands as if it's some sacred object. "I, uh, I’ll do my best!" he declares, looking both touched and slightly stressed by the responsibility you’ve just put on him.

Ace rolls his eyes, snatching his charm like you’ve just given him an extra chore. "Ugh, seriously? Now I gotta win for you?" He gives a dramatic sigh, but you can tell he’s secretly proud, especially with the way he ties it onto his sword with a flourish—making sure everyone nearby notices.

Trey, ever the gentleman, accepts his charm with a warm smile, nodding in thanks. "I appreciate it," he says, his tone so sincere you almost feel bad about how unserious the others are. "I'll try to bring back something worthy of this."

You wave them off with a grin. "Just try not to get yourselves killed, alright? I don’t need the guilt."

They nod, though Ace gives you a playful smirk. "No promises, but hey, if I survive, I'll owe you one."

You’re not entirely sure if that’s comforting, but at least they seem motivated... in their own, ridiculous way.

But then comes the surprise: Riddle. Normally, Riddle doesn’t accept charms from anyone. The whole court knows he rejects them all, your sister’s included, and it’s practically common knowledge that they’re engaged.

And yet, as you’re about to turn away, you feel someone tug gently on your sleeve.

You look back, and there’s Riddle, cheeks tinged pink, looking almost… shy? “I… noticed you hadn’t given me a charm,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

Your heart skips a beat. Riddle? Asking you for a charm? You quickly pull out an extra special one you’d prepared just in case, trying not to look too smug as you hand it over. “Of course, I saved the best for last,” you tease.

He takes it with both hands, his blush deepening, and carefully ties it to his sword. "Thank you," he says, the sincerity in his voice making you feel just a little warm inside.

The time for the competition arrives after they leave and naturally, your sister finds this whole idea beneath her. Women should be "gentle and poised," she says, like she hasn’t spent the last three months practicing how to flutter her eyelashes in just the right way to ensnare the nearest man.

Then she makes a godawful comment. "I'm sure I'm better than everyone here anyways."

The Princess's eye twitches at your sister’s comment, and you can practically smell the impending doom. “Is that so?” she says, voice calm but sharp enough to cut glass. “Then perhaps you’d like to prove it.”

Your sister blinks, feigning innocence. “Oh, but Your Highness, you're a general, a dame, it would hardly be fair—”

“No, no,” you butt in, already feeling the villainous urge rising. You smile sweetly at the Princess, “I’ll do it.”

Your sister’s eyes widen, and you swear you see a flicker of fear. “You?”

“Yes, me.” You roll your wrist casually, like this is nothing. After all, you’ve been secretly training with your mother(a former knight) for weeks. And let’s be real—if you can endure her strict-as-hell lessons without fleeing for your life, your sister stands no chance.

The crowd of onlookers murmurs, excited at the prospect of some royal drama. The Princess smiles approvingly. “Very well. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

The competition begins, and your sister—oh, sweet, naive, overly-confident sister—struts up to the sparring ring like she’s about to breeze through this. She hasn’t even drawn her sword, too busy preening for the audience.

The Princess stands off to the side, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says dryly.

Your sister scoffs, finally drawing her sword with confidence that stems from absolutely nothing tangible.. “This won’t take long.”

It really doesn’t.

You sidestep her first swing with ease, and she fumbles, her balance thrown off. She’s clearly never sparred against anyone with any actual skill, and it shows. You suppress a laugh, offering her a mockingly sweet smile. “Having trouble?”

Her face flushes with anger, and she lunges again, this time with less grace and more brute force. You parry her strike effortlessly, spinning around her and tapping her shoulder lightly with your blade. “Point.”

The crowd gasps, and you can practically feel Riddle’s mother watching you with approval from her seat. Your sister glares at you, red-faced and flustered. “That was just luck,” she hisses.

“Sure,” you reply, twirling your sword for added flair. “Let’s see if your luck improves.”

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

By the end of the match, your sister is out of breath, red-faced, and thoroughly humiliated. You, on the other hand, haven’t even broken a sweat. The Princess claps her hands together, beaming. “Well done! I think that settles the matter.”

Your sister looks like she’s about to cry, and you can’t resist twisting the knife just a little. “Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before insulting women who actually know how to use a sword.”

The Princess snorts.

By the time the bachelors return from the hunt, everyone’s gathered around to see who brought back the biggest game. As expected, Ace and Deuce present their game to you: They’d both managed to snag huge wolves—both proud and slightly smug. Cater hands you his deer with a wink and a grin. Even Trey, with his calm composure, looks pleased as he hands over his bear.

And then, to everyone’s shock, Riddle approaches. He’s carrying what is clearly the biggest game of the day,a bear and a lion, and as he presents it to you, the whole crowd falls silent.

Your sister looks absolutely mortified. The other male leads, meanwhile, are either empty-handed or have brought back something pathetically small in comparison—a rabbit here, a pheasant there. But Riddle? Riddle has the prize catch, and he’s offering it to you, her sister who just humiliated her in front of the entire royal court.

The center of attention, you smile graciously as you accept the game, thanking him softly. The crowd erupts into whispers, all eyes on you and Riddle. Your sister looks like she wants to crawl into a hole and disappear, and you can’t help but feel just a little triumphant.

Meanwhile, the system chimes in:

"Villain System: Quest complete! 100 Villain Points awarded"

"Villain System: Bonus reward! 50 Villain Points awarded.

System: I wasn’t expecting you to charm all of the top hunters into giving you their game… but hey, overachieving is such a villainous trait. Well done."

You nearly roll your eyes at the system’s snarky tone. Of course it would reward you for accidentally out-villaining yourself. But hey, who’s going to complain about extra points?

Villain points: 975. 25 points to go, you're so close.

It was a peaceful afternoon in the garden, one of those rare moments where you and Riddle had a quiet space to just… exist. He was sitting across from you, his face slightly softened from its usual stern expression. The hedgehogs nearby were doing hedgehog things, oblivious to the world.

"I suppose it’s something I don’t talk about often," Riddle started, his voice softer than usual, like he was letting you into a part of himself he kept locked away. "My mother was strict—is strict. Everything had to be perfect. The rules, the grades, my behavior… there was no room for failure. Not even a sliver."

You nodded, already knowing this story from your countless hours reading the webnovel. But hearing it from him directly? It hit differently.

"I wasn't allowed to have friends or play outside. My entire childhood was about memorizing rules and doing things perfectly," he continued. His eyes stayed on the hedgehogs, but his expression grew distant, lost in the painful memories. "Every mistake I made was a punishment… every misstep was a disappointment."

You could feel the lump forming in your throat. Here it comes. The part that always got you while reading.

"But the worst part," Riddle whispered, his voice almost cracking, "was that I started to believe I wasn’t good enough… not for her, not for anyone."

That was it. The dam broke.

You tried to keep it together—you really did—but the sheer weight of Riddle’s story, the pain in his voice, it hit you like a sledgehammer to the chest. You started sniffling. And then… it escalated.

You’re not just crying; you’re ugly crying. We’re talking snot, hiccups, the whole I-will-not-survive-this package.

And then, in between gasps, you suddenly blurt out, "I swear... I SWEAR, I’ll get revenge for you! No one will survive my wrath!" You shake your fist to the sky like you’re about to start a one-person war against his emotionally distant mother.

Riddle looks at you, eyes wide with shock. He hadn’t expected this. No one had. Not even you.

"Are you… are you crying?" he asked, sounding both bewildered and concerned, because let’s face it, you were making sounds that weren’t even human anymore. Somewhere between a hiccup, a wail, and a seal being slapped.

"Y-YES!" you sobbed, wiping your face with the sleeve of your shirt, which didn’t help because now you just had tear-streaked sleeves and a snotty nose. "IT'S SO SAD!"

Riddle blinked, completely caught off-guard. “It’s… it’s not that—”

By this point, you were full-on hysterical, tears streaming down your face as you flailed around in righteous fury. Riddle just sat there, completely overwhelmed. He had expected maybe a few words of sympathy, a comforting pat on the shoulder. What he hadn't expected was for you to declare full-scale emotional war on his behalf.

Riddle, for his part, was speechless. And also… redder than his hair.

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat awkwardly. "I… appreciate the sentiment, but—"

"No, Riddle!" you cut him off, wiping your nose aggressively with your sleeve again. "You deserve someone who loves you without conditions! And I’m going to make sure the world knows it!" You stood up dramatically, only to trip over a rock, stumble, and fall back into your seat. "Ow."

Riddle, despite the chaos, couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle at your sheer determination—and the fact that you were still crying while swearing vengeance. It was… endearing, in a very chaotic, unpredictable way.

You, however, were still in your feelings. "I can’t believe your mom! I’m—sniffle—gonna burn her rulebook. Watch me."

Riddle, who had started the conversation with the intention of sharing something personal, now found himself caught in a whirlwind of emotions he didn’t know how to handle. But… somehow, through your teary declarations of revenge and your intense empathy, he couldn’t help but feel something stir inside him.

He looked at you—your face blotchy, your eyes puffy, your determination unwavering despite the fact that you were an absolute mess—and he realized that you weren’t crying just because you felt bad. You were crying because you cared. Like, really cared.

His heart skipped a beat. Maybe… maybe you were the kind of person who could see past all his rules and expectations and just—feel for him. No judgment. Just empathy.

"I… I didn’t realize it would make you so upset," he said quietly, a soft smile pulling at his lips. "But thank you. Really."

Through your sniffling, you managed to nod and offer a watery smile. "It’s not fair. You deserve better, Riddle. I mean it."

And with that, Riddle found himself falling just a little harder for you—ugly crying and all.

It’s a regular afternoon tea party, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and your sister is… making out with the eighth male lead in broad daylight behind a rose bush.

Ah. Classy.

You had only wandered over to sneak a mini éclair when you caught them. What’s worse is they weren’t even being subtle—like, they might as well have put up a sign that says, “We’re Ruining Our Reputations Here.”

Shocked beyond measure, you accidentally let out the loudest and most undignified gasp. It’s so loud that the entire tea party freezes mid-sip. Cups stop midair, all eyes turn to you like you’ve just declared war on the empire.

“Did someone choke on a scone?” Trey asks, concerned, already standing to assess the pastry crisis.

You try to subtly redirect everyone’s attention back to their tea, but it’s too late. The damage is done. The Imperial Princess, the Empress, the First Prince, the Emperor, Riddle, your parents, Trey, Cater, Ace, Deuce, and Riddle’s mom—all eyes are now locked on you and the unfortunate scene happening behind you.

Your sister and the eighth male lead pop their heads out of the bushes like deer caught in headlights, looking horrified. The heroine, of course, immediately bursts into tears. “I can’t believe you! How could you ruin my private moment!” she wails, mascara already running.

You blink. "Private? You were basically holding auditions for 'Romeo and Juliet' in front of the entire garden."

"Enough!" The Empress's voice cuts through the chaos like a sword. She glares at your sister, then glances at you for an explanation. You're about to open your mouth when—

"An outrage!" The Imperial Princess thunders, stepping forward with the grace of a tiger ready to pounce. "Is this what passes for decorum these days?"

Before you can even begin to process the incoming storm, your sister points her trembling finger at you. “It’s her fault! She—She’s been plotting against me this whole time! She wanted to embarrass me!”

You raise an eyebrow, utterly deadpan. “By forcing you to lock lips with the eighth male lead in broad daylight? Wow, my plans are so intricate even I don’t understand them anymore.”

Ace is snickering so loudly into his teacup that he’s shaking, and Deuce is doing his best to hold back tears of laughter. Cater’s trying to stay neutral, but even he’s got a lopsided grin.

Riddle, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to create a new spell that will instantly smite him while his mother… well, his mother seems like she’s gonna cut someone.

Riddle’s mom, the always composed Lady Rosehearts, steps forward, glancing at your sister with such a cold expression that you could swear the temperature drops five degrees. “This engagement," she begins icily, "will not proceed. If there is to be any union between our families, it will be with someone more appropriate." She then turns her gaze to you. “Someone like you.”

Cue a choking noise from Riddle, who looks ready to faint on the spot. His cheeks turn red as he stares wide-eyed at his mother, clearly having not expected this. Trey’s eyes widen too, but he quickly coughs into his fist to hide a smirk. Ace elbows Deuce with barely concealed glee.

“U-Um, Mother?” Riddle manages to stutter out. “What… what do you mean?”

His mother gives him a rather smug look, clearly having already made up her mind. “I mean that if this union is to benefit both families, it would be much more suitable for you to marry someone with intelligence, grace, and… a bit of common sense. Someone who hasn’t made a public fool of themselves.” Her eyes drift back to your sister, who is now dramatically sobbing into her hands.

Your father looks like he’s just been hit by a runaway carriage, staring in horror at the scene unfolding before him. “Lady Rosehearts—surely this is a misunderstanding—”

Riddle’s mom raises a hand. “If there is to be any marriage, it will be between my son and your younger daughter. Or,” she adds sharply, “there will be no marriage at all.”

You stand there, blinking at the whirlwind you just caused by gasping too loudly at your sister’s terrible decision-making skills. You glance at your mom, who has her face buried in her hands. But when she peeks through her fingers, you see the slight glint of satisfaction in her eyes. She’s pretending to be scandalized, but deep down… she’s absolutely living for this. You know she's elated that you got your guy.

The Emperor himself clears his throat, trying to restore order to the royal circus. “Well, this is… unprecedented,” he says, diplomatically, though there’s a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, like he’s holding back laughter.

Your sister, meanwhile, continues her sobbing performance, practically flinging herself into your father’s arms. “Papa, how can they treat me like this?! You always told me I’m the heroine!”

You try to hide your grin. “Heroine of a tragedy, maybe.”

“Enough!” Your father groans, looking utterly defeated. “You’ve done enough damage, girl.”

Riddle reluctantly speaks up. “I… I suppose Mother has made her decision.” His voice wavers a bit, and for a moment, he seems like he might collapse under the weight of all this sudden attention. But then, his eyes meet yours. And despite the chaos, despite his mortification, there’s a small, shy smile on his face.

“You,” he begins hesitantly, “you wouldn’t… mind this arrangement, would you?”

You laugh softly, glancing at the ridiculous mess that was this tea party. “Honestly? I'm quite fond of you so, why not?”

Ace lets out a snort of laughter, while Cater gives you a double thumbs-up from across the table. Trey just smiles warmly, giving you an approving nod. Even Lady Rosehearts looks somewhat satisfied.

The system, not one to miss an opportunity, dings in your head again.

"Villain System: New achievement unlocked! Engagement broken! Also… bonus points for making a royal spectacle of it. 100 Villain Points awarded."

With this, you're free from the system. Maybe it's time to retire your villain act.

You nearly burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all. But for now, you simply give Riddle a small, reassuring smile.

“Well,” you say, “guess we’ve got some wedding planning to do.”

It was a grand banquet, the kind where you could practically smell the prestige in the air. The Imperial Family was seated at the head of the table, all regal in their elegance. You were just trying not to trip over your own shoes and embarrass yourself in front of the Empress again.

Riddle, of course, was the epitome of decorum. Every movement was precise, every word carefully measured. Until—just as he went to refill the First Prince’s wine glass—his hand slipped ever so slightly. The tiniest splash of wine splattered onto the pristine tablecloth. It was so small you would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so intently.

But Riddle noticed. Oh, did he notice.

His face immediately paled like he’d just seen a ghost wearing polka dots, and his eyes darted across the table to where his mother sat. Lady Rosehearts was blissfully unaware, engaged in conversation with the Emperor, but Riddle looked like he was about to meet his maker.

You could almost hear his internal screams.

To anyone else, it was a non-event. But to Riddle, this was a catastrophe of the highest order. You could practically feel him sweating next to you, despite his rigid posture.

Time to act.

“Oh no!” You gasp dramatically, standing up and pointing directly at yourself. “I can’t believe I just did that!”

Everyone at the table stopped and stared, clearly wondering what on earth you were talking about. Even the Empress raised an eyebrow, a mix of confusion and mild amusement flickering on her face.

Riddle blinked, looking at you like you had just spontaneously grown a second head. “What…?”

You plopped down a napkin over the tiny splash of wine, covering the evidence. “I—I accidentally knocked the bottle when Riddle was pouring!” you announce loudly, offering a sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry, Your Highnesses. How embarrassing.”

The Empress smiled indulgently. “It’s quite all right, dear. Such things happen.”

Lady Rosehearts glanced over at the napkin-covered spot and frowned slightly, but then she looked back to you and said, “No harm done.”

Meanwhile, Riddle’s face was a mix of confusion, shock, and—was that gratitude? He blinked again, still processing what just happened. His mother hadn’t even glanced at him in disapproval, and now you were taking the fall for a spill no one really noticed.

As the conversation around the table resumed, Riddle leaned in close, whispering under his breath, “Why would you do that?”

You grinned and shrugged. “Because I’ve got a heart of gold, obviously. And I quite like you, you know”

Before Riddle could respond, Ace, who had been watching the whole debacle with barely restrained glee, leaned over from his spot across the table. “You’re down so horrendously,” he said, just loud enough for you and Riddle to hear.

You shot him a look. “You’re just mad you don’t have someone as gracious as me taking the fall for you”

Ace wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe, but at least I don’t go taking the fall for my fiancé before we’re even married.”

Riddle flushed a bright red. “I—I—this isn’t—”

You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “You know, Ace, sometimes you just have to be a hero.”

“Sure, ‘hero,’” Cater chimed in, leaning in on the action with a smirk. “Or, you know, simp of the year.”

Riddle, still flustered, shoots both of them a glare, but you can tell he’s secretly relieved. The impending doom of his mother’s wrath was averted, all thanks to your impromptu performance.

With a small sigh, he finally mutters, “Thank you,” so softly you almost miss it.

You give him a wink and lean back in your chair, feeling pretty pleased with yourself. “Anytime, partner.”

Ace nudges Deuce. “You think we should get them ‘World’s Greatest Simp’ matching mugs for the wedding?”

Deuce shrugs. “I think it’d be cute.”

Riddle buries his face in his hands. "Please, spare me."

But the corners of his mouth are lifting, just slightly.

It happened when you decided to climb the academy's tallest tree. It was a brilliant idea in your mind—after all, you’d just spotted an adorable sparrow nest precariously hanging from one of the highest branches. Rescue mission mode engaged.

The execution? Less brilliant.

You were halfway up, dangling from a particularly wobbly branch, when you heard a very familiar voice calling your name from below.

“WHAT are you doing?” Riddle’s voice was half exasperated, half astonished.

You looked down (mistake) and saw Riddle, arms crossed, staring at you with a mix of bewilderment and that very specific “You’re in trouble” look he usually reserved for rule-breaking.

“I—uh,” you stammered, “I’m saving the sparrows?”

There was a long pause. Riddle blinked. “You climbed that tree for sparrows?”

“Look, I know it’s a bit—”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Riddle interrupted, running a hand down his face. “Do you even have a plan for getting down?”

“...I’ll figure that out later?”

Riddle pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Of course you will.”

By some miracle (or the sheer force of your chaotic will), you managed to secure the sparrow nest and shimmy your way down without falling to your doom. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you triumphantly held the nest up, smiling wide.

“See? Mission accomplished!”

Riddle just stared at you, mouth slightly open, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, out of nowhere, he laughed—a soft, bewildered laugh that grew louder the more he looked at you, dirt-covered and grinning like an idiot.

“You…” he started, shaking his head with a small, fond smile, “You’re such an idiot.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “I—hey!”

“No, really,” he continued, stepping closer, eyes full of amusement. “You’re reckless and absurd and you do things like climbing trees to save sparrows and covering for me in front of the imperial family without thinking it through.”

You frowned, feeling a bit defensive. “Well, someone has to—”

“And yet…” His voice softened, and suddenly he was close, much closer than you expected. His gaze locked onto yours, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “And yet… I don’t think I could imagine my life without you.”

Your brain took a second to catch up. ��Wait, what?”

Riddle took a breath, as if bracing himself, and then met your eyes with the most serious expression you’d ever seen on him. “I’m saying that I—” he hesitated, his cheeks turning pink, but his voice was steady, “I’m in love with you.”

You stood there, stunned, staring at him in complete disbelief. Riddle Rosehearts just confessed his love to you.

“…Even after all the dumb stuff?” you asked, still processing.

Riddle laughed again, that soft, endearing laugh that made your heart flip. “Especially after all the dumb stuff.”

There was a beat of silence where you just stared at each other, and for once, your usually silly brain kicked into overdrive. You stepped closer, leaning in with a sudden smoothness you didn’t even know you were capable of.

“Well,” you said, your voice dropping to a low murmur as you tilted your head toward him, “lucky for you… I’m your idiot.”

And before Riddle could even respond, you kissed him.

It was soft, and sweet, and everything perfect. For a moment, Riddle was so surprised he froze, but then he melted into it, his hand gently cupping your face like he’d been waiting forever to do this.

When you pulled back, Riddle was completely flustered, his face red as a tomato, but there was a dazed smile on his lips. “That… That was unfair.”

You grinned, leaning your forehead against his. “You love it.”

Riddle shook his head, still smiling. “I really do.”

And from that moment on, it was clear: you may be the academy’s resident chaos agent, but you were his chaos agent, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You finally got a private moment to yourself. It was time to say goodbye to the villain system that you may or may not have gotten fond of.

The notification flashed across your vision, blindingly bright:

[Congratulations! You’ve accumulated enough points to finally say goodbye to the system.]

You blinked. "Wait… really? I can finally get rid of you?"

[Yes. It’s been a wild ride, hasn’t it?]

Wild ride was an understatement. The system had dragged you through schemes, quests, and enough drama to fill a ten-season TV show, all for the purpose of toppling your sister's reign of terror. And now, at long last, you were free.

"...So that's it?" you asked. "No final boss fight? No sudden plot twist where you take over my body and reveal you’re the real villain?"

There was a pause before the next notification popped up.

[Actually... about that plot twist...]

You groaned. "I knew it. What is it this time? Are you an evil AI? A demon? Oh God, please tell me you’re not my fairy godmother in disguise."

[I’m… actually the original villainess.]

You stared at the screen for a solid five seconds. "...What."

[Yeah. You, uh, you kinda possessed me.]

You blinked rapidly, your brain short-circuiting. "WHAT?!"

[I was the original villainess of this world. The real one. You didn’t just get isekai’d into some random character. You got me, because I wanted you]

"Oh my God," you muttered. "You’ve been here the whole time?"

[Yup. Watching you fumble around like an idiot. No offense.]

"None taken, but wow—uh, okay," you said, rubbing your forehead. "So I’ve just been… helping you take revenge on your sister this whole time?"

[Well, duh.] The system sounded almost smug. [She tormented me horrifically when I was still alive. That’s why I pushed you to make her life miserable. I wanted justice.]

"Justice," you repeated, thinking back to all the chaos, sabotage, and general insanity. "That was justice?"

[Look, we both know she deserved it.]

You couldn’t exactly argue with that. "I mean, fair. So what now? You just leave?"

There was a long pause before the system replied.

[Well... you actually have more points than you need. You can buy my identity if you want. Get the full story. You know, if you're curious.]

You hesitated for a second, but then shrugged. "Eh, why not. Hit me with it."

The system pinged, and suddenly, memories flooded your mind—her memories. You saw everything: her upbringing, her struggles, how she had tried so hard to be perfect for her family, only for her sister to constantly outshine her. You saw the cruel way her sister belittled her, humiliated her in front of the court, all while smiling sweetly to the outside world.

And then… the tragic ending, where the villainess was cast aside, labeled a monster, and killed.

By the end of it, you felt like you’d been punched in the gut.

"Oh, wow," you whispered. "She really was awful to you."

[Told you.]

"Man… I’m so sorry," you said, your voice softening. "You went through all that, and then you ended up stuck with me."

[Honestly? It was kinda fun watching you screw up everything at first.] The system’s tone was teasing now, but there was an undeniable warmth underneath it. [But you did a good job. Better than I ever did. You were a little unhinged, but hey, that’s probably why I liked you.]

You couldn’t help but laugh. "Thanks, I guess? I tried my best."

[You did more than that.] There was a strange fondness in the system’s voice. [You turned this whole world upside down. You made people laugh, cry, and probably question their sanity. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better revenge.]

For a moment, you felt a lump form in your throat. "So… what now? Do you just disappear?"

[Yeah. It’s time for me to move on. But… hey, I’m rooting for you. Go live your best life. Be happy. And if you ever need to knock your sister down a peg, do it in style. For me.]

You smiled, blinking away the sudden wetness in your eyes. "You bet I will. And hey—wherever you go, I hope you get to relax for once. You deserve it."

[Pfft, I doubt it, but thanks.]

There was a brief pause, then another notification popped up.

[Goodbye, little reader. It’s been real. And remember—always aim for the drama. It makes life more interesting.]

With that, the screen dimmed, and the system was gone.

