#except for my air port-

[not-decided-star]

WHY IS

FOLLOWING ME?

I feel threatened in my shadow realm

[helvegen-s]

a flat white and a sharp tongue

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: he's a reserved F1 driver seeking peace. She's the lively heart of a bustling café. When their worlds collide, Oscar's carefully constructed routine is challenged by Elaine's infectious energy, leading to a connection that has the potential to change everything.

Word count: 14k (i am sorry i am so sorry but it is worth it)

Warnings: slow burn, teasing, banter, mild language

A/N: I've loved writing this. I've put a little bit of myself into Elaine—the sense of humor, the passion for history… I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you so much for your support, it makes me so happy! Kisses <3

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

masterlist

Oscar had discovered the café by accident. Or rather, he had discovered it thanks to a friend who had insisted endlessly that he had to try it.

He hadn’t regretted it.

It was a hidden refuge nestled among steep alleyways, far from the bustling port and the constant rush of Monaco. A small café with a vintage aesthetic, renovated just enough to be cozy without losing its old-world charm. Exposed brick walls, shelves full of mismatched cups, polished wooden tables marked by time. And, most importantly, peace.

From the first time he had visited, he had known the place belonged to him. It had become an unbreakable routine: every time he returned from a race, he would take the stairs down from his apartment—the café was right below—and sit at the same table by the window. He ordered the same thing, read, reviewed data, or simply watched people pass by.

And then, there was the cat.

A large, speckled feline with the air of an undisputed king of the place. It would appear out of nowhere, climbing onto his lap or table uninvited. At first, Oscar had tried to ignore it. It hadn’t worked. The cat had adopted him without asking permission, and he, resigned, had eventually accepted it.

Everything had been perfect.

Until the calm had been shattered.

First, the door swung open abruptly, making the bell jingle with an overly enthusiastic chime. Then, the sound of hurried paws against the wooden floor.

The cat bolted from his lap.

Oscar blinked, surprised by the sudden abandonment, and then he heard her.

"Bon matin, mes amis! You missed me, didn’t you?"

Her voice filled the café—clear and energetic—as if it belonged as much to the place as the brick walls.

Oscar didn’t need to look up to know that everyone in the café knew her. He heard the sound of her scarf sliding off her neck, the tapping of her boots as she crossed the room without hesitation. She greeted the customers one by one, as naturally as if she had done it all her life.

"Marcel, are you still losing at dominoes, or did they finally let you win?"

"Today, I’m winning, chérie, I swear!"

"Liar." She laughed, giving him a pat on the shoulder before moving on. "André, that beret is new. Very stylish."

"My daughter gave it to me, but don’t think I’m going to buy you breakfast just for the compliment."

"So stingy."

Oscar heard more laughter. It was obvious that everyone knew her, that they welcomed her with familiarity, as if she were part of the café’s furniture.

The cat—the same one that ignored everyone except him—was now in her arms, purring like a satisfied engine.

"Finally! Someone greets me with enthusiasm!" she exclaimed, rubbing her nose against the cat’s head before gently setting it down.

By this point, Oscar had already returned his focus to his book. Or at least, he was trying to.

"I’ll have a hot chocolate," she said when she reached the counter, leaning over it shamelessly.

The barista—her brother, Oscar deduced from the patience in his expression—sighed.

"Aren’t you tired of so much sugar?"

"I never get tired of the good stuff."

He scoffed but started preparing the drink.

Oscar turned the page. Hopefully, the café would regain its usual silence.

Then, he felt it.

The imperceptible shift in the air when someone was staring at him.

Instinctively, he knew what was coming.

Footsteps approached.

"I haven’t seen you here before."

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, holding back a sigh.

"Hmm."

"That’s all you’re going to say?"

"I’m busy."

She let out a small laugh.

"Of course, you are."

And with that, she plopped down in the chair across from him.

Oscar shut his book with a snap.

She smiled.

"Now you’re looking at me."

She didn’t say it as a question but as a fact, as if she knew exactly what to do to pull someone out of their bubble.

Oscar looked at her for the first time, assessing. She was young, cheerful, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She recognized him, sure, but there was no typical astonishment, no urge to mention it.

"Do you always insert yourself where you’re not wanted?" he asked, hoping she’d take the hint.

"Are you always this grumpy?" she shot back, unfazed.

Oscar felt a headache forming.

Something told him his peace had just ended.

He blinked, analyzing her tone, her expression. There was no mockery in her gaze, only amusement, as if finding him there was an entertaining discovery, but not particularly extraordinary.

"I recognize you, obviously," she said with a shrug. "But don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for a photo or an autograph. I’m sure your ego doesn’t need more inflating."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out whether that was an insult or just an observation.

He had no response.

She, on the other hand, laughed, as if his silence was the best part of the conversation. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with an irritatingly carefree attitude, then glanced down at the book still in his hands.

"Are you seriously reading this?"

Oscar looked at the cover. It was a dense historical biography, written with an almost obsessive level of detail.

"What’s wrong with it?" he asked, his tone dry.

She tilted her head, as if evaluating him.

"Nothing, I guess. If you like books that feel like punishments."

Oscar snapped the book shut, again, a little harder than necessary.

She laughed again.

"You don’t have a comeback for that, do you?"

Oscar clenched his jaw.

He hated her. No, he hated her boldness, her persistence, the way she pulled him out of his bubble without permission.

And he hated even more that he didn’t know how to shut her down.

"Stop bothering the customers."

Her brother’s voice came from behind the counter, exasperated, like he had seen this scene too many times before.

She turned her head, pouting exaggeratedly.

"I’m not bothering him. We’re just having a conversation, right?"

Oscar stared at her, unblinking.

"No."

She let out a delighted laugh.

"See? He adores me."

Her brother sighed and nodded toward the counter.

"Your hot chocolate is ready. Leave him alone."

"Tss, such a killjoy," she muttered, standing up with obvious reluctance.

The cat, as if perfectly in sync with her, jumped off the table and trotted after her, sticking close to her heels. She scratched its head fondly, as if she didn’t even notice how naturally the feline followed her.

Just before walking away completely, she turned to look at Oscar one last time.

"By the way," she said, tilting her head slightly. "My name’s Elaine."

She didn’t wait for a response.

She simply smiled, spun on her heel, and left, leaving behind a trail of lighthearted energy that didn’t fit at all with the café’s usual tranquility.

Oscar watched her go for a moment, his book still closed on the table, the echo of her laughter ringing in his ears.

He exhaled slowly.

His peace was definitely over.

And yet, Oscar couldn’t stop coming to the café.

The drinks were too good, the atmosphere was perfect, and most of the time, he could focus without anyone bothering him.

Except on the days when he had the dubious pleasure of running into Elaine.

She appeared without warning, like a storm no one had predicted in the forecast.

And somehow, she always found a way to get under his skin.

Sometimes, she simply stopped by to chat with the regulars, exchanging jokes with the old men playing dominoes or greeting lost tourists as if they were old friends. Other times, she slipped behind the counter to help her brother, though it was obvious she did it more to annoy him than out of any real necessity. She also played with the cat, which followed her with unwavering devotion, or settled at the table closest to Oscar’s, surrounded by a mess of books and scattered notes.

He had no idea what she was studying, but if he had to guess, he would have said something chaotic. Something that matched her boundless energy and her ability to talk passionately about just about anything. It wasn’t until much later that he found out she was studying History.

And, of course, there were days when it seemed like her sole mission in life was to get on his nerves.

She sat at his table without asking, drummed her fingers against the surface just to see how long it would take for him to look at her, made offhanded comments about how serious he was or how he needed to learn to socialize.

Oscar tried to ignore her. He really did.

But Elaine wasn’t someone who could be ignored.

One day, she simply sat across from him uninvited and asked, “Do you have friends?”

Oscar blinked, his eyes still on his laptop screen. “What?”

“I mean, besides your teammates and the people you work with. Because you’re always alone.”

He huffed, trying to ignore her. “That’s none of your business.”

“So, that’s a no.”

Elaine grinned, satisfied with her own conclusion, and rested her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Have you realized you have the charisma of a rock?”

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, holding back the response he actually wanted to give her.

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah, yeah, reviewing data, looking at numbers… how thrilling.” She yawned dramatically. “It must be so much fun being you.”

By the time he finally looked up, she was already laughing, standing up to return to her brother.

Oscar let out a heavy sigh and turned back to his screen, but just when he thought the torment was over, he felt an extra weight on his jacket.

The cat.

The little traitor had sprawled out on it, curling up comfortably.

Great.

And then, another day.

Oscar was analyzing replays of his last race on his laptop when a shadow fell over the screen.

“Do you like watching yourself drive?”

He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“It’s not about liking it. I’m analyzing my performance.”

“Oh, of course. A deep analysis of ‘oh, look how fast I am’ and ‘oh, look how well I take that turn.’”

This time, he did look up, fixing her with a flat stare.

“Do you really have nothing better to do?”

Elaine smiled, clearly entertained. “Annoying you is more fun.”

And as if summoned, the cat appeared out of nowhere and flopped onto his laptop keyboard. The screen instantly went black as one of its paws landed squarely on the power button.

Elaine propped her chin on her hand. “Even he thinks you need a break.”

Oscar exhaled slowly.

This was becoming a damn habit.

Different day, same problem.

Oscar had spent the afternoon working, completely absorbed in his own bubble of concentration. But when he finally closed his laptop and reached for his jacket, he found a now-familiar obstacle: the cat, sleeping soundly on top of it.

He tried nudging it gently. Nothing. The stubborn little thing didn’t even stir.

From behind the counter, Elaine watched him with her arms crossed.

“You’re not going to win.”

“It’s a cat.”

“A cat with a lot of character.”

Oscar sighed, resigned, and dropped back into his chair. Ten minutes later, the cat was still snoring on his jacket, and he no longer felt in any rush to leave.

When Elaine returned with a steaming mug, she set it in front of him without a word.

Oscar glanced at her sideways. “I didn’t order another coffee.”

Elaine simply shrugged. “It’s my compensation for the hostage situation. Sir Reginald Fluffington III tends to take captives…”

At the absurd name, Oscar frowned. “Why ‘the third’?”

With complete nonchalance, Elaine gestured toward the framed photos behind the counter. They were black-and-white portraits of other cats, each with a small plaque beneath them: Sir Reginald Fluffington I and Sir Reginald Fluffington II.

“Line of succession,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “When one leaves, the next takes the throne.”

Oscar blinked. “Is this a café or a feline monarchy?”

Elaine shrugged. “House rules.”

Meanwhile, Sir Reginald Fluffington III kept snoring atop his jacket, as if it were his throne.

One evening, Elaine did something completely unexpected.

She sat down at his table—nothing new there—but instead of launching straight into her usual teasing, she rested her chin on her hand and asked,

“So, tell me about the car.”

Oscar barely looked up. “What?”

“The car. The one you drive. How does it actually work?”

That caught him off guard. Normally, if she mentioned Formula 1 at all, it was to make some sarcastic remark about how it was “just guys driving in circles really fast.” But now she was looking at him, genuinely curious, like she actually wanted to know.

He hesitated, wary of a potential joke at his expense, but when she didn’t say anything else, he found himself answering before he could stop himself.

“Well, it’s an open-wheel, single-seater with a hybrid turbocharged engine,” he started, setting his coffee aside. “It runs on a combination of internal combustion and electrical energy, and we have an ERS system that recovers energy under braking and redeploys it for extra power.”

Elaine nodded as if she understood, but then tilted her head. “And that energy recovery thing—how does that actually help you while driving?”

Oscar blinked. Most people didn’t ask that. They just nodded and moved on. But she was still looking at him, genuinely waiting for an answer.

So he gave her one.

Somewhere along the way, he found himself leaning forward, gesturing as he explained how ERS deployment could make the difference in overtakes, how managing tire degradation was crucial, how the aerodynamics of the car could dictate whether a driver fought for pole or got stuck in the midfield.

Elaine listened. Really listened.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t crack a joke. Just asked question after question, and every time she did, Oscar answered without thinking, because it wasn’t often that someone outside his world wanted to understand, to actually hear him talk about the thing he had dedicated his life to.

At some point, he realized he had been talking for nearly twenty minutes straight.

He sat back abruptly, fingers tightening around his cup.

Elaine didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease him for going on and on like he expected her to.

Instead, she simply smiled, stirring her hot chocolate absentmindedly.

“You really love it, don’t you?” she mused.

Oscar hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”

Elaine exhaled through her nose, a soft laugh under her breath. “It’s nice, hearing you actually talk.”

He should have rolled his eyes. Should have given some dry remark about how she talks more than enough for both of them.

But instead, he just hummed, taking another sip of his coffee.

For once, Elaine let the silence linger. And, for once, Oscar didn’t mind.

Elaine didn’t change after that conversation.

She still sat at his table without asking. Still poked at his patience with teasing remarks. Still found a way to make herself present in his otherwise quiet café routine.

But something shifted in Oscar.

Before, he had dismissed her as just another overly social, overly energetic person who didn’t know how to leave people alone. But now… he noticed things.

Like how she greeted every regular in the café by name, asking about their families or their work as if she had known them for years (which, considering her family owned the place, she probably had). Or how she always made sure to slide an extra plate of biscuits toward the old men playing dominos in the corner, even though her brother claimed they ate too much and never actually ordered anything.

How her fingers were constantly moving—tapping, fidgeting, stirring her drink absentmindedly as if her body didn’t know how to stay still.

How she always, always smelled faintly of cinnamon and coffee beans.

And, somehow, how he started looking forward to the moments when she would wander over to his table, even if it was just to make some smart remark about his eternally serious expression.

One day, she leaned against his table, watching as he scrolled through data on his laptop. “Do you ever smile, or would that compromise your entire personality?”

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. “Depends on the day.”

Elaine squinted at him suspiciously. “Was that a joke?”

He merely shrugged, clicking through his data sheets.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but she was grinning.

Another day, he caught himself staring—not at her, but at the way she tucked her hair behind her ear while reading, the way her brows furrowed slightly when she was deep in thought.

He shook his head, taking a long sip of his coffee, as if the bitterness could pull him back into reality.

But reality had started to change.

The café didn’t feel the same anymore. It was no longer just a place to escape the noise of the world. It had a heartbeat now, a pulse that thumped along to the rhythm of Elaine’s laughter, to the lazy stretch of Sir Reginald Fluffington III as he curled up in the sun, to the quiet conversations and clinking of porcelain.

And Oscar found himself sinking into it, letting it wrap around him like a warmth he hadn’t realized he needed.

Elaine was still a menace. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so bad after all.

Oscar entered the café at his usual time, the familiar chime of the doorbell ringing through the quiet space. He had his routine down to a science—order his coffee, sit at his table, ignore whatever nonsense Elaine threw at him, and get some actual work done.

Except today, he was the one throwing things off course.

He walked straight up to her table, where she was lazily flipping through a book, and without preamble, said, “Why history?”

Elaine blinked up at him, looking uncharacteristically confused. “What?”

“Why do you study history?”

Her lips parted slightly, as if her brain needed a second to reboot. Then, slowly, her expression shifted into something downright suspicious. She squinted at him, tapping her fingers against the table.

“Okay. Who are you, and what have you done with Oscar Piastri?”