You stared at the empty space where the notifications used to be. "Aim for the drama, huh?" you muttered, a grin tugging at your lips. "Well, I guess that’s one thing I’m good at."

As you turned around, ready to move forward without the system hovering over

you, you felt something. A strange, gentle sensation, like the faintest brush of a breeze, except it wasn’t just that. It was warmer, more personal, and… oddly comforting.

It took a second, but then it hit you. "Wait—"

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. Was this—?

It was as if the original villainess was giving you a ghostly hug. Soft, delicate, but so real you could almost feel her presence.

Tears welled up in your eyes, completely out of nowhere. You weren’t supposed to feel emotional! Not over a system—no, not just a system—a person who had suffered more than you ever realized.

"I… I’m sorry I couldn’t fix everything for you," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I tried, I really did, but…"

You felt that warmth grow a little stronger, like she was reassuring you, telling you that you had done enough. More than enough. Maybe, in a way, you’d freed her. Given her peace.

The weight of that ghostly embrace made your heart swell, and before you could stop yourself, you started crying. Again. But not the ugly, chaotic crying from before—this was softer, deeper. The kind of crying that cleansed your soul.

"I’ll do it," you whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks. "I’ll finish what I started. I’ll take her down. Not just for me—but for you."

The presence seemed to linger for a moment longer, and then it was gone, leaving behind a quiet strength in its place.

You wiped your eyes, steeling yourself. The resolution hardened in your chest like iron. Everything you had been planning, all the revenge, the chaos you had been orchestrating, it wasn’t just some game anymore. It was personal.

For her.

With a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and looked out toward the path ahead, a fire burning brighter than ever inside you.

"I’ll finish this," you muttered, fists clenching. "And it’s going to be beautiful."

And with that, you walked forward, no longer just a reader in someone else’s story.

This time, you were the one in control.

The day of your wedding to Riddle was perfect. Every detail was as if the universe had conspired to make sure nothing went wrong. The air was filled with the sweet scent of flowers, and laughter echoed throughout the grand venue. Your friends were all there, supporting you—Ace and Deuce bickering over who looked better in their suits, Cater contantly checking if everything was aesthetically pleasing, and Trey managing everything behind the scenes with his usual calm, though you caught him grinning at you more than once, proud as ever. Even Che'nya had shown up, popping in and out of sight as he pleased, throwing teasing remarks at anyone who passed by.

Your sister, however, was absolutely seething. She stood stiffly, dressed impeccably, but with a scowl that could burn down the entire venue. You knew she was fuming because she had always imagined herself in your place, standing beside Riddle. Too bad for her—you had the upper hand now.

You glanced at her briefly as you passed by, a wicked smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face here. I almost admire it,” you whispered sweetly as you walked past her, arm in arm with Riddle.

She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could get a word out, you tossed one last barb. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to toss my bouquet to you. Maybe you'll get married next? You know, if they can find someone that can stand you?”

Riddle squeezed your hand as if to remind you to behave, but even he had a hint of a smirk on his face. Your friends snickered behind you, and Che'nya, perched casually on a railing, added a quiet, “Oof, that’s gotta sting.”

The ceremony itself was beautiful. Riddle stood there looking like he’d stepped out of a fairytale, his usually stern face softened by the moment. As you exchanged vows, there was a lightness to the air that made everything feel surreal. You could see how much he cared in the way his hands trembled ever so slightly when he held yours.

Ace, unable to help himself, whispered loudly, “You sure Riddle isn’t going to pass out from the nerves?”

Deuce elbowed him, but you could barely hold back a laugh. Even Riddle blushed a bit, shooting a glare at Ace but unable to hide his own amusement.

When it was time for the reception, the fun really kicked off. Che'nya gave a surprisingly emotional speech—well, for him at least, as he vanished mid-sentence and then reappeared to finish his speech. Trey quietly made sure everything ran smoothly, even sneaking a slice of cake for you before the official cake-cutting, while Ace and Deuce took over the dance floor with some wild moves that had everyone laughing. Cater even got caught spiking the drinks and you couldn't help but laugh.

After the wedding, the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden light over the celebration. Everything had gone smoothly, almost too smoothly. Even Riddle’s mother, who was notoriously hard to please, had remained poised and polite throughout. But you knew there was still unfinished business, and the weight of it settled heavily on your chest.

You’d seen the way she treated Riddle for years—through the pages of the webnovel and now, up close. Sure, she liked you, had even hinted at being pleased with your match to Riddle, but that didn’t erase the years of pressure and manipulation she had placed on him. The burden he had carried because of her was too great to ignore, and today, of all days, you were not going to let it slide.

You spotted her near the garden fountain, quietly observing the festivities. For a moment, she looked almost serene, her icy exterior softened by the beautiful day. But that didn’t change how you felt.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over. "Lady Rosehearts," you began, your voice steady but laced with unspoken tension.

She turned to you, a smile on her lips. "Ah, my dear. You were magnificent today. Truly the picture of grace and elegance. I couldn't have asked for a better match for my son."

Her words were warm, genuine even, but they only fueled the fire burning in your chest. You didn’t respond right away, just stared at her, waiting for the right moment to unleash what you’d been holding in.

Finally, you spoke, your voice low. "I appreciate your kind words, but there’s something I can’t let go of." You stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "For years, you’ve pushed Riddle to be perfect. You suffocated him with your expectations, and it hurt him. I can’t stand by and let you pretend that didn’t happen."

Lady Rosehearts blinked, caught off guard. She opened her mouth to respond, but you held up a hand.

"You like me, and I’m grateful for that, but I love Riddle." Your voice wavered, not with fear, but with emotion. "And because I love him, I can’t ignore the damage you’ve caused. The pressure you put on him to be someone he wasn’t. The way you never let him breathe. You may have done it out of love, but it hurt him."

She stared at you, the weight of your words sinking in. There was no immediate defense, no cold dismissal. She simply looked… surprised.

"I…" she began, but faltered. "I thought I was doing what was best for him. I wanted him to succeed, to be respected."

"But at what cost?" you snapped, unable to hold back the edge in your voice. "You wanted him to be respected so much that you never let him make his own choices. He deserves to be happy. And he deserves your respect, not just as your son, but as a person."

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. You could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the realization that perhaps, just perhaps, she hadn’t done as well by Riddle as she thought.

Before she could respond, Riddle appeared beside you, having noticed the tension from across the garden. He stood tall, his usual calm demeanor in place, but you could sense the vulnerability beneath it.

"Mother," he said quietly, his voice steady but with a new strength behind it. "She’s right."

His mother turned to him, the surprise evident on her face. "Riddle…"

"I know you wanted the best for me. I know you love me. But I needed more than just discipline and expectations. I needed to know that it was okay to be myself. To fail, even." He paused, and his eyes softened. "I love you, Mother. But you have to let me live my life. I’m not a perfect image for you to sculpt."

The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken words. You held your breath, waiting for her reaction, unsure of what to expect. You had always imagined her to be unmovable, too set in her ways to ever change.

But then, her expression softened. She took a step toward Riddle, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. "I… didn’t realize. I thought I was protecting you. But I see now that I may have been too harsh, too controlling." She paused, her gaze shifting between you and Riddle. "You’re right. Both of you. And I am truly sorry."

You blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in her voice. This was not the cold, unyielding woman you had expected. There was genuine remorse in her eyes.

She turned to you, her tone softer. "Thank you. For helping him find his way. And for standing by his side."

For a moment, the three of you stood there, the weight of years of tension slowly lifting. It wasn’t a perfect resolution—years of damage couldn’t be erased with one conversation—but it was a start.You sighed, the anger that had been simmering inside you finally ebbing away. "I only did what anyone who loves him would do," you said, glancing at Riddle with a soft smile.

Riddle’s mother nodded, and though her usual composure was still in place, there was a warmth in her expression that you hadn’t seen before. "Then I’m glad he found someone like you." But you saw her expression crack a little and so did Riddle.

Then, Riddle, ever the perfect son, stepped forward. "Mother, it’s alright." His voice was soft, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t often seen. He reached out and offered her something you never expected—a hug.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, slowly, she stepped into his embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around him. It was quiet, emotional, and—before you knew it—you were also pulled into it.

The warmth of the group hug surrounded you, Riddle’s mother surprisingly holding you a little tighter than you expected, as if silently acknowledging the forgiveness Riddle was able to give because of your presence by his side.

She then pulled away, wiped her tears and wiped the tears that you didn't realize were falling from your eyes either. "Congratulations, again, I'm proud of you both" was all she said as she turned to leave.

As she stepped away, leaving you and Riddle alone in the garden, you let out a long breath, feeling a sense of closure you hadn’t expected.

Riddle turned to you, his expression soft and full of gratitude. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For standing up for me. For everything."

You smiled, reaching out to take his hand. "You don’t need to thank me. We’re in this together, remember?"

He squeezed your hand gently, his usual stoic expression melting away into something softer, more vulnerable. "I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

From across the garden, you saw Trey and Che'nya watching, Trey giving a subtle nod of approval, while Che'nya grinned, undoubtedly waiting to pounce with some teasing remark later.

But for now, you just stood there with Riddle, the weight of the day finally settling in. You’d won—both the battle for his heart and the battle for his freedom. And in that moment, everything felt right.

The courtroom was packed, filled with nobles from all across the empire. This was the moment you’d been waiting for, orchestrated with the help of your closest friends: Trey’s calm, methodical planning, Cater’s relentless information gathering, Ace and Deuce’s enthusiasm (and occasional chaos), and, of course, Riddle, who stood by your side, his presence a steady reassurance.

Your sister stood at the center of attention, oblivious to the storm about to hit. For years, she had manipulated and destroyed anyone who dared stand in her way. She thought she was untouchable, the darling of the nobility, admired and respected. But you knew the truth, and so did everyone in this room, thanks to the carefully gathered evidence that was about to expose her for the monster she was.

Cater had planted seeds of the truth you found out that grew into full-fledged whispers about your sister’s darker deeds. Even now, the tension in the room was palpable as people murmured, casting glances her way.

You stepped forward, the letter you held clutched tightly in your hand. Riddle gave you a small nod of encouragement, his eyes steely as he took his place beside you.

"Ladies and gentlemen," you began, your voice clear and sharp, cutting through the room's murmurs. "I come to you today not with accusations, but with the truth. The truth of the heinous crimes committed by my sister."

There was a gasp from the crowd, the air thick with shock and intrigue. Your sister's face remained calm, but you saw the flicker of worry in her eyes.

"She has embezzled from the kingdom’s treasury, siphoning off funds meant for the empire's welfare," you declared, holding up the documents that Trey had meticulously helped you gather. "She has blackmailed noble families into silence, using threats and false accusations to maintain her hold over them. And worst of all—"

You paused, letting the tension build as you cast your gaze over the room, making sure every pair of eyes was locked on you. Then, with quiet, deliberate force, you spoke.

"She has been responsible for the poisoning of the emperor’s own cousin, Lady Astoria. A death that was pinned on an innocent maid."

The room exploded into chaos, gasps, and shouts of disbelief filling the air. Your sister’s face drained of color, her facade finally cracking as people turned toward her, expressions of shock and outrage growing with every second.

"These documents prove every crime," you continued, your voice strong and unwavering as Cater passed around copies of the evidence to the nobles. "She thought she could keep her secrets buried. But not anymore."

"These are lies!" your sister shrieked, her voice desperate as she clutched at the air, trying to regain control. "This is a setup! You’ve all been deceived!"

But it was too late. The emperor himself stood up, his eyes narrowing in fury as he glanced over the evidence. The knight commander beside him was already moving, her sword drawn as the guards approached your sister.

"For your crimes against the empire, you are sentenced to death," the emperor declared, his voice cold and final.

Your sister screamed, fighting as the guards seized her, but there was no escape now. The nobles who once fawned over her turned away in disgust, her power crumbling in mere moments.

Riddle’s hand found yours, his grip tight but comforting as you watched her dragged away. It should’ve felt sweet, but instead, you felt a strange heaviness settle in your chest. This was the end, wasn’t it?

As the execution was carried out in the courtyard, the crowd watching with bated breath, you stood off to the side, Riddle at your side, and your friends close by. Ace whispered some snide comment about how dramatic everything was, and Deuce elbowed him to shut up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to laugh.

When it was over, the finality of it hit you like a truck. You had done it—exposed her to the world, avenged not just yourself, but the original villainess too. You expected to feel victorious, but instead, a deep sadness settled in your chest. She should've been the one to see this.

And then, just as you were about to turn away, you saw her.

A faint, ethereal figure stood near the edge of the courtyard. The original villainess. Her eyes were softer than you imagined, her expression free of the bitterness that had fueled her desire for revenge. She looked… peaceful.

Tears welled in your eyes, and before you knew it, you were crying, really crying. Ugly, messy sobs that you couldn’t control. All the rage, all the sorrow, everything you had carried from her spilled out in that moment.

"I did it," you whispered, barely audible, but you knew she heard you. "I did it for you."

The specter of the original villainess smiled, a soft, almost sisterly expression on her face. And then, in a moment that almost felt too surreal, you felt her—felt her give you a final ghostly embrace. It was as if the weight of her vengeance had lifted, her spirit no longer bound by the chains of hatred. She was free now, and so were you.

With a final nod, the specter faded into the night, leaving you standing there, tears streaming down your face. You wiped them away as best as you could, sniffling and trying to compose yourself, but the lump in your throat remained.

The warmth of the original villainess's hug lingered long after she faded, her presence now a bittersweet memory. You stood in the quiet, feeling an overwhelming sense of both loss and completion. For the first time, it felt like the weight of both your lives had lifted.

Then, a soft flutter of wings caught your attention. A small dove descended gently, perching on your shoulder. It was so light, so delicate, and for a moment, it just sat there, as if offering comfort. You held your breath, watching it. The dove turned its head toward you, as though it knew. As though she knew.

You blinked, tears pooling in your eyes again as the dove gave a soft coo and flew away, soaring into the sky. Something inside you broke at the sight—something that had been held together for too long. The tears came harder now, not out of sorrow, but of release.

"She's free…" you whispered, your voice trembling. "She's finally free."

Your chest heaved with emotion, sobs you couldn’t control spilling out as you watched the dove disappear into the distance. All this time, everything you had done, every struggle, every sacrifice, was for her. And now, it was over.

Riddle turned toward you, concern flickering in his eyes. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, blinking away the last of your tears. "Yeah… yeah, I am. It’s just—" You paused, looking up at the sky. "My sister’s gone now. And I think… I'm at peace."

Riddle stood beside you, his own heart heavy with the weight of your emotions. Without a word, he reached out, gently pulling you into his arms. His embrace was soft but firm, grounding you when you felt like you might fall apart.

Riddle’s grip on your hand tightened, and when you looked at him, there was something unspoken in his gaze—understanding, maybe. "You did what was right," he said softly. "And now it’s over."

You took a deep breath and nodded, squeezing his hand in return. "Yeah. Now it’s over."

With Riddle by your side, and your friends waiting for you just beyond the courtyard, you knew that the hardest part was behind you. You had avenged the original villainess, exposed your sister for what she truly was, and now, finally, you could walk away from all of it.

Riddle leaned closer, his voice gentle but filled with quiet strength. "Come on. Let’s go."

Together, hand in hand, you turned away from the past and walked toward the future—your future—with the love of your life, your husband, Riddle, by your side.

Boy, was this a ride to write, but i genuinely haven't had this much fun writing before, and it got longer as i went.

For the next Trashy Novel Chronicles, which twst char would you like to see? I have a few plots planned for these, I'll eventually write them both but which one do y'all wanna see first?

Series Masterlist ; My Masterlists

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle rosehearts #riddle x reader #chaotic mc #ace trappola #deuce spade #trey clover #au: nobility #arranged marriages #trash novel chronicles

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immoral-stranger · 13 days ago

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𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 // 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

Summary: “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” – Or, the one where Oscar has to go to group counselling after a turbulent race incident and meets you, the quiet girl at the back of the hall.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader

Word count: 19k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ❀ Angst: they meet in therapy, it's all angst, lying, guilt, implied former drug addiction and fraudulent behaviour. Smut: penetrative sex, oral (f! receiving), Oscar is a boob guy, very soft and vanilla, maybe a size kink? Fluff: they cuddle? and the ending is happy-ish? Other: takes place during a fictional 2025 season, an atheistic conversation about religion, smoking cigarettes.

A/N: This might be the gloomiest thing I’ve ever written, but it also has 5k words of pure smut, so yeah, there's that. I’m weirdly proud of it. Please tell me what you think ♡

Abu Dhabi, 2024. Oscar could still smell the smoke sometimes, in nightmares or if he zoned out for too long. The scent clung to his mind—burning tires, scorched metal, and marshals running around in panic. In his dreams, he could hear the crackle of flames, feel the searing heat against his skin, as they carefully dragged him out and placed him in the medical car. He was sure that it was already in some compilation on youtube about the worst crashes of the season. Hell, maybe even in history.

Verstappen had already claimed his title, but getting the last win of the season would be a dream for anyone. It was a matter of pride, ending the season on a high note. For Oscar, it ended with a crash instead, just as he was about to overtake for the win on the last stint of the race.

And of course, it had to be with Charles.

Everyone loved Charles. And everyone hated Oscar for being the reason their favourite driver lost out on a win. Hate was a strong word and he was used to people having varying opinions about him, but there was something about this that he couldn’t shake off.

The worst part was the screaming—screaming that he had later been told never even happened. He'd made it up in his head. When he was being pulled from the wreckage, he could have sworn he’d heard Charles crying out in pain. He’d replayed it over and over, only to learn that Charles had gotten out first—before the fire even started to spread. Sore from the impact, but otherwise unharmed.

Oscar didn’t realise in the moment that the crash would affect him. It took months for it to catch up to him. It all cumulated into a breakdown during the pre-season testing for 2025, where he had locked himself in a room to drown out Charles’ screaming, getting the attention of his trainer and people on his team that something was wrong.

He was supposed to be the calm one. This was the opposite of calm.

He had Murphy’s Law on loop in his head. Everything that can go wrong will. It had never been like that for him before—analysing every possible mistake. It wasn’t even the mistakes he actually made, but the ones that never happened. It made him paralysed to get in the car every single time, but once he actually started driving, all those thoughts went away.

It was the imaginative screaming that had led him to where he was today—the parking lot outside of St. Anne’s Church before a group therapy and support meeting. It wasn’t a grand building by any means. The stones of the church were worn, weathered with years of storms battering its exterior. It always seemed to rain in this fucking town.

His therapist, trainer, and team had decided that this was best for him. Mandated meetings once a week until he could feel calm outside of the car and not just while driving it. This wasn’t about talking to some high-paid therapist; he already had one of those. No, this was about learning to cope with normal people, people who had been through real trauma, people who didn’t live their lives in the fast lane.

“You need support,” they’d said, as if these weekly gatherings at a worn-out church with other equally messed-up strangers would patch up whatever was broken inside him.

He had talked on the phone with the man leading the group, explaining that it would most likely be best for Oscar to show up to his first meeting, take a seat, and just get a feel for how it worked.

The meeting was held in a hall on the side of the church, an annex built sometime in the seventies while the church itself was centuries old. He was hit with the smell of old wood and damp air as soon as he entered. The group wasn’t small—maybe twenty people scattered around the room, sitting on mismatched chairs. It didn’t feel like one of those alcoholics anonymous meetings he’d seen in movies, which had been his first preconception.

He found a spot on one of the middle rows, on the edge to not draw attention to him. The personalities he could see around the room were all different. There were the nervous ones, bouncing in their seats—maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was abstinence. The tired ones seemed to be the majority. He fitted into that group himself—tired of life. You also had the desperate ones, sitting in the front, almost leaning forward to better grasp whatever words of wisdom were being said.

Guilt seemed to be a theme for everyone.

One after one the facilitator let people go up and speak at a makeshift lectern. Some just gave little updates, giving Oscar the impression that they’d gone to meetings for a long time. Others were speaking up for the first time. One that stood out was a mother, maybe in her fifties, whose daughter had just passed away in a car accident. She cried as she spoke, searching for some way of dealing with the guilt she felt, having let her daughter borrow her car even though she knew it was old and unsafe.

This was around the time when Oscar thought to himself that he should just take the money he had, find a way out of his contract, emigrate to Iceland, and change his name to Fabio. Never ever have to think about a race car again.

People were going on about their lives, their regrets, their struggles with addictions, or just their attempts to survive whatever the world had thrown at them. But none of it really resonated with him. Oscar didn’t feel like he belonged here. His problems felt different. And he wasn’t sure if that was because they actually were different or because he just couldn’t find the right words to describe them.

At some point, his gaze shifted toward the back of the room, and that was when he noticed you.

A girl his own age. You were sitting there, apart from everyone else, half-hidden in the shadows near the exit. You looked like you didn’t want to be seen—shoulders hunched, sat far down in your seat. You stared at your hands, fidgeting with skin around your nails. Oscar could spot your chipped black nail polish from across the room. He had a hard time reading your face, mostly obscured by your hair and the collar of your jacket.

He couldn’t help but wonder why you were here. He wondered it about everyone else too, but you stuck out since you were similar in age—young enough that people didn’t automatically assume that you’d gone through hardship. You looked… different. Troubled, maybe. Definitely out of place.

Oscar forced himself to look away, trying to focus on the group facilitator, who was droning on about acceptance and healing. He felt restless, a creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Why had he even come? This place didn’t feel like it could fix anything.

By the time the session ended, he hadn’t spoken a word.

As the last of the attendees dispersed, Oscar lingered under the arched entrance, watching the downpour. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, offering him some warmth from the cold rain. A faint glow from distant streetlights illuminated the soaked pavement, creating an eerie atmosphere that somehow felt fitting.

That’s when he saw you again, as the heavy church doors closed behind him with a slight thud. You were the last one out of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw you light a cigarette. His eyes met yours briefly, but you were quick to look away.

You exhaled smoke, sitting down on the stone steps leading up to the entrance, letting single raindrops fall onto your leather jacket, while still being mostly covered by the awning.

For a second, Oscar thought about walking away. He didn’t know you—he didn’t know anyone here—but something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was because he knew he would need to talk to someone here, not easily getting away from the mandated meetings. Maybe it was because you looked so damned lost.

Either way, he found himself speaking before he could stop himself.

“Uh,” he started awkwardly. “I like your stockings.”

You blinked, glancing down at your legs. Through the rips in your jeans, a pair of sheer black stockings peeked out, the floral lace pattern barely visible. You didn’t say anything right away, just stared at him with a look that was half-surprised, half-annoyed. Then, you blew out smoke from between your lips.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Oscar shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he should leave or try to salvage the moment. Why had he said that? He wasn’t good at small talk, never had been. He had no idea why he thought this was the time to start improving that skill.

You let out a low chuckle, almost like you were laughing at him. Wordlessly, you asked him if he wanted a cigarette, lifting the carton up in his direction.

He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”

You took another drag, shrugging your shoulders, basically saying suit yourself to him. With your gaze turned back to the ground, the silence stretched on awkwardly, only broken by the sound of raindrops splattering against the asphalt.

“Aren’t white lighters supposed to be bad luck?” he asked suddenly, noticing the bright plastic you were flicking between your fingers. He’d heard that somewhere, an old superstition and coincidence—that a group of famous people who had died at a young age all had white lighters in their possession. It was a stupid thing to say, but it felt better than nothing.

You looked down at the lighter in your hand and then back at Oscar, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Maybe that’s the fucking point.”

Oscar didn’t know what to say to that. He wondered if you actually meant it—that bad luck didn’t matter to you, like you almost welcomed it. He wasn’t sure he believed in luck in that sense anyway. To him, life felt more like a balance of choices and chances, not fortune’s favour. But sometimes, maybe when the stars aligned and all that palaver, he believed in luck and he believed in doing the right thing to experience that luck.

Call it superstition, if you must.

The both of you continued to stand there in silence. Well, technically, you were still sitting. Two strangers, clinging to the building that was supposedly about to fix them, all while not really knowing if they even wanted to be fixed.

After a few long moments, you stood up, stubbing out the cigarette on the wet stone. You stuffed your hands into your pockets, casting him one last glance before heading out into the rain. The water immediately soaked your hair, but you didn’t seem to care. You hopped into a car that had pulled up at the end of the parking lot, an older woman in the driver seat.

You left him without a word and a strange feeling inside of him—like this situation wasn’t already odd enough.

_______________________________

You put out your cigarette as you reached the entrance of the church, again. Just another Tuesday in your life. You’d lost count on how long you had been going to these meetings. Two hours every Tuesday and one hour every Sunday.

It was a bit of a lie, that you didn’t know how long it had been. You just didn’t want to know how long it had been and therefore told yourself to not think about it until you’d all but forgotten about it.

However, Oscar was a new addition to the meetings, for a month or so. Seeing him, seemingly waiting for you before going inside, was odd? But not uncommon by now.

You didn’t say anything as you walked up beside him on the church steps, only giving him a slight nod as a way of saying hello. You looked out over the parking lot, glistening wet from the rain that seemed to haunt this small town. You were practically lucky that it wasn’t raining at the moment.

Something about the parking lot was different today, though. It stood out like a diamond in a drawer of costume jewellery.

There, parked conspicuously at the curb, was a sleek McLaren. The kind of car that didn't belong in this part of town, especially not parked outside a church where people came to unload their emotional baggage.

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar caught you staring with raised brows. “What nobhead takes their McLaren to counselling?” you muttered under your breath, clearly not expecting him to hear. But he was close enough, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile.

He chuckled, a low, surprised sound. “That would be me.”

You blinked, not expecting it to be him, let alone be so direct about it. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Oscar chortled, shaking his head, like he found your frankness refreshing, if not amusing, as though he wasn’t often spoken to like that.

“Yeah, it’s a dickish thing to do,” you admitted, giving him a half shrug. You couldn’t help but smile a little, though. He had a way of taking the sting out of your sharp words, as if he didn’t mind your snark.

You’d quite frankly been rude to him at a few of the former meetings, yet he still didn’t mind sitting in silence next to you for two hours every Tuesday. You were both here, after all—both stuck, both dealing with whatever mess had brought you to therapy.

The last few sessions had been the same—catching each other’s eye as you sat in the back of the room, listening to people’s stories. Neither of you said much during the meetings, but you always seemed to find each other afterward, just outside the church, where the air felt a little less suffocating. You smoked, and Oscar just stood there, pretending not to be bothered by the cold weather.

It had become something of a routine. You weren’t friends, exactly, but there was a strange sort of understanding between you. Tonight was no different as the meeting started.

You slipped into your usual spot near the back, watching as Oscar settled in a seat nearby. The room was filled with voices, people exchanging quick pleasantries before it started, just like every week, with people telling their stories.

You’d gone to meetings for such a long time that you knew the backstories of most people. It had been so long that some regulars had even stopped going, claiming they were fixed. Or at least fixed enough. You guessed that was the real goal—to not completely overcome trauma but to learn how to live with it. Then there were the people who were mandated to be there, by their workplace or by a court order. They were more hesitant than the people who went by their own free will, but their stories were always better when they finally got to talking, more interesting to listen to.

“Have you ever gone up there?” Oscar whispered at one point, curious.

“Nope,” you replied without hesitation, not looking at him. “They can force me to be here, but they can’t force me to talk.”

He looked at you for a moment, head tilted slightly, like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it. You could practically feel the question hanging in the air—who the fuck were they?—but he didn’t press. Instead, he glanced around the room again.

You liked that he didn’t push. That meant you didn’t have to lie to him.

There was an unspoken rule in these circles. Speak, or don’t, but never fake it. It couldn’t be about pretending, and for now, silence was as close as either of you seemed willing to come to honesty.

When the session ended, you found yourselves once again standing on the church steps, the night air brisk and cutting. You fumbled with a cigarette, attempting to light it against the persistent wind. Oscar lingered nearby, hands in his pockets, as he watched your futile attempts, half amused.

“Not getting picked up today?” he asked.

You shook your head, giving up on the cigarette and putting the lighter and carton back into the pocket of your jacket.

Oscar hesitated for a second, unsure whether to say anything. He was starting to feel that familiar awkwardness creep back in, the same feeling he’d had the first time he spoke to you. But before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I could give you a lift.”

You shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not sleeping with you, Oscar,” you said flatly.

Oscar’s eyes widened, and he spluttered, “W-what? No! That’s not—” He stumbled over his words, horrified.

You raised a brow, watching as he struggled to find his words. He was blushing, his ears practically glowing red under the streetlight. “You offered to drive me home without ulterior motives?” you asked, sceptical.

“Yes, I was just trying to be nice,” he said firmly, but flustered. “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?”

You let out a dry laugh, almost feeling guilty for your wrong assumption about him. “You’d be surprised at how many men find head-cases attractive.”

He only became more embarrassed, his mind flashing back to the first thing he’d ever said to you—a compliment on your stockings, of all things.

There was a vulnerability to him you hadn’t expected—something behind the stubborn façade and expensive car. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who was used to rejection. Or awkwardness. Or therapy, for that matter. But his loser personality made all of those things very possible.

“Well… I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” he said, shifting awkwardly.

You studied him for a moment, weighing his words. Then, with a sigh, you jerked your head toward the McLaren. “Fine. Start the fucking car.”

Inside the car, the quiet was different, somehow more suffocating than outside on the church steps. Maybe it was the notion of having to actually talk to each other now that hadn’t felt as forced outside of the car.

“So, where to?” Oscar asked, his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary.

You glanced out the window, your fingers tapping idly on the door handle, almost scared to touch the absurdly shiny car. “Do you know the council houses behind the post office?”

“By that one pub? With the—”

“The Swan, yes that’s the one,” you interrupted. “My aunt lives right there.”

Oscar nodded, pulling away from the curb and heading in the direction you’d indicated. You kept your gaze fixated out the window as the car began to move. The streets passed by in a blur, the rain-slicked asphalt reflecting the dim glow of the town’s yellow lights.

“Aunt?” he asked after a beat of silence. “Parents not around?”

You didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, Oscar thought he’d overstepped, thought you were going to turn to a rudeness that he couldn’t joke his way out of.

Then, quietly, you muttered, “I think I am the one who’s not around.”

He heard you clearly, but he didn’t press further. He didn’t try to fill the space with meaningless chatter, and for that, you were both grateful. For a moment, it was peaceful, almost as if you were just two people out for a casual drive instead of a pair of strangers bound by a not-so-positive common denominator.

As the car approached the run-down council houses, you unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t immediately move to get out. Instead, you turned to him, studying his profile in the low light, something unreadable in your expression.

“Thanks,” you said after a moment.

“For the ride?” he asked.

“For not being a complete dick,” you replied as you pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold. You didn’t look back, but you knew that he was smiling behind you.

_______________________________

The following week, you were late. Not late enough for it to actually be a problem, but late enough that Oscar felt the awkward tension of deciding whether to wait for you outside like he usually did or go inside. He definitely could have waited, but he was particular about time, so he went in.

Oscar glanced around the room, sitting somewhere in the middle now that you hadn’t decided seats for the two of you. He noticed the faces that had become a strange sort of fixture in his life over the past months.

The season had started and it was going fairly well. He had thoughts of disaster almost every weekend, but he didn’t hear Charles’ screaming as often. It was usually worst during qualifying, when the short amount of time made the anxiety build up quicker. But he was stable. Even his therapist had said that. He wasn’t a danger in any way, but he still just wished to get an answer as to why this crash had affected him in the way that it did.

Your heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, your Doc Martens making a thumping sound against the old hardwood flooring. You looked like a drenched, unhappy cat, caught in one of the town’s relentless downpours. For a moment, Oscar smiled; he hadn’t thought he’d ever see you sit anywhere but the back row, yet here you were, sliding into the empty seat next to him with a huff.

You took off your wet leather jacket and threw your bag on the floor, almost curling into your seat on the uncomfortable chair, a paper cup of hot water warming your hands. There was a station outside of the room with tea and coffee and you would grab a cup of tea for yourself before every meeting. Oscar had learnt that by now—also knowing that you brought your own tea bags since they only offered black tea and you drank rooibos. Oscar had lived in England for a long time, but the science behind drinking tea was still something that confused him.

You rubbed your face dry with the sleeves of your oversized sweater, not caring that your mascara smudged around your eyes. Oscar thought about offering his own hoodie, or at least a tissue, but you didn’t seem the type to want help with something so small. Instead, he kept quiet, simply watching as you tried to shake off the rain.

A beat of silence passed between you both. Then, you spoke first.

“You never come to the Sunday meetings.”

You tried to sound casual, but the question was deliberate; it was thought through. He glanced at you, surprised. It wasn’t often that you were the one to initiate a conversation, and when you did, they were short and edged with sarcasm.

“Didn’t even know they had meetings during the weekend,” Oscar replied with a shrug. “I work most Sundays.”

“So do I, but I manage to show up here anyway.”

He noticed the way your eyes held his gaze, challenging but curious. You weren’t shy to look him straight in the eye, unlike himself. The light from the nearby windows cast a muted glow over you, softening the lines of your face, your smudged makeup giving you a look of tiredness that felt familiar to him.

It was like you were waiting, expecting him to talk again, and he felt that familiar twist of unease, a reminder that vulnerability wasn’t something he navigated easily. A hint of a smile crossed Oscar’s face as he looked away, not sure how much to say.

Today’s meeting wasn’t much different from all the others. There was the mother who dealt with guilt after losing her daughter in a car crash. There was Anthony, a local restaurant owner, who was there as part of his probation plan after an assault charge. There was Jenny, a girl in her thirties who was mandated by her therapist to be there as exposure for her agoraphobia. It was definitely ironic that the girl with a social anxiety disorder did more talking than you and Oscar combined.

During a brief five-minute break, Oscar looked over at you again, seemingly lost in your thoughts.

“You think you’ll ever get up there?” he asked, nodding toward the lectern.

Oscar knew he had asked similar questions before, but this one was more to ask if you thought this group counselling thing would ever lead to you opening up—if you saw an end to these countless meetings by actually letting them help you, letting them make you feel better.

“No,” you answered flatly. “Opening up to strangers is weird.”

He smiled at that. “I think this is supposed to have the opposite effect,” he said, crossing his arms. “That it’s easier with strangers because we won’t feel judged in the same way.”

You looked up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Keep talking Oscar, and we won’t be strangers by the end of this.”

He laughed, shaking his head. There was a subtle humour to your banter, like you both enjoyed pushing boundaries without really crossing them. Oscar settled on the idea that he didn’t want you two to be strangers after all.

As the meeting came to a close, people began to shuffle out, some lingering to chat with one another, others heading straight for the door. You, as usual, made your way outside without a word. Oscar followed, as he always did, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

He never knew why he lingered. He wasn’t even sure if you wanted him to. But the silence you shared after group therapy felt easier than the forced vulnerability inside.

Outside, the air was crisp, the rain from earlier having tapered off, leaving the ground damp and slick, the sun breaking through the clouds. You leant against the stone wall of the church, lighting another cigarette with the same white lighter he’d seen you use before.

Oscar frowned slightly, feeling a strange sense of unease creep into his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but before he could stop himself, he spoke up. “Can you stop buying white lighters, please?”

You raised your brows, almost mocking him. “Why? Are you superstitious?”

“No,” Oscar replied, shaking his head. “It just feels like a weird thing to jeopardise.”

“What do you know about the 27 club anyway?” you asked, taking another drag. You were mindful enough to turn your head in the opposite direction as you blew out the smoke.

The 27 Club—a bunch of musicians, mostly rockstars, who had died at the age of 27 due to rough lifestyles. Rumour had it that they all used white lighters for their cigarettes and other smokeable substances. Oscar didn’t know anything about their music or the club they were in. He just knew of the rumour.

“Literally nothing except that they died carrying white lighters,” Oscar admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And that you deserve to live way past the age of 27.”

You blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, the armour you wore around yourself seemed to crack. You stared at him, cigarette halfway to your lips, processing what he’d just said.

“Who knew you could be so sweet?” you teased, trying to be your usual sarcastic self, but there was a warmth in your voice that hadn’t been there before. That tiny hint of warmth made his chest feel strangely tight.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence before you broke it; your voice quieter now. “Why do you keep coming here anyway? You don’t talk much either. So why show up?”

Oscar hesitated, unsure how much to say. He wasn’t a stranger to lying about his job to people, often times just because he couldn’t be arsed to explain or have people ask if he was rich and famous. It wasn’t like that with you, but he still decided to lie—or opt out of telling the entire truth. He wanted you to think he was normal.

“I’m mandated to be here by my workplace,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I caused a car accident with a colleague of mine, and I kind of need to be able to drive to keep my job.”

You frowned in confusion. “But you drove me home? Are you scared of driving?”

“It’s… different,” he admitted. “Driving long distances for work or just around in this little hellhole.”

You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, in a surprisingly gentle tone, you asked, “Do you like… get flashbacks of the crash and blame yourself all over again?”

Oscar nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah, I guess it’s like that. I keep replaying it, even though my colleague was fine. It’s like this… loop in my head, where I keep imagining every possible way it could have gone worse. Murphy’s Law, you know? Like, I can’t help but think of every possible mistake I could make.”

“Murphy’s Law is about engineering, though,” you pointed out. “You can’t just apply that to your everyday life. It’ll turn you into an impossible perfectionist, constantly waiting for everything to fall apart.”

Oscar smiled, appreciating the unexpected insight. It reminded him of how little you knew about him, since, y’know, he hadn’t told you the truth—that engineering actually was involved in his everyday life. And yet, somehow, you still seemed to understand. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and he found himself wondering what other surprises you might be hiding.

You stubbed out your cigarette, bending down and reaching into your bag for a piece of chewing gum. He watched as you unwrapped it, slipping it into your mouth, the familiar scent of artificial strawberry filling the air. It was a ritual he’d seen before, almost like you were trying to erase the smell of smoke as quickly as you’d created it. The action was so practiced, and he found himself charmed by the small, sort of endearing quirk.

“You’re not gonna ask me why I keep on showing up here?” you asked, looking wondering up at Oscar, mumbling slightly as you chewed to get the gum soft.

He glanced at you with a faint smile. “You’ll tell me when you feel comfortable enough. I know that.”

A soft, almost approving nod was your only response.

“There’s my ride,” you murmured as a car drove into the parking lot—the same car he’d seen many times before, the same old woman driving. He could now assume it was your aunt. “I guess I’ll see you next week, then.”

Oscar stumbled on his words as he tried to say goodbye to you, caught off guard by how you almost skipped down the church stairs, looking happier than ever. It was a weird juxtaposition, because you obviously weren’t—happier than ever, that is. You actually dared to look back at him, smiling as you walked over the parking lot. The mascara still sat heavy under your eyes as light shone down on you from the clouds breaking above, and in that moment, you looked like the saddest thing under the sun.

After the car had driven away, Oscar stood still with his thoughts outside the church for a second. He had to look into the weekend meetings. Even if he could never attend them himself, he needed to know why they were important enough for you to mention them to him.

With a last glance toward the parking lot, he went back inside, his eyes drifting toward the bulletin board in the hallway. Various flyers covered its surface. The community really tried its hardest, offering support groups for just about anything—newly becoming parents, cancer survival, dealing with grief and death.

Oscar looked at the schedules, most of them being on weekdays. However, anonymous groups for recovering alcoholics and narcotics were on Saturdays, respectively, Sundays.

It didn’t take long for Oscar to understand.

He also understood why you had asked him. You wanted to know if you had another thing in common other than the group meetings. You hadn’t known he was there because of a car crash, so in your mind he might as well have been there for other issues, like drugs or alcohol.

Oscar didn’t know your full story. He didn’t know why you were here, why you kept showing up week after week, or what had led you to seek out meetings. But he did know one thing: you weren’t as unreachable as you pretended to be, and he was willing to wait until you felt ready to show him the parts of yourself you’d kept hidden.

_______________________________

The soft clink of glasses and low murmur of voices filled the pub as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your hands moving out of habit, eyes scanning the sparse crowd. Picking up an afternoon shift instead of the night shift wasn’t something you normally did, just for that reason. It was the same amount of hours, but it felt a lot longer since the customers were fewer. Thankfully, the evening crowd was starting to build up.

A woman sat at the counter, maybe ten years older than you, her fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass, her gaze flitting between the door and her phone. She had a nervous look and was dressed too nicely for the pub. You knew the type—the first daters—planning nights to the last detail, hoping for it to go well but preparing for disaster.

“Waiting for someone?” you asked, offering to take her glass.

“Yeah, a first date. I needed some liquid courage in advance,” she replied with a tight smile.

“Well, you look gorgeous,” you assured, showing her a genuine smile. “If they turn out to be a wanker, just come up and order an angel shot and I’ll help you out of here.”

Her smile widened, a bit more relaxed now, as she thanked you.

You made a point to watch over her as your shift went on. Her date arrived shortly after. You let yourself relax; at least he wasn’t a no-show, and he didn’t look like the type to catfish someone. In fact, he looked almost as nervous as she did, and you found yourself rooting for them.

Working in a gritty pub had never been your dream, but it was what your CV got you at this point in life. You had tried living in London, making ends meet by working at a cocktail bar, but you had crash-landed back in your hometown, like big time crashing.

Thankfully, the owner of The Swan hadn’t looked too closely into your past, or he at least didn’t care. You knew how to pour a pint, you knew how to clean up, and you knew how to deal with rowdy drunk people. That made you a top employee.

You moved on autopilot around the familiar bar with its familiar patrons. Some old, who frequented the bar even on weekdays, and some young, who you mostly saw on weekends.

You had learnt to listen to some and to eavesdrop on others. Like, you knew all about Denny’s divorce and custody battle because he sat by the bar and went on and on about it as he downed London Prides. But you had to eavesdrop to know that the group of girls who came in after work on Fridays had finally staged an intervention for their friend who put up with too much shit from her boyfriend.

Little things like that made bartending enjoyable.

Other things—like loud groups of lads your own age—almost always made it less enjoyable. That was why you felt a tiredness fall over you like an anvil in a slapstick comedy when you, even with your back turned to the door, could hear them enter. You let out a resigned sigh, knowing that the evening was about to take a livelier turn, and maybe not for the better.

However, they weren’t the usual group that gave you and your colleagues trouble. This were customers you’d never seen before. Strange for being such a small town with only The Swan and two other pubs. Sure, the boys were loud as they came to the bar to order from your colleague, but they were patient and not overly rude.

You froze in surprise.

You felt your grip slip from the glass you were holding, almost dropping it. While his friends filed up to the bar with an eagerness for drinks, Oscar lingered, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. The shocked look on his face was almost priceless. He looked as startled as you felt, his eyes widening briefly as they locked onto yours.

He seemed out of place in the gritty atmosphere of the pub—too put-together, too polished. You knew he wasn’t British from his strong accent, and you knew he wasn’t the most outgoing type from his well… personality. He didn’t belong in here, but for some reason his friends had waltzed right in to The Swan, never having done so before.

You were scared to think about why, but deep down you knew.

Before your colleague could ask him for his order, you stepped forward. You wiped your hands on a towel and raised an eyebrow. “You lost?” you teased lightly, leaning against the bar.

Oscar’s friends were still gathering their drinks, a couple of them glancing your way with open curiosity. Your colleague doing the same, knowing full well that you would have to explain this to them afterwards.

Oscar smiled back, a bit shyly. “No, just… here with some friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him, looking mildly uncomfortable.

“So,” you said, folding your arms. “What can I get you?”

Oscar chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not drinking tonight. Just…moral support, I guess.”

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

For a moment, you both stood there, the noise around you fading into the background.

His friends soon called after him to join them at their table and you had a job to do. As you moved around the bar, greeting regulars, wiping down counters, and handing out drinks, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Oscar was still there, his presence lingering even when he was out of view.

Each time you glanced over at their table, you caught him glancing back. The first few times he seemed nervous to be caught, but when he realised how often you looked at him, he really had nothing to be ashamed of if he stared back at you.

After a while, the place grew livelier, and you lost sight of him in the ebb and flow of customers, the noise picking up as more people filled the seats. The usual rowdiness of a Saturday night began to take hold.

Eventually, you saw his friends begin to gather their things, settling their tabs, pulling on jackets, and nudging each other as they headed out. You felt yourself get stuck in your steps behind the bar as you watched Oscar stand up from his seat. He exchanged a few words with his friends as they left, but he stayed, earning what you assumed were amused laughs and some crude comments.

Oscar waited a moment, watching them go, before he turned his gaze toward the bar. You tried to make yourself seem busy, cleaning a counter that wasn’t even dirty. You felt a flicker of nerves as he approached, unsure if you should be the first to talk. He sat down on an empty bar stool next to Denny. He didn’t have to dare to look at you because you already had all of his attention.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this long without a cigarette before, y’know,” he said, breaking the silence.

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I only smoke when I’m stressed, which is less often than you’d think.”

Oscar’s smile lingered, a warm glint in his eyes that hinted that he understood that the only time he saw you was at the group meetings and that they were the thing that caused you stress to the point where you felt the need to smoke. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a nicotine addict. However, of all things, nicotine wouldn’t be the worst thing to admit that you were addicted to.

Your conversation was briefly interrupted by your other patrons, like Denny, who flagged you down for another pint. You poured his drink wordlessly, and Oscar waited, his presence somehow calming amidst the usual chaos of the bar.

The couple you’d served earlier—the first-daters—approached to settle their tab.

“That looked successful,” you remarked with a friendly smile, referring to their date.

“Yeah, honestly green flags all around,” she replied, throwing her date a soft smile as he took out his wallet. “Thanks for the angel shot advice, though.”

You smiled. “Glad you didn’t need to use it.”

The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she looked from you to Oscar, as if piecing something together. She tilted her head toward you. “Do… you need an angel shot yourself?”

“For this bloke?” you asked in surprise, pointing at Oscar. “Nah, I can handle him myself.”

The woman nodded, smiling in amusement as she gave Oscar another once-over before heading out with her date, holding hands. Oscar, who had been listening to the entire exchange with a bemused expression, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s an angel shot?” he asked.

“It’s a code we use for people on bad dates,” you explained with a shrug. “If they order one, it means they need help, and I step in. It’s a subtle way for someone to signal they’re uncomfortable without making a scene.”

Oscar’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he nodded. “That’s pretty smart.”

“Yeah, it can be useful. When I worked at a cocktail bar in London we had to use it almost every night. This place is a lot calmer.”

You knew it, Oscar knew it too—that rich people drinking Negronis at a rooftop bar in London were more troublesome once they got drunk than what people like Denny did once they were in on their seventh pint of the evening in a small town pub.

There was a brief lull in the conversation, the uncomfortable kind where you just waited for someone to break the silence. Oscar’s fingers tapped lightly on the bar, and he seemed lost in thought for a moment before, as if summoning courage, he spoke again, his voice a bit hesitant.

“So… when are you off?”

“In…” you stopped to check the clock on the wall behind you. “Three minutes.”

Oscar shifted, clearly nervous. “Do you want to maybe hang out? Get dinner or something?”

You blinked, taken off guard. He looked so uncomfortable. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected. He was as unsure of himself as anyone else was.

Oscar, meanwhile, felt as though he was the world’s worst at this. It was no wonder he never had casual things like Lando seemed to have every other weekend, one night stand after one night stand. Not that Oscar necessarily wanted that, but to even feel like he had the possibility to ask someone out would’ve been nice.

“I mean, if you’re up for it,” he added quickly, tripping over his words. “Like, we don’t have to or anything. I just thought—”

You cut him off with an uncharacteristic giggle, the sound breaking through the tension. “Only if I can use your shower. I smell like cheap beer and fryer oil,” you said, lifting your t-shirt with the pub’s swan logo on it to your nose, grimacing at the smell.

“Oh,” he breathed, his face lighting up in relief. “Absolutely.”

You tossed the towel onto the counter, giving him a playful smile as you stepped around the bar to join him. “But I’ll let you know,” you said, lowering your voice, “you shouldn’t hang out with someone like me. I’ll defile you.”

“I’m not as innocent as I act,” he said teasingly, but he wasn’t even sure if he believed his own words, let alone did he fool you.

_______________________________

Oscar sat like a sociopath on the sofa waiting for you to finish showering. He was not sure his posture had even been this good. You’d made your way to his flat after your shift had ended. He’d offered you his shower and clothes while he said he’d fix the rest. However, every film he could think of watching seemed pathetic. Every type of food he could think of ordering seemed disgusting. He hadn’t exactly thought this through when he asked you to hang out. He hadn’t expected it to be so… casual? Or maybe easy? Like you actually wanted to be here, in his flat, spending the evening with him.

He was probably overthinking this—no, he was overthinking this. But how could he not? He tried so hard to not think of the fact that you were wet and naked just a wall away, but he was pretty sure his brain broke in the process. Every detail was suddenly monumental, as though he was a teenager again.

The faint sound of the shower stopped, and he quickly sat up straighter, mentally scolding himself to look less… tense. He wasn’t sure he was pulling it off. He could hear the bathroom door open, and then you were padding down the hall, and he practically whipped his head around to see you.

You were wearing one of his favourite shirts, the maroon fabric hanging over your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair was still damp, small droplets darkening the shirt where they fell. The sweatpants you’d borrowed were too long, so you’d tucked them into your socks—baby pink, fuzzy socks with little red hearts on them. The socks were definitely not Oscar’s. He couldn’t believe that was what you were hiding under your Doc Martens.

Oscar blinked, trying to reconcile the idea that this—this ridiculously adorable version of you—was the same person who’d honestly scared him during your first conversation.

“Cute socks,” he chuckled, unable to stop himself.