Behind the counter, her brother snorted, shaking his head as he wiped down some cups.

Oscar exhaled sharply, already regretting this. “You asked me about Formula 1 the other day. I figured—” He gestured vaguely. “Returning the favor.”

Elaine leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You want me to believe that you—Mr. ‘I’d Rather Sit in Silence Than Engage with Human Beings’—are voluntarily making conversation?”

Oscar’s eye twitched.

“I’m rescinding the question.”

“No, no,” she said quickly, straightening up with a wide grin. “I’m just shocked. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Sir Reginald Fluffington III chose that moment to make his grand entrance, leaping onto Elaine’s chair and then promptly squeezing himself between them like a self-appointed mediator. Elaine, as always, started scratching behind his ears without thinking.

Oscar tried not to acknowledge the cat but failed when a furry head nudged insistently against his arm. With a sigh, he gave in, resting a hand on its back.

From the counter, Elaine’s brother watched the exchange with a smirk. He stacked the last cup, shaking his head.

Huh. So that’s how it starts.

Elaine tilted her head, studying Oscar like he was some sort of rare specimen that had just done something completely out of character. Which, to be fair, he had.

“Alright,” she said finally, tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the table. “I’ll bite.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You were going to answer anyway.”

“True,” she admitted, flashing him a grin. “But I like pretending I have a choice.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on one hand while the other continued idly scratching Sir Reginald Fluffington III behind the ears. The cat stretched lazily, his purring a soft vibration against the wooden surface of the table.

“History is just one big, messy story,” she began, her voice lighter now, as if she hadn’t just been caught off guard by the question. “And I like stories. But more than that, I like knowing why things happen. Why people make the choices they do, why entire civilizations rise and fall, why the world is the way it is.”

Oscar watched as her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her coffee cup, the light catching on the silver ring she always wore on her thumb. Her expression shifted as she spoke, as if she were seeing the past play out in real time, as if the weight of a thousand untold stories lived just behind her eyes.

She shrugged. “It’s like a puzzle, but all the pieces are scattered across centuries, and half of them are missing, and some historian a hundred years ago probably put the wrong ones together and convinced everyone they were right.”

Oscar found himself listening more intently than he expected, more than he ever did when people rambled about things he didn’t particularly care about.

Elaine smirked, noticing. “You’re taking this very seriously.”

“You’re actually answering seriously,” he pointed out.

“Because it’s important,” she said simply. “People always act like history is just a bunch of dates and names, but it’s not. It’s people. People being brilliant, and terrible, and reckless. And the best part?” Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “We never learn. We keep making the same mistakes over and over again. It’s both hilarious and deeply depressing.”

Oscar huffed out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.

Elaine’s grin widened. “There it is. A real reaction.”

He rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it.

Sir Reginald, sensing the moment, shifted just enough to nudge Oscar’s arm again. Without thinking, he started absentmindedly running his fingers through the cat’s fur, feeling the softness beneath his fingertips. The café smelled like roasted coffee beans and vanilla, the warm scent wrapping around them like a quiet invitation to stay just a little longer.

At some point, Elaine’s brother must have come over because there were two fresh drinks sitting in front of them—his usual coffee and what looked like hot chocolate for Elaine. Oscar hadn’t even noticed when they arrived, too caught up in the conversation, too distracted by the way Elaine’s voice lilted with enthusiasm when she spoke about something she loved.

Elaine, oblivious or simply choosing to ignore her brother’s knowing expression from behind the counter, continued. “Anyway, history is fun. And frustrating. And completely ridiculous at times. But mostly, it’s fascinating.”

Oscar considered that. Considered her, for that matter.

She had a way of making everything sound interesting, even when she was being insufferable.

And somehow, without him realizing it, she was starting to feel less like a nuisance.

And more like a habit.

That day, the café felt… different.

Oscar couldn’t quite put his finger on it at first. He sat at his usual table, opened his laptop, and took a sip of his coffee. Everything was the same—same warm lighting, same familiar hum of conversation, same Sir Reginald Fluffington III eyeing his jacket like prime real estate for a nap.

And yet…

He realized it after about fifteen minutes of actual focus. No one had interrupted him. No one had made a single offhand comment about his posture or his facial expressions or his apparent lack of joy in life. No one had sat down uninvited, poked at his patience, or asked if he had friends.

Elaine wasn’t there.

Oscar exhaled, shaking off the thought. Good. That meant he could get work done without—

"You're frowning."

Oscar glanced up. Elaine’s brother stood behind the counter, drying a cup with a knowing smirk.

"I'm not frowning."

"You are. You look about two seconds away from being deeply annoyed by something," he said, setting the cup down. "Let me guess. The coffee’s not good today?"

Oscar rolled his eyes and took another sip. Perfect as always.

Casually—completely, totally casually—he asked, “Where’s Elaine?”

Her brother raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

Oscar huffed. “Just wondering. It’s… quieter.”

“She’s in class. Probably annoying one of her professors instead.”

Oscar nodded, taking another drink to mask the way his jaw tightened. He told himself it wasn’t disappointment—he was just surprised. That’s all.

Her brother, however, had clearly caught something in his expression, because he grinned.

“I’ve got to say it, mate,” he mused, leaning against the counter. “For someone who complains about her so much, you sure seem bothered when she’s not around.”

Oscar’s eye twitched. “I’m not—”

“Fastidious,” he interrupted, eyes alight with amusement. “That’s the word you’re looking for, right? Bothered. Irritated. Peeved. Just… missing one specific source of those emotions.”

Oscar scowled, but it had no effect. Elaine’s brother just chuckled, shaking his head.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” he said, turning away. “Other than Elaine’s presence, of course.”

Oscar refused to dignify that with a response. Instead, he set his jaw, returned to his laptop, and pretended he wasn’t glancing toward the door every now and then.

Not because he wanted her to walk in. Obviously.

Just… if she did, he’d have a few words for her about being a menace. That was all.

Oscar was busy.

Too busy to think about insignificant things.

Training, meetings, simulator sessions—his schedule had been packed, every moment accounted for. He barely had time to breathe, let alone sit in a café waiting for some loud, insufferable presence to barge into his day.

And yet, the past couple of weeks had felt… off.

He hadn’t been at the café much, too caught up in work to indulge in his usual routine. On the rare occasions he did stop by, it was always a quick in-and-out, barely enough time to finish a coffee before he had to rush off. He didn’t even have the time to be annoyed by Elaine.

Not that he’d noticed her absence.

Not at all.

So when he caught sight of her at the local market on a rare free afternoon, it was almost too much—too jarring, too unexpected.

She was standing at one of the stalls, inspecting a bundle of fresh herbs with the same level of scrutiny he reserved for race telemetry. Her brows were furrowed, lips pursed in thought, and she hadn’t noticed him yet.

Which meant Oscar could—should—walk away.

Instead, his feet remained stubbornly in place.

It wasn’t just seeing her that got to him. It was the fact that, somehow, he’d felt her first. The way the market’s usual noise—vendors calling out deals, the chatter of locals—had blurred into the background the second he spotted her. The way a part of his brain had instantly clicked into place, like something missing had been restored.

That realization alone was enough to irritate him.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a step closer.

Elaine still hadn’t noticed him, too focused on haggling with the vendor.

"Come on, Monsieur Bernard," she cajoled, resting an elbow on the stall. "I’m practically family. Don’t you have a special discount for charming regulars?"

The older man behind the stall gave her an unimpressed look. "You tried this same trick last time."

"Yes, but I was less charming then."

Oscar let out a sharp exhale—not a laugh, definitely not—and that’s when she turned, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

For a moment, she just stared, as if confirming he was real. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a familiar smirk.

"Well, well, well," she drawled, turning fully to face him. "If it isn’t Mr. ‘I Have No Time for Social Interaction’ himself. Fancy meeting you here."

Oscar crossed his arms. "Fancy that."

She tilted her head, assessing him. "You look…" A pause, and then, teasingly, "…unmoored. Have you been lost without my constant interruptions?"

"Not remotely," he deadpanned.

Elaine gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Lies. You missed me."

Oscar gave her a flat look. "I was busy."

She waved a dismissive hand. "So was I. Exams."

That caught his attention. "Oh."

She raised an eyebrow. "That’s it? Just ‘oh’?"

"Did you pass?"

Elaine scoffed. "Of course I passed. I’m a genius."

Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

A beat passed, and then—

"So," Elaine said, leaning in slightly. "Are you going to admit it?"

"Admit what?"

"That you missed me."

He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he plucked the bundle of herbs straight out of her hand, examining them with faux interest.

"Hmm. Unremarkable. Much like your presence."

Elaine gaped at him. "You—you absolute—"

Behind the stall, Monsieur Bernard sighed, muttering something about young people before handing Elaine another bundle.

Oscar smirked. Maybe he had missed this. Just a little.

Without thinking about it, they started walking together.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, Oscar was fairly certain it wasn’t. He had no reason to follow Elaine anywhere. And yet, when she moved toward the next stall, he found himself falling into step beside her.

She didn’t comment on it, just gave him a brief, knowing glance before turning her attention to the produce in front of her.

“Tomatoes,” she muttered to herself, picking up a ripe one and turning it over in her hand. “Do I need tomatoes?”

Oscar arched an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what you’re buying?”

Elaine shrugged. “I improvise.”

He exhaled sharply, grabbing a small bag and tossing a few into it with actual purpose. Elaine mimicked his actions—except she kept adding more and more until Oscar gave her a flat look.

“You’re not feeding an army.”

“You don’t know that,” she said airily. “Maybe I’m part of a secret underground resistance.”

Oscar bit back a smirk, shaking his head as he handed his own bag to the vendor. Elaine did the same, and once they had their purchases, they moved on.

To another stall.

And another.

At some point, Elaine started following him—when he paused at a bakery stand, her interest was suddenly piqued.

“Buying bread?” she asked, peering at the selection.

He gave her a sideways glance. “What does it look like?”

“Huh.” She grabbed a small loaf for herself, then eyed the pastries. “You’re not getting anything sweet?”

“No.”

Elaine hummed. “Boring.”

Still, she grabbed two pain au chocolat instead of one.

When Oscar gave her a questioning look, she just waggled her eyebrows. “You never know.”

He didn’t respond, but later—when she wordlessly handed him the second pastry while they were walking—he took it.

It kept happening. A few more stalls, a few more purchases. Some things they needed, some they didn’t. They talked more than they probably should have, walked longer than they intended.

It wasn’t until Elaine tried shifting her bags to one arm—struggling slightly—that she finally paused and frowned.

“Hold on.” She glanced down. “Why do I have so much stuff?”

Oscar blinked at his own bags, as if only now realizing how full they were.

They stared at each other for a beat.

Elaine narrowed her eyes. “Did you just trick me into running errands with you?”

Oscar scoffed. “You tricked me.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Lies! This is sabotage!”

Oscar just shook his head, exhaling through his nose as he adjusted the bags in his hands.

And they parted ways—or at least, they tried to.

Elaine turned left. Oscar turned left.

Neither of them noticed at first, too occupied with adjusting their bags. But as they kept walking, side by side, it became… noticeable.

Elaine slowed her pace slightly, giving him a sidelong glance.

Oscar did the same.

They walked a few more meters in silence.

Then Elaine stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, brows furrowing in suspicion. “Are you following me?”

Oscar, who had also stopped, gave her a blank stare. “You’re the one going my way.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Or you’re going mine.”

Oscar sighed, adjusting the weight of his bags. “I live nearby.”

Elaine huffed. “I live nearby.”

They eyed each other for a moment, a realization beginning to dawn.

Then, with an unspoken agreement, they resumed walking.

Turned a corner.

Kept going.

Another turn.

When they both reached the café’s entrance, Elaine halted once again.

“Wait.” Her voice was laced with dawning horror. “You live here?”

Oscar blinked. “You live above the café?”

Elaine opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “You’re kidding.”

He exhaled sharply, barely suppressing a smirk at her distress. “Why would I joke about this?”

Elaine let out something between a groan and a laugh, running a hand down her face. “You mean to tell me… we’ve been neighbors this whole time?”

Oscar simply shrugged. “Apparently.”

Elaine groaned again, then gave him a long look—one that was probably meant to be annoyed, but somehow, she just looked amused.

Oscar didn’t know why, but he felt it too—something light, something ridiculous.

And before he could stop himself, before he even knew what he was doing—

He smirked.

Just a little.

Elaine’s eyes widened, like she had just seen a unicorn.

Then, with unrestrained glee, she pointed at him.

“A-ha!”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“You almost smiled!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

Elaine practically vibrated with excitement. “This is it. This is a breakthrough. I knew you had a sense of humor somewhere in there.”

Oscar huffed, stepping past her toward the stairs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ohhh, but I do.” Elaine grinned, falling into step behind him as they both climbed toward their apartments. “I’ll get a full smile out of you someday. Just you wait.”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

But somehow… somehow, the thought didn’t sound so bad.

Either way, as they stepped onto the landing, an odd silence settled between them.

Elaine adjusted her grip on the paper bag in her arms, rocking back slightly on her heels. Oscar wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. He should just say goodbye, unlock his door, and go about his evening. But he hesitated.

Which was weird.

Even weirder was the fact that Elaine was hesitating, too.

She glanced at his bag, then up at him, eyes squinting slightly in thought.

“Tell me you’re planning to have a healthy and balanced dinner, and not just some bread and cheese.”

Oscar frowned. “It’s efficient.”

Elaine let out a sharp laugh, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

“You’re hopeless.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

She sighed, then tilted her head toward her door. “Look, I accidentally bought enough food for an entire army, and you clearly need a proper meal. So… you in?”

Oscar hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. That was the problem. He wanted to.

His routine was simple, predictable. There was comfort in that. And yet, here was Elaine, throwing a wrench into everything—like she always did. But instead of annoying him, it felt… different this time.

It felt warm.

Elaine watched him, waiting. A little too smug, as if she already knew his answer.

“Okay,” he said. “Sure.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, like she hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly. Then she grinned, turning to unlock her door.

“Hope you like chaos.”

Oscar stepped inside without thinking twice. And for the first time in a long time, breaking his routine didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

Elaine’s apartment was exactly what Oscar had expected—lived-in, cluttered in a way that felt intentional, full of books stacked in odd places and little trinkets on the shelves. There were post-it notes stuck to the fridge, reminders scrawled in messy handwriting, and an open notebook on the small dining table with half-finished notes scribbled in the margins.

It was the complete opposite of his own place, which was neat, sparsely decorated, and painfully impersonal.

She kicked the door shut behind them, dumping her groceries onto the counter before stretching her arms overhead. “Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.”

Oscar set his own bag beside hers and leaned against the counter, watching as she started unpacking.

“You actually cook?” he asked, skeptical.

Elaine shot him a look over her shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just don’t seem like the type.”

She gasped, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Excuse me, but I’ll have you know I make an excellent—” She paused, staring at the items in front of her. Then, slowly, she deflated. “Okay, I may have gone overboard.”

Oscar peered over at the spread of vegetables, cheese, pasta, some kind of fresh herbs, and an absurd amount of tomatoes.

“You had a plan when you bought all this, right?”

Elaine waved a hand dismissively. “Cooking isn’t about rigid planning. It’s about intuition, improvisation, going with the flow—”

Oscar picked up a tomato and raised an eyebrow. “So, no plan.”