“Shut up,” you muttered, hiding a smile, before flopping down on the sofa next to him, already more casual than Oscar could ever be. “What are we watching?”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was acutely aware of how close you were, your leg brushing against his as you made yourself comfortable. You didn’t hesitate to grab a blanket that was thrown over the back of the sofa, cuddling into it as you wrapped it around yourself.

“We could watch… uh, anything you want,” Oscar finally managed.

You rolled your eyes, sinking into the sofa cushions. “If you let me pick, it’s going to be something dumb.”

“I’m okay with dumb.”

Your lips curled into a smile, but you didn’t say anything as you leant forward to grab the remote. Oscar sat there, watching as you navigated through streaming options. You were on the hunt for something specific, he noticed. Right in on Disney+ and quickly you searched for…Brother Bear?

Oscar’s brow lifted in surprise, but he didn’t question it. In a way, it felt perfectly fitting. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and settled into the cushions, letting himself ease into the film, into the quiet comfort of the moment.

You both ordered pizza that arrived sometime in the middle of the film. You liked pineapple on pizza, but he guessed he could overlook it. Especially if it meant you were here, sitting beside him, taking a bite with a content look on your face.

You’d grown soft around the edges, for him. This was domestic, bordering on romantic. The girl he had first met—cigarette and white lighter in hand—would’ve never admitted to liking Disney films and to wearing pink fuzzy socks.

When the pizza was finished and the movie neared its end, you laid down in the corner of his L-shaped sofa, blanket fully surrounding you. Oscar wanted to scoot over, closer to you, maybe put your feet in his lap, but he hesitated, scared to cross boundaries. He chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, hoping that his nerves would miraculously disappear.

And then you made a sound—a soft, involuntary awe that escaped your lips during the scene where Koda, the little bear cub, was reunited with his deceased mother through some sort of glowing spirits in the sky. Oscar had to admit that even though he’d seen this film as a kid, the plot was now completely lost on him because of you.

It was cute. Like, painfully cute, and Oscar felt that weird mix of cute aggression, where something is so adorable you just want to squeeze it. Instead, he let himself simply watch you, taking in the way your eyes glistened and your mouth parted slightly, as if you’d forgotten everything around you, wrapped up in this world of animated magic. He mentally cursed himself when you caught him looking.

“Why are you staring at me?” you muttered.

“You look like you’re about to cry,” Oscar teased and smiled boyishly.

“Shut up, I do not,” you shot back, rubbing your eyes with your fingers. You were sharp enough to draw blood, and he was somehow always left unscathed.

He couldn’t help but smile wider, watching as you tried to hide your embarrassment. In a brave moment, he moved closer, daring to take a hold of your wrist so that you couldn’t hide from him. Your eyes were shining and a couple of your eyelashes had clumped together from the moisture.

“It’s okay to cry to movies,” he said, nudging you gently. “Especially one’s about animated animals.”

“I am not crying. Not even close,” you insisted, laughing, sinking further into the sofa, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

You moved to the side and somehow, Oscar felt himself fitting naturally into the space behind you. He felt something shift inside him, a strange warmth settling in his chest. This was soft, quiet, almost painfully domestic. Yet it was real. You were here, cuddled up on his sofa, wrapped in his blanket, wearing his clothes, and laughing at something he’d said.

Neither of you said another word as you moved to lay together like you’d done it a million times before. He found his arm moving to wrap around you, pulling you in closer until your back was touching his chest. You lifted the blanket to cover him partly too. The movie rolled through its final scenes, and Oscar found himself paying even less attention now that you were literally touching him.

“You’re gonna stay there?” you whispered as the end credits rolled.

“Yeah, we’re watching the sequel.”

But neither of you moved to get the remote.

After a still moment, with a deep breath you moved to lay on your back. You glanced up at him, your gaze holding his for a long moment. Oscar didn’t dare look away, even if his confidence told him to do it. At least it was easier to look you in the eye than to take in the rest of you.

His heart picked up when you adjusted yourself, the blanket slipping from your shoulders and the maroon fabric of his shirt shifted slightly, revealing the outline of your body beneath. Your breasts moved gently, and he couldn’t help but notice the lack of anything underneath the soft cotton. His throat felt tight, and suddenly, every molecule of air around him seemed saturated with the scent of you.

Then, he realised that the scent of you was actually the scent of his laundry detergent and the soap he kept in his shower mixed with something that was uniquely you. And oh, how Oscar hated being a man. Was he really pathetic enough to pop a boner because you smelled good?

His body reacted before his brain could process it, betraying him in ways that were anything but subtle—warm and spreading, settling quickly. He shifted uncomfortably, moving his legs in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence of just how much you affected him.

“Oscar…” Your voice was soft, questioning.

He shook his head, looking anywhere but at you as he managed to respond. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, mortified. His face burned with embarrassment. He couldn’t believe this was happening—couldn’t believe he was that guy right now.

“You don’t have to apologise,” you whispered, and you still weren’t scared to look him in the eye. Oscar for once wished you were.

“Yes, I do. It kind of ruins the mood,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Your expression softened and then you shifted to give him a bit of space. In the process, you nearly tipped off the edge of the sofa, and instinctively, Oscar reached out, his hand steadying you by your arm. The warmth of your skin under his touch sent a spark up through his palm, grounding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt if he’d made you uncomfortable.

“Ugh… it’s just…you just smell good, and you’re wearing my shirt, and your skin is the softest thing ever, and I can’t think straight—” he stopped himself abruptly.

A laugh escaped your lips, soft but warm, and Oscar froze, unsure if he’d actually said all that aloud or if his brain had finally imploded.

“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head as you watched Oscar suddenly move away from you, sitting up in an awkward half-way position with the limited space he had behind you. It probably looked like he was about to bolt out of the flat out of sheer embarrassment.

“What am I doing?” He frowned. “I just—I don’t want you… I mean, you shouldn’t have to, y’know, feel it.”

At that, your smile deepened, and you moved your legs, spreading them just enough to make space for him to settle between them, throwing the blanket off the sofa.

“Oscar, can you… just calm down for a second?” you said gently, meeting his gaze with a reassuring look. “I’m not appalled by it, y’know? But you’re acting like I should be.”

His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he looked at you, processing your words. You didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. It was in this moment that Oscar also realised the position you were in, with him between your legs, fighting with his arm propped up to not fall flatly over your body. You weren’t scared to brush his sides by shutting your thighs just the slightest.

“You’re okay with this?” he felt the need to ask.

“I am.”

Oscar let his eyes linger for the first time, deciding for once to let the awkwardness melt away. And just like always, your eyes were on him, almost shamelessly scanning his broad shoulders and the way the fabric of his grey sweatpants stretched.

The shirt you’d borrowed had ridden up slightly, revealing your soft stomach and the hem of your underwear—a black cotton thong, the thin material peeking out. What was the frontal version of a whale-tail called? When the elastics sank into the soft parts of your hips and showed on either side above the waistband of your sweatpants.

Yeah, Oscar’s brain was definitely broken.

His mind spun, grasping for words, but all he managed was a shaky breath as he leaned in, like he couldn’t believe that he was seeing it, that he was this close. The air brushed against your skin. His mouth was as dry as a desert. You inhaled so sharply that he could hear it and see your stomach rising. He was eye level with your belly button and he decided upon… kissing it. Or right next to it, on the softest part of your stomach, the world narrowing down to just that patch of skin.

He looked up for reassurance, and you just smiled. A perfectly content smile where light sparkled in your eyes. Oscar’s hands found your waist as he kissed you again, his lips trailing gently across your stomach. Your skin was impossibly soft, practically melting into his hands.

Oscar’s next step was unplanned—like this entire thing—and maybe a bit silly, but when he was down there, kissing your stomach, he couldn’t help but want to venture higher up. So, like any other unreasonable person with hormones clouding their judgement, he stuck his head under your shirt, starting by kissing your ribs.

You let out something between a gasp and a giggle as your breathing picked up the higher up Oscar’s mouth wandered. Where your ribs connected in the middle of your chest, right where the skin was the thinnest, was where he started to gently suck and he earned his first moan. You could feel him start to smile as it escaped you.

When you looked down at him, all you could see was how his head stretched the fabric, and it was simply just humorous.

“I could just take my shirt off, y’know?” you teased, though you were out of breath.

”No,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin, an audible mwah leaving his mouth as he moved higher, planting a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts. “It’s warm under here.”

You let out a small laugh, your fingers resting on top of his head, the shirt still acting as a barrier as you felt his hair through it. “Wouldn’t have taken you for such a boob guy.”

Oscar closed his eyes as he felt your quiet laugher vibrate through your chest against his lips. Your breasts were practically lodged against his cheeks and he was definitely flushed red all over so it was actually convenient for him to be hidden under your shirt.

“Shut up,” was all he could manage to mutter.

He couldn’t hide anymore when he felt you pull the shirt up by the hem, first over his head and then swiftly over your own, it landing somewhere on the floor. Oscar was left laying there, chin resting against your sternum, feeling totally exposed as your eyes met his again. He didn’t dare to take in the sight of you shirtless, even though he was literally on top of your breasts.

And while he probably looked like a flustered mess, you looked totally unfazed.

“You motorboated me,” you exclaimed, laughter in your voice, “and you haven’t even kissed me on the mouth! Feels a bit backwards, don’t you think?”

Oscar chuckled, not having the time to think that he should be ashamed because of what you just insinuated. His hand moved to gently cup your cheek as he lifted himself to look at you.

“What I’m hearing is that you want to kiss me.”

He hated to sound cocky. He promised he really did. But with your jaw slacked and disbelief plastered on your face, he felt like he had said the right thing. You weren’t pushing him away, weren’t closing off the moment like he half-expected.

Instead, you were pulling him in.

If he thought your chest had been soft, your lips were like fucking velvet. It was like he was scared to touch you with how delicate you felt; with how softly you met his own lips. The initial connection was quick before he pulled away an inch or two to gather your reaction. With pure lust in your eyes, you were back to kissing him again before he had the chance to overthink what had just happened.

The kiss deepened slowly, a tender exploration of new territory, a silent acknowledgement that this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a one-off moment.

Oscar’s heart hammered in his chest as he shifted, his body now hovering over yours. His lips brushed against yours in a series of soft kisses. Then, before he knew it, your tongue was fighting his own. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in closer, and he let himself be totally absorbed by you.

And oh my god, you were shirtless beneath him. He struggled with where to place his hands, feeling strange holding your face for too long but scared to grip your bare waist with his wandering hands. But when he felt you push up towards him—your nipples rubbing his shirt, the soft flesh of your breast squished against his chest—Oscar felt like he could indulge fully.

With his forehead pressed against yours, Oscar pulled away and asked, “Do you want this to go further?”

You nodded first, swallowing your breath, before verbally saying a low and desperate yes too.

He wasn’t sure if he answered anything coherent or just let out a loud huff when he leant back down to kiss you. As his hands travelled up your body, you could feel goosebumps form under his fingertips. He stoked the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted, before fully cupping them in his palms.

You tipped your head back between the sofa cushions as his lips moved down your jaw and neck, littering you with open-mouthed kisses. He towered over you, his lower body fitting perfectly with how your legs spread for him.

Oscar smiled as he grazed his teeth against your nipple, hearing you gasp at how he purposely teased you. And while he hadn’t thought about it like that before, you were definitely right with calling him a boob guy. Because fuck, could he spend his time adoring and fondling your soft tits, malleable in his hands and stimulating on his tongue. The way they perked up and became more sensitive with his touch was about to make him delirious.

And the sounds you were making—the gentle breathy groans—were better than any sound he’d ever heard before, practically deafening to his ears by how much he was concentrating on it. God, was he glad to have not turned on the sequel because having sex to Phil Collins wasn’t really on any bucket list. Especially not with how overwhelming he found your noises.

He released your nipple with a smacking sound, gazing at the attacked skin of your chest and neck. It would leave bruises, which made him feel even more like a horny teenager.

“Can you take your shirt off?” Your voice felt airy and small.

While your hands had already crept under to rake down his back as you were kissing, Oscar hadn’t exactly thought about the imbalance. He’d do just about anything to make you comfortable, meaning that his t-shirt soon joined yours on the floor.

He was an athlete, yet he hadn’t personally ever thought he looked like one. He’d never been one of those guys to confidently parade around without a shirt on in summer or post pictures of himself flexing in the gym. He just couldn’t do it.

But your eyes on him, the way you nestled your lower lip between your teeth, and how your hands immediately reached out to touch him… yeah, that was maybe the closest thing he’d felt to confidence in a long time.

“Do you feel okay?”

He wasn’t sure how his own voice would sound when he spoke again—dry and muffled, distracted by a million different things.

“Mhm,” you sighed out. “You wanna take off the rest of my clothes or should I do it myself?”

Oscar gulped at your forwardness, but he guessed he already knew that you wanted to take this further. So did he, like insanely. With fumbling fingers, he untied the drawstring on your sweatpants and worked them down your hips, until you laid there in front of him in just your thong and fuzzy socks.

He had sat up to take off his shirt, but he now nestled down between your legs again. There was no way in hell that he would last long inside of you, so he would need to please you beforehand. A gentleman, after all.

Oscar felt like he was about to die at the thought of going down on you, his blushing cheeks almost hurting from how warm they were. His hair was messy, his lips were kissed raw, and his pupils had dilated until all you could see in his eyes was darkness.

“Y’know you don’t have to—” you tried to tell him.

“What if I really want to?” he questioned, almost rhetorically. You didn’t fight him on it.

He kissed down your stomach until he came to the hem of your panties, absentmindedly rubbing soft circles on your hips and then down your thighs. There, his thoughts were simply reduced to the need to have you, in whatever way you allowed him.

You were impatient, while Oscar took his time to enjoy you. He tortuously dragged his lips across your thighs; the faint pattern of your skin looked like thin, pale lines spreading like lightning strikes. Once he dared to touch you over the fabric and feel the wetness that had soaked through, he could hear your breath hitch.

Slowly, he hooked his fingers in the sides of your thong and dragged them down your legs, leaving them discarded on the floor with the other clothes. Fully naked, except the socks, but those were staying on, Oscar decided.

“Have I told you that you’re gorgeous yet?”

You were looking down at him with an expression akin to frustration—mouth slightly open and heavy breaths spilling out, almost scoffing at his cliché words. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as his own breaths hit your skin, blowing against your exposed heat. He pecked the stretched skin on your inner thigh to soothe you, stopping your writhing.

At a loss for what to do with your hands, they found their way down to his hair, weaving through his soft curls, tugging gently to get his attention.

“Osc…” you said with a simple breath.

That was really all Oscar needed—to hear you want him. That stupid little nickname was also something special. He hummed against you, feeling your reassurance as he kissed gently over your clit. And before you were able to complain for more, he latched his lips around it, suckling in a way that made your vision momentarily blank. His movements were tentative at first, unexperienced and lacking confidence.

“Oh, you’re so good,” you exhaled, praising him.

And there was something about the way you say it that just drove Oscar mad. It wasn’t that it felt good—it was that he was good. He got off on your reaction. It was as simple as that. It made him determined, building something with precise dramatics.

You felt his left hand grasp at the skin of your thigh, slowly inching upwards before he carefully sank a finger into you. Your hips twitched and you moan out loud as he played with you. He worked you open before adding another finger, his mouth never leaving your clit in the process. Even when your thighs fought to stay open, caging him between them, he didn’t falter. And every once in a while, when his eyes looked up to meet yours, you only felt yourself falling apart quicker.

His voice was low, the tone soft, when he mumbled something against your swollen cunt; something about how you tasted good. His free hand gently pressed down on your stomach to make you focus on the sensation—to feel his fingers ripping you apart from the inside out.

“God, fuckfuckfuck—” You were barely making sense of your own words as you bucked up against his mouth, completely buried over you, nose bumping your clit with his repeated motions.

Automatically, your hands grasped your breasts, fingers toying with your already sensitive nipples. Moving from your stomach, Oscar’s right hand was placed on your tits too, clasping his fingers over your own as he squeezed.

When you inevitably fell apart, he didn’t stop—not until you were a complete mess beneath him. Arching, white-hot, and expanding with intensity before his very eyes as he continued to softly lick. The way he was making out with your soaked core and babying your clit with the tip of his tongue would make one believe that this was a man who had never been shy or embarrassed over a single thing in his life.

And he wasn’t going to stop until you begged him.

With a pleasured and defeated “Oscar, please…” you were letting him know that he had done his job—that he had won you over in more ways than was necessary, that you were spent by him.

“I know,” he cooed, kissing your stomach. “I know.”

He moved to lay beside you, gently sliding his fingers out of you before tap, tap, tapping at your puffy clit, keeping his eyes steady at how you reacted. A slight hiss left your mouth before a hoarse laugher slipped out too. Your legs were still trembling from how intense your orgasm had been.

“You’re a mess,” you chuckled, raising a hand to brush his hair back then wiping his mouth with the back of your hand to clean him. “And a menace.”

“Well, so are you,” he smiled, kissing you on the mouth, neither of you caring about said mess.

You took a moment to breathe, and Oscar took a moment to think. While he couldn’t think straight, he could still come to the conclusion that this was such a good feeling—an overwhelmingly good feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe never before.

By now, his cock was painfully hard beneath his sweatpants, definitely having leaked pre-cum through his boxers. If it had been bad before, it was so many times worse now with you heaving next to him, naked and looking at him through your eyelashes. He was practically seeing stars, and you hadn’t even touched him where he ached the most.

It was almost unjustifiable the way he was feeling—someone should just tape a sign to his forehead that said practically a raging virgin and call it a day. He wasn’t one, just to clarify, but you made him feel like one.

Your hand trailed gently down his chest, your nails painted black like always. Oscar wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He wished he could react normally to your touch, but instead it was like his skin raised like a mountain range wherever your hand wandered, his eyes following your movements with a pitiful desperation.

And when your hand moved below the waistband of his sweatpants, resting gently over his boxers, and therefore his erection too, he wasn’t sure what exactly would happen to his body—something new, a biological error, or a supernatural phenomenon.

You were so close to him, pulling his trousers down in such a fashion that your legs almost clashed together while it happened. Then he was naked, and you turned quiet.

Abashedly, he tried to think about what he looked like from your perspective. He wondered if he was too thick or too thin, if he should’ve groomed better, or if his upper body was disproportionate to his legs, or if he smelled bad, if he was just plain weird, or—

“Holy shit,” you whispered.

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered.

While Oscar was busy analysing himself, you were gawking. Maybe people on TikTok would call it a ’sleeper-build’, but there was nothing subtle about it. His pale skin looked pretty in a flushed pink tone, easily scratching under your sharp nails. Broad shoulders, toned stomach, thick thighs. Your eyes couldn’t help but look lower and lower. The pure size of him sank in a second later.

“You’re… big,” you said like a matter of fact. “It’s been a while, so you’ll have to go slow.”

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered, again.

His eyes widened to the point where it strained them. Of all the things you could’ve said, that was probably the one he expected the least. He tried to read your face, waiting for more of an explanation.

With your brows furrowed, all you asked were, “You’re surprised that I haven’t had sex in a while?”

“No!” he hurried to say, not thinking about other implications his reaction could’ve had. He’d curse himself for eternity if you thought he meant to slut-shame you. “I’m surprised about the other… thing. No one’s ever said that before,” he gesticulated with his hand, unsure what to call the thing that had just happened.

You glanced up at his face to see that he was now sporting a smirk, letting you know that your words had gone completely to his ego. Motherfucker, was he pretty.

“I’m not sure I believe that,” you mumbled, kissing him again. Laying side to side next to each other on the sofa, both of your hands had grown eager to touch. It was waists and chests, up bare backs to tangle fingers in hair.

“I promise you that it’s the first time I hear that,” he mumbled back.

Your hand sneaked down between your bodies, and any cockiness that Oscar gained from his newfound ’big dick energy’ was washed away in seconds. A whimper. A fucking whimper was ripped from his throat as soon as your fingers were wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop himself. Your movements were slow and languid, spreading the beads of pre-cum around his tip with your thumb. Oscar closed his eyes as he tried to not fall apart instantly.

“How’s your pull-out game?” you asked between placing kisses on his neck and jaw. He had beautiful freckles and birthmarks all over his skin.

And, fuck, how Oscar couldn’t think when dirty words left your mouth.

“I—, Uhh… Not good?”

He let out a moan mid-sentence. He felt both pathetic and tortured as your delicate fingers kept stroking him up and down.

“I’m on birth control anyway.”

“I could go and get a condom,” he fought himself to say.

“Do you have one?” you questioned, and Oscar’s lack of an answer told you what you already knew. “I thought so.”

And while Oscar knew that he came across loser-like, he didn’t also need it to be so transparent to you. Even though he sort of liked the dynamic built between you. He had always liked that you were quick-witted and a little mean.

Oscar exhaled, concealing another moan with a breathy chuckle. “You need to stop making fun of me when I’m naked. It’s going to affect my self-esteem.”

“Can’t help it, you’re an easy target.” You quickly pecked his lips, a little laugher slipping out. “You’re also a very pretty target.”

He wasn’t used to being called pretty. His mum called him handsome. His instagram comments called him a polite cat. Pretty was entirely new territory. But he liked it, and impossibly, he blushed even harder.

“Are we really doing this?”

He just had to be sure, still in a bit of disbelief.

“Please,” you said. “Fuck me.”

Oscar propped himself on his elbow, placing it beside your head, caging you beneath him. He took himself in his hand, giving his cock a few slow stokes. He looked tortured, the tip pink and engorged as it curved up towards his stomach, a thatch of hair connecting to his faint happy trail.

The head of his cock sat heavy against your entrance as he aligned himself, and you felt yourself desperately clenching around nothing. His free hand rubbed circles on your hip comfortingly. He was hesitant, and maybe that was your fault for asking him to take it slow, but the last thing he wanted was to cause you pain. With an eager nod, you gave him the green light.

“God, you’re tight,” Oscar murmured, his voice breathless as he pushed forward.

“No,” you gasped, gripping his bicep for something to hold onto. “You are massive.”

A low, strained laugh escaped him. “You really wanna argue right now?”

No, you didn’t. Not when you felt him slide inside you completely.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, breathing heavily, unable to help the way you tightened around him. “F-fuck, you can move,” you told him, voice muffled against his neck.

Oscar inhaled sharply, softening to the touch by your reassurance, as he pulled his hips from yours before slowly moving back, tentatively creating a steady rhythm, stretching your around him.

It was intoxicating, and warm. While he knew that he liked you, he had never imagined it to feel like free falling. You still smelled like a mixture of him and yourself, and your soft skin was touching him in ways and places he couldn’t describe. It was gratifying that you were just as desperate as he was.

He lifted your leg up by gripping under your knee, thrusting at a deeper angle. The sounds of your bodies crashing together filled the room as your moments only got quicker and needier.

Looking down at you, he saw your eyes struggling to stay open and your jaw dropping loose with the whimpers and moans you were letting out. Your tits bounced in pace every time he came to the hilt inside you.

“Holy f-fuck, you feel good,” he stuttered right in your ear. “You feel like you were fucking made for me.”

He was being lewd and you giggled. God, you giggled—like Oscar didn’t have enough of a hard time keeping it together. You were teasing him, but it was gentle and honeyed, like a beautiful song to his ears.

He forcefully dug his fingers into the soft fat of your thigh, spilling out between his fingers, doing just about anything to ground himself, but it was impossible. Admittedly, Oscar had never felt this good before in his life.

His living room was ablaze with your movements—an incoherent mess between two bodies, all skin and bone, at each other’s disposal to use.

“Fuck…” Oscar moaned, grinding his cock into you. “I’m already so fucking close.”

“Me too,” you whined out, voice strangled. “Let it all go.”

Oscar buried his face in your neck to try and hide his desperation, moaning and biting down into the soft skin. He was moving frantically, feeling it all approaching rapidly.

With a soft cry, Oscar was cumming, stuttering and needy, groaning everything from your name to all the curse words he could think of. He twitched inside of you, coating your walls with his cum. You moved one of your hands to his cheek and you held his face, staring intensely into his eyes, as he rode out his high.

Damn you and your damn eye contact.

He continued to slowly thrust, doing whatever he could to get you off while being totally spent. The hand on your hip drifted to your pubic bone before delving between your folds, his pointer and ring finger running steady halos over your clit. Thankfully, you weren’t long after. He wasn’t sure he could take the embarrassment of not making you cum when it had been so easy for him. You arched your back as it hit you, throwing your head back in blind pleasure.

And then it all slowed. The moans disappeared, and all that was left were heavy breaths in an eerily quiet living room. He felt warm air hit his neck as he laid down and you cuddled up against him. Mindlessly, you ran your fingertips along his skin, soothing the marks your nails had left. He’d gone soft inside you, his release mixed with your own leaking out the sides.

“I’m gonna slide out, okay?”

“Mhm, slowly,” you whimpered as he did it, going from feeling full to achingly empty. A single tear ran down your cheek out of exhaustion and pleasure, and Oscar stopped to kiss it away, tasting the saline on his lips.

“Talk to me,” he whispered.

You let out a deep breath, your body feeling heavy but sated. “I’m good,” you murmured, your cheek pressed against his chest. “Can feel you dripping down my thighs though.”

“We should probably clean up.”

He didn’t move, and neither did you. You were perfectly content with the mess if it meant that you would stay cradled in his arms. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, legs intertwining. His pec was soft against you, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I was going to let you wait annoyingly long before sleeping with you. I can’t believe I caved in so easily,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but teasing. The words hung in the air for a moment, light and playful, but you could feel the way his chest rumbled as he chuckled.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh, really?”

You nodded, hiding your face in his chest. “Yeah. Like, painfully long. Months, at least.”

“What changed?”

You hesitated for a moment, your face still pressed against him. But then you tilted your head slightly, sneaking a glance up at him through heavy lashes. “Can’t help the fact that I’m insanely attracted to you,” you admitted shyly.

Oscar took in your smile before embarrassment made you hide it into his chest again. You were so… soft, like he couldn’t actually believe it.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he exhaled, sinking down further into the sofa cushions. He ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to contain the pleased grin that spread across his face.

You kissed his chest gently, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a sense of peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, the comfortable silence stretching between you. You were glad this hadn’t turned awkward.

Then, his voice broke the quiet, low and soft. “Are you staying the night?”

You didn’t look up at him, sort of scared to say a right-out yes to his question.

“If you want me to.”

His arms tightened around you slightly, and you could feel the smile on his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “I’d love that.”

_______________________________

Oscar wasn’t sure how long he spent starring at himself in the bathroom mirror afterward. He moved through his routine on autopilot—brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth—only for his movements to slow as his reflection pulled him back in. His messy hair was still tousled. The love bites on his neck, faint but unmistakable, stood out against his pale skin. His fingertips grazed over the scratches on his shoulders, his cheeks warming as he recalled how they got there. He didn’t think he would ever stop blushing tonight.

When he finally mustered the courage to step back into his bedroom, he found you there: bare feet on the hardwood floor, wearing only his maroon t-shirt. You stood in front of his dresser, looking intensely at something placed on it.

The trophies.

You had fucked his brains out so good that he had forgotten about the intricate web of omissions and half-truths he had woven around you. And now, his lies were staring back at him, literally and metaphorically.

This was about to be awful.

“So, this is where you keep them?” Your voice was calm, deceptively so, as you turned to face him.

Oscar stood frozen in the doorway. He opened his mouth but no words left it, his body rigid as he grappled with the realisation: you already knew.

He hadn’t wanted to keep these things out in the open. Unlike some drivers whose homes were practically shrines to their achievements, Oscar preferred subtlety. Most of his trophies were tucked away, gathering dust in storage. But these— mostly medals and pictures from his childhood, tokens of his early racing days—remained on his dresser.

“I’ve known for a while,” you admitted, as if offering him a way out of the confession he hadn’t yet made. “Since I questioned you driving a McLaren to counselling.”

Oscar blinked, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with an awful, grinding clarity. It wasn’t like he had tried to be undercover or specifically careful about concealing his identity.

“I thought you just worked for McLaren at first,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the trophies. “But then I googled your name and the brand… My brother used to be a big Hamilton fan, so I made the connection.”

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained out of him. “Why didn’t you say something?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound defeated, but it did.

“Figured there was a reason as to why you didn’t tell me,” you shrugged, taking a seat on his bed. “I won’t force you to talk about things you don’t want to. We met in an unconventional way and I fully understand that you don’t want a stranger to know everything about you.”

“Don’t say that,” Oscar interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He stepped further into the room, his hands flexing at his sides. “We’re not strangers, we know each other.”

You tilted your head, your expression softening as you studied him. His sudden reaction surprised even himself, but he couldn’t let the word “strangers” hang in the air between you. Oscar guessed he was more emotionally involved than he had let himself believe, but that he now couldn’t deny it. He sat down beside you, the bed shifting under his weight, and your eyes searched his for something—an explanation, perhaps

“I know you,” he argued. “I know that you only smoke after counselling since it stresses you out and you think that because you smoke Marlboro Silvers, it won’t affect you as badly. know that immediately after, you chew strawberry gum to get rid of the taste, because you don’t actually like it.”

He started at you intensely as he kept talking, finally not scared of your eye contact. But he could see that you were crumbling.

“You only drink rooibos tea because it’s naturally sweeter than black tea. You carry white lighters to appear fearless, but in reality it’s because you’re sad and you don’t care if something bad happens to you.”

“Oh, and you cry to Disney movies,” he lastly added, “because you are in fact not fearless. You’re scared shitless of the emotions you harbour inside and never tell anyone about. So, yeah, I know you. ”

You blinked, his words hanging in the air between. “That doesn’t sound like you know me,” you said after a long pause. “That sounds like you’ve observed me.”

“We also quite literally just had sex,” he reminded you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “And I think we’re alike in that sense—that we don’t casually do that with random people.”

“Fair point,” you conceded, unable to suppress your own smile.

And there it was again—the strange, undeniable truth between you. There was truth in what you had shared with each other, always. Even if he had skipped the specifics, his feelings had never been false.

You exhaled loudly, your back hitting the mattress. It was like a balloon had popped, the tension in the taut latex having exploded into nothing. You were so tired. You always were.

Oscar knew not to push further. Not right now at least. He fell back on the mattress too, hiking further up to rest his head on his pillow. He lifted the covers to invite you underneath, cuddling you closer as your arms and legs were now slightly cold to the touch.

He also came back to the realisation that you knew him too. That you knew why he went to the group meetings. That you knew what he did all those weekends he spent working. That the car crash he blamed himself for wasn’t exactly average.

“Did you see the crash?” he asked quietly after a moment, his voice murmuring between the sheets.

He felt you shake your head. “No, I haven’t seen a race since Hamilton last won the championship.”

“Right, because of your brother,” Oscar remembered. “Is he no longer a fan?”

“I don’t know if he is. Haven’t talked to him in over a year.”

Oscar nodded slowly, taking in the weight of your words. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tracing the edge of the covers. “Do you want me to see the crash?”

“No,” he answered quickly. “Not really.”

“My first impression of you racing probably shouldn’t be a crash anyway.”

The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile, and he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. The weight of that topic seemed to drift away, and you found yourself sinking into the comfort of his embrace again, your head resting on his bare chest. He could feel your warmth tucked against his side, your breathing steady like a rhythm. You traced little patterns along his palm and fingers.

For a moment, it felt easy again. Soporific, even.

He could’ve easily fallen asleep, for once without thinking about nightmares. Oscar also didn’t want this to end, for the night to be over and for him to have to say goodbye to you in the morning. Not that he imagined it to be a dramatic goodbye, you’d see each other soon enough again, but still, he didn’t want to.

“You should come with me to a race,” he said softly, breaking the peaceful silence, looking at you almost succumbing to slumber.

“I can’t—” you began and Oscar could immediately sense your hesitation.

“I’d pay for everything. I just want to have you there,” he added quickly, tilting his head to gaze down at you. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about showing off. He just needed you near him, in whatever way he could.

Your body tensed up against him. “I can’t leave the country Oscar.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. He frowned, confused. “I’m sure you can get time off from work,” he said, worrying that was the reason.

You turned your gaze away, your cheek no longer resting against him, and the absence of your touch sent a quiet ache through him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and the pause that followed felt agonisingly long. The words felt stuck in your throat, your chest tightening.

“I mean—,” you paused, swallowing hard. “I’m not allowed to leave the country.”

The room fell silent, save for your faint whisper.

“I’m on probation.”

Oscar’s mind went blank. Probation. That was for criminal offences. You’d done something deserving of a court sentence. Silence stretched between you, and Oscar pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you more closely. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak.

“So, I’m sorry for calling us strangers,” you said finally, “but you don’t know the half of what I’ve done.”

You sat up fully now, a cold weight settling in the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice steady, watching as you untangled yourself from the sheets, kicking the comforter off your legs.

“I’m leaving.”

“No. You’re not.”

His voice was firm, almost commanding, as he reached out and grasped your arm before you could move further. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was resolute. He wasn’t going to let you walk away—not like this.

“You’re going to stay and tell me about this. I feel like you owe me that after what we just did.”

You froze, whole body going rigid, but Oscar didn’t let go.

“I need to know if I’m falling for a serial killer or not,” he added with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood, “because then I’ll seriously need to reconsider my life choices.”

Your heart ached at his attempt to make you laugh, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. The humour didn’t land, not fully, and the weight of what you were about to confess pressed down on you like a heavy stone.

You bit your lip, your voice trembling as you said, “I c-can’t tell you.”

“Why?”

Your body trembled beneath his touch and he loosed his grip, thumb rubbing soft circles on your arm.

“Because you’re a good person,” you whispered. “You’re going to find me repulsive and never want to see me again.”

Oscar could see it in your eyes—the battle raging within you, the fear that once the words left your lips, he would be gone. But he wasn’t going anywhere. You cared about seeing him again. That alone gave him something to hold on to.

“Unless you’ve actually murdered someone—I don’t think that’s possible.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing.

“I don’t think you get probation for murder. I promise no one got hurt physically.”

And even in this state, you still kept that sarcastic edge that he’d grown to adore.

“Okay,” Oscar said softly. “Then tell me.”

You sighed, your hands trembling as you ran your fingers through your hair. Your eyes squeezed shut, as though blocking out his gaze would somehow make it easier to speak.

“When I was 19 I got into a relationship with a guy who was a lot older than me,” you began, your voice uneven. “He had a very… destructive lifestyle that I became a part of. I let him use me.”

Oscar’s stomach twisted, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. He could see how much it was costing you to admit this, and the last thing he wanted was to make it harder for you.

You slowly opened your eyes, not to look at him, but to look at the ceiling, blinking to fight tears from running down your cheeks.

“The reason as to why I haven’t spoken to my brother in such a long time… ” Your voice broke, and you paused, taking a shaky breath. “…is because I committed fraud with his identity. I took out a loan using his name because I was desperate for money.”

Oscar couldn’t hide his shock, but he didn’t pull away. You were laying it all out, raw and exposed, and he wasn’t going to judge you. He couldn’t. He stayed rooted in place, his hand still on your arm, grounding you.

“When he found out, he turned me in. I confessed to doing it and agreed on accepting help which is the only reason I’m not currently in prison.”

“And the boyfriend?” Oscar managed to ask.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “He took the money and fled the country. Haven’t seen him since. But I paid my brother back. Every penny.”

Oscar nodded slowly. “What did you need the money for?”

Your lips trembled as you looked down at your hands. “Don’t make me say it. I feel like you already know.”

And he did. He’d known since he realised what those Sunday meetings were for.

“Are you clean now?”

“14 months,” you quickly said. “Ever since he turned me in. I have a badge on my keys if you—”

“I’m proud of you,” Oscar said, cutting you off gently.

Your breath hitched as he said it. It had surprised you. “See?” he whispered. “You didn’t scare me away.” Oscar gathered his courage to hold you in his embrace again, laying you gently down on the mattress, letting your body relax on top of his.

“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “I’m in an industry where if you haven’t committed tax fraud, you’re probably the odd one out.”

You blinked in surprise, a startled laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. “What?”

Oscar chuckled, the tension between you easing ever so slightly. “I know drivers who’ve had people go to prison on their behalf because of embezzlement,” he said, clearly exaggerating, but the humour in his voice was infectious. “You’re practically a saint compared to some of them.”

“Fucking corrupt rich people,” you muttered.

“Well,” Oscar said, his hand moving down to hold yours, “the point is… you can’t scare me away.”

He heard you exhale loudly. He even felt it against his shirtless skin. Your arms tightened around him, clutching both yours and his chest. It was adding pressure to stop you from panicking.

And then you started crying. For real this time. It wasn’t you fighting the tears from falling or shyly getting watery eyes from Brother Bear. You were sobbing. He hadn’t thought he would ever see you cry.

Oscar’s heart broke a little as he watched you finally let go, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. He immediately pulled you closer into his arms, holding you close, his hand gently stroking your hair as you cried against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar whispered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his skin, but he didn’t mind. You were essentially a stranger—even though he hated the word—crying in his arms, and he’d do anything in his power to never see you like this again. He had fallen for your softness, not the jagged edges you put up around yourself in protection. He’d accept you unconditionally if it meant you didn’t see him as something you needed to protect yourself from.

As your sobs quieted and your breathing got steady, you remained tucked against Oscar’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. You could feel his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. He almost thought you had fallen asleep.

“Thank you,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice hoarse from crying.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “For what?”

“For making me stay.”

_______________________________

A couple of weeks later, on a Tuesday at St. Anne’s Church, you did something you’d never expected yourself to do. You found yourself standing at the lectern in front of the room of strangers that you had spent the past year of your life with. And Oscar, but he had never really been a stranger.

It felt stupid at first, when you walked up there and said your name, the people in the room saying it back to you like a choir. Some clichés from movies really were true.

You started off by giving a brief background as to why you went to meetings. It was supposed to be a guilt-free environment, one where you wouldn’t be judged for anything. But opening up about betraying your own brother and getting probation because of it wasn’t guilt-free no matter how you twisted it.

“Some of you might recognise me from NA meetings as well, but the drugs were never my main issue. I mean, I was— or am an addict, that’s how they want you to say it in NA at least. There is really no denying that, but the real problem was how it made me treat the people around me.”

You didn’t like how your voice sounded in the echoing room, but it didn’t stop you from trying. You knew that the people listening had their own issues so present that yours wouldn’t bother them.

“I understand that my brother never wants to speak to me again,” you continued, your gaze falling to your hands, a cuticle bleeding from unconsciously picking at it. “I think I almost feel the same way. But then… I’ll go to Sainsbury’s and buy green apples, even though I hate them, but he loves them, and I used to buy them for him.”

It was true. You’d have vivid flashbacks about apples every time you saw them. You’d get them from the store as if you were moving on autopilot and hate yourself for it when you got home and unpacked the groceries. Your aunt would always question why you bought them but never ate them, and you couldn’t put that into words.

“I’ll have a mental breakdown over some stupid apples and realise that… we are connected in a way that can never be erased. That’s my fault, my guilt to carry—that I ruined it, that I get to argue with apples instead of arguing with him,” you said with an almost laugher.

You fixed your gaze on Oscar, whose eyes had never left yours for as long as you spoke. He held a tight smile, like understanding the humour in how trauma tended to materialise.

The facilitator asked you a question, like he normally did when he saw people trying to find the right words but struggling to get them into actual sentences. He asked you how time had changed the guilt you felt and if your probation still felt fair to you.

“It’s just so… fucked up that you can convince yourself that you’re evil and unfixable,” you answered, your voice growing steadier. “But it turns out you’re just young. And you’ll make mistakes because of it. I’m paying for those mistakes, but I can’t let them define me.”

You decided that you were done there. You could say more, and you could’ve said less, but you’d done it now. That was the important part. And even though you’d never admit it, it really did feel better to have said it out loud.

As you stepped down and walked back to your seat, a small wave of applause followed you. You felt Oscar’s hand slip into yours as you sat down, his fingers squeezing gently, a wordless assurance.

It took a bit longer for Oscar to finally walk up to the front of the room, a month or so. But he did it in the end. You understood that he felt like his problems weren’t like everybody else’s, because no normal person could really understand his job. And feeling guilt over a car crash where no one was hurt wasn’t easily explainable either.

Oscar’s movements were deliberate, almost stiff, as though he was trying to keep himself together with every step. He stood at the lectern, his hands gripping the edges tightly, and you could see the tension in his knuckles.

He talked about the crash in broad terms, but most of his focus was on Charles, and Oscar’s messed-up idea about how he had hurt Charles. When the facilitator asked him to base his guilt around something real, something factual, you saw the struggle in his expression.

“It’s just… guilt,” he said finally, his voice low. He paused, searching for the right words, but they didn’t come. “I’m not sure I can explain it or give it a likeness. Not everything feels like something else.”

Not everything felt like something else. Issues were allowed to be unique and entangled. It wasn’t about understanding them as much as it was about accepting them. You watched him closely, and you raised your arm to ask him a question, waiting for him to acknowledge you with a silent nod.

“If Charles felt like he never needed to forgive you because he knew all along that this was an accident and no one was actually hurt—why can’t you forgive yourself?”

Oscar’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping slightly. He stood there for a long moment, the words sinking in.

He realised then and there that his main issue wasn’t the crash or the possibility of it happening again. It was that he blamed himself for hurting someone else—a hurt that granted hadn’t even happened, Charles was fine—but his mind hadn’t cared about that. He had the lives of others at risk with the turn of a wheel, and the crash had made him mentally unprepared for that risk. He guessed he knew now what to bring up the next time he met up with his therapist.

After that meeting, Oscar talked for a moment with the facilitator, before he walked out to find you standing by the big doorway into the actual church, looking down the isle to the altar. He stood quietly behind you, placing his arm around your waist. The quiet of the church was profound, almost unsettling. The rows of pews stretched out before you, bathed in a soft glow of candlelight.

“I don’t think I ever understood religion,” you said, whispering in the stillness. “Or God, for that matter. It’s too quiet. Too much about self-reflection and not enough about the old men in the Bible for me to grasp it.”

Oscar didn’t respond right away, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he followed your gaze to the altar.

“I see it as a last ditch effort for when you have no one else to talk to, but all you end up doing is talking to yourself,” he explained.

“Sounds a lot like self-reflection to me,” you huffed a little.

Maybe that was the thing people needed most—to get to know themselves. Bad people don’t wonder if they’re bad people. A truly evil person wouldn’t feel guilty for something bad they’ve done. You were both paralysed by guilt, but standing there with Oscar, it felt just a little less heavy.

“Oscar…” you began again, turning to meet his gaze. “Please don’t tell my secrets to anyone else.”

“We literally had to sign an NDA to join the group, babe.”

“You know what I mean,” you said, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small laugh.

“I promise.”

When you left the church that evening, it was abnormally sunny. Early summer, colouring the nature around you green. You walked across the parking lot hand in hand, that silent show of affection a normal occurrence between you now.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, stopping by his car. “I got you something.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter, its surface bright orange. He held it out to you, his expression almost shy. You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected anything like this, the small, unspoken care behind the gesture. No more conscious bad luck.

“It’s a myth, y’know?” you said, taking the lighter and looking at him softly. “Most of the 27 club died before Bic started making the white version.”

Did Oscar feel a little stupid for not thinking to google the superstition before buying you—granted, a very cheap gift—but also something so laced with thoughtfulness? Maybe. Did he also deeply want you to stop being reliant on nicotine to feel calm? Definitely. But that was too late to say right now when you already had the lighter in your hand and he was blushing from how exposed he felt.

“Well, I think orange suits you better anyway.”

_______________________________

Oscar had insisted, of course—gently but persistently—until you’d finally agreed to come to a race. Silverstone wasn’t out of the country, which meant it didn’t violate any of your probation rules. A technical loophole, but a loophole nonetheless. Your 18 months were nearly over, but Oscar hadn’t been able to wait.

Now, standing among the sea of spectators in the garage, the weight of his world began to settle. The sheer scale of it all was overwhelming. You couldn’t deny it was exhilarating, but it also made you feel small, like an intruder. It was fucking Silverstone, after all—on a Sunday afternoon just minutes before the lights would go out.

You glanced down at your phone, trying to distract yourself from the growing tension in your stomach. That’s when a message appeared.

Eli: “Are you at Silverstone?? I swear I just saw you on TV.”

Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened around your phone. Eli. What happened to hello? What happened to how are you? You stared at the message for a long moment. Before you could even process how to respond, another message appeared.

Eli: “Are you with Piastri?? What the hell?”

A startled laugh escaped your lips, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You glanced around, as if half-expecting Eli to appear out of thin air. Of course, he wasn’t here. He’d gone once to Silverstone with your father when he was young, but nowadays it was cheaper to try and go to Hungary or another European race.

So, right now you knew exactly where your brother was—in the living room at your parents’ place because even though he’d moved out a long time ago, he still went home every Sunday to watch F1 because he leached off of their streaming services.

You took a deep breath and typed back.

You: “Yeah, I’m here with Oscar.”

For a moment, you stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the send button. Then, with a rush of courage, you pressed it. The three dots indicating Eli was typing appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again.

Eli: “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re at an F1 race with a driver, and I have to find out on TV?”

He definitely didn’t mean to guilt-trip you—you knew that. It was his way of breaking through the awkwardness. In a way, you supposed it was better to feel guilty about not telling him about Oscar than about the bigger things. The real things.

Before you could reply, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you saw Oscar in his race suit, his face flushed from the adrenaline of pre-race preparations. He looked out of breath, but his smile was unmistakable, the sight of you clearly easing some of the tension in his own chest.

“Hey,” he said, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My brother just texted me.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. You bit your lip, holding up your phone so he could see the messages. Oscar leant in, glancing at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“He recognised you on TV?”

“Apparently,” you said with a soft laugh. “He’s freaking out.”

Oscar’s expression softened, his hand squeezing yours reassuringly. “That has to be good, right? That he’s talking to you?”

“I hope so,” you whispered.

Before either of you could say more, someone called Oscar’s name from across the paddock. He sighed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I have to go. National anthem and all that.”

You nodded, your fingers reluctantly slipping from his grasp as he stepped back. “Good luck,” you called after him.

He grinned over his shoulder, his confidence infectious. “Thought you didn’t believe in luck.”

And while in the past you hadn’t minded your own bad luck and superstitions, you definitely didn’t want to spread that mindset to Oscar. You would start carrying wishbones, four-leaf clovers, and horseshoes if it meant that just a smidge of luck would be transferred to his life.

As he disappeared into the crowd, the nervous energy around you seemed to intensify. The minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like hours. Your phone buzzed again, pulling your attention back.

Eli: “I’ve missed you. We should talk whenever you can.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You read the message twice, three times, the words sinking in slowly. For so long, you’d been afraid that you’d lost him for good, that the damage you’d done was irreparable—that you were irreparable. But here he was, reaching out.

You: “I’ve missed you too. I’m back in town tomorrow.”

You hit send just as the formation lap started. You were not sure for how long you held your breath after that.

Oscar was good—so good—and as you watched him race, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He was in his element, completely focused, completely in control. You were glad to not have seen the crash that still haunted him at times, because this proved that it was just a fluke, a temporary stumble rather than a career-defining event.

As the checkered flag waved, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing he had made it through safely. By the time the race was over, Oscar had finished in fourth place—a strong result considering weak qualifying. Most positions gained by anyone in the race. As the crowd erupted in cheers, you found yourself smiling, the tension in your chest finally easing.

Afterward, you found yourself standing in Oscar’s drivers room, waiting for him to return. Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see another message from your brother.

Eli: “That was an insane race. Piastri is a beast. Proud of you for being there.”

You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in months.

Moments later, Oscar appeared, his hair slightly damp from the helmet, his face flushed. He spotted you immediately, his eyes lighting up as he walked over, his smile wide despite exhaustion.

“How’d I do?” he asked, his voice breathless.

“You were amazing,” you grinned, stepping closer to him. “How are you so calm? That was nerve-wracking as hell.”

“I’ve done this a couple of times before,” he teased. Oscar laughed, pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered into your ear.

You buried your face in his shoulder, holding him close, and felt the last remnants of tension melt away. “Me too.”

Pulling back slightly, he looked down at you, his smile soft. “You haven’t been sarcastic with me all day, y’know? Is there something wrong?”

You smirked, tilting your head. “I can always start—”

Before you could finish, he leant down and kissed you, cutting off your words. Smack dab on the mouth, messy and rushed. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright and his grin was infectious. You guessed you didn’t need to resort to sarcasm and snarky comments when you were happy. Simply happy.

I'd like to thank Strangers by Ethel Cain, Strangers by Sarah Klang, and Stranger by Blanks for all inspiring this fic. Apparently, I really like songs about being strangers.