She snatched the tomato from his hand and placed it back down, scowling. “Fine, Mr. Meal Prep, what would you have bought?”

He shrugged. “Something simple. Something that makes sense together.”

Elaine scoffed. “Boring.”

“You say that, but you still invited me to eat whatever mess you come up with.”

“Because I am a generous and forgiving person.”

Oscar let out a breath of amusement, shaking his head.

Despite her apparent lack of a plan, Elaine moved around the kitchen with ease, pulling out a cutting board, a pan, and a few spices. Oscar found himself watching, noting the way she hummed under her breath, how she scrunched her nose slightly when she was thinking, how she talked through each step even though she didn’t need to.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help?” she asked without looking up.

Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “Help?”

“Yes, you know, participate in the process?” She pointed a knife at him. “Or do you only operate a steering wheel?”

He rolled his eyes but stepped closer, taking the knife from her. “Alright. Just don’t blame me if this goes wrong.”

“Oh, I fully intend to.”

She grinned as he started slicing, and for a while, they just… cooked.

It was strangely easy. They fell into a rhythm—Elaine throwing in too much of something, Oscar fixing it with something else, her laughing every time he muttered something under his breath about efficiency and proper ratios.

At some point, Sir Reginald Fluffington III appeared, hopping onto a chair and watching them like a tiny, judgmental supervisor. She then explained that when the café was closed, she took the cat upstairs with her, everyday.

Elaine, while talking and without thinking, reached down to scratch behind his ears. And Oscar, without thinking, did the same.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

By the time the food was ready, the apartment smelled warm and rich, and Oscar had to begrudgingly admit—it actually looked good.

Elaine beamed, sliding into her chair as she set down their plates. “See? Cooking with intuition.”

Oscar sat across from her, eyeing the dish. “This could still be a disaster.”

She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then grinned. “Nope. It’s amazing.”

Hesitant, Oscar finally tried his own. And—damn it. It was.

He kept his expression neutral, but Elaine saw right through him.

“You like it.”

“It’s edible.”

“You love it.”

Oscar sighed. “I tolerate it.”

Elaine laughed, kicking him lightly under the table.

And as they ate, talked, and bickered over who had done most of the work, Oscar realized something.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about the races ahead, the pressure, the expectations.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

As the meal stretched on, the conversation drifted, weaving in and out of topics with an ease that Oscar wasn’t used to. Elaine had a way of making silence feel optional, of filling the space with whatever thought popped into her head—sometimes ridiculous, sometimes insightful, always entertaining.

She talked about the weirdest things: a documentary she’d watched about medieval bread laws, an argument she’d overheard on the bus about the best way to peel an orange, the time she accidentally joined a book club just for the free snacks and ended up stuck in it for six months.

Oscar, against all odds, found himself enjoying it.

It was so different from the world he was used to—where everything was structured, precise, driven by logic and efficiency. Elaine, on the other hand, lived in tangents, in spontaneous decisions, in a constant state of curiosity.

And somehow, he wasn’t annoyed by it.

If anything, he was listening. Actually listening.

At some point, Sir Reginald Fluffington III jumped onto the table, eyeing their plates with a level of entitlement only a cat could muster.

Elaine absentmindedly scratched his chin. “Don’t even think about it, Reg.”

The cat meowed, offended by the accusation.

Elaine smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Oscar watched as she continued to pet him without really looking, fingers moving automatically through his fur. It was such a small, unconscious thing, but something about it made his chest feel… warm.

He cleared his throat, shaking the thought away.

Elaine, oblivious, leaned back in her chair, stretching. “Alright, I’ll admit it. You were actually useful in the kitchen.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”

“You should feel honored.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

She grinned. “Good. Because next time, I’m making dessert, and I expect you to assist.”

Next time.

Oscar didn’t know why those words stood out to him, why they lodged themselves in his brain like something solid and undeniable.

It wasn’t a question, wasn’t a suggestion.

It was just a fact.

As if this—whatever this was—wasn’t a one-time thing.

As Elaine stretched lazily in her chair, she watched Oscar stand and, to her utter shock, start gathering the plates. She blinked, then narrowed her eyes.

“Wait. Are you actually—”

“Helping,” he said flatly, carrying the dishes to the sink.

She let out a slow, exaggerated gasp. “Oh my God. You’re one of them.”

Oscar frowned. “One of what?”

“A man written by a woman.”

He gave her a blank stare. “What?”

“You know, like in books or movies. The kind of guy who—” She gestured at him, as if that explained everything. “Quiet but secretly sweet. Competent but unassuming. Willing to do the dishes without being asked. It’s rare.”

Oscar let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he turned on the tap. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

But he was smiling. And then, suddenly—he was laughing.

Not just a scoff, not a quiet huff of amusement, but actual, genuine laughter.

Elaine had never seen that before.

She went completely still, watching him as he stood there in her tiny kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands in soapy water, head tilted slightly downward as he chuckled to himself.

And for the first time since she met him, she didn’t have anything to say.

Because, somehow, watching Oscar Piastri laugh—really laugh—was enough to leave her speechless.

It happened gradually, in a way neither of them fully acknowledged at first. One day, Elaine casually mentioned she was watching a documentary that Oscar "absolutely had to see," and before he knew it, he was sitting on her couch with a bowl of popcorn, being force-fed historical facts he never asked for.

“You’re not even watching,” Elaine accused, nudging his arm when she noticed his eyes drifting to his phone.

“I am,” Oscar protested, but she shot him a look.

“Fine. Pop quiz. What year did this take place?”

“…The past.”

Elaine gasped, scandalized, and smacked his shoulder. “Disrespectful.”

The next time, it was Oscar’s turn. “If I had to watch your documentaries, you have to watch this.”

Elaine frowned at his laptop screen as a highlight reel from the 2011 Formula 1 season played. “Let me guess,” she said flatly. “Someone overtakes someone else. And then someone else overtakes that someone. And then—oh, look—another overtake.”

Oscar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have the attention span of a squirrel.”

“And you have the hobbies of a dad.”

He turned to her, unimpressed. “It’s literally my job.”

Elaine hummed, clearly unbothered, as she stuffed a handful of chips into her mouth. “Then I’m just keeping you humble.”

Outside of their self-imposed cultural exchange nights, they started seeing each other more in ways that felt unplanned, unintentional—except that it kept happening. Oscar would be heading to the store for something quick, only to find Elaine standing in the same aisle, studying a jar of pasta sauce like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Oh, great,” he deadpanned. “You again.”

Elaine smirked. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

And yet, somehow, they always ended up walking back home together.

Then there were the times he went out for a run along the coast, only to spot a familiar figure cruising past on a bike, feet lazily pedaling as she enjoyed the sea breeze. She never failed to call out to him, sometimes ringing a ridiculous little bike bell just to be annoying.

“Move it, slowpoke!”

Oscar, ever the competitive one, picked up his pace. “Race me, then!”

“Against a literal athlete?” she scoffed. “Pass.”

Yet, moments later, she’d kick off, trying to pass him, laughing breathlessly when he shot her an unimpressed look. She never won—he made sure of that—but that never seemed to bother her.

Sometimes, they just walked together. No reason, no plan. Just two people who somehow kept ending up in the same place, at the same time, as if the universe was nudging them closer. It wasn’t something either of them talked about, but they both felt it—the gradual shift from tolerating each other to seeking each other out.

And Oscar, despite himself, started to wonder when exactly that had happened.

When Oscar pushed open the door to the café that morning, he wasn’t alone.

Lando followed beside him, stretching his arms over his head as they stepped inside. “Mate, I’m telling you, I need real coffee,” he groaned. “Not that lukewarm excuse they serve at some places here.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh. “You literally live in Monaco.”

“Yeah, but you know Monaco.” Lando shot him a look. “I trust your judgment.”

That was how, without much thought, Oscar had ended up bringing Lando here—his café.

It wasn’t his café, obviously. It just… happened to be the place he always went to. The place that had somehow worked itself into his routine. The place where—

Elaine.

She was behind the counter, laughing at something her brother was saying as she wiped down the espresso machine. She hadn’t seen them yet, but when she did, Oscar caught the flicker of surprise in her expression. It was brief—quickly replaced by her usual smirk—but he still noticed it.

And for some reason, that did something weird to his chest.

“Well, well,” she drawled, placing her hands on her hips. “Didn’t know you were the ‘bring a date to your favorite spot’ type, Piastri.”

Oscar sighed. “Don’t start.”

Lando, clearly intrigued, leaned on the counter with an easy grin. “Oh, I like you.”

Elaine grinned back. “Flatterer.”

Oscar shot him a look. “Lando.”

“What?” Lando glanced between them, clearly enjoying himself. “You’ve been hiding this place—and her—from me. I feel betrayed.”

Oscar groaned. “I am never bringing you anywhere again.”

Elaine just chuckled, tapping her fingers against the counter as she looked at Oscar. “Usual for you?”

He nodded, and she got to work, moving with the practiced ease of someone who knew her way around a coffee machine.

Lando watched for a moment before nudging Oscar. “So,” he said under his breath. “Who is she?”

Oscar frowned. “Elaine.”

“Yes, I got that,” Lando muttered. “But, like. Who is she?”

Oscar took a slow breath. “She works here.”

Lando raised a brow. “And you two just happen to know each other well enough that she openly mocks you the second we walk in?”

Oscar didn’t answer.

Lando’s grin widened. “You like her.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmhmm.”

Before Oscar could tell him to shut up, Sir Reginald Fluffington III leaped onto the counter, settling himself between them like a self-appointed judge of character.

Lando’s eyes lit up. “Oh, hell yeah, a cat!”

He reached out to pet him, only for Sir Reginald to give him a slow, unimpressed blink before immediately turning toward Oscar instead, rubbing his face against his arm.

Lando’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t even do anything.”

Elaine grinned. “Congratulations, you’ve been deemed unworthy.”

Oscar, meanwhile, absently scratched behind the cat’s ears, looking far too smug for Lando’s liking.

Lando squinted at him. “Alright, you know what? Maybe you do belong here.”

Elaine slid their drinks onto the counter. “Alright, boys, let’s see if this place lives up to your ridiculous standards.”

Lando took a sip, then paused, eyes widening slightly. “Damn. Okay, I see why you come here.”

Elaine leaned on the counter, looking pleased. “Told you I take it seriously.”

Lando shot a pointed look at Oscar. “You didn’t tell me she was a coffee genius.”

Oscar took his own cup, murmuring a quiet, “It’s why I come here.”

Elaine blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She recovered quickly, but Oscar saw it—that tiny pause, the brief flicker of something softer in her expression before she smirked again.

“Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “Guess that means I’ll be seeing more of you, Norris.”

Lando grinned. “If it means more coffee like this? Absolutely.”

Oscar just shook his head, already regretting the chaos he had unleashed. But beneath all of that, there was something else—a barely-there flicker of something unnamed, something strange, something he wasn’t quite ready to think about.

Because Lando had flirted with Elaine just to get a reaction. And Oscar had reacted.

And, somehow, what started with just Lando, turned into all of them.

At first, it was just the occasional visit—Lando tagging along whenever he felt like it, grinning at Elaine over the counter like he was in on some great secret. But then Max showed up one day, apparently intrigued after Lando wouldn’t shut up about the place. And when Max came, Charles wasn’t far behind. And then George, who they bumped into on the way and who figured, why not?

Before Oscar really processed how it happened, the café had become a regular spot for them.

Elaine handled it well, effortlessly juggling orders while throwing in her usual snark, though there was a glint of amusement in her eyes whenever she met Oscar’s gaze—like she knew exactly what had happened, exactly how this little invasion had come to be.

He ignored it.

Some days, it was just him and Lando. Others, it was half the grid, sprawled across tables, talking about races, cars, travel schedules—just a mess of conversations overlapping.

Elaine saw Oscar from a distance sometimes, laughing at something Max had said, or gesturing animatedly as he explained some technical nuance to Charles. It was… different, seeing him like that. More open, more relaxed.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t just Oscar, the guy who put up with her nonsense. He was Oscar Piastri, Formula 1 driver, future world champion if the world made any sense.

And yet, when he got up to grab another round of drinks, weaving his way to the counter, none of that seemed to matter.

Elaine smirked as he approached. “Back for more?”

“Apparently,” Oscar sighed, leaning on the counter.

“Is this your way of keeping me too busy to bother you?”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Across the room, Lando nudged Charles. “Look at that.”

Charles followed his gaze, watching as Oscar—Oscar, who barely tolerated human interaction—stood at the counter, casually talking to Elaine, something close to amusement flickering in his expression.

“Mon dieu,” Charles murmured. “He has a favorite barista.”

Lando grinned. “And he doesn’t even deny it.”

Max snorted. “Poor guy doesn’t even realize.”

Back at the counter, Oscar rolled his eyes as Elaine flicked a sugar packet at him. “For energy,” she said, looking innocent.

Oscar shook his head, taking the drinks without further comment. But as he turned back toward the table, he caught the way his friends were looking at him.

And for some reason, it made something twist in his chest.

And the it started as a joke. At least, Elaine thought it was a joke.

They had all been lounging at the café, their usual spot now, when Lando—because of course it was Lando—offhandedly mentioned something about bringing Elaine to a Grand Prix.

“You should come to Zandvoort,” he said, stirring his coffee.

Elaine, standing nearby, scoffed. “Oh, sure. Let me just hop on a plane with the entire Formula 1 circus. That sounds completely normal.”

Charles, ever the agent of chaos, grinned. “Why not? Oscar can take you.”

Oscar, who had been mid-sip, nearly choked. He shot Charles a look, but before he could protest, Max—who had been scrolling through his phone, unbothered—added, “Yeah, good race to start with. Orange everywhere. Chaos. You’d like it.”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “You guys just want to see me suffer, don’t you?”

Lando smirked. “A little.”

She snorted. “Very funny.”

The conversation moved on.

But apparently, Oscar hadn’t.

Because the next day, when Elaine opened her apartment door, she found him standing there, a familiar expression of mild exasperation on his face, a small envelope in his hand.

Elaine wasn’t a morning person.

It took her brain a few extra seconds to register things before she could properly function—something Oscar had learned through unfortunate trial and error at the café.

So, when she opened her door that morning, her hair still a mess from sleep, wearing a hoodie that looked two sizes too big for her, she needed a solid moment to process what was happening.

Oscar. Standing there. On her doorstep. Holding an envelope. Looking as impassive as ever, but with a certain stiffness in his posture that meant he wasn’t here for something casual.

She blinked, still groggy. “Uh. Morning?”

“Morning,” he said, then immediately shoved the envelope into her hands like he wanted to be done with it.

Elaine squinted down at it. The paper was thick, expensive, like the kind you got for serious events. The kind of envelope that felt important. And Oscar was just standing there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching her expectantly.

She glanced up at him. “You’re not serving me legal papers, are you?”

Oscar sighed. “Just open it.”

So she did.

At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. Plane tickets. A familiar three-letter airport code. And—

Her eyes landed on the brightly colored paddock passes, printed with the words Formula 1 Heineken Dutch Grand Prix 2025.

Elaine blinked. Then blinked again.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze back to Oscar, still not fully awake, still not fully grasping what was happening. “Did you—” Her mouth opened, then closed. She shook the envelope a little, as if that would change its contents. “Oscar. What the hell is this?”