╰ Join my taglist or check out my masterlist <3

Tags: @alexxavicry

#my writing 🪐#oscar piastri #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 smut #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fanfic #op81 #oscar piastri x you #formula one

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targaryenluvs · 11 months ago

Text

— OPPOSITES ATTRACT

pairings: clarisse la rue x aphrodite!daughter!reader (romantic) percy jackson x reader (platonic)

summary: the one where percy jackson has to wrap his head around the fact that the nicest person he’s met at camp, is dating clarisse.

warnings: kinda crack ficy in my opinion, fluff, smooches, capture the flag, reader is percy’s saving grace, percy sees the reader as a sister

a/n: i just got inspired okay? ✊🏽

percy’s feet were booming, heard from afar as he ran to the creek’s shore. the ares trio hot on his tail as they chased him down. he knew he couldn’t run forever, he’d have to fight, but how on earth was he going to win against three trained teens?

as if clarisse wasn’t frightening enough already, her scream sent literal chills down percy’s back, guess she really likes spears? he thought to himself.

the sounds of cheers and celebration drew the pairs attention as luke planted the opposing teams flag into the floor. they’d lost. percy felt clarisse’s grip falter, only slightly, but not when she saw the flag, clarisse’s eyes were currently trained on something behind him. more bullies? “there you are! i was waiting for you, wanted to show you my new and improved skills.”

clarisse let go of him and he couldn’t believe it, the rage in her eyes seemed to dissipate the second you came around. you, the sweetest person he’d met here, were friends with that thing?

that thing was capable of feelings?

his jaw dropped at the sight of clarisse’s hands on your cheeks, listening to you ramble on about who you’d fought and defeated in the woods, the pretty butterfly you’d seen. percy’s eyes were so close to popping out of his skull as clarisse kissed you, deeply. then he wanted to vomit as hands traveled and tongues met.

at dinner that night you sat by luke and chris, happily eating away as your hand rested on a book infront of you. “hey perce! come sit down.” you patted the space next to you as he accepted. “what’re you reading?” percy stared at the cover you’d flipped over to display to him, well he wasn’t expecting that. “where’d you get it from?” you pointed towards your girlfriend proudly, “she said she knew i’d like it, isn’t that sweet?”

percy’s weird version of a smile caused you to frown, “your smile is scaring me.” he immediately dropped it as you laughed, causing him to nudge you. “don’t be rude, i’m just a baby.” percy hadn’t felt so comfortable with someone since his mother. you pinched his cheeks, “naw, yes you are.” he swatted your hands away as you giggled, percy stared at you, studying you.

shining eyes, a beaming smile and an enchanting personality, truly a daughter of aphrodite, yet you dated clarisse. it didn’t make sense in his head, but from what little scenes he’d seen between the two of you, if you were happy than he was too, “what do you see in clarisse? why are you with someone so—” you turned to look his way, percy was worried you’d be offended.

but of course you weren’t, “because i like her percy, and she likes me. she’s absolutely gorgeous, if she wasn’t already a daughter of ares or i didn’t know? for sure aphrodite. and, people are always misunderstood, just because someone seems like a bad person, doesn’t mean they are. when clarisse and i are together, i see the best parts of her, always. i love her regardless, but there’s obviously things that you don’t tell everybody you just meet, or if you aren’t super comfortable with a person then you won’t show all the parts of yourself. i think, when you love someone you accept all parts of them, the good, the bad, the worst. you love someone despite their flaws. clarisse is good to me, and i like her, that’s all that matters. you’ll understand when you find someone yourself perce.”

he sat still, raking over your words in his head, “if one person can feel that way about someone else, they’d explode.” you laughed at his words, he was still young of course, he’d understand soon, you had a feeling. “i’d happily explode because of how much i love her.” you glanced back at her, only she wasn’t there.

“well i don’t want you to explode, i do want to spend my night with you.” clarisse stood behind you with her arms crossed, you could see percy tense up at her presence. with your hand on his, and your eyes reassuring him, he smiled, “i’m happy for you, but if she try’s anything i’m more than happy to beat her ass for you even if i’m broken in half.”

clarisse couldn’t hear his whispers, thank god. your smile was small, placing a hand on his shoulder, you kissed percy’s forehead, “my protector, now no one can try anything with me huh? thank you perce, if you need anything here at camp, or if you just want to talk and eat those blue foods of yours—” his arms wrapped around your neck tightly as you recovered from the force.

“thank you.”

“any day perce, any time.”

and percy sat back, watching the two of you walk away hand in hand. a clear thought rung through his head.

opposites attract.

#clarisse la rue #clarisse x reader #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue x fem!reader #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson fic #percy jackson x fem!reader #percy jackson x reader

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ceilidho · 5 months ago

Text

sundog

prompt: Simon comes across a girl when she's recently been evicted and takes her back to his place, despite her reservations (nsfw, 8.5k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

The circumstances of your life change so abruptly that you lose sight of it for a moment.

Then, you’re out on the streets with the clothes on your back and a suitcase packed so full that a sweater sleeve sticks out where the zippers meet. The locks to your apartment have already been changed. You know because you tried them anyway, desperately hoping that the eviction notice taped to your door might have been misplaced.

Evidently not. The keys don’t work. You contemplate chucking them on the walk out, but instead you keep them close like a talisman of protection, though it’s failed to live up to its purpose so far.

You’ve got it under control for a day. If by ‘under control’, you mean experiencing a full body panic attack in the locker room of the twenty-four hour gym down the street from your old apartment. The staff gives you uncomfortable looks when you come in on the verge of tears with your suitcase rolling behind you, but they let you in because your membership is up to date. If you can count on anything in life, it’s consumerism.

That doesn’t last long though, mainly because a locker and a wood bench won’t cut it in the long term. You sleep in the back of the local library until a stern-faced, if pitying, librarian threatens to call the cops on you. Pity isn’t sympathy, evidently.

Gym management threatens to cut the lock on the locker you’ve been using as temporary storage space. Matter of fact, they say, you can’t be using the locker room as your quasi apartment between the hours of nine P.M. and seven A.M. just because everything else in the city is closed. Go home, they say.

What home, you don’t say, before packing up your things and heading out on your way.

If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s capitalism.

You didn’t think this kind of thing could happen to someone like you. Someone like you being an ordinary person. Homelessness always felt like a far away concept. But the world is cruel and life is brutal. What you didn’t realize before was that, at any moment in time, you’ve been closer to poverty than wealth, and here you are now, sitting in the park with your suitcase between your legs, the sun rapidly setting behind you, your phone at ten percent battery, and nowhere to go because your family is, frankly, nonexistent, and your friends, for lack of a better word, have almost entirely washed their hands of you.

Sorry, they’d say, the frown emoji expressing something like pity at a distance. We don’t have a couch to spare.

I can sleep on the floor, you’d texted back. They’d gotten cagey after that. People like to be wanted only to a certain extent.

You can feel the panic rise up in you, too big to contain. It comes out in the form of blubbering tears and snot running from your nose. Big, hiccuping sobs. It’s not pretty. Passersby avert their eyes for the most part, save for the ones that eye you with something bordering on perverse delight and that’s what finally makes you get up and speed walk away, lest they feel compelled to approach you.

But even in the tailwinds of summer, it gets cold outside at night. Worst of all, as the evening grows dark, the streets empty out until you can’t help but feel like a beacon with your little rolling suitcase. It clatters against the sidewalk as you try to hoof it down the street, looking for any shop still open to loiter in. Most close after nine though. You’ve googled homeless shelters, but the sheer anxiety keeps you floundering around up and down the streets instead.

It feels beyond helpless. You’re in a state like you’ve never been before, crying under a streetlamp because you needed a moment just to get your bearings.

What you know now is that this world is a house of false bottoms. You thought the circumstances of your life could never change. You were never well to do, but you were doing well. The sight of the unhoused sitting with their backs to the brick and mortar stores on your walk home or congregated in a park in the middle of the city with their tents and shopping carts used to fill you with immeasurable pity, maybe even a quiet moment’s reflection; now, you see them as kin.

Easy, isn’t it? To slip between states. To go from solid to liquid to gaseous. Easier than you ever could have expected.

When it starts to rain, you almost close your eyes in relief. Anyone could’ve predicted this.

You almost don’t respond to him at first, keeping your eyes trained on the sidewalk to avoid any bumps. Also, it never pays to look up at a man barking at you, especially not when he’s barking something like, Girl or Bird, turn around.

Then he says it again, closer this time, and you’re forced to look up, if only to see who’s approaching you. Your suspicion melts away to distrust at the sight of the man stalking towards you. Distrust with a touch of trepidation—maybe outright alarm. Surely no man his size wearing a balaclava tucked into a hoodie straining around his arms would have innocent designs on you.

He’s one of the bigger men you’ve ever come across. You look across the street to see if there’s a bar missing its bouncer, but all the shop fronts are dark like the ones on your side.

You don’t bolt at the sight of him, but it’s a near thing. He appears from nowhere, and yet there’s nowhere for him to hide. Not with the size and breadth of him damn near taking up the whole sidewalk. His demeanour and stride evoke such a sense of authority that at first you mistake him for a plainclothes man, and wouldn’t that be just the icing on the shit cake of a week you’ve been experiencing. But something about him says otherwise.

“Plan on catchin’ your death out here?” he asks, and you shiver. Not from the cold, but from the sound of his voice.

You’re not used to talking to strangers. A month ago, you would’ve ignored the man lambasting you for being out in the rain; maybe crossed the street and hailed a cab instead. You don’t have those kinds of options anymore. The only thing left in your repertoire is to shout back.

“I’ve got mace!” you yell out, your voice a hoarse rattle carved out from hours spent crying.

“That’ll do ya fuck all out here,” he says, a touch condescendingly. “You lost or somethin’?”

“I’m not lost,” you sniff, rubbing the snot away from your nose with the end of your sleeve.

“Then get home instead of roamin’ the streets. You’re askin’ to get snatched up, bird.”

The threat of that has been lingering in your head these past few days, even stretching back to the very first moment that you noticed the sign on your door, but now it has its intended effect. You shake.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs. “Why the fuck not? Need someone to call you a cab?”

“I got evicted. I don’t have a home,” you say, and sniffle when your nose leaks again. Saying it outloud brings tears to your eyes again, a pressure building behind your orbital sockets and down to the tip of your nose.

You must look like the saddest thing in the world standing there in the rain under the dim light of the streetlamp, the pole looped with graffiti and old gum. When the man berating you for being out in it takes a step forward, coming into the light, you can finally make out the bored depths of his eyes. A deep brown. Entirely unimpressed with the picture in front of him, maybe even a bit peeved.

Your socks are wet and your shoes squelch when you take a step back. You pull the sheer sweater tighter around your frame, but it does nothing to protect you from the damp, frigid air.

“You been out here long?” he asks, taking another step closer. Not tentatively either. His gaze sweeps over you proprietarily, taking stock; his arrogance comes as an afterthought. He’s not rubbing it in your face that he can do whatever he likes—he just does.

You wheel your suitcase around in front of you to put something between the two of you. “…Just today. The gym kicked me out.”

You sound petulant, words chewed between your lips and teeth; begrudgingly admitting to the various pitfalls of your existence. All the bad luck. It’s shameful to admit to losing complete control of your life.

“Haven’t ya got any family, girl? Friends? What’re they letting a girl like you stay out on the streets for?”

You could be sick on the pavement. “…That’s none of your business.”

His eyes go flat at that, unimpressed. “You always this nasty to people tryin’ to help?”

And you’re not. That’s the part that grates the most. You’re all soft underbelly; no bark, no bite. It’s inconceivable that this could’ve happened to you—inconceivable because your head is filled with false promises and mythologies. The myth of exceptionalism. This happens to other people. Not good girls that go to college and get their degrees and find a stable job.

They’ve pulled the rug out from under you so fast that you haven’t even toppled over yet. That’s how quick it all happened.

“What help are you?” The bite comes out of nowhere, fueled by bitter humiliation and resentment for the predicament you’ve found yourself in. “Are you gonna put me up in a hotel?”

“Think I’m made of money, bird?” he asks rhetorically.

“You’ve probably got more than I have.”

Now you’re weepy again at the thought. Down to your last hundred dollars and you’re in between jobs at the moment. It might’ve been easier to haul yourself out of poverty if applying for jobs didn’t require a mailing address. That’ll be your first priority once you find a place to live. But conversely, how are you meant to find housing with no proof of income? Landlords laugh in your face before slamming the door shut. The conversations are circular, but they always come to a grinding halt; that’s the only thing you’ve learned to expect.

The worst part of this whole conversation is that it doesn’t follow any of the scripts you’ve previously memorized. When have you ever had to deal with a man interrogating you about your place of residence? It makes no sense.

It’s inconceivable to imagine that this is happening to you, but it is. Life comes at you hard, with a razor’s edge. Sharp enough to cut, to lacerate.

“You need a place to stay,” he states bluntly.

“It’s fine. I’ll—I’ll find something.”

“You could come home with me.” He says it so bluntly that for a moment all you can do is blink. Surely you misheard him. Surely a man of his size and breadth, dark mask obscuring his face, wouldn’t be daft enough to ask a woman he found on the street to come home with him.

The offer, as well-intentioned as you hope it is, puts you on edge. “No, that’s…that’s alright. I don’t want to…put you out. I was going to look up nearby shelters.”

“Shelters’ll all be full this time of night,” he says. “Never been on the streets?”

You clenched your teeth, nerves starting to get the better of you.

“I can go to a church,” you say, voice terse now, frayed with nerves.

He snorts. “Haven’t been to one in a long time, but pretty sure those close too, pet. It’s late.”

You sway on your feet, the suitcase at your side the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. Dead ends everywhere you turn. You’ve always thought of yourself as resourceful; that if push came to shove, you’d figure your way out of any sticky situation. That smacks of arrogance now. All your suppositions are dissolving right in front of you, your own self-image along with it.

A heavy foot stepping into a puddle brings you back to focus. The masked man is closer now, within arm’s reach. Your heart jumps into your throat. He towers over you, monolith man; big as a sequoia, or other deadland creatures that vanish out of sight when you catch a shadow out of the corner of your eye and whirl around to look it dead on.

“I can’t go home with a stranger.”

You know you’re not supposed to put your faith in strange men. Bad things happen to girls that go around trusting any man that offers up their help.

The fist in your chest loosens infinitesimally when the man reaches up to pull the mask off his head. He’s every inch the brute you imagined in your head—blunt chin and crooked nose, a nasty scar running up his lip. There are scars all over his face, in fact—bisecting his left eyebrow and down his cheek. The blond hair on his head is slightly grown out, like he’s used to keeping it neat and tight but it’s been awhile since his head has seen a razor. His beard grows in a bit patchy, the burnish gold of a five o’clock shadow.

You frown. “Is that supposed to make me trust you?”

“Well, now we’re not strangers, are we?”

“That doesn’t—that doesn’t change anything! I still don’t know you.”

He shrugs. Takes a step back. “Suit yourself then. No skin off my ass.”

Your stomach roils, anxiety coming back with a vengeance. You hadn’t noticed it recede since the man started talking to you, but you notice its return. When he makes a move to turn back around, you lurch forward, your hand extending out and fisting in the side of his shirt. He pauses, then looks down at you.

“…Where else am I supposed to go?” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “Could sleep on a bench in the park.”

You glare at him through tear-soaked eyes. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be. You’re shit out of other options at this time of night.”

“So, what? Now it’s-it’s my fault or something?”

His eyes don’t exactly soften, but they lose their hard edge.

“I’m not gonna ask twice,” he says. Not cautioning you, just stating a fact. “You coming or not?”

Disaster seems like a given at this point. At least you could pick your poison.

Words are beyond you though, so you just bite your lip and nod, eyes downcast now.

What else is there for you to do but follow him after that? You trail along after him like a sad, wet cat left out in the rain.

He finds her wandering the streets with her pretty little suitcase rolling over every bump and crack in the sidewalk and there’s no fighting the urge to drag her home.

She doesn’t look like a runaway. Just a poor thing down on her luck. Her cheeks practically glisten with her tears when she looks up at him with her big, pathetic eyes, and it makes his cock plump up against his thigh.

That’s not what this is about though. Simon presses his hand against his dick to rub out some of the ache while she flutters around the bedroom and reminds himself of that again. He didn’t take her home to maul her like a dog. He dragged her back to his flat because she looked wounded and scared out of her wits.

He can be good every now and then.

“Sit down, will ya?” he grunts, tugging her down onto the couch when she flits across the room to grab more of her shit out of her suitcase, glancing down at him apprehensively on her way by. She yelps when he sends her sprawling onto the couch.

His flat isn’t much. A one-bedroom above a laundromat; eggshell walls and torn up baseboards because he hasn’t gotten around to fixing the place up. It’s better than sleeping on the streets though, he knows that much.

Simon’s no stranger to that; if being in the military taught him anything, it was how to survive regardless of circumstances. In the weeks after his medical discharge—his knees beyond busted, basically bone on bone, and even these days, though he works more to have something to do than to earn a living, they still scream at him when he puts too much weight on them—he wandered aimlessly for a bit, crashing on Gaz’s couch for a bit and sleeping on benches for a spell after that before finding his footing again.

Simon ignores the way that she yaps at him though, used to tuning people out. He flicks on the television and flips to a show that looks vaguely entertaining before getting up and ambling over to the kitchen.

“D-do you want me to help?” she asks from the kitchen, tripping over her words in her haste to get them out.

She reeks of the need to please. Desperate; cloying, sickly sweet like flowering dracaena. It clings to her like a perfume, silk-wrapped and packaged just for him. It could give a man like him indecent thoughts. His thoughts already tend towards the impure.

He must eye her like a ravenous animal because she flinches suddenly under his gaze, eyes flicking away nervously before meeting his again. Good girl, Simon wants to say. Eyes on me.

“Sit down,” he barks instead, and relishes in the way she sits back down with her hands tucked under her thighs.

She’s really a pretty little thing. A shame that he found her out wandering in the rain, out where any man with worse intentions could have stumbled across her. The thought alone could drive him to violence. Again he stares at the back of her head and the slope of her shoulders, evaluating. His bloodlust dulls to a simmer. It pounds in his ears like a dull drum, but at least now he can hear again.

Anyone else could have found her first, but they didn’t. He did. That tempers the homicidal impulse thrumming in his blood. She’s in his flat now, freshly showered and skin still damp. When she looks over her shoulder, it’s him she sees.

Poor bird with her clipped wings. She’s not in danger of flying off anytime soon. The thought placates him. Tucked away in his cage, he doesn’t have to rend anyone limb from limb.

It’s been years since he traded in his fatigues for a hi vis jumpsuit, but some days he misses it so acutely that his hands shake and his vision fades in and out. This is one of those days. He toys with the idea of reaching out to Price in the morning to learn more about her, but then discards the idea. Better if it comes straight from her.

Besides, he doesn’t like asking for favours anyway.

“Name’s Simon, by the way,” he grunts, nostrils flaring when he sees her flinch at the sound of his voice. “Riley.”

“Oh,” is all she says. He waits a beat.

“Gonna give me your name, bird?”

She does, voice squeaky like it’s said under duress. That pisses him off more.

He's not much of a cook, but he can whip up something quick, so he tosses one of his frozen meals into the microwave and sits her in front of the TV while she shivers and shakes on the couch.

They eat in silence, the TV on in the background. It’s the only noise besides the soft sound of her chewing. Simon can tell she’s gone hungry in recent days by the voracious way she eats, unable to keep herself from shovelling the food into her mouth. She seems almost embarrassed by it after swallowing her last bite, looking over at him from the corner of her eye like a guilty dog. He ignores it, keeping his eyes on the TV instead.

He can tell she wants to say something. A shit childhood and two decades in the military have left him with the ability to sniff out tension, and it comes off her in waves. After putting her plate on the coffee table, she sits back against the couch and squeezes her fists over her lap. Gnaws her lip and casts furtive glances in his direction. When the tears build up on her waterline, his cock twitches.

“What?” he barks after the umpteenth sniffle, twisting to face her.

“I—um—I just wanted to say thank you,” she whispers, her head still tilted downward, trying to make herself small enough to go unnoticed.

Simon stares down at her, unblinking. He half wishes she’d cry a little more, just a few tears to soothe the beast in his chest. It’s better for her that her eyes remain dry. He doesn’t think he could hold himself back if one slipped down her cheek right now. He’d have to grab her by the nape of her neck and twist her over the side of the couch, shove down both their drawers and feed his cock into the warm, wet slot between her legs. Pummel her little cunt until his spend leaks out in thick, viscous globs, until her thighs shake so violently that only his hands on her shoulders and his shaft shoved deep in her pussy keeps her upright.

He can almost smell it from between her legs, throbbing with gratefulness. He stares down unabashedly at the spot between her legs. Let her say something about it.

“Don’t mention it,” he says instead, tilting his head when her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. “‘Was nothing.”

“No, it was really nice of you,” she insists, speaking more forcefully after gathering up some of her courage. “What if I…—you took a stranger into your house.”

That gets the blood pumping. “Gonna gut me while I sleep, pet?”

It’s half deranged that his cock chubs up in his jeans at the thought of his little bird with a knife in her hands, hands dripping with wet, dark blood. He shifts, readjusting himself so the metal teeth of his zipper don’t bite into his dick.

She frowns. Endearing. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Not really good at looking after yourself, are you?”

“I am—it’s just…” tears build up on her waterline again, “it was one thing after another. I couldn’t get it all together.”

Pity isn’t an emotion he’s accustomed to feeling. Simon’s not even sure if that’s what he’s feeling now. It’s more like the bastard child of pity.

He lets her off to bed with a warning not to fuck with anything in his room. She skitters off quickly after that. Her cute little ass follows her into the room until she shuts the door behind her, hiding it from view. He huffs. Being good never gets him anywhere.

He lets her run away though because he can’t tarnish everything he touches. Some things deserve to stay polished.

Instead, he brushes his teeth and washes the last of the dishes before turning in as well, getting a clean sheet out of the linen closet to drape over himself. The couch isn’t nearly long enough for him to stretch out on, not like the king sized bed in his room; there’s already a spring poking him right in the middle of his back.

Sleep won’t come easy tonight.

Simon wakes up on the couch with a kink in his neck. He lays there for several minutes gritting his teeth until the worst of it passes. When he sits up, his back cracks and pops, joints loosening only reluctantly. His age is getting away from him again; the wear and tear on his body finally starting to catch up. There’s only so much abuse he can put himself through.

The morning races on outside his front door and he has work to get to, but his body orients towards the closed door of his bedroom almost without his say. It creaks as it swings open.

In the slowly dimming haze of sleep, he must have subconsciously thought he dreamt the night before because seeing the girl from yesterday curled up in his bed halts him in his tracks. Her suitcase is open on the floor beside the bed. She must have changed into her pyjamas after slinking away last night because he doesn’t recognize the little cotton shorts hugging the swell of her ass and the shirt riding up over her belly button.

Despite the perfunctory morning jerk he gave himself just ten minutes prior, his cock twitches in his work pants, gaze locked on the underside of her ass, the flesh peeking out from beneath her sleep shorts.

The hunger ebbs out of a deep, cavernous hole in him. A heavy, oppressive heat; lust so gnarled and twisted that he hardly recognizes it. He can see it play out in his mind—crawling over the bird’s prone form and turning her over onto her belly, his knees on either side of her legs, cloaking her. Tugging down the zipper of his pants and wrenching those slutty shorts down to mid-thigh before burying his shaft in her hole. Little bird that followed him home, sleeping in his bed. She should thank him for his help with a wet hole.

Simon takes a step into the room and then stops. He won’t—can’t—

His teeth grind together from how hard he clenches his jaw.

He stands in the doorway and watches her sleep in his bed for longer than he should. Only when he feels something ugly well up in his chest does he finally bark out her name, snorting softly when she jumps and nearly falls right off the side of the bed.

“Get up,” Simon grunts. “And make yourself something to eat. I’ve gotta head out.”

He walks away before the befuddled look on her face makes him crack a smile.

She tiptoes out a few minutes later, still in her PJs. Her wary glances tick him off. For the effort it’s taken him to keep his hands to himself, he deserves more than her shifty looks, scoring him like he split her little peach open in her sleep.

Breakfast is an uncomfortable affair. It’s partly his fault, but he doesn’t apologize for it. They eat in tense silence until it’s time for him to head to work.

“Don't think about leaving—any of my shit gets nicked and it's your ass.”

He leaves her with that warning, slamming the door behind him.

Your heart goes quiet at the dawning of your new life.

Adjusting to your new reality takes a bit of effort. The first few days with Simon feel tenuous at best. You worry constantly about doing something wrong and finding yourself back out on the streets. You’re thankful to the point of pandering, apologizing for any sudden move or sound that you make. You can tell it annoys him.

The real work is recontextualizing your perception of yourself. The world feels strange now that you’re outside of it; alien somehow. You used to think of yourself as somehow inextricably woven into the fabric of society. The thought of losing everything never even occurred to you. It never even presented itself as a possibility. You worried about homelessness the way people worry about quicksand—in some nebulous way touching on the real without being absorbed by it.

And now you are cut from another cloth altogether; abruptly, without any warning. You used to feel like one with the rest of the world, a kind of kinship based less on parentage or ancestry and more on inner nature. Weren’t you the same as any of them? But now the drapery has been pulled down and you know—you are not the same.

Your future used to shimmer under the surface like a bioluminescent fish, but now it’s just a ghost.

He tells you to stay put when he goes to work so you do, spending the days puttering around the apartment, watching TV, and cleaning. There’s not much else to do. It’s almost a relief, to be honest. You’ve spent so much time without a place to call home that the second someone offered you one, the outside world became anathema in your head. You couldn’t step foot out of the front door even if you wanted to.

Tears well up at the smallest thing. You blubber over not being able to work the coffee machine in the kitchen. When the sound goes out on the TV, you cry so hard that it leaves you woozy. You’re lachrymose, downtrodden. Soul a startling verdigris; your waterlines might as well be white with encrustations of salt.

He must notice the dark cloud following you from room to room, but he doesn’t bring it up. You’d find it tactful, but you know him a bit better than that.

Then Simon brings home a cat after his shift one day and you don’t know what to say to that.

Thank you doesn’t seem to suffice. I love it doesn’t cut it close. The truth of the matter is that words only ever approximate the feeling; they can get close enough to give you a glimmer of what’s stashed inside, but you can’t pry them all the way open. So you take the off-white cat from him when he practically tosses the poor thing into your arms, and stare up at him wide-eyed, eyes already watering for reasons once again unbeknownst to you.

“Thank you for taking him home,” you say, already on the verge of tears.

He stares down at you, unblinking. You’re learning to read into his silences though.

“Don’t expect me to take care of it,” he says instead of accepting your thanks. “If you can’t handle it, it’s going back outside.”

You hold the cat tight to your chest, staring up at him with horror until the little beast nearly scratches your eye out in an effort to squirm out of your arms.

At first, you’re not sure what to make of it. It can’t be a peace offering because, apart from the rare occasions where you manage to get on his nerves (not wholly impossible, but you’re learning how to stay on his good side for the most part), you and Simon get along pretty well. You coexist, at least. He cooks, you clean.

It’s likely a distraction, you finally realize, something to keep you from moping around the apartment all the time, listless and directionless. Despite the fact that you’re no longer in any immediate danger now that you have a roof over your head, misery still clings to you like a second skin. The relative safety of Simon’s flat has actually only given you a chance to really properly mourn the loss of your former life.

Training the cat to wear a harness without tipping over (the little drama king) and taking him on his first walk outside (just a little turn around the block, though you half jump out of your skin whenever you cross paths with another person) gives you enough of a sense of purpose to propel you through the next week.

You can tell that Simon thinks the cat is more trouble than it’s worth, especially when it decides to fixate on the one person in the flat that doesn’t pay it a lick of attention, but still it makes your heart melt to see it curled up by his side when you watch TV together at the end of the night.

“Is this normal for you?” you ask, hands folded in your lap.

His gaze doesn’t move from the television screen. “Is what normal?”

“Taking in strays.”

He snorts, then takes a second to answer. “No.”

You wonder if he intends to sound as caustic as he comes across. The truth is self-evident though. Words only mask the real, and the real in this case is that Simon Riley is a man that feeds and takes home strays. He can grumble about it all he wants. It’s a bit demeaning to think of yourself that way, but once again, the truth is what it is.

You study him from the corner of your eye until bedtime rolls around again. He’s become the most interesting thing in the world to you, through every fault of his own.

If he didn’t want you to fixate on him, he wouldn’t have left you home alone with nothing else to do.

“Bird!” Simon roars from the other room. “The cat’s pissed on the floor again.”

You spring out of bed before Simon has a chance to toss it out onto the balcony.

It feels temporary up until the first time you use Simon’s address on a job application. It stands out stark on your phone screen, black on glowing white. You’ve always preferred it to dark mode, though that preference has fluctuated in recent weeks as you’ve spent more and more time on your phone.

This is the first time staring at the screen without blinking for a prolonged period of time that hasn’t left you with a throbbing migraine.

He tells you to stop bothering him with stupid shit when you ask him if it’s alright to use his address. That answers that. Guilt lingers on the periphery of your mind the first time that you do, but then the application is submitted. An innocuous grey box that redefines your whole world in a way that [Thanks for applying!] doesn’t seem to encapsulate.

Your old friends come next. They come back one by one, guilty, furtive looks aplenty. You Facetime the one who wouldn’t let you sleep on her couch while sitting on Simon’s bed. When she asks you about your living situation, all you tell her is that you found a roommate. It doesn’t feel right to give her more information than that. What has she done to deserve your honesty?

You manage pleasantries and a half decent conversation, but truth again lingers at the back of your mind. The unspoken reality that this person—someone you trusted—could’ve been there for you in your time of need but chose to look the other way instead. Like taking you in would’ve been some big, terrible thing.

The body forgets everything except what hurts it. The body remembers nothing except what helps it survive.

Gratefulness lodges into your heart like an arrow shot from a castle’s ramparts intent on your demise. You could pull it out from the other side and succumb to blood loss, or you could push forward, lay siege to the man hidden inside its walls.

And you do. You want to show him every grateful inch of you. Even when it only results in more upset. Simon comes home to the smoke alarm blaring and a small fire in the microwave before he bans you from the kitchen altogether. You only cry for an hour in the bedroom with the door shut before he drags you out to takeout on the table in the living room. It’s an improvement.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle into your veggie burger, on the verge of tears again when you glance into the kitchen to see most of the mess still there.

“It’s fine.”

“I just want to—I wanted to make it up to you…for taking me in.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” he says brusquely, dismissing you. His tone tells you to drop it, but that seems as likely as you growing wings and flying away.

“Yes, I do. You let me stay here when I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“If you want to make it up to me, take care of the cat and stop leaving your shit all over the bathroom. Found your knickers on the floor after you showered yesterday.”

Your face goes hot at that. You have nothing else to say.

Your attraction is a banal consequence of living under the same roof as him. There are only so many times he can come up behind you while you’re making your morning cup of coffee and swipe your mug before taking a sip from over your shoulder, barricading you against the counter. Acutely aware of the size of him with the way he’s pressed up against you.

You lose your train of thought whenever Simon wanders into a room. He lumbers in like a beast, steel-toed boots covered in mud and dust, ignoring the way you scold him for walking around the apartment in his shoes. Just cocks an eyebrow and stares down at you knowingly, like he can see right through you, knows that you’re only squawking and flitting around to hide the way your thighs rub together.

“It’s my fuckin’ flat,” he says instead of pointing out that your pussy’s wet because she knows there’s a man in the house that could take care of her proper. You know it too.

“I live here too, you know,” you huff. “I can’t wash the floors every time you come home.”

“Thought I was doing you a favour letting you live here.”

His words would fill you with righteous indignation, but they don’t because his actions don’t line up. You study him like a moth under glass, enthralled by the parts of him that used to frighten you.

It’s more than that though. He’s wedged himself into the hurt place in your heart, holding it up like Atlas.

You really do think that there’s something so special about him that you’ll never be able to articulate. Simon is everything you didn’t know you desperately wanted. The longer you live with him, the harder it is to deny how much you need him.

You will show your gratitude though. Every tender, aching morsel of it.

The little peach she grinds on his thigh is wet and ripe. Simon doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t need her gratitude; if he wanted it, he would’ve taken it already. But he doesn’t shove her out of his lap either. It’s not his problem if she thinks it’s necessary or not.

Maybe it’s not solely for his benefit, he concedes when she winds both arms around his neck and pushes her supple tits into his chest, climbing over his lap until her pussy is pressed right up against the cock fattening up in his jeans. She whimpers like she’s in pain.

Must not come a lot; he knows she at least hasn’t in recent days. Simon’s always been a light sleeper—he’s sure he would’ve heard any desperate attempts to get herself off in his bed, the springs creaking under her weight, her hushed, bitten off moans leaking out from under the doorframe. The thought riles him up more than he thought it would.

Still, Simon doesn’t lift a hand to help the poor bird in his lap as she grinds down on his length. His arms stay stretched across the back of the couch, hips canted just enough to give her a perch and nothing more.

She gasps every word into his ear, voice all pitched and breathy. “Ah, ah, ah—thank you, thank you, I…—can I please have it? Please, please let me, Simon, pleasepleaseplease—”

It feels like everything they’ve been through so far has been leading to this. He’d smelt it coming like blood in the water.

All week, his bird has been sitting on her hands and trying not to give herself away. Cloaked in a nervous, frenetic energy. Anticipatory. She’d doe-eyed him the night before and begged him to sleep in the bed with her instead of wrecking his back on the couch, but he’d ignored her in favour of watching Argentina decimate Croatia in the semi-finals. It must have not sat right with her though because she’d been broody from the moment he left for work until he got home, steering him into the kitchen and practically hand feeding him before coaxing him into the living room to watch a movie while she cuddled up beside him.

That hadn’t lasted long.

“What’s gotten into you, pet?” Simon asks, hardly dissuading her when she presses petal soft lips to his jaw and nuzzles, breathing heavily. His heart swells. Desperate little slut.

“Took care of me,” she mumbles, almost slurring her words. “Always taking care of me, Simon.”

There’s no denying how hard it makes him to think about being her protector. The littlest things make her smile. Even the bloody cat had her trailing after him for a week straight after the fact, eternally underfoot. Always trying to curry favour. Eager to please.

Her worship leaves him unbalanced. Unstable even. A train careening off its track, the massive weight of catastrophe right behind it. The sense that life will never be the same after this. His surface level indifference is underscored by steeled self-control. He keeps his arms on the couch because he knows the second he puts them on her, it’s over. There’ll be no holding him back anymore, no possibility of him ever letting her go back out into the real world. Lock jawed, teeth sunk into her tender underbelly.

“Told you, you don’t owe me nothing,” Simon murmurs, curling his hands under her ass.

“Then—then…—I don’t know, pretend it’s just for me.” It’s a joke because they both know it’s not just for her. When her eyes sparkle with amusement, his cock throbs.

He lets her ruck the shirt over his head and struggle with his belt until she manages to unbuckle it like he has no say in the matter. She’s far less considerate with her own clothes, shucking them off and nearly ripping her knickers in the process, which almost prompts him to take her by the wrists and slow her down. He likes the lace and frills.

It’s a fight to fit his cock into her hole, as slick as she is. Coin slot tight; he almost breaks and tells her to take it easy when she reaches behind her to line his shaft up with her entrance and sits down, just barely stretching around the mushroomed head of his dick before wincing, tears springing into her eyes.

Simon does break when she tries to sink down another inch, thighs shaking violently. “Right, get off—you ain’t ready for this.”

“I am!” she insists, face screwed up in a scowl and a bead of sweat dripping down her temple. “Just—I can do it, Simon—”

“No, you can’t. You’re rushing and hurting yourself—”

“Wait, okay, wait, I can…just give me a minute, okay?” she begs, and he doesn’t tell her that he’d give her all the time in the world. Stay on this couch until the flesh fell off his bones. He’s waited so long; what’s a little longer?

Besides, the sight of her stretching herself out with her fingers is reward enough. She whines into his shoulder and shudders when she has to force another finger in before she’s ready. Too eager. It could give a man a complex. His blood is already scorching him from the inside out, too hot for his veins.

He considers helping her out, but watching her writhe and struggle in his lap is far more enjoyable.

He stopped paying attention awhile back, too focused on cupping her tits and running his tongue around the budded areola, sucking her pert nipple into his mouth, but she couldn’t have gotten to more than three fingers before running out of patience and lining him up again. This time, she sinks a bit deeper on the first stroke, still choking on her breath but forcing herself to take a bit more.

“You’re alright—you’re alright,” Simon murmurs, stroking a hand up and down her back while she impales herself on his length. She’s still too tight to take him comfortably, sweats and shakes over him. He pinches her nipple to distract her from the pain and smiles when she yelps.

She melts all over him, slick drenching his shaft and lap, her tongue lapping at the sweaty skin of his neck. Honeysuckle fragrant; the sweetest thing he’s ever known. Silken, tight. Fits like a glove around him.

He could lose himself in her. Piston into her until the thought of where he begins and where he ends dissolves into the tight warmth between her legs.

His bird is a greedy girl. She uses him like a toy to get herself off, bouncing in his lap and mewling into his ear everytime his cockhead nudges against her cervix. Too big to fit all the way in.

“You do this a lot, pet? Fuck every man that lends you a hand?” he pants, taunting her.

“No!” she snarls in his ear, feisty and sharp-toothed. Her nails dig into his back, scoring white lines into his skin. The shiver that wracks him is so violent that his arms tighten around her waist reflexively, making her gasp.

It doesn’t matter whether she does this often or not; the only thing that matters is that he’s the only man that gets to fuck her from here on out. Still, winding her up is half the fun.

“Perfect girl,” Simon chuckles, breathless. “Made for me. Got m’self a pet right off the street.”

And he did, didn’t he? Went wandering out into the night and came home with a bird fluttering her wet little wings.

His conscience is clean. He could’ve tied her down, kept her right where he wanted her (in his bed, his flat, the yawning cavity of his chest—) but his self-control remains unparalleled. Tough as nails. Strong as steel. And now look at what he has as a reward for his patience—a fever-hot cunt around his cock and delicate fingernails scratching the base of his skull.

A pretty bird that’s made his chest a cage.

The world goes vertical, horizontal. Fluid; sliding away from him. Something crashes in the background, so far off in the distance that he can hardly make out the sound.

He opens his eyes to find the ceiling staring back down at him, and then her face, hovering over him on the carpeted floor, her hands kneading the muscle of his chest. Her brows are drawn tight now, pinched. She stares down at him, past him, gaze like a transparent veil.

“Gi’me…gi’me…” she pants, barely able to pull herself off his cock.

He has to dig his fingers into her ass and pull her off, ignoring the way she whines and begs him to fill her back up. Ignores it because he knows what’s best for her; knows how to take care of what he owns.

When he bucks up into her, she chokes, fingers nearly yanking his chest hair out.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s pretty,” he breathes. Snaps his hips up into hers again, relishing in the way she squeezes tight around him, almost to the point of pain.

His pleasure always comes jagged though. Whether the ache of his joints or nails tearing up the skin of his back and chest. Vicious and messy—how he likes it. She gives him everything he could want and more. The hand dug into his chest right above his heart could pierce right through the flesh and tear it out.

He pulls her all the way off his cock just for the pleasure of hearing her beg him again, then pulls her up his chest and eats her out until the beast in his belly calms down.

He yields to her whining only after a good few minutes. Soft bastard. Drags her back down until her soaked hole mouths at the head of his cock and he thrusts back up inside. Home. It’s his now, whether she likes it or not. Simon guesses he’s lucky that she wants it too; if he had to convince her, he would, but her desperation is just another gift for him to savour.

“Squeeze me good, bird. Say thank you—” thank you for taking me home, thank you for keeping me– almost spills off his tongue, but he reigns it in. She knows what to be thankful for.

“Nngh, Simon,” she sings, fucking herself on his cock. The sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

Simon’s never felt bigger than under his sweet bird. Thighs spread so wide around him that he knows she’ll ache in the morning. Brutish hands groping her thighs and waist and tits, rough against the softness of her skin. Stuffed full of a big cock, not even to the root; she bites right through her bottom lip when Simon pets at the thin skin stretched around his cock, her gaze wounded, overwhelmed.

Nearly blacks out at the thought of cramming a finger up there too. Only faint concern for her well-being tamps down the urge.

“Come on, fuck—that good, pet?”

“R-right there, oh god, ohgodohgod—”

He lets her ride him until she comes, until he comes, until his spend is blistering hot in her cunt, drooling down the length of his cock, frothy white with her cream and his come.

It’s a sight to look at. Gets him right in the chest. Nothing like times of yore; this is something with meaning, with feeling. When he lifts her off, his seed trickles out of her soft hole in white globs and makes his chest ache. It doesn’t matter whether it takes root or not. All that he needs is already here.

Beautiful and rare as a sundog; haloed by light. All this time, he dared not think this could be it.

He thinks he’ll love her with the same ferocity Icarus had on his descent.

She shivers when he traces his fingers up her spine. “N’more. M’tired.”

“Wasn’t gonna, pet.”

The bedroom then. She twitches in his arms when Simon carries her to bed and pats his chest approvingly when he slides in beside her.

He could’ve told her that it’d end up this way. He smiles indulgently when she shifts and splays over his chest, her nose nudging his nipple. Already fast asleep.

In the morning, you sit across from him, half a grapefruit in a bowl in front of you and a mug of coffee, black.

“I think I want to go back to school,” you say, apropos of nothing. The spoon clinks against the inside of the bowl.

“Yeah?” he says, only half-listening.

“I can always get a part time job on the days when I don’t have class. I never liked my old job anyway.”

“Do whatever you want,” Simon grunts. “Not my problem.”

Under the table, your cat’s tail curls around your ankle while he waits for you to sneak him the scraps.

You smile.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost/reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley/reader #simon riley x you

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cazshmere · 5 months ago

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Synastry Observations Pt.2

materialist🔖

DISCLAIMER: These are just my personal observations and are meant for entertainment purposes only; it may not resonate with everyone due to the nuances of astrology. Please respect my work and avoid copying or stealing it. Enjoy reading!! 🍊⭐️

🍊 Mars in the 12th house synastry has got to be one of the worst things 😭. It’s confusing and exhausting. The Mars person seems to harbour some sort of irrational animosity towards the house person in a very passive-aggressive way. The house person can sense this too, but they are unsure if they’re making it up or not. Also, it’s such a blockage; you could be really close to each other and know of each other, but the conversation WOULD TAKE AGES to start because neither the house person nor the Mars person wants to initiate conversation. It’s like there’s an invisible barrier between you guys 🥲

🍊 Venus in the 8th house/ in Scorpio’s first romantic relationship or situation always ends up hurting them. I’ve seen this countless times where their first experience with romance either ends in heartbreak, unrequited love, or just a missed opportunity. This heartbreak helps these individuals immensely transform, and they might prefer to isolate themselves from anything romance-related for a long period of time. Honestly I think this is a canon event for every Scorpio/8th house Venus that I’ve met, including me lmao and especially if there are Venus-Saturn hard aspects, dear lord, sending love to all my scorp/8th house placements fr🫶🏻🥲❤️‍🩹

🍊 Something I’ve observed with Libra placements, especially the moon, is that when they’re in a relationship, it becomes the focal point of their life. They might go as far as changing career paths to be closer to their partner, altering their style to match their partner’s preferences, or adjusting their personality to be more appealing to their partner (yes I’m sure most of us do this to some extent but it’s a bit excessive for these peeps😭). Their relationship becomes such a central part of their identity that if anything goes wrong, it can feel devastating for them. For instance, I have a friend who is a Libra moon, and she always refers to her partner as “my boyfriend” instead of his name, even though we all know him personally, like gurl come on he’s got a name haha😭

🍊 Moon in the 12th house synastry can equate to the house person opening up to the moon person or just feeling extremely vulnerable around them. They’d share things with the moon person that they dare not share with anyone else. This synastry could also mean staying up late in the night and throwing your sleep away just to talk to each other 🧿

🍊 12th house synastry could also have undertones of enemies-to-lovers (the lovers part only if you ever get together, that is) because there’s this energy where you don’t know why the other person acts hostile/passive-aggressive towards you, ignores you, or sends you mixed signals that makes you dislike them but at the same time, you can’t stop fantasizing/dreaming about them in all these romantic scenarios or them showing up in your dreams outta nowhere like??😭

🍊 7th/8th and even 10th (to some extent) house synastry could indicate that one of the two, either the house person or the planet person (mostly the house person), copies the other, be it mannerisms, clothes, slang, or even certain traits of the other’s personality 💀. It’s because they notice how much attention or admiration the planet person garners, so to obtain that same kind of attention and recognition the house person might try to emulate the planet person 🫤

🍊 7th house Mars synastry can be very annoying and tiresome (especially for the house person). The Mars person could be a bit too much for the house person. The Mars person could get very petty and passive-aggressive towards the house person for no reason (this could go vice versa too). Yes there is sexual attraction and y’all could motivate/support each other through stuff but at the same time it’s draining asf, a big no no for me when it comes to synastry 🥲

🍊 Moon square Saturn synastry can cause delays when it comes to emotional attachment between two people, but once these two finally connect, it’s ride or die typa relationship fr 🥺🫂

🍊 Moon/Mercury in the 1st/5th/9th house synastry is very exciting and fun-loving, with lots of playful teasing and bantering with each other 😋🥰

🍊Moon /Mercury in the 2nd/4th/8th/10th/12th house synastry makes both parties very sensitive to each other’s words because these houses reflect our self esteem/self worth, the deepest parts of ourselves, our core, our reputation etc. A little bit of critique can also be taken personally by either party. Even harmless jokes could be taken in the wrong way and arguments could occur (especially if there isn’t 3rd/5th/9th/11th house synastry or any easy aspects in the synastry chart)

🍊 When someone's planets fall in your 8th house, they intuitively sense your true and deep needs related to that planet. For example, if someone's Venus is in your 8th house, they will know how to love you in a way that makes you feel unconditionally loved and appreciated. If their Mercury is in your 8th house, they will understand how to communicate with you on a profound level, meeting your need for deep and meaningful conversation. If their Mars is in your 8th house, they will instinctively know how to meet your sexual needs and desires and please you in bed🖤❤️‍🔥

banner credits : @anitalenia <3

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revasserium · 10 months ago

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Hey, can I request zoro x reader (established relationship) where the Strawhats end up going to reader’s home island (unknown to anyone in the group aside from reader), and the reader is super nervous and refuses to leave the boat, so the crew goes out and walk around and they find a missing/wanted poster of the reader and find out she’s a run away princess that needed to be. Later they coke to find out that reader ran away cause her parents and the servants mistreated and was about to marry her off to a violent prince

opla requests are: open

lips on every cross

opla!zoro; 5,989 words; fem!reader, semi-established?? relationship, posessive!zoro, strawhat!reader, no "y/n", reader gets kidnapped, fluff and angst, very brief! mentions of past familial abuse and trauma, nicknames ("Princess"), slow-ish burn???, more plot than not

summary: zoro has never thought himself a holy man. but he'd kiss every cross if it meant finding his way back to you.

a/n: idk why every opla fic i write is like... more plot than i bargained for but here we are. literally, this fic was just supposed to be "zoro calls the reader 'princess'".

01. when love arrives

(“Hey Princess —“)

The nickname starts, as almost all things do on the Going Merry, as a joke. And, as with most jokes made amongst the rag-tag crew, it sticks. He’d said it because he’s sure you’d mentioned your name once or twice already, but he’d been napping or eating and he didn’t feel like looking like an asshole right that moment.

The ribbon in your hair had caught the light in just the right way, pale pink satin — such a strange, soft color amidst the careening, careless ocean, and the word just… slipped.

“Why’dyou call her that?” Luffy asks, lounging back against the main mast as Zoro works through the umpteenth rep of single-armed pushups.

Zoro puffs out a breath and switches arms.

“Dunno. Seemed like it fit.”

Luffy slates you a long glance, blinking owlishly.

“Really? Eh — I guess… well, she is really pretty.”

Zoro only grunts, jumping up and stretching both arms over his head with a long, steady breath. His eyes flicker towards you as well, laughing with Nami on the foredeck, sipping on cocktails, Sanji probably simping somewhere nearby.

He thinks back to where they’d found you, hood pulled low over your eyes, the tell-tale signs of distress carved into every line of your body, from the curve of your spine to the bend of your shoulders.

Luffy hadn’t asked questions, so Zoro hadn’t either.

Curiosity, the fatal flaw that runs so sharp and obvious through the entirety of Luffy’s being, hasn’t always been rewarded well in Zoro’s experience. And he’s learned by now that “truth will out”, or so they say.

(“C’mon, Princess, I thought you said you could drink.”)

Caution, on the other hand, is Zoro’s oldest friend. You are cautious, if nothing else, and the first time he sees you relax in his presence, he wonders to himself if there’s a drug in this world strong enough to induce this feeling.

Later, he would learn that this is simply called falling in love.

He isn’t the only one who notices how you casually dip a silver fork or knife into every single drink before you take a sip, or that sometimes, you blurt out the word “no’ like a promise to yourself, and “sorry” like a plea for help.

And he’s spent long enough being a hunter to know what being hunted looks like. So he doesn’t ask, and you don’t answer, and somehow, you still manage to make yourself a home in the dark caverns of his chest, curling up there till he can’t count his heartbeats without it sounding like the shadow of your name on the midnight wind.

02. a study of light and dark

The drinking game starts off innocently enough (and don’t they always), but it takes half a round for the questions and subsequent answers to devolve into loud laughter and debauchery, delirium and debasement.

“Alright, alright —“ Sanji holds up a hand, tossing back his shot to raucous cheers, “worst thing you’ve done in a closet. Go —“

Zoro rolls his eyes and takes the shot, foregoing his answer. Nami simply grins, catlike, swirling her own drink around her glass.

“In your wildest dreams, cook,” she says before taking her shot as well. Sanji lets out a contemplative whistle, followed by a good-natured wink.

“Define worst, cause… I mean, I’ve puked in like… most of them back in Syrup Village,” Usopp says. Sanji only chuckles, shrugging.

“We’ll take it, we’ll take it.”

Luffy hums, frowning for a second before smacking a fist into his open palm, grinning, “I took a nap!”