“Tickets,” he said, like it was obvious.

“For Zandvoort.”

“Yep.”

She held them up, waving them slightly. “You actually did it?”

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

“Yes!” she said, exasperated. “You barely put effort into text messages. And yet you—” She stopped mid-sentence, rifling through the envelope, and then something else caught her eye.

Separate from the paddock passes were additional tickets. Printed reservations. Museum entries.

Elaine pulled them out, scanning the names. The Rijksmuseum. The Van Gogh Museum. Anne Frank House.

She looked back at Oscar, expression stunned.

He exhaled, shifting his weight slightly. “If you’re making me sit through an entire weekend of you mocking my job, I figured I should get something out of it.”

Elaine just… stared at him.

Then, slowly, a grin spread across her face.

“Did you just bribe me with museums?”

Oscar’s lips twitched, but he fought the smile. “Is it working?”

Elaine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied him—really studied him. The way he was standing there, a little too stiff, like he wasn’t sure if she was going to say yes. The way he had clearly thought about this, planned it out, even included things she would enjoy.

Her chest felt strangely warm.

“You know,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in, “I was going to take it easy on you in Zandvoort.”

Oscar stepped inside, glancing at her skeptically. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Elaine’s grin turned mischievous as she shut the door behind him. “Oh, I definitely won’t now. You’re doomed, Piastri.”

Oscar had never walked so much in his life.

He was used to long training sessions, hours in the gym, and races that pushed his endurance to the limit—but this? This was a different kind of exhaustion. The kind that came from spending an entire day trailing after Elaine as she took him through what she called "a proper introduction to Amsterdam."

It had started with the museums. First the Rijksmuseum, where she dragged him from painting to painting, rattling off facts with a kind of enthusiasm that almost made him interested. Almost.

“I get that these are masterpieces,” he admitted at one point, hands shoved into his pockets as he stared at The Night Watch, “but you’d think someone would’ve told them to use better lighting.”

Elaine gasped. “Blasphemy.”

“I’m just saying. Look at it.” He gestured vaguely. “It’s so dark. Maybe that’s why everyone’s standing around—it’s taking them a while to figure out what they’re looking at.”

She groaned, rubbing her temples. “I am this close to abandoning you in this museum.”

But she didn’t. Instead, she spent another three hours leading him through hallways lined with art, maps, and relics. She talked. He listened. And, to his own quiet surprise, he actually retained some of it.

Then came the canal walk.

Elaine insisted it was the only way to properly take in the city. Oscar wasn’t convinced, but he followed her anyway, hands in his pockets as she strolled beside him, pointing out historical buildings, telling him stories about Amsterdam’s past.

For a while, he just listened.

And then, after a particularly dramatic tale about the city’s trading history, he smirked.

“You know,” he mused, “I think I finally understand why you like history so much.”

Elaine raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You like drama.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “How dare you.”

Oscar chuckled, the sound low and warm, and bumped his shoulder against hers. “You do. All these betrayals, wars, political schemes—you eat it up.”

Elaine pouted. “I was going to say something profound about how history connects us to the past and helps us understand the present, but sure. Let’s go with ‘Elaine likes drama.’”

“Hey, I get it,” he said with a smirk. “It’s like racing. Strategy, risks, the occasional backstabbing—same thing, different century.”

She shot him a look. “Remind me never to let you explain history to children.”

Oscar grinned.

They continued walking, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows along the canals. The air smelled of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, mingling with the crispness of the water. A couple of cyclists zipped past, bells ringing, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician played something soft and familiar.

Elaine sighed, tucking her hands into her coat pockets. “Alright, I dragged you through museums all day. What do you want to do now?”

Oscar considered. Then—“Dinner.”

Elaine blinked. “That’s it? No ‘let’s find the nearest simulator’ or ‘let’s analyze tire degradation charts over drinks’?”

He rolled his eyes. “I do normal things too, you know.”

“Debatable,” she muttered.

He nudged her with his elbow. “Come on, historian. You picked everything today. I get to pick dinner.”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “Fine. But if you choose some sad hotel restaurant, I’m revoking your privileges.”

Oscar smirked. “Relax. I know a place.”

And so they walked. Through the streets of Amsterdam, through the easy conversation and quiet moments in between, through the slow, unspoken shift in the space between them.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Neither of them needed to.

Dinner had been good. Simple, but good.

Oscar had picked a restaurant close to the hotel, one that wasn’t too fancy but had just enough of a warm, cozy atmosphere that Elaine immediately launched into a monologue about how Dutch cafés were vastly superior to anywhere else in Europe.

Oscar had listened, half-distracted by his food, half-focused on her usual theatrics.

She talked about the charm of old Dutch architecture, the history behind certain dishes, and—somehow—ended up explaining how the country’s trade routes influenced the spread of different spices across Europe.

Oscar had tuned out a little by that point, but it wasn’t like he minded.

She liked to talk. He liked to listen.

It worked.

By the time they made it back to the hotel, Elaine was still going, her words slowing down only slightly as the day caught up with her.

“Did you know,” she began as they stepped out of the elevator, “that the Dutch—”

“Elaine,” Oscar said, dryly. “That’s the tenth time you’ve started a sentence like that today.”

She ignored him, pushing ahead as if he hadn’t spoken. “—had such a monopoly on certain trades that entire economies were built around their influence?”

Oscar hummed noncommittally as he swiped his keycard, opening his door.

It was supposed to be the end of the conversation. They both had separate rooms—he had made sure of that. The plan was simple: go to sleep, wake up, and start fresh the next day.

Instead, Elaine just… walked in after him.

He blinked. “What—?”

“Anyway,” she continued, dropping onto his bed like it was hers, “what was I saying?”

Oscar sighed, rubbing his temples. “Dutch monopoly. Trade. Some economic thing.”

Elaine snapped her fingers. “Right! So—”

And that was how he found himself standing in his own hotel room, watching her lie back against the pillows, one arm flung behind her head, completely at home in his space.

He considered kicking her out.

Then he considered how much energy that would take.

Then he considered that nothing short of physically dragging her out would probably work.

So, with a resigned sigh, he grabbed his toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom.

By the time he came back, freshly showered and in his usual sleepwear, Elaine had somehow fully settled in.

Not only was she still sprawled across his bed, but she had also stolen his hoodie at some point, pulling it on over her t-shirt like she belonged in it.

She was still talking—something about Dutch colonialism now—but her words were starting to slur slightly, her eyelids drooping as sleep crept in.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. “Elaine, you have your own room.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, eyes half-closed.

“You should go.”

Silence.

Then: the softest sound of her breathing, slow and even.

Oscar let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair.

Right.

Well.

That settled that, then.

Shaking his head, he grabbed an extra blanket from the closet, draped it over her, and shut off the main light.

Then, instead of trying to wrestle for space, he took the armchair by the window, grabbed his phone, and settled in for the night.

It wasn’t the most comfortable setup. But somehow, he didn’t really mind.

That is, until Oscar woke up to the sound of someone shifting around. A second later, a hand lightly smacked his leg.

“What the hell are you doing?” Elaine’s voice was groggy, thick with sleep but still laced with amusement.

Oscar blinked, trying to reorient himself. The dim glow of the city lights seeped in through the curtains, casting the hotel room in soft shadows. His neck ached. His back felt horrible. His arm—folded awkwardly beneath him—was completely numb.

Right. The armchair.

Elaine smacked his leg again, gentler this time. “You look like a pretzel.”

Oscar let out a low grunt. “You’re in my bed.”

“And?” She propped herself up on one elbow, squinting at him through the darkness. “I would literally rather be arrested than sleep in one of those horrible hotel pull-out couches.”

“It’s not a pull-out couch.”

“Whatever, it looks uncomfortable.”

Oscar exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. He was too tired to argue.

Elaine, apparently, was not.

“I’m not gonna call the cops if you get in bed, you know,” she added, her voice teasing. “I could, just to be dramatic, but I won’t.”

Oscar dragged a hand down his face. “Generous.”

“I am,” she agreed. Then, after a moment, her voice softened—less playful, more… genuine. “Seriously, though. Stop being weird. Just get in.”

Oscar hesitated.

Then, because the dull ache in his spine was getting unbearable, he finally gave in.

Wordlessly, he pushed himself up from the chair, stretched his arms over his head, and shuffled toward the bed.

Elaine scooted over without needing to be asked, making space for him. The bed wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that they didn’t have to be in each other’s space.

Still, as he settled under the covers, he felt the warmth of her presence beside him, her steady breathing filling the silence.

Elaine let out a satisfied hum. “See? Way better than suffering in that stupid chair.”

Oscar didn’t answer, already too close to sleep to form a proper response.

Elaine chuckled under her breath. “Goodnight, roomie.”

Oscar barely had the energy to sigh. “Go to sleep, Elaine.”

For a moment, Oscar thought he would be able to sleep.

The bed was undeniably more comfortable than the chair, and exhaustion pulled at him in waves. But the problem—the real problem—was that he was suddenly too aware of Elaine.

He could feel the warmth of her body beside him, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing. Every time she shifted, the blankets moved, the mattress dipped, and his entire body went rigid with hyper-awareness.

It was ridiculous. She wasn’t even touching him. There was a good few inches of space between them, and yet, Oscar still felt like she was everywhere.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe if he just stayed perfectly still—

Elaine shifted again, turning onto her side to face him. He could feel her gaze on him before she even spoke.

“Oscar,” she murmured.

He closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

“I know you’re awake.”

Damn it.

Oscar sighed, cracking one eye open. “What?”

“You’re so tense it’s making me nervous.”

“I’m fine.”

Elaine huffed. “You’re about as ‘fine’ as a cat stuck in a bathtub.”

Oscar pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to acknowledge how stiff his body felt, how tightly wound he was just from lying here.

Elaine, ever perceptive, saw straight through him.

“Okay,” she murmured, shifting again. “Hang on.”

He barely had time to process her movements before she reached out, resting a hand lightly on his arm.

Oscar froze.

Her touch was gentle, barely there, the pads of her fingers tracing slow, soothing lines against his skin.

“Relax,” she mumbled, voice already thick with sleep. “It’s just me.”

That’s the problem, Oscar wanted to say.

His pulse jumped, his entire body locking up. His instinct was to pull away, to escape the unfamiliarity of it—but before he could, Elaine’s touch changed.

She wasn’t teasing him this time.

Her fingertips glided over his forearm in slow, repetitive motions, tracing thoughtless patterns, featherlight and warm. The kind of touch that required no thought, no effort.

Oscar swallowed.

It was nice.

That was the worst part.

Slowly, hesitantly, he let himself breathe.

His shoulders loosened, his body sinking slightly into the mattress.

Elaine didn’t say anything else. She just kept drawing soft, absentminded shapes against his skin, like it was second nature.

Eventually, her movements slowed.

Then, they stilled entirely.

Her breathing evened out, deep and steady, as she finally drifted off.

Oscar exhaled, staring up at the ceiling again.

He was still wide awake.

The next day felt… different.

Not outwardly, not in any way that would be obvious to an outsider. Oscar and Elaine still bickered, still teased, still moved through the city with their usual dynamic—him rolling his eyes at her dramatic historical retellings, her making increasingly absurd claims just to get a reaction out of him.

But something had shifted.

Maybe it was the way Elaine’s hand brushed his when she passed him a museum ticket—fingers grazing against his palm just a second too long.

Maybe it was the way she stood closer than usual, their arms occasionally bumping as they walked.

Maybe it was the way she leaned into him—actually leaned into him—when she pointed out some obscure detail in a centuries-old painting, her shoulder pressing into his, her voice low near his ear.

Or maybe—maybe—it was the way they both noticed all of it.

Because for the first time, Oscar wasn’t just aware of Elaine’s presence—he was hyperaware. Of every glance, every touch, every moment that felt like it should be nothing but wasn’t.

Like now.

They were sitting on the steps of a canal bridge, finishing off the last of their coffees. The city moved around them—bikes whizzing past, boats drifting lazily through the water—but all Oscar could focus on was the fact that Elaine had kicked off her shoes, stretching her legs out beside his.

And that, at some point, her knee had come to rest against his.

It wasn’t intentional. Probably.

She didn’t seem to notice, at least not at first.

But then, a few minutes later, she shifted slightly, adjusting the way she sat—and didn’t move away.

Oscar didn’t either.

He should have. It would’ve been easy—just a small shift to the side, just an inch of space.

But neither of them moved.

The warmth of her knee against his felt… casual. Natural. Like it belonged there.

And Oscar should not be thinking about it this much.

Elaine turned to him, eyes bright. “Okay,” she said, leaning back on her hands. “What’s next on the itinerary, tour guide?”

Oscar forced his brain to catch up, to focus on something other than the warmth of her skin against his.

He cleared his throat. “There’s still the Anne Frank House,” he said, glancing at her. “Unless you’d rather find a café and keep giving me unsolicited history lessons.”

Elaine grinned. “Bold of you to assume I need another coffee for that.”

He snorted, shaking his head, but when he stood, he instinctively reached down to offer her a hand.

And when she took it—her fingers slipping easily into his, her grip warm and steady—Oscar realized two things.

One: he liked the way her hand fit in his.

And two: he was completely, utterly screwed.

And when night came, Elaine was doing it again.

Following him to his room like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if she belonged there.

Except tonight, she wasn’t talking.

The television played quietly in the background, some Dutch news channel filling the room with a low hum of voices neither of them paid attention to. Oscar moved around, going through his usual nighttime routine—checking his phone, answering a quick call from a McLaren team member, confirming a schedule for media duties on Thursday.

Elaine sat cross-legged on the bed, absentmindedly flipping through a travel guide she’d picked up earlier. She wasn’t reading it, though. Not really.

Oscar didn’t say anything about it.

He grabbed some clothes from his suitcase, disappearing into the bathroom for a quick shower. When he emerged, towel drying his hair, Elaine was still there.

Still silent.

Still watching.

Something about the way her eyes followed him felt… different.

He ignored it, tossing the towel aside as he started organizing a few things in his suitcase. He folded a shirt, straightened out a pair of socks. He was fully aware of how unnecessary it was—he didn’t need to be tidying up right now—but keeping his hands busy felt safer than acknowledging the weight of Elaine’s gaze.

She was looking at him like she was seeing something new.

Something she hadn’t noticed before.

Something she liked.

And that was dangerous.

Oscar cleared his throat, not looking at her. “So,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Are you just going to stay here again until you fall asleep mid-sentence?”

Elaine smirked, but it was softer than usual. “Tempting,” she admitted, stretching her legs out. “But I think I’ll actually leave before I make myself too comfortable this time.”

Oscar snorted. “Unlikely.”

But then she stood, padding toward the door in her socks.

For a second, he almost thought she’d just leave.

But she paused.

Turned back.

And before he could react, she reached out, running her fingers through his damp hair—just a quick, slow drag of her hand, like she was testing the texture.

Her touch sent something electric down his spine.

“You should do your hair like this more often,” she murmured, like it was just a passing comment.

But it wasn’t just a comment.

Not when her fingers lingered for a second too long. Not when her voice had that particular softness to it.

Not when Oscar was suddenly, acutely aware of how close she was.

His throat felt dry. “Yeah?”

Elaine’s lips twitched, her hand dropping back to her side. “Yeah.”

And then, just like that, she turned and slipped out of the room, leaving Oscar standing there, heart beating a little too fast, hair still wet, and very much aware that something had just shifted between them.

Elaine had seen bits of it on TV before, the sleek garages, the bustling pit lane, the media swarming around like bees. But experiencing it in person? That was something else entirely.

She had no idea where to go, who to talk to, or what to do with herself. She barely even recognized anyone—except for the handful of drivers who had started frequenting the café. Everyone else? Just a blur of branded team uniforms and important-looking people rushing past like they had somewhere critical to be.

And so, naturally, she stuck to Oscar like a lost puppy.

At first, she tried to play it cool—walking beside him at a respectable distance, pretending to know exactly where she was going. But then they entered the McLaren hospitality suite, where engineers, media personnel, and team executives moved with swift efficiency, talking strategy, making notes, exchanging glances that said we have five million things to do before the weekend even starts.

Elaine hesitated. Paused mid-step. And before she knew it, she was trailing behind Oscar, practically stepping on his heels.

Oscar, of course, noticed immediately.

He glanced back at her, amused. “What are you doing?”

Elaine huffed. “I don’t know where to go.”

“You have a paddock pass.”

“Yes, but what does that mean?” she said dramatically. “Do I just… exist? Lurk in corners? Am I supposed to talk to people? Do I get free food?”

Oscar smirked, handing his bag off to a team member before crossing his arms. “I mean, I assume you can talk to people, but you don’t have to.*”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“You know Lando.”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because you brought him to my café, not because I have a subscription to the ‘Who’s Who in F1’ club.” She looked around, frowning. “Where is he, anyway?”

Oscar checked his watch. “Media duties.”

“Ah. And you’re not doing that because?”

“Because I actually have things to do.”

“Rude.”

He smirked again, already turning towards the garage. Elaine made the mistake of hesitating, and suddenly he was ahead of her, navigating the chaos with practiced ease while she scrambled to keep up.

For the next twenty minutes, she followed him like a shadow—through the garage, past engineers, down the paddock lane. It didn’t go unnoticed. More than once, someone glanced at her, curious.

She felt ridiculous.

“I look like a stray dog,” she muttered under her breath.

Oscar snorted.

Elaine groaned, rubbing her temples. “Seriously, what am I supposed to do?”

Oscar finally stopped walking, turned to her, and let out a laugh. A real laugh. “You look so uncomfortable.”

“Because I am uncomfortable!” she whispered harshly. “I’m a history nerd at a motorsport event, Oscar! This is like throwing a fish into the desert!”

Oscar tilted his head. “That’s dramatic.”

Elaine narrowed her eyes. “You invited me. Fix it.”

He hummed, pretending to think. Then, with an infuriatingly casual shrug, he said, “Figure it out,” and kept walking.

Elaine groaned, dragging a hand down her face before jogging after him. Maybe being a stray dog wasn’t that bad.

She was learning.

By the time Friday’s practice sessions rolled around, she had figured out a few things:

Free food? Absolutely a thing. (Oscar had neglected to mention this, the menace.)

No one actually cared what she was doing as long as she wasn’t in the way.

Every time Oscar put his helmet on and got into the car, something in her stomach twisted—just a little.

That last part was not ideal.

She had spent the first free practice watching from the McLaren garage, trying not to look completely out of place as engineers muttered things about tire degradation and setup tweaks. Oscar had barely spared her a glance, too focused on whatever pre-session routine he had, and once he was in the car, she had expected him to be gone, mentally checked out.

Except—he had looked for her.

Just once. A brief flick of his eyes in her direction before the visor came down and he drove off.

And Elaine? She had no idea why her heart stuttered at that.

She spent the rest of the session in the garage, wearing a headset she barely understood, and when Oscar’s voice crackled through the radio—calm, measured, completely in his element—she felt something. Pride? Fascination? She wasn’t sure.

She distracted herself by making unnecessary notes in a small pocket journal she had brought, sketching out the circuit layout and writing down completely useless historical facts about the Netherlands. (Zandvoort was originally a fishing village. In 1955, the track had to be modified to reduce wind sensitivity.)

Oscar later found her curled up in the corner of the hospitality suite, scribbling away like an academic lost in a war zone.

He squinted at her notebook. “Are you taking—actual notes?”

Elaine didn’t look up. “Your tires suck.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Not my fault.”

“Isn’t it, though?” she teased.

He sighed, stealing a bite of whatever snack she had in front of her.

And just like that, the weekend blurred forward—brief exchanges, subtle touches, and something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.

By the time Saturday passed by, Elaine realized just how fast Oscar was.

She hadn’t fully understood how much until she watched qualifying from the McLaren pit wall. Seeing the cars live, watching him weave through corners with pinpoint precision—it was different from seeing it on a screen.

And then came that moment.

When Oscar set a lap quick enough to push into Q3, the McLaren garage erupted. Cheers, high-fives, engineers nodding in approval. Elaine, caught up in the energy, grinned and turned—just as Oscar walked in, removing his helmet, shaking out his damp hair.

Their eyes met.

Elaine barely registered that she had started moving until she was right there, standing closer than she had any reason to be.

His breath was still heavy from exertion, his racing suit clinging to his frame. There was sweat at his temple, and for some stupid reason, her gaze flickered to his lips before snapping back up.

Oscar smirked.

She immediately took a step back.

“Good job,” she muttered, arms crossing.

“Thanks.” His voice was lower, rougher.

Something flickered between them—charged, weighty. Elaine hated it. (She didn’t hate it at all.)

Before she could dig herself into a deeper hole, Lando appeared, clapping Oscar on the back and breaking the spell.

Elaine exhaled. Crisis averted.

That night, a group naturally formed at the hotel bar. It wasn’t planned—just a product of circumstance, of familiar faces gravitating toward one another after a long day.

Lando was there, of course, along with a few other drivers—Verstappen, Russell, Leclerc. A couple of engineers. A few partners who had tagged along for the weekend. It was casual, low-key, everyone nursing drinks and unwinding.

Elaine had somehow ended up next to Oscar, which wasn’t surprising. It was instinct at this point.

What was surprising was how everyone else seemed to notice.

It wasn’t like they were doing anything out of the ordinary. They weren’t even touching. But their dynamic was so them—full of quiet familiarity, an ease that stood out amidst the rest of the group.

Oscar would grab his drink, and without thinking, Elaine would shift his phone closer so he wouldn’t knock it over.

Elaine would huff about something Lando said, and Oscar would shoot her a subtle, knowing smirk, like he already knew the exact way she’d react before she even did.

At one point, Elaine reached for something on the table—a stray napkin, a drink menu, something unimportant—and Oscar, mid-conversation, simply handed it to her without missing a beat.

The others noticed.

They didn’t say anything. But glances were exchanged, smirks barely hidden behind glasses.

Russell leaned back, watching with an amused tilt of his head. Max, swirling his drink lazily, flicked his gaze between them before raising a brow at Lando. Charles, seated across from Oscar, let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head to himself.

Then, as if to cement whatever silent conclusion they had all reached, Elaine accidentally knocked her phone off the table.

With a sigh, she slipped off her stool to grab it before it slid further away. As she ducked under the table, Oscar—without even looking—simply reached out and covered the sharp edge of the table with his hand, shielding it.

Elaine, entirely unaware, grabbed her phone and straightened, sliding back into her seat. She had no idea she had just avoided smacking her temple against the corner of the table.

But the others had definitely seen. Lando, Max, George, Charles. God, even the waiter passing by.

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. George took a slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming with silent amusement. Max pressed his lips together, barely suppressing a knowing smirk. Charles let out a quiet chuckle, exchanging a look with Lando.

And no one said anything.

No teasing remark, no pointed comment. They didn’t need to.

Oscar, still half-listening to a conversation on his other side, finally turned his head, sensing the shift in the air.

His gaze swept over the group, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”

Silence.

George took another sip of his drink, looking far too entertained. Lando just pressed his lips together, like he was physically holding back a laugh. Max and Charles shared a look, one that said no need to state the obvious.

Elaine, oblivious to the silent exchange happening around her, just frowned. "God, you’re all weird," she muttered, settling back into her seat.

Oscar, still confused but unbothered, just shook his head and turned back to his drink.

And yet, despite everything, the glances, the smirks, the knowing, didn’t fade.

Still, no one said anything.

No need.

It was only a matter of time.

Everything was a blur.

The moment Oscar crossed the finish line, the world erupted around him. The radio crackled with overlapping voices—his engineer shouting, Zak laughing, Lando’s excitement cutting through the chaos. The garage exploded on the broadcast screens, a wave of orange jumping and cheering, arms flung around shoulders. Champagne had already been cracked open before he had even stepped out of the car.

P2. A podium.

He should have been overwhelmed—the sheer scale of the moment, the deafening roar of the crowd, the weight of it pressing against his chest. But beneath the rush of adrenaline, something steadier, something quieter, was pulling at him.

Elaine.

Somewhere in that sea of orange, gripping the team radio headset like her own personal lifeline. Somewhere on the pit wall, tracking his every move. Watching him.

And for some inexplicable reason, that meant more than anything else.

The podium ceremony passed in a haze of flashing cameras and sticky-sweet champagne. His fireproofs clung to his skin, his pulse still thrummed from the race. Standing there on the second step, trophy in hand, he should have been drinking in the moment. He should have been lost in it.

But all he could think about was getting down. Getting to her.

The second he was free from the cameras, his feet carried him forward before his mind had even fully caught up. Through the paddock, past the endless congratulations, through the crowd of McLaren mechanics still celebrating.

And then—

There she was.

Standing just inside the garage, shifting on her feet, eyes flickering across the room like she was searching for something. Searching for him.

His legs carried him faster. The next thing he knew, his arms were around her, pulling her in, holding her tightly against him.

She let out a startled yelp, hands pressing against his chest. “Oh my god, you’re drenched.” Her voice was half-groan, half-laugh, warm against his shoulder. “Oscar, this is disgusting.”

He only held her tighter, grinning against her hair. “Don’t care.”

She made a dramatic noise of protest but didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled slightly in the damp fabric of his fireproofs, and slowly—almost reluctantly—she melted into him.

He could feel her breath, quick and light, against his collarbone. The warmth of her body pressed into his, grounding him in a way nothing else could. For a moment, he forgot about the crowd, the noise, the cameras. There was only her—her voice, her laugh, her heartbeat against his ribs.

Her hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers brushing against his skin, gentle and unhurried. “You were incredible,” she murmured, so quietly that he barely caught it over the noise.

His chest tightened.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, expression raw with something too big to name. The way she was looking at him—it made his pulse stutter, made everything else feel small.

Her gaze flickered downward, just for a second.

Then she leaned in, tilting her head, clearly aiming for his cheek—

Someone called his name. Without thinking, he turned.

Their lips brushed.

The world stilled.

Elaine barely had time to react.

Her breath hitched, eyes widening as the realization of what had just happened crashed over her. Their lips had touched. It had been brief, accidental, nothing more than a brush—but the warmth of it lingered, tingling, refusing to fade.

She pulled back an inch, blinking fast. “Oh—shit, I—”

She never got to finish.

Oscar’s hand moved before he could think, fingers sliding up to cup the back of her neck, his grip firm but careful, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he didn’t hold on. His thumb brushed against her skin, just below her ear, and Elaine’s breath hitched again—just for a second—before he closed the distance.

This time, it wasn’t an accident.

The moment their lips met again, the rest of the world melted away.

Elaine let out a soft, surprised noise against his mouth, but she didn’t hesitate. Her hands found his shoulders, then his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair as she pulled him closer—like he wasn’t already pressed against her, like there was still space left between them that needed to be closed.

Oscar responded in kind. His other arm tightened around her back, his grip firm, almost desperate, as if he could somehow hold onto the moment forever. She was warm against him, grounding in a way nothing else was, her lips soft and sure against his own. And when she sighed quietly into the kiss, something in his chest turned over, twisting in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Then—

The garage erupted.

The cheers hit all at once, loud and gleeful, laughter and whistles and the unmistakable sound of someone slapping the nearest hard surface in excitement.

Elaine barely had time to process it before—

“FUCKING FINALLY!” Lando’s voice, unmistakable, rang out over the noise, dripping with exasperated glee. Someone else whooped. Someone else actually clapped.

Elaine broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, face burning, eyes wide.

Oscar barely pulled away—just enough to look at her, to take in the stunned expression, the way her breath came uneven, the way her fingers were still tangled in his hair like she had no intention of letting go.

He huffed a laugh, breathless, forehead still so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of it.

Elaine swallowed. “So, uh… does this mean you like me?”

His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her just a little closer, even though there was no space left between them to begin with.

“Jesus, Elaine.”

She grinned, dazed but teasing, her voice lighter than air. “I mean, you could’ve just told me. Would’ve saved us months of slow-burning bullshit.”

Oscar groaned, dropping his head slightly, and she could feel the soft huff of his laugh against her skin.

“Shut up.”

Then she smirked. “Make me.”

So he did.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog @hadesnumber1daughter

If you want to get added to my permanent taglist, just let me know!

ALSO IF YOU MADE IT THIS FAR, TALK TO ME. I DON'T HAVE FRIENDS WHO LIKE F1 AND I FEEL LONELY. THIS IS A SERIOUS CALL FOR HELP.

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SILK STRINGS & PEARL RINGS, SCARAMOUCHE

ʚɞ kisses with the weight of pain and bruises colored like love — his heart hits like a punch and you’re the sucker to catch it.

WARNINGS ݈݇- fem!reader, referred to as kuni, impact play, asphyxiation, biting / marking, hair pulling, degradation, name calling, praise, creampie, overstimulation, more scaramouche than wanderer, minors & dc antis do not interact!

NOTE ݈݇- hey . . hey . . how y’all doin ^w^ ive been gone a while becuz tumblr wasnt it anymore nd life was lifeing ! am back now bc i missed u guys nd missed being a freak :c theres sm of u now — thank u sm for 900+! ! i loveee youu loads xoxoxooo Anywayyy i hope u enjoy this quick littl drabble to flex my muscles :3

WORD COUNT ݈݇- 1.1k

LIMBS LIKE STRINGS OF silk: soft, pliable, and delicate, all in the hands of an unworthy sinner. His rough callouses rub burning patches on your skin as he runs his hands across your supple skin. Even the finest silks blemish under unclean hands and you are no exception — you're the example.

The name he bears stumbles out of your mouth in broken gasps and he only wishes you would shut up; he tells you again and again in hopes of your compliance, to no avail. Your voice is a constant reminder of who he is to you and, otherwise, who he’s destroying for superficial, fleeting pleasure. He’s far too deep to pull away now and scurry away—he has no choice but to double down and bump the sense out of your brain in hopes of fogging your memory. It works in a skewed way: condensing your mind to the two syllables of his name. “Kuni! Kun—i!! God, Kuni—!!!” Your pitiful screeches play on broken recurrences.

And as the master weaver he is, your pleasure is sewn up to its peak for what feels like the millionth time. Your body quakes and trembles, quivering under his weight and attempting an escape jaggedly. A hearty, choked-up whine jumps out of your chest, “Sto—I can’t! K-Kuni, please—!”

Deaf ears ignore your cries and pound deeper, harder—slamming his pelvic bone against your twitching clit. His hands move from the expanse of the mattress to your neck: pressing you into the mattress with pressure on the sides of your neck just right. “Shut the fuck up,” he grits, rolling his hips into you. “Just shut up and take it.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, lashes fluttering rapidly as, quickly, your brain computes nothing but pleasure.

His hips snap against you with such intensity, that it makes you feel like he hates you. It borders on painful, eliciting sharp lightning rods to pierce and prod around your body. The sheer weight of this impassioned thrusting has you jolting up the bed and thrashing around under him, looking to escape the white-hot harvest of pleasure pulsing in your pussy.

On top of you, he burns a pretty rose that can only be described as fire. The tight grip around his cock fills his head with foggy air—but it's the wetness that spools around his length: splat, splat, splat, that sings out the lost orgasms from rounds previous and ample arousal. It’s that that has him grumbling out blurbs of pleasure, chasing his orgasm that rests in your depths.

Every sensation is heightened tenfold with the ever-demanding charge that is being fed in your tummies. Every pulse, squeeze, leak, prod—all of it is akin to plugging you up to an orgasm charge-port and capping off the battery.

It’s too much; you scream that out enough until you can't gather enough air to breathe, let alone speak. Kuni agrees with you but he really, really, wishes you would shut up. He can't think and with every sound you make, he’s urged on in this unshakeable, carnivorous desperation to fuck harder. He's not immune to pleasure; he may be more susceptible to its threats, in fact. Knitted brows and screwed eyes blind him to the overstimulated writhing you enact, wriggling under his touch in vain hopes of reprieve.

Tears stream down your cheeks to mix with a layer of slobber splayed on your skin—a pitifully nasty mess, born out of the relentless palms of your man. He has the liberty to see you at your most vulnerable: degeneracy painting itself all over your body. A beautifully disgusting mess, you are, and he only makes it worse.

Stirring around your guts is his angry hard-on, circling your walls in shaky rolling manners, letting you both rest against the other and heave out deep breaths. The tip grinds against your g-spot and has you whimpering weakly, slapping his forearms and rolling your stomach. “I’m gonna—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He grits, grabbing a fistful of hair and tugging your head to the left. The stinging burn that dances at your roots has you wincing and whining, scrunching your face up. “Hold it.”

“I c-can’t, Kuni!” Just as the words leave your mouth, his hips are re-angled to push up into your pussy, the right-bound hook he sports curving right up to a gummy cushion in your walls. They contract around him and he groans, tightening his grip on your hair.

He dives into you, letting his hands grip your waist as his head wedges itself between your chin and shoulder. “Get it through your thick fucking skull,” he berates, nipping your collarbone. “You can't cum until I say so,”

His hips grind upward, drilling his dick deep into your depths that the hoarseness in your voice is shaken off for a shrill yelp to be squeezed out. He laughs at you menacingly, sinking his teeth into your shoulder to then circle the mark with his tongue. “Take it like a good bitch and I may be nice to you.”

Not a word he said will be upheld. You're so good—the best girl for him and he still dangles your release in front of you. Like a dog to a thick bone, you pant and whine in anticipation of being thrown your Achilles heel.

Exhaustion catches up to him and he can only lazily rock into you. His left hand presses on your stomach as he does so, trapping pressure in your tummy and mixing deliciously with your pleasure.

Heat swims beneath your skin and spills out beads of perspiration, gluing your bodies together.

Proximity; your bodies are so close and burning up fervent flames that swallow you down. Like the pliable silk you are, you slip around under his hold and that knot your stomach is tied up in easily unwinds.

“You’re coming, aren't you?” He shakily asks, exhaling deeply. If you aren't, he is.

Your non-answer is answer enough—he moans pathetically in your ear, falling apart as he ruts into you.

Holding on is a thing of the past as he slams against your sweet spot, unfurling his orgasm into you in milky ropes. Simultaneously, you release your biggest orgasm yet, splashing against his stomach and streaming down your legs. The pressure pushes him out with a grunt, a sadistic laugh of his echoing in your head.

Your swollen pussy is shining in pearlescent, bubbled strings, rolling out of you in a gushing mix. Oh, it's nasty; and you're utterly destroyed—flushed and blemished and patterned in bites, bruises, and prints. Your lips are swollen and bitten; your eyes are low-lidded and teary; your face is sweaty and tear-stained; your body quivers and spasms and Kuni thinks that you've never looked better.

Reprieve only lasts a mere moment before your legs are pushed up to your shoulders, spreading and stretching your limbs to their limits. Drawing out a whine, you speak hoarsely, “What’re you doing? No more..”

“I never told you to cum, did I?”

A break quickly becomes a distant memory.

[aeralux]

"I'd Rather Be With You" - Lucerys Velaryon

Modern!Lucerys x Reader (part two here)

Summary: "People have a way of leaving. Best to not let anyone close." This is the saying Lucerys lived his whole life by. Keeping others at a distance even if it hurts both him and others. Why should you be the exception?

Warnings: SMUT 18+; sad boy Lucerys; virginity loss (Lucerys); fingering; soft sex; angst; creampie; small dead city

Words: 15k

Notes: No description of the reader. It came out long but it's literally full of them interacting idk. This ends how it ends... if you want a part two, please let me know. I am not responsible for the media you consume.

It was honestly a pretty stupid thing to do. Spending the last bit of your summer break like this felt boring and pointless, but your mom insisted you visit your great-aunt for two months. You didn’t want to go, but no one bothered to ask youwhat you thought. It had been four years since you last saw her—so why should you bother now?

She resided in the decaying seaside town of Littlewater, a place where charm had long faded, replaced instead by a haunting sense of isolation. With only about 700 people, the city was filled with rundown buildings and overgrown dunes, giving off a vibe of loneliness. In your eyes, it was no place for a young woman—too stifling, too dreary, an echo of abandonment.

The name was spot on, too—Littlewater. Just a short distance from the lively port city of Duskendale. Your great-aunt Glorina moved there with her husband when it still had some life. But after her husband passed away, so did the town, leaving her alone with her memories and the eerie quietness of Littlewater. What a sad story, you thought.

With little choice, you piled into the car with your dad, your small suitcase in the back, along with your loyal buddy, Cannibal—a big black mutt who thought he was a lap dog. At least he could keep you company and help keep the creepiness at bay.

As you finally stood outside Glorina’s quaint seaside house, the world around you seemed to hold its breath. The tyres of your father’s car screeched against the gravel, shattering the uneasy tranquillity. Tentatively, you raised your hand and knocked on the door.

When it creaked open, there stood a small woman with a warm smile and long grey hair. She pulled you into a hug that felt both comforting and strange. “How good it is to finally see you, my little,” she whispered into your hair, smelling ofsalty sea breeze and cooking grease. You smiled back, feeling a hint of warmth even though you hadn’t seen her since your teenage years. Yet, amid that comfort, there was an odd feeling stirring deep down—a mix of welcome and something else, something a bit off, waiting in the shadows.

You feel a deep sadness wash over you as you unpack your clothes in the small room designated for you. The walls are painted a soft baby blue, adorned with whimsical white clouds that drift lazily across the surface, evoking a sense of innocence and nostalgia. This was once the room of Glorina's little boy, Niclas—the baby who was taken from her far too soon. The air feels heavy with unspoken memories, and as you set the last of your clothes into the small closet, a long sigh escapes your lips. You turn away from the room and head back downstairs.

"I just finished unpacking. Is there any way I could help you out?" you ask, seeing Glorina busy behind the stove. The enticing aroma of pancakes fills the air, golden and fluffy, as she expertly flips one onto a waiting plate. A wide, genuine smile spreads across her face when she turns to you, and despite the sadness lingering in your heart, you can't help but smile back at her warmth.

Maybe it was a good decision to come here, to heed your parents' advice and not make too much fuss. Glorina clearly needed the company, and you felt relieved at the thought. "No, my dear, I'm fine on my own," she replies softly, her voice as comforting as the smell of fresh pancakes. "You should go and take a little walk before dinner. Explore the area, and take Cannibal out for some air." She beams at the large black dog, who sits patiently by her side, his eyes sparkling with excitement at the mention of a walk.

You huff a soft laugh, fetching Cannibal's leash from the hook by the door. "Come on, big boy. Let’s go discover," you coo at him, feeling the weight of tension in the house lift just a little. "I'll be back soon... don’t wanna stay out after dark," you add quickly, a shiver running down your spine at the thought of the town's eerie ambience as dusk approaches. The shadows dance outside the windows, and you can't shake the unsettling feeling that clings to the air like a thick fog. As you open the door, Cannibal lags happily at your side, and you step out into the fading light.

Following the narrow path to the sea, grains of sand sifted into your worn-out sneakers. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over the horizon as it slowly began to dip below the water. Perhaps it was time to head back; you were unsure how the people of this town felt about strangers, the thought lingering in your mind.

Just as you turned to retrace your steps, your gaze caught on a figure in the distance. A tall young man stood there, his silhouette outlined against the fading light. Something about his presence made you pause. You felt rooted to the spot, unable to move as you watched him from afar. He was pulling in a fishing net, his movements strong and fluid, yet there was a weight to them. There was an undeniable magnetism in his demeanour—a quiet strength with a profound loneliness that seemed to resonate with you.

Suddenly, Cannibal’s loud bark broke the stillness, jolting you back to reality. You took a moment to collect yourself, and then with heavy steps, you made your way back to Glorina’s little cabin. As you entered, the sweet, inviting aroma of pancakes drizzled with condensed milk enveloped your senses, momentarily pushing aside thoughts of the mysterious boy on the docks.

“So? What do you think of Littlewater?” Glorina asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned forward, eager to hear your impression.

With a hesitant smile, you replied, “It’s quiet. Not that it’s bad, but… it seems a bit lonely.” Glorina nodded slowly, her smile dimming slightly as she processed your words. Sensing the weight of the topic, she chose not to pry any further and simply encouraged you to dig in, serving up a plate piled high with golden pancakes.

The first night in an unfamiliar place always felt like the hardest, so you decided to rise early and make the most of the day. Cannibal still lay asleep peacefully in the small hut just beyond the door, blissfully unaware of your restlessness. The grass glistened with droplets of morning dew, while birds chirped cheerfully in the trees, making the whole area feel a bitmore alive than it had the night before.

You chose to follow the same path as yesterday, seeking comfort in its familiarity. A small part of you held on to the hope of seeing the boy again. But how would you recognize him? You only remembered that he was tall and had dark hair—details that barely scratched the surface.

After a while of wandering, you found yourself at the marina. It was surprisingly quiet, with only a few men scattered around, busy with their tasks. The absence of lively chatter was almost eerie. Among them, one young man caught your attention. He was hunched over, tinkering with an old boat. His hands were smeared with grease, and damp curls framed his face, glistening from the ocean spray.

“Excuse me? Do you know how I could get back to Rosemary Lane? I seem to have gotten lost...” you asked, your voice barely breaking through the stillness. He barely glanced up, mumbling a polite answer before returning to his work, though you caught a flicker of intrigue in his eyes—a brief moment you didn’t fully recognize. Feeling dismissed, you turned to leave, only to realize too late that he was the same young man from yesterday.

“Stay away from the Velaryons.”

You spun around sharply at the sudden voice. A small blonde boy, maybe about 12 years old, sat on his bike. His knees were scraped and dirty, evidence of rough play. “What?” you asked, puzzled by his warning.

“Stay away from the Velaryons,” he repeated, his voice serious despite his young age. “They’re trouble.” With that, he pedalled away, leaving you standing there in confusion, trying to grasp the weight of his words.

With a furrowed brow and a swirl of questions in your mind, you felt your curiosity deepen. Who were the Velaryons? What sort of trouble did they bring? Looking down at your feet, you took a deep breath and pressed on, hoping thatGlorina would have a strong cup of coffee—that definitely had whiskey in it—to soothe your racing thoughts.

Your great-aunt Glorina was still a busy woman despite not working due to her old age. The small, lively woman had embraced a range of new interests that kept her spirit vibrant: tarot cards, crystals, and healing herbs danced around her daily routine. And cooking, oh thank the Gods for that!

As you sat across from her at the small kitchen table, the faint aroma of her famous herb-infused eggs wafted through the air, making your stomach rumble. She cleared her throat as you shuffled the worn tarot deck in your hands, and when you finally drew a card, she flinched. 

“Ohh, the Three of Swords,” she said, her eyes widening as she glanced at the card, a mix of sympathy and mischief in her expression. You narrowed your brows in confusion, leaning closer as if sharing a secret between you. Over the past few days, you had formed a bond, finding comfort and understanding in each other’s quirky interests.

“Is it bad or…?” you asked cautiously, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly but still palpable.

“Well, that depends on how you look at it,” she replied, her voice soothing, almost rhythmic, like a gentle lullaby. “It’s a heart pierced by three swords. Can’t be much clearer than that,” you said with a shrug before tossing back the last sip of your coffee.

“Take two more cards, then we’ll see the whole story,” she instructed, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she offered the deck toward you, her hand steady, as if inviting you to seal your fate.

With a hopeful heart and eyes closed tight, you let your instincts guide you, reaching into the mystical air that seemed to hum with energy. “Well? What’d I get?” you asked, slowly opening your eyes again, curiosity bubbling inside you.

Glorina looked up, her expression a puzzle. “The Star and The Hermit… reversed.”

“Um, what does that mean?” you mirrored her serious expression, your excitement tinged with a hint of nervousness.

“Just eat the eggs I made for you. I cooked them just like you used to like… all those years ago,” she said, nudging the steaming plate toward you with a gentle smile. It was something she often did when she wanted to dodge deeper topics. You noticed how the corners of her mouth turned up, masking emotions you knew were lurking beneath. You let it go this time. 

“You might want to make some friends around here. Can’t be cooped up with an old woman for two months, now can you?” she tried to say playfully, but you heard the hint of sadness in her laugh, a self-deprecating joke that only made your heart ache for her.

“I like spending time with you here,” you admitted, your voice softening as you carefully placed your hand over hers. You could have sworn you saw tears shine in her eyes, yet she kept smiling, and that made you want to hug her fiercely. “I really do. I mean it.”

“But I’ll look around for some people my own age… if they still exist here,” you added with a teasing scoff, and as you took another bite of the comforting meal, you felt a warmth spreading through the room.

And that's where you saw him again. At the local diner, which had seen better days, adorned with faded posters and peeling wallpaper. The only thing missing was the waitresses on roller skates, zooming around with trays in hand.

He sat in a booth with a boy who looked like a slightly older version of him—maybe a year or two apart. It was clear they were brothers. You caught a quick glance, something casual but charged, before deciding to avoid any awkward moments. Instead, you opted for a slice of warm apple pie and a bitter cup of coffee, steering clear of stare-downs.

“Will that be all?” came the soft voice of a waitress with bleach-blonde hair and wide eyes, her smile friendly but faintly curious. You simply nodded, still feeling like an outsider in this place.

“You’re new,” she remarked, not quite looking at you as she placed your pie and coffee in front of you. “Nothing goes unnoticed here.” Finally, she looked up, meeting your gaze. “I’m Hel. You’re pretty.”

You were taken aback by the sudden compliment, a blush creeping up your cheeks as you stammered your thanks.“Thanks, you as well.” 

But before it could turn into a conversation, she returned to her duties, leaving you alone with your thoughts and an odd sensation of being watched. Despite your instincts telling you to ignore it, you turned back. There he was, his striking green eyes locked onto yours, steady and intense. The weight of his gaze made you feel exposed, and before long, you looked away, unable to hold his stare any longer.

The second encounter happened at the shore. Your great-aunt had taken you for a walk to explore the town, Cannibal rightbeside you, his presence comforting. Just as Glorina stepped aside to gřeet an old friend, he appeared, as if out of nowhere, standing tall behind you on the narrow dock meant for kids to leap into the water.

“Hi,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling slightly as you fought to maintain your composure. The air felt thick with anticipation, and for a moment, it felt like the world around you had faded away.

He hesitated, his lips parting slightly as if searching for the right words. Up close, you noticed things you hadn’t before—the faint freckles scattered across his nose, the way his damp curls clung to his forehead, and the guarded expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hi,” he finally replied, his voice soft and tentative, as if unsure whether speaking to you was a mistake.

You felt the moment thin, taut like a thread threatening to snap. He looked away, glancing over the waves lapping against the dock before returning his gaze to you. This time, his expression was cautious but curious. “You’re... new here, right?”

“Yeah,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously.

He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly, though you couldn’t tell why. His gaze flickered to Cannibal, who wagged his tail lazily beside you. “Your dog?” he asked, almost as if searching for a safe topic.

“Yeah. He’s my shadow,” you said with a small smile, trying to put some warmth into the conversation.

Luke smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His hands fidgeted at his sides, betraying an undercurrent of unease.“I, uh… I saw you at the diner,” he admitted, his voice dropping a notch. There was something in the way he said it, like it wasn’t just a casual observation.

You blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. “Oh. I thought I saw you too,” you said, your own voice softer now. “With your brother?”

At the mention of his brother, Luke’s expression shifted. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked down at the planks of the dock, the gentle creak of the wood filling the silence. “Yeah. That was Jace,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral.

You wanted to ask more, to pull at the threads he seemed to be guarding so tightly, but something about his body language warned you not to push too hard. Instead, you opted for a lighter approach. “Do you come here a lot? The shore, I mean.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly as if your change in direction eased some unseen weight. “Sometimes,” he said, his eyes lifting to the horizon. “It’s quiet. You can think out here.”

The way he said it made you think he came here not just to think, but to escape. For a while, neither of you spoke. The waves filled the silence, a rhythmic backdrop to the unspoken tension hanging between you.

“I don’t usually talk to people,” he said suddenly, breaking the quiet. His voice was low, almost drowned out by the sea.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together. “Why not?”

He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “People have a way of leaving.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, an ache settling in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything at all. Instead, you let the moment linger, hoping he might fill the silence.

When he finally turned to look at you, there was something raw in his eyes, a mixture of fear and curiosity. “You don’tseem like you belong here,” he said, his tone not unkind but laced with quiet wonder.

You swallowed, unsure whether it was a compliment or a fact. “Maybe I don’t,” you admitted. “But I’m here now.”

For the first time, his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. It was fleeting, like the first glimpse of sunlight after a storm, but it was there.

And somehow, in that moment, it felt like enough.

That was until Glorina called out your name, her voice warm and inviting. "Come, darling! Let's head back! The chicken in the oven should be ready soon!" With a lingering glance at the boy whose name you didn't even know, you turned away, feeling a mix of curiosity and regret. Cannibal, your loyal dog, wagged his tail excitedly at your side, eager to follow you back.

The next day, your great-aunt sent you on an errand to pick up groceries and other essentials for her. With her cooking bistro-level meals for you three times a day, it was hard to refuse her request. You appreciated her efforts, even if it meant stepping out into the eerie streets.

Standing in the grocery store, you found yourself caught between rows of bright packaging for toiletries and hygiene products. Clutching the crumpled list she had written, you squinted at her small, messy handwriting. It curled and swirled across the page, making some items almost impossible to read. You leaned closer, trying to decipher her hurried notes while the familiar sounds of carts rolling and kids laughing filled the air around you.

"Need help with reading?" Came a deeper male voice from beside you.

You turned toward the voice, already half-smiling in reflex, only to find yourself face-to-face with the boy from the shore.

He stood there, holding a small basket of groceries in one hand, his other tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. Up close, he seemed even more striking—freckles dusted across his nose like constellations, his green eyes sharp and inquisitive. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, though his posture remained casual, almost distant.

“I—uh, no. I’ve got it,” you stammered, gripping the list tighter as if to prove your point. Heat rushed to your face, a mix of embarrassment and that strange, undeniable pull you felt toward him.

He tilted his head slightly, his curls shifting with the motion. “Sure about that? You’ve been squinting at that thing for a while.”

You glanced down at the paper, realizing you’d been staring at the same word—toothpaste—for a good thirty seconds. Clearing your throat, you looked back up at him. “It’s my great-aunt’s handwriting. Feels like trying to crack a secret code.”

His smirk deepened, but only just. “Sounds like a challenge.”

The tension between you both hung in the air, delicate and unspoken, like the space between two magnets just shy of connecting. You weren’t sure what to say, and for a second, neither was he.

“Well,” he said finally, nodding toward your list. “Good luck with the decoding.”

He started to walk past you, and for reasons you didn’t fully understand, you couldn’t let him leave just yet. “Wait,” you called out, the word slipping out before you could stop yourself.

He stopped mid-step, turning back to you, his brow slightly raised. “Yeah?”

“Do you… live here?” The question felt clumsy as it left your mouth, but you couldn’t shake the need to know more about him.

“Yeah.” His response was short, clipped. His guard was back up, the brief openness you saw at the shore now buried under layers of caution.

“Oh,” you said, feeling the weight of his reticence. But then, a flicker of courage sparked within you. “You’re not big on talking, are you?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile but close. “Depends.”

“On what?” you pressed, curiosity weaving through your words.

“On who I’m talking to.”

The words landed softly between you, not quite an invitation, but not a dismissal either. He shifted his basket to his other hand as if to distract himself from the weight of the moment.

You weren’t sure why, but his quiet intensity made you want to push, just a little. “Am I that bad of a person to talk to?”

His gaze flickered to yours, and for the first time, you thought you saw something in those green eyes—something hesitant and searching. “No,” he said quietly, almost as if the answer surprised him.

Before you could say anything else, the shrill beep of the intercom announcing a sale broke the spell. Lucerys looked away, the brief moment of vulnerability gone as quickly as it came. “I should go,” he muttered, nodding toward the exit.

And just like that, he was gone.

Later that night, as you sat on your great-aunt’s porch watching the sun sink below the horizon, you couldn’t stop replaying the encounter in your mind. His voice, his gaze, the way he’d seemed to want to talk but held himself back—it all lingered, like a song stuck on repeat.

The boy with the stormy eyes and the quiet demeanour.

A few days had passed, each one quietly shifting from dusk to dawn. You hadn’t done much during this time, choosing to spend moments with your affectionate dog and your quirky great-aunt rather than exploring the town, which still sent shivers down your spine.

But as the days went by, your legs began to crave some movement, and you longed to feel the ocean waves lapping against your skin. So, you decided to take Cannibal, your playful dog, along with an old backpack that Glorina had found for you. You made your way to the small beach a short distance away. The beach was nearly empty—a perfect escape.

With loud splashes and bursts of laughter, you ran into the cool, salty water. Cannibal, dashing ahead, barked joyfully as he swam toward you, his tail wagging as if he had the biggest smile on his face.

“Let’s race to the docks, okay? Come on, big boy!” you called out, starting to run toward the wooden docks. The soft sand made it a bit tricky to sprint, but your excitement pushed you forward. As you neared the docks, you spotted a figure seated at the edge, legs dangling over the water’s surface. You suddenly came to a halt, squinting to see who it might be.

Cannibal, however, had already reached the person and plopped down beside him. You felt a mix of curiosity and hesitation as you jogged closer, trying to understand the scene before you.

“Cannibal, let’s head back, alright?” you said, trying to coax your dog. But Cannibal wouldn’t budge; he sat contentedly next to the stranger, looking up at you with his bright green eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief.

“Your dog’s name is Cannibal?” the figure asked, a hint of surprise in his voice as he held a closed notebook tightly in his hand.

You stopped a few feet away, catching your breath. The voice was unmistakable, and as the figure turned slightly, you confirmed it—him.

“Yeah, Cannibal,” you replied, brushing a strand of damp hair from your face. “He kind of eats everything in sight, so… it fits.”

He glanced down at the dog, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t seem very cannibalistic to me,” he said, scratching Cannibal gently behind the ears.

“Well, don’t let him fool you. He’s a menace,” you joked, though your voice softened as you watched the way Cannibal leaned into his touch.

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he shifted his notebook in his lap, the edges of a pencil tucked into the spiral binding catching your eye. “He likes the water, huh?” he asked, nodding toward the ocean.

“Loves it,” you said, stepping closer. “Sometimes I think he’s part seal.”

He chuckled under his breath—so quiet you almost missed it. You hesitated, your gaze flickering to the notebook in his lap. “Do you, uh, come here often?”

“Sometimes,” he said with a shrug, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s quiet.”

The same answer he’d given before. But now, with the notebook in view, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to his visits than just seeking quiet.

“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward the notebook.

Lucerys stiffened slightly, his grip tightening around it. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just… something I mess around with.”

His tone was guarded, but not unkind. You tilted your head, curiosity blooming. “Can I see?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his jaw clenching as if debating whether to let you in. Finally, with a quiet sigh, he handed the notebook over. “It’s not… good or anything,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

You took it gently, sitting down beside him on the dock. Cannibal wagged his tail happily, oblivious to the tension between the two of you.

The first page was filled with rough sketches of the ocean—waves crashing against rocks, a lighthouse in the distance, and the silhouette of a boat. The lines were delicate but precise, each stroke capturing a kind of quiet beauty.

“These are… amazing,” you said, your voice soft with genuine awe.

He shifted beside you, his shoulder brushing yours lightly. “They’re just sketches,” he muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. “Nothing special.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” you said, flipping to another page. Your breath caught as you took in the next drawing.

It was a figure—a girl, standing in a grocery store aisle. Her expression was contemplative, almost pensive, as she squinted at something in her hand. Though the strokes were light and the details subtle, it was unmistakably you.

“This is…” you started, trailing off as you stared at the page. “This is me.”

He didn’t answer immediately. You looked over at him, catching the faint flush creeping up his neck as he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the water.

“I just—” He swallowed hard, his words halting and rushed. “I saw you at the store. You looked… interesting. And I guess I just… remembered.”

“Interesting?” you echoed, your lips curving into a faint smile despite the strange fluttering in your chest.

He sighed, running a hand through his damp curls. “I don’t know. You were squinting at that list, and I thought it was funny. And… I don’t know,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just drew it, okay?”

You looked back at the sketch, your fingers brushing lightly over the page, careful not to smudge it. “You’re really talented,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond, his gaze still fixed somewhere in the distance. The silence stretched, filled only by the gentle sound of the waves and Cannibal’s occasional huff of contentment.

Finally, you closed the notebook carefully and held it out to him. “Thank you,” you said. “For letting me see.”

He took it, his fingers brushing yours briefly. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, tucking the notebook under his arm.

But it didn’t feel like nothing—not to you.

“You never told me your name,” you said after a beat, your voice breaking the quiet.

He blinked as if the question had startled him. His green eyes flickered toward yours before darting away again.“Lucerys,” he said, his voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

“Lucerys,” you repeated, the syllables unfamiliar but captivating. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

He shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Most people just call me Luke.”

You nodded, testing it out. “Luke.”

“You’re really talented,” you continued, hoping to ease his obvious discomfort. “Do you do this a lot? Draw people?”

“Not really,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I… I just thought you looked…” He trailed off, his voice faltering.

“Looked like what?” you prompted gently.

Lucerys glanced at you, his green eyes meeting yours for a fleeting second before darting away. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You just… stood out.”

You felt your cheeks warm at his words, the honesty in them catching you off guard. “Well,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m glad you did.”

He didn’t respond, but the faintest hint of a smile curved his lips, there and gone in an instant.

"You're quite far from home... on Rosemary Lane," he said, his voice trailing off as he stared into the distance.

"How do you know that?" you questioned, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

Lucerys turned to look at you, his expression a mix of surprise and hesitation. "Well, you... um. You asked me for directions about two weeks ago, I think," he replied, his voice quieter now. A hint of regret crossed his face as if he wished he hadn't mentioned it. The way he spoke suggested he was nervous about admitting he remembered such a smalldetail.

Lucerys shifted, his fingers brushing the edge of his notebook as if to ground himself. “I didn’t mean to sound… weird or anything,” he added quickly, glancing at you with a flicker of uncertainty in his green eyes.

You smiled softly, your curiosity easing into something warmer. “It’s not weird. I guess I should’ve remembered you too.”

He looked down at his lap, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I wasn’t that memorable.”

“Maybe you were,” you countered, your tone gentle but teasing. “I just didn’t know it at the time.”

Lucerys blinked at you, startled by the unexpected honesty in your voice. For a moment, his lips parted as if to say something, but then he just nodded toward the empty stretch of sand behind you. “You need a ride back? It’s getting late,” he offered, the words rushed but earnest.

You hesitated, glancing back toward the shoreline. The sun had already dipped low, casting long shadows over the waves. Cannibal barked once, as if in agreement, wagging his tail beside you.

“Sure,” you said, brushing the sand from your legs. “If you don’t mind.”

Lucerys stood, tucking his notebook under one arm. “It’s not far. My car is parked up the road.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence, Cannibal trotting ahead as the faint hum of cicadas filled the warm evening air. When you reached the car, an old, slightly battered Mercury parked along the narrow road, Lucerys opened the passenger door for you without a word.

“Nice car,” you said with a small smile, sliding into the seat.

“It’s my mom’s,” he replied, rounding to the driver’s side. “She’d probably kill me if she knew I took it.”

The engine rumbled to life, and the radio crackled as he fiddled with the dials. Static gave way to the familiar, haunting intro of a song you knew all too well—Crush by Ethel Cain.

The melancholy melody filled the small space, and for a while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched out ahead, flanked by trees swaying gently in the evening breeze.

You couldn’t help it—you started humming along to the tune, your voice quiet but steady. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Lucerys glance at you.

“What?” you asked, your cheeks warming under his gaze.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, his voice soft. But when you turned to look at him, his expression had shifted. The usual guardedness in his green eyes was gone, replaced by something softer, something you couldn’t quite name.

The song played on, the lyrics wrapping around the moment like a fragile thread. Lucerys tapped his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face as he watched the road.

“You sing,” he said after a moment, almost like an observation rather than a question.

“Not really,” you replied, laughing lightly. “Just… when I like the song.”

He nodded, his gaze briefly flicking to you again before returning to the road. “It suits you.”

You tilted your head, confused. “What does?”

“This song,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “I don’t know why… but it just does.”

You didn’t reply, unsure of what to say. The air between you felt charged, filled with unspoken words and something deeper you couldn’t quite put into words.

As the song swelled, its haunting refrain filling the car, you found yourself stealing a glance at him. His profile was illuminated by the golden glow of the setting sun, and for the first time, you saw Lucerys not as the quiet boy with walls around his heart, but as someone reaching out, even if he didn’t realize it.

And in that moment, you let the music fill the silence, the connection between you as fragile and fleeting as the last notes of the song.

The car slowed as the familiar sight of your great-aunt’s house came into view. The warm glow from the porch light spilt across the front yard, and you could already hear the faint bark of Cannibal, who had bounded ahead as soon as Lucerys pulled over near the driveway.

He cut the engine, and for a moment, the world seemed unnervingly quiet. The melody of Crush still hummed faintly in your mind, but whatever thread had connected the two of you during the ride felt like it had been severed.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, your voice soft as you reached for the door handle.

“Yeah,” he replied, his tone clipped, the warmth he’d shown earlier now buried under a familiar layer of restraint.

You hesitated, glancing at him. His hands gripped the steering wheel loosely, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead, staring at the house as if it were something distant and unimportant.

“Do you…” You trailed off, unsure of what you were even asking. Finally, you settled for, “Do you want to come in?"

Lucerys shook his head almost immediately. “No. I should go.” There was no bite to his words, just a quiet finality that made your chest tighten.

“Okay,” you said softly, your hand lingering on the door. For a second, you thought about pressing him—asking why healways seemed to retreat just when things felt real—but something about the tension in his shoulders told you he wouldn’tanswer. At least, not tonight.

You opened the door, stepping out into the cool night air. The sound of crickets and distant waves filled the space left by his silence. Cannibal barked from the porch, his tail wagging furiously as if calling you home.

Turning back, you leaned into the open window. “You know, you can stop by if you ever want to. My aunt makes killer pie.”

Lucerys glanced at you then, his green eyes catching the faint glow of the porch light. For a moment, you thought he might smile again, but instead, he just nodded. “Maybe,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a promise.

You stepped back, watching as the car rolled out of the driveway, its taillights disappearing down the road.

Cannibal whined softly, nudging your leg as you climbed the steps to the porch. You gave him a reassuring pat, but your mind was elsewhere—still in the car, still sitting beside the boy whose walls felt impenetrable.

Inside, your great-aunt greeted you warmly, the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen. But even as you settled in, the house feeling as cosy and safe as ever, your thoughts kept circling back to Lucerys.

The way he had looked at you when the song played. The way he had shut himself off the moment you’d arrived.

You couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever let you see the parts of himself he kept locked away—or if he was already too far out of reach.

"You look distraught, my darling. Would you like me to read your cards?" Glorina's voice was gentle, a soft nudge trying to pull you out of the whirlwind of thoughts that swirled in your mind, all circling around him—Lucerys.

"If you want to..." The words slipped from your lips reluctantly. You didn’t have the heart to turn her away, even though the last thing you needed right now was another card depicting dismal outcomes. With a resigned sigh, you knocked three times on the worn card pack, handing the control over to her as if that simple act could somehow change your fate.

Glorina shuffled the deck, her fingers moving effortlessly over the worn edges until she laid three cards face-up on the table. The first one was the Seven of Pentacles reversed, its imagery twisted and bleak. Next was the Two of Swords, depicting a figure blindfolded and balanced precariously between two choices. Finally, there was the Three of Swords, a stark illustration showing a heart pierced by three sharp blades.

You leaned back in your chair, letting out a long sigh, your fingers rubbing your temples in frustration. "Let me guess... nothing good, huh?"

Glorina’s expression turned serious as she examined the cards. "You feel trapped and powerless, don’t you? Are you trying to avoid something?" Her brow arched, probing deeper. "You need to make a decision and face the situation head-on." Her words hung in the air, heavy with foreboding.

"Either way, I’ll get hurt..." you murmured, your eyes lingering on the card with the three swords through the heart—a painful reminder of your current turmoil. Feeling the weight of the reading press down on you, you quickly finished your dinner, the taste as bland as the evening felt.

With a sense of urgency, you retreated to your room, a storm of emotions brewing inside. Maybe, just maybe, screaming into a pillow would bring you some relief from the ache in your chest.

Tossing and turning, sleep eludes you once again. This simply won’t do. Despite the pouring rain, a wild urge pushes you to the docks, the town's most recognizable spot. You sprint there in your flimsy white dress, a picture of a maiden lost in her thoughts.

As you approach the docks, the boathouse comes into view on the empty pier. It’s the one that belongs to Glorina’s late husband's brother’s son, always welcoming with its open door—one of the perks of living in a small town where everyone knows each other. The raindrops fall harder, and the thunder rumbles in the distance. Logic tells you to stay away from the water during a storm, but your mind isn’t listening right now.

You burst into the wooden boathouse, breathless and soaked to the skin. Your dress clings to you, heavy and dripping, but the warm summer air wraps around you like a comforting blanket, chasing away any chill. You pause for a moment, taking in the scent of wet wood mixed with the sharp tang of the sea. It feels almost like a refuge from the storm outside.

You hadn’t expected anyone to be here, but the faint creak of wood under shifting weight made you freeze in place.

At first, you thought it was just the wind rattling the old structure, but then you saw him—Lucerys. He was seated near the far corner, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a sketchbook balanced on his knees. A dim lantern sat beside him, casting flickering shadows across his face, making his green eyes glow eerily in the dim light.

He looked up sharply, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw you. For a second, neither of you moved. The only sound was the rain hammering against the roof, the storm outside mirroring the chaos inside you.

“You’re soaked,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, but there was an edge of concern in it.

You looked down at yourself, noticing how your dress clung to your skin like a second layer. “Yeah. I guess I am,” you replied, your voice trembling—not from the cold, but from the sheer force of everything you’d been bottling up.

Lucerys set his sketchbook aside, standing slowly. His movements were tentative like he wasn’t sure if he should come closer or keep his distance. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I just… needed to get out. Clear my head.”

“In a storm?” His tone wasn’t scolding, but there was a thread of disbelief in it.

You shrugged, looking away. “Didn’t think that far ahead.”

Lucerys sighed, running a hand through his damp curls. He hesitated before shrugging off his hoodie and holding it out to you. “Here,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”

You stared at him for a moment, the gesture so simple yet so uncharacteristically kind that it left you momentarily speechless. Slowly, you reached out and took the hoodie, your fingers brushing against his.

“Thanks,” you murmured, wrapping it around your shoulders. It was warm and smelled faintly of pine and something distinctly him—clean, familiar, and comforting.

He sat back down, leaning against the wall as he watched you carefully. “Why here?” he asked after a moment, his gaze unwavering.

You hesitated, unsure how much to say. “I don’t know,” you admitted finally, sitting down on a nearby crate. “It felt safe, I guess.”

Lucerys nodded slowly as if he understood. “Yeah. It does.”

The silence between you was thick but not uncomfortable. The sound of the rain pounding on the roof and the occasional rumble of thunder filled the space, giving you both an excuse not to speak.

“Do you ever feel like…” You trailed off, unsure how to put your thoughts into words. But when Lucerys turned to look at you, his expression expectant, you forced yourself to continue. “Like you’re stuck? Like no matter what you do, you’rejust… trapped?”

Lucerys’ jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he said, “Yeah. All the time. I don’tthink I’m good at being what people want me to be.”

His words hung in the air, raw and unguarded, and they made your chest tighten.

“What do they want you to be?” you asked, your voice gentle but cautious.

He exhaled, shaking his head. “Perfect. Or something close to it. Jace—he’s my older brother—he’s always talking about responsibility, about doing what’s expected. About how I need to ‘step up.’” His voice dipped, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Like I don’t already know that.”

You leaned forward slightly, trying to catch his gaze. “That’s not fair to you.”

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Yeah, well, life’s not fair. My mom… she doesn’t say it, but I know she’s counting on me. To hold things together. To be… good enough.”

“Good enough for who?”

“For them,” he said simply, his voice breaking slightly. “For my family. For everyone.”

He glanced at you then, the weight of his words pulling down on his green eyes. “You ever feel like you’re running, but no matter how fast you go, you’re still stuck in the same place?”

The honesty in his voice left you momentarily speechless. You nodded slowly. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I think I know what that feels like.”

He looked away again, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t let people in,” he admitted, his voice barely audible over the sound of the rain. “Because every time I do… they leave.”

“Not everyone leaves,” you said instinctively, the words slipping out before you could think about them.

Lucerys’s gaze snapped back to yours, sharp and searching. “They do,” he said firmly. “My dad. People I thought were my friends. They always leave.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your throat tighten. You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that you wouldn’t leave, but the words caught in your throat. How could you promise something you weren’t even sure you could keep?

“I think…” you began hesitantly, “Sometimes people leave because they don’t know how to stay. Not because of you.”

Lucerys stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, his lips twisted into a faint, bitter smile. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change anything. It’s just easier to keep everyone at a distance.”

You hesitated, your fingers curling around the edge of the crate you were sitting on. “That’s a lonely way to live,” you said softly.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”

The rain continued to drum against the roof, the sound filling the heavy silence between you. You wanted to reach out, to tell him you were different, but the fear of saying something wrong kept you frozen.

Finally, you asked, “So why’d you let me in?”

Lucerys looked startled, his lips parting slightly before he quickly averted his gaze. “I didn’t,” he said, his voice quiet.“Not really.”

“You sketched me,” you pointed out, your voice firmer now. “That has to mean something.”

His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sketchbook, his shoulders tense. “I don’t know why I did that,” he muttered.“You just… stood out. In the store.”

Lucerys’s gaze flickered to yours, and for a moment, the mask he always wore seemed to slip. The boy behind the walls, raw and unguarded, looked back at you, his green eyes filled with something that felt achingly familiar—fear, hope, and a longing he didn’t know how to name.

But just as quickly, the moment was gone. He shook his head, letting out a shaky breath. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,”

Lucerys didn’t say anything else after that. He stared out at the storm as if it might offer him answers, his green eyes fixed on a point far beyond the boathouse walls. The rain hammered against the roof, a relentless rhythm that matched the heavy pounding of your heart.

You sat in silence, unsure of what else to say. The vulnerability he’d just shown you was raw and rare, and you didn’twant to push too hard. Still, the ache in his voice lingered in your mind, pulling at something deep inside you.

Finally, Lucerys let out a breath, running a hand through his damp curls. “You should get back,” he said, his voice quiet.“It’s late.”

You frowned, reluctant to leave him like this. “I don’t mind staying.”

He glanced at you, his brows knitting together. “It’s pouring outside.”

“You don’t say,” you replied with a faint smile, gesturing to your soaked dress. “I think I noticed.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips before disappearing just as quickly. “I’m serious. You’ll get sick.”

“So will you, sitting here with your wet clothes.” You tilted your head toward him, challenging. “Unless you want me to go and leave you to brood by yourself?”

Lucerys sighed, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him again. “I’m fine,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction. “This isn’t the first storm I’ve sat through.”

“Maybe not,” you said softly. “But you shouldn’t have to sit through it alone.”

For a moment, Lucerys didn’t respond. He stared at you, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable—confusion, maybe, or disbelief. Then, almost unnoticeably, he nodded toward the crate beside him.

“Suit yourself,” he said, his voice low.

You smiled faintly, moving to sit closer to him. The wood creaked beneath you as you settled in, the two of you side by side in the dim light of the lantern.

The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel heavy this time. The storm outside seemed to soften, the rain still steady but less urgent, as though the world was giving you both a moment to breathe.

“You know,” you said after a while, your voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t think you’re as alone as you think you are.”

Lucerys turned to look at you, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said, meeting his gaze, “you’ve got people who care about you. Even if they don’t say it the right way, or even if they mess it up sometimes.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a quiet laugh, though it was more bitter than amused. “You don’t know them.”

“No,” you admitted. “But I know you. A little, at least.”

Lucerys blinked, caught off guard by your words. He opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again, shaking his head.

“You’re different,” he said finally, his voice soft. “I don’t know why, but… you are.”

The vulnerability in his words made your chest tighten, and you found yourself leaning closer to him, the space between you narrowing. “Is that a bad thing?” you asked, your voice barely audible over the rain and thunder.

Lucerys hesitated, his green eyes locked on yours. For a moment, you thought he might retreat, and put his walls back up. But then he shook his head, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

The two of you sat there, the storm raging outside and the warmth of his presence grounding you. The walls of the boathouse seemed to fade away, leaving only the soft rhythm of your breaths and the steady hum of the rain.

His gaze lingered on your face, tracing the curves of your cheekbones and the fullness of your lips as if committing every detail to memory. The air between you felt charged, heavy with a tension he didn't understand but couldn't ignore.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a feather-light touch. His skin was warm, his touch gentle yet tinged with a barely restrained intensity. Your breath hitched at the contact, a shiver running down your spine that had nothing to do with the dampness of your dress.

Lucerys' eyes flickered to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze, darkening with an emotion he couldn't quite name. The space between you seemed to shrink, the storm outside fading into insignificance compared to the electricity crackling in the air.

You just sat there, gazing at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Fear clutched at you, making it hard to find your voice. You worried that even a whisper might shatter this fragile moment and drive Luke back behind the tall walls he had built around his heart. You parted your lips slightly, a soft, shaky sigh escaping as you became lost in the deep, warm intensity of his gaze. The room felt charged with unspoken feelings, and time seemed to slow, wrapping around you both.

Lucerys sat frozen, his heart pounding as he gazed at you with wonder and trepidation. The air between you thrummed with palpable energy, the unspoken words and feelings hanging heavy in the dim light of the lantern.

Slowly, as if drawn by an invisible force, he leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours. His breath mingled with your own.

Time seemed to hold its breath, the rain and thunder fading into a distant murmur as Lucerys reached up with a trembling hand, his fingers grazing your jawline with the lightest touches. His gaze flicked down to your lips, lingering there for a long, charged moment before meeting your eyes once more.

"Tell me to stop," he breathed, his voice low and rough with an emotion he couldn't quite articulate. "Please, tell me to stop…"

But even as he said the words, he made no move to pull away, his body radiating a heat that seeped into your skin through the damp fabric of your dress. The intensity of his gaze held you captive, the depth of feeling in those green eyes making your heart race and your pulse pound in your ears.

You could see the battle raging within him, the war between the part of him that yearned to close the distance and the part that feared the consequences of surrendering to this overwhelming pull. The air crackled with tension, the moment stretching between you like a taut bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

Lucerys swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he fought for control. But the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable, the longing for connection, for intimacy, for something more than the fleeting glances and stilted conversation you'd shared thus far. It was a longing he'd suppressed for so long, a desire he'd never dared to voice aloud.

"Please…" he whispered again, his voice breaking on the word as his gaze searched yours, silently pleading for guidance.

"Don't stop," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. You could hardly catch your breath, your chest heaving with the effort of drawing air.

You leaned in. Your heart slammed against your ribcage, urging you to close the remaining distance, to answer his unspoken question with a kiss.

But you held back, trembling on the knife's edge of surrender, waiting for him to take the final step. Your body thrummed with fear and exhilaration, every nerve ending alight with sensation.

Lucerys's breath hitched as your words reached his ears, the soft whisper settling over him like a balm. The tension in his shoulders eased, the fight draining