Everyone laughs, helpless and buoyed up by the casual effervescence of a night like this — when the moon is dark and the stars are bright and thin wisps of silver clouds mar the sky like tendrils of lost daydreams, caught on the wrong side of sunset.

When the laughter settles down, everyone turns to you.

You purse your lips, feeling the weight of your answer pressing down on the tip of your tongue — I hid. And I waited. And I tried not to listen.

As the silence stretches on, Zoro leans forward and uncrosses his arms, reaching out to nudge a full shot glass towards you.

“Times up, Princess — drink,” and though there’s nothing soft or even forgiving in his voice, but you feel yourself relax as everyone boos and you take your shot.

The heat of Zoro’s gaze only lingers on your skin for a moment longer before he leans back again, that familiar almost-grin tugging lazily at his lips as he turns half-lidded eyes towards the rest of his crew.

(“Talk to me, Princess.”)

When you find him later, fumbling in the dark of the hallway just outside his room, you kiss him without saying “thank you” and he doesn’t question it when, pressed beneath him on the rough linen of his sheets, you ask to keep the lights on.

03. etymology

Princess — it’s a nice word, Zoro muses to himself. The light pop of the ‘p’ rolling into the warm, round ‘r’, thinning out into the sensual layering of the double ‘s’s, till you’re left with nothing but a hiss, a shadow, a memory.

It’s a regal word; a pretty word. Though its origins might be anything but.

From the Latin primus “first” and cept “catcher”, or so Robin had told him over the pages of an ancient book he hadn’t bothered to ask the name of, because Princes and Kings have always obtained their powers through taking, and never asking. Reaping, and never sowing.

Zoro thinks then that this, too, is a form conquest — you over him. The totality of your power stunning to behold, if only because he has to let you take it in the first place. And he does so willingly.

He wonders if you, too, are as multifaceted as his nickname for you — delicacy and desire wrapped around a darker something, lace laid over a knife’s unforgiving edge.

The first time he dares to kiss you, he feels you kissing him back, the sharp canines of your teeth catching on his lower lip, drawing out a soft grunt from him. You’d paused, and then you’d bitten down harder just to hear him gasp into your mouth.

He knew then, without ever having to ask, that you are.

04. tip of the iceberg

It is winter when they arrive — but then again, it is always winter here. Here, the cold runs so deep it drives frost crystals into the marrow of your bones. Here, the wind howls like a wounded animal and the night falls with a savage, carnal vengeance, all black velvet and a blood-tinted moon.

Here, the snow storms turn living, breathing heroes into song lyrics and poetry rhymes.

You inhale a single breath before turning and heading back below deck.

Zoro frowns, and at a single look from Luffy, he follows you beneath, only to find you rummaging around the kitchen, tugging a bottle of moonshine out from under the sink.

“Whoa,” Zoro says, reaching out to stop you from uncorking the bottle, an eyebrow raised. He doesn’t miss the way you shiver, “bit early, isn’t it?”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” you snap, eyes sharp, voice stinging.

Zoro only cocks his other eyebrow in tandem and pulls the bottle from your hands before turning and grabbing two glasses from the cupboard. He takes his time filling them both with ice, and then pouring a finger into each glass.

You don’t meet his eyes as you reach out for your glass, but he catches your wrist.

“A drink for an answer,” he says.

You pause, your lips pressed into a thin, white line. And he knows it’s unfair, to turn this game around on you, because he can tell from the hard set of your shoulders that this is so much more than a drinking game but if this is what it takes to get the truth — then so be it.

“Fine,” you say, glancing away, voice clipped.

You move to take a sip, but Zoro pushes down your hand again.

“No lying.”

You scoff, narrowing your eyes, “Obviously.”

He eases off, picking up his own glass and clinking it against yours before taking a light swig, “You know this place.”

This time, you’re the one who turns around with a cocked brow.

“Got a question in there somewhere?”

Zoro’s lips twitch, “Yes, or no.”

You sigh, tapping a finger against the edge of your cup, “Yes.”

Zoro hums, “Your turn.”

You chew on your lips before taking a sip, “Why do you care so much?”

Zoro ticks his tongue against his teeth, “Stupid question. Next.”

You huff, “That’s not how this game goes.”

Zoro swirls his glass before setting it down on the counter with a loud clack, “Because I care about you.”

You pause with your own drink halfway to your mouth and look up. Zoro doesn’t shy away from meeting your gaze and for a moment, time statics to a halt around you.

Then, Zoro sighs, unclenching his jaw as he attempts a lopsided smile.

“Hey, talk to me,” he reaches out to trail a finger along the high of your cheekbones, up to the shell of your ear.

The ‘please’ hangs silent in the air between you; the ‘Princess’ is implied.

And for the first time, he thinks he sees you flinch. He makes to pull back but you tug his hand forward, pressing your cheek against his palm.

“This island,” you say, finally, the tremor in your voice like a hairline fracture snaking through a porcelain vase, “it’s… well, it used to be… my home.”

05. the secret history

It is the most beautiful place any of them have ever been.

The castle is made entirely of ice, the cold winter sun refracting the light into a million and one unseen colors. Giant ice-carved sculptures dot the crystal-flower gardens, and it takes them all a few minutes to realize that the gorgeous, delicate blooms are made of glass, blown and shaped to mirror real-life snowflakes — each unique, glittering, and eternal.

“Dude… how long do you think all this took to make?” Usopp asks, his head turning as if on a swivel, his jaw hinging off his face in awe.

Robin sighs, “Too long, perhaps.”

Zoro stays quiet, and beside him, so does Nami.

You’d insisted on staying back, to guard the ship, you’d said. But the space you usually fill in the group hangs solid in the air, a gaping hole of lack when there should be none.

Luffy hums and he marches out in front of them, ever the dubious, fearless leader. Though most of the crew has now come to terms with the fact that “courage” and “sheer bull-headedness” are often two sides of the same coin for him.

It’s Sanji who pauses first, causing Chopper to ram into the back of his knees.

“Ouch! What’dyou do that f —”

“Look,” Sanji says, pointing at a poster pasted to the slick outer wall of the castle gates.

And they do, leaning in, crowding too close. Zoro grunts as Chopper jumps and scrambles up his back to peer over his shoulder at the face plastered on the dew-soaked poster, the words LOST PRINCESS: 120,000,000 FOR ANY INFORMATION THAT LEADS TO HER WHEREABOUTS printed in giant, familiar block letters along the bottom.

Beside him, Zoro can feel Nami swallowing. Hard.

“A hundred and twenty million berry…” she murmurs, her breath going shallow as they all stare, dumbfounded at the poster of what is unmistakably you.

You, with your exquisite features schooled into something like solemnity, your usually wind-swept hair twisted up into a tight braid across the crown of your head, a diadem of ice-white silver and light-cut jewels jutting up from your severe updo like so many broken teeth, sharp and unforgiving as stalagmites.

If none of them had known, it’d be impossible to reconcile you with this cold, distant portrait, your eyes rendered lifeless and dull by the depthless black ink.

Luffy, however, only blinks and turns to stare at Zoro.

“Did you know?”

“What?”

Luffy continues to stare, “When I asked why you always call her ‘Princess’.”

Zoro sighs, turning his eyes back to the WANTED poster before shaking his head.

“No. Like I said… I thought it just… fit.”

06. eternal day

Zoro is itching to get back to the ship. There’s a fish-line sliver of worry tugging at the place behind his chest where his heart should be, and he knows implicitly that something is wrong.

“Don’t worry, she can take care of herself!” Luffy says, smiling bright, his confidence unwavering.

“No Luffy, Zoro’s right — someone should be with her. What if —” and here, Nami glances at Zoro before turning her attention back to Luffy, “— she might need the backup,” is what she finally settles with. And to Zoro’s great relief, Luffy agrees.

And then, to everyone’s horror, off in the distance, your voice rises over the wind in a blood-curdling scream.

07. endless night

By the time Zoro makes it back to the ship, you are already gone.

08. torn asunder

Gone, gone, gone. The word echoes like an ill-fated alarm bell, ringing through Zoro’s entire body as he catapults himself through the ship, slamming open every door, checking every nook, corner, and crevice. Signs of a struggle, that much is clear, scuffs on the freshly waxed planks of the aft deck, nail marks along the railings, and —

Zoro’s breath freezes in his chest.

A smear of blood that drips over the side of the ship, trailing down the ladder.

A flash of pale pink catches his eye.

Your satin hair ribbon lies abandoned on the wharfs’ boardwalk, the faintest splatter of red soaking its ends.

He picks it up between gentle fingers and tucks it deep into his pocket.

His vision blurs red as he thinks about the things your captors might’ve done to you before dragging you off. He’s seen you fight and it wouldn’t have been easy to bring you down.

And by the time the rest of the crew reach him, he’s already sprinting back towards the castle, his jaw set, his teeth gritted.

It takes the combined effort of Sanji, Luffy, and Robin to stop him from charging through the castle gates and tearing the whole place down.

“Runnin’ round like a headless chicken’s not gonna do her any good, mate,” Sanji says, a smoke already caught between his teeth. A pre-fight ritual of his.

Zoro jerks his arm out of Sanji’s grasp, stalking down the street with a huff.

Robin strolls after him, somehow keeping pace, looking unhurried as Zoro tamps down the blind urge to slash the entire island in half.

“We’ll find her,” Robin says, her voice level, even as her sharp eyes scan the white-specked horizon, the usually amused half-twist of her lips laid flat by worry, “and she’s stronger than you think.”

At this, Zoro whips around, “I know —” but he bites down the venom threatening to surge up the back of his throat with a sigh. Robin doesn’t flinch, and Zoro attempts a steadying breath before repeating himself in a slightly softer tone, “I know… I’m just…”

Robin nods, and Zoro is thankful that he doesn’t have to finish his sentence.

09. the tower and the throne

The cold greets you like a scorned lover— a spiteful, savage mistress. Tendrils of frost creep along the walls of your old bedroom to caress your cheeks. You shiver and wrap your arms around yourself, sitting on familiar satin sheets.

“Dinner is soon, darling,” your mother’s cool voice calls from outside your bedroom door, “and make yourself presentable — we’ve got guests.”

The sadistic lilt of her voice as she says the word ‘guests’ makes you jerk your head up, staring at the door as if you might be able to bore through the thick wood with nothing but your eyes. And, almost as if she can feel you staring, you hear your mother’s cold, tinkling laughter.

“Hurry now… I had your favorite dress put out for you. It should still fit — and we don’t want to keep them… waiting.”

The slow, sanguine pause before her last word makes you want to rip out your hair and scream into the wind till your voice gives out.

Instead, you push yourself up and reach for the dress laid out at the foot of your bed with shaking fingers.

The dress fits you like a second skin, the delicate lace trim barely sweeping the floor as you adjust the bodice, grimacing at your reflection in the large, floor-length mirror. It is as if the last ten months had never happened, as if you’d never escaped this terrifying hellscape of a winter wonderland. As if you’d simply dreamed every single sun-filled afternoon, every star-strewn night spent laughing and singing amongst your new-found crew.

Here, in the fragile glass reflection, you are once again a girl trapped behind her own ribcage, with a destiny carved into stone and ice, with no hope of summer in sight. You take a long breath and tighten the ribbons of your dress.

You are still and silent as the maid slips in through the door after a single knock and begins to twist up your hair. Tighter and tighter, till it sets your teeth on edge. When she pins the crown in place, it takes everything inside you not to fall apart, to shatter at the weight, the sight of it sitting on your head. You swallow as the maid dips her head and backs out of the room with a murmured dinner is served, Princess.

For the first time, you wince openly at her words.

10. waiting for the rain

The hall is just how you remembered it, huge and cavernous, gaping like the empty maw of some petrified monster, the ceiling hanging with so many cold, sparkling chandeliers, ice-carved statues jutting up from the floors like teeth.

You’re marched in like a show animal, the great marble doors swinging open before you as you step forward and feel your breath freeze in your chest.

There, strung up on a massive statue of some long-forgotten saint, is Zoro, cuts and bruises marring his already scarred and puckered torso. But he smirks as he sees you come in, his eyes bright as he spits a mouthful of blood onto the seemingly endless white floors. Around him, the rest of your crew sits, tied and slumped over in chairs like so many sleeping mannequins.

“Hey there, Princess. Just in time for dinner.”

You nearly wince at the raspiness in his voice, the faint trickle of blood that leaks out the corner of his mouth.

“Silence,” your father’s voice echoes out from the high-backed chair at the head of the ludicrously long table. You don’t have to see to know his face is as smooth as just-applied plaster. But Zoro only has eyes for you — and he continues to talk as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“If you’d told us we’d be welcomed like this, we might’ve packed differently.”

You bite down on your bottom lip so hard you almost taste the metallic tang of blood.

“Our daughter has always been a skillful liar — though it’s a habit we tried to… rid her of in her youth. The lesson never seemed to have stuck.” Your mother this time. And now, you can see the muscle ticking in Zoro’s jaw as he scoffs.

“Really? And here I always thought she was shit at lying.”

You swallow down a whimper as the maid wordlessly leads you to the far end of the table, where Zoro is still tied. You drop into the seat between a snoring Luffy and an eerily still Nami, and it’s all you can do not to turn around and retch onto the silk embroidered rug.

“Be that as it may…” your mother’s voice drops a few degrees — an admirable feat, as her voice is usually just on the other side of frigid, “it’s bad luck to kill on the eve of a royal wedding.”

At this, Zoro’s head snaps around and you shrink back in your chair, your eyes fixed on your fists, clenched in your lap.

“Mother,” you grind out, finally forcing your head up so as to meet her piercing, blizzard-bright gaze, “I’ve told you, I’ve no intention of getting married. At least not to the mongrel you’ve decided to set me up with.”

You spit out the last sentence, trying to remember all the snark, all the confidence that’d built up inside you over the past weeks and months. Away from this dreaded castle and on the sun-soaked bow of the Going Merry, it was the first time you’d begun to discover who you are — the things you liked, the ways of life that you yearned for.

Your father slams a hand on the table at the same moment that Zoro lets out a bark of laughter.

“Insolence!”

“Damn, Princess — you never told me you could bite.”

And, to your horror and perhaps deep-seated pleasure, a blush works its way into your cheeks at Zoro’s words. Your eyes snap towards him, catching his gaze as he smirks at you. And even though his shirt is slashed, his sword hilts hanging woefully empty at this hip, his hands twisted painfully behind him on the statue, he still manages an easy, condescending air.

You seize at this tiny tendril of normalcy as you force a wane smile.

“I might be persuaded to do more than that… if you ask nicely.”

Zoro’s snicker is drowned out by your mother’s sharp gasp. But you don’t look away, holding Zoro’s gaze for as long as you dare — in it, you find an entire abyss of barely concealed rage (and is that… amusement?), his entire body straining against the shackles that hold him. Then, his eyes slip from you to a point just over your shoulder.

It’s then that you realize: Luffy’s not snoring anymore.

11. to reap and to sow

You’re never quite certain of how the Merry’s crew seems to always just wriggle out of frankly gruesome and untimely deaths, but here you are, racing for the docks like your lives depended on it. Because, well, it kind of does.

“Remind me —” you shout between pants, one hand clutched firmly in Zoro’s, the other doing its best to lift the ridiculous dinner dress they’d put you in — a confection of lace and tulle, the bodice laced with pale pink satin ribbon, “how the hell did you guys manage to trick my parents into thinking you’d eaten the spiked food?”

Sanji flashes you a toothy grin, “Ah love… you know how it is — ask us no questions, and we’ll tell you no lies!”

Luffy, however, whoops as he launches himself from a pair of solid brick buildings, catapulting himself over your sprinting crew.

“We just — pretended to eat! I mean — I did kinda actually eat a bit — but — it wasn’t that bad!”

You resist the urge to pinch your nose bridge at the nonchalance with which Luffy is talking about consuming poisoned food, but you’ve only got two hands and both are equally occupied at the moment. You settle for an exasperated sigh.

“That was — really stupid! — What if — they’d — poisoned the food — with something — other than — sleeping medicine?!” you ask, forcing air into your lungs as finally, you all round the bend onto the bustling pier, the Going Merry’s unmistakable shape silhouetted against the misty horizon.

“We can talk when — we’re all back — on the ship!” Nami calls as she sprints passed you, reaching out a hand for Luffy, who’s elongated arm grabs her and slings her onto the deck of the ship. You barely have a second to breathe before Zoro’s arm loops around your waist and you’re being pulled tight into his side.

His breath is hot against your collarbone as he smirks, “Hold on tight, Princess.”

It’s all you can do to listen as you’re suddenly whipped through the air like a doll on a drunken marionette’s string. A bright peal of Luffy-tinted laughter later, you thud onto the deck of the Going Merry, the breath knocked clean from your lungs as the world spins and spins. You’d expected to hit solid wood, or maybe even the railing or the mast but —

Zoro groans beneath you, and it takes you a long second to realize that he’d cushioned your fall, your bodies pressed chest to chest, hip to hip, your arms still wrapped around his shoulders, his still steady around your waist.

“O-oh! Sorry —” you try to pull away but Zoro’s grip on you only tightens.

You freeze as he blinks up at you, eyes slightly narrowed.

“Crown’s crooked,” Zoro finally says, that tell-tale smirk twisting the edge of his lips as his gaze flickers upwards. Your hand jumps to the crown, somehow still clipped into your now disheveled hair, lopping to one side as the braids start to come loose. You purse your lips.

“I never liked it anyway…” You make to tug it out but Zoro reaches up to right it, though he lets his hand linger as he falls along the side of your face.

“Nah, looks good on you.” His voice is so low, and suddenly, air is such a language that you’re certain you’d forgotten how to speak. Slowly, he pushes up till you’re both sitting, you still pressed against him and him still pressed against you. Distantly, you can hear shouting, Usopp’s voice raised high over the wind as the Merry careens out of port and towards the open sea.

But strangely, no one makes to pull you away from him, or him from you.

“I should’ve told you guys…” you say, eyes casting down as you rest your palms against his chest. Beneath it, you can feel his heart — pounding, pounding, pounding. There’s a light sheen of sweat glimmering on his honeyed skin as you swallow, looking back up even as he chuckles.

“Sure, but we should’ve asked.”

You bite your lips, “I think you did.”

Zoro grins, shrugging as he helps you up, somehow managing to keep his arm slipped around your waist.

“Well. Should’ve asked better, then.”

12. lost stars

It takes you a while to tell them the story — the real story, the whole story. And there’s drinking involved, but it’s mostly just you clutching at your half-filled glass, Zoro’s knee pressed comfortingly against yours, even though his eyes are closed, his head leaned back, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

You tell them about the dark underbelly of royalty that everyone knows but no one wants to talk about — the blood and teeth beneath the silk and silver. You tell them about being raised a bargaining chip, of being sold and promised like a prized heifer on auction day.

You tell them about the moonless nights when the only thing you had to keep you company was the cold, about the “lessons” your mother would teach you, about how the maids would be instructed to hide the bruises just so, about the Prince who you were set to marry and the rumors that plagued his castle —

“They say that he’d take the prettiest girls from the surrounding town as his maids and that none of them ever walked out of his castle again,” you say. The moonshine burns on its way down your throat as you finish your drink.

Wordlessly, Zoro reaches over to pluck the glass from your hand and set it on the table. It’s only then that you realize your fingers are white and trembling.

“Did he hurt you?”

Zoro’s voice is not loud, but everyone turns to look at him. You shake your head, clasping your hands in your lap.

“No. I only ever… met him once, at a dinner party. It was after that that I… ran away.”

Zoro hums, leaning back again, “Good.”

Across the room, Sanji blows out a series of smoke rings and frowns.

“Were you about to offer to hunt him down?” Robin asks, sounding amused.

Zoro shrugs, “Wouldn’t have offered — would’ve just done it.”

“He sounds like the kinda guy we should hunt down anyway, no?” Luffy asks, cocking his head as he looks back at you, “I mean, I’m glad he never hurt you but… he’s still hurting people!”

“Luffy’s got a point,” Sanji says, stubbing out his cigarette.

“For once, I agree with Sanji,” Nami says.

There’s a light squabble during which Sanji makes an aggrieved noise and Nami rolls her eyes, and then everyone is laughing and chatting and more drinks are being poured. Next to you, Zoro reaches out to wrap his arm around your waist again. It’s something he’s been doing more lately, and you can’t honestly say that you mind it much at all.

“We don’t have to,” he says, leaning forward, almost as if to brush his lips by your ear, “if… if you don’t want to.”

You shiver at the base rumble of his voice, at the way his eyes are so warm and full of some uncertain promise.

“No, I… I do want to. It’s just…”

Zoro’s fingers trace small, absent-minded circles into the skin of your waist and you fight down another shiver.

“I don’t plan on letting you get kidnapped again, Princess.”

Your gaze snaps up to meet Zoro’s, and there’s a faint smile kissing the line of his lips. And suddenly, the lightness of his touch doesn’t feel so thoughtless as heat curls out from the place where his palm meets your skin, radiating out till you’re breathless with it.

“Oh?”

“Never liked people trying to take what’s mine.”

And the dark possessiveness with which he says mine leaves little room for interpretation, even as you lick your lips and try to think of something witty to say.

“I don’t remember agreeing to be yours.”

It’s the best you can come up with; Zoro’s only response is a soft, contemplative grunt.

“What’s that saying? ‘Actions speak louder than words’?” he flashes you a satisfied grin as you narrow your eyes at him, swatting at his chest as he laughs.

“I meant it though,” he says, a moment later, as the rest of the crew all chatter around you, “about calling it off if you don’t want to. But…” he reaches up a free hand to tug a strand of your hair free from the ponytail it’s tied up in.

“Figured you might sleep better at night knowing he’s gone.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t been aware you were holding, your whole body softening as you lean into him, pressing your palms to his chest as he looks at you.

“Yeah… I think I might. And… like you said… it’s not like I’m gonna get kidnapped again.”

You smile, letting your eyes flicker down to Zoro’s lips. His smile is pleased and just a little jagged as he tugs you up by the hand and the pair of you slip from the room.

Above deck, the sun is setting, and the warm, slanted light casts the entire ship in a glaze of gold that looks almost gilded. You lean against the railings, closing your eyes and letting the warmth of the sun seep into your skin, chasing away the chill that’d been lingering at your fingertips since you’d all made your spectacular escape from your home island.

You feel rather than hear Zoro join you. You take your time breathing in the salty tang of the humid sea air before opening your eyes and slating him a side-long look.

“Thank you,” you say.

“For what?”

“For coming after me.”

Zoro scoffs, turning away from the roiling waves to lean back against the railings, his head cocked as he looks you over.

“Like I said… I don’t like it when people try to take what’s mine.”

But this time, you laugh, nodding, “So you’ve said. But still… thanks.”

“Hn.”

Zoro closes his eyes, seemingly enjoying the last vestiges of the setting sun as it sinks ever-lower along the horizon. Then, he opens one eye to peer at you.

“Though I’ve been meaning to ask —”

“Hm?”

“What’s this about doing more than biting… if asked about it nicely enough?”

You try to duck your head but Zoro catches your chin in his fingers.

“I — I just… knew it would piss off my mother if she —”

“Mm, sounded like more than that to me.”

Your breath hitches as Zoro’s thumb traces a rough line along your bottom lip.

“How about… I show you?” and the offer is barely out of your mouth before Zoro is kissing you, his mouth seeking out yours with a soft groan that betrays all the lightness in his touch as he trails his free hand down your arm to pull hard at your waist.

And it’s not the first time you’ve kissed. It’s not even the first time a kiss with Zoro has become more than just a kiss, though you’d always been careful before to make sure that he knew (though thinking back, it might’ve just been an ill-fated attempt at lying to yourself) that the pleasure shared between bodies was just that — pleasure and bodies.

But this — this kiss becomes, and becomes.

It becomes breath and heartbeats, pleasure and heat. It becomes truth and promises and the tantalizing taste of fairy-tale endings.

“Z-Zoro…”

“Yes Princess?”

You hiss as his teeth grazes along your pulse point and your fingers fist in his hair.

“Y’know…” your voice comes out as nothing more than a soft pant as Zoro tugs you over to one of the reclining chairs beneath the orange trees and pulls you over his hips, “I’ve never liked being called that but…”

“But?” his thumbs inch beneath the material of your shirt, circling your hipbones as he smirks up at you.

“I don’t mind it when it’s you.”

Zoro’s grin goes wide and wolfish. Above him, the first stars spark into being as the sun finally sinks beyond the far horizon. For a second, his smile softens as he reaches up to toy with the end of the pale pink ribbon in your hair. Then, he gives it a single, solid tug, and your hair falls open around your shoulders, tumbling down in waves.

Zoro leans up to press a light kiss to the blood-stained satin before letting it flutter off in the wind, twisting into the rapidly darkening night.

“Good… cause I ain’t about to let anyone else call you that either.”

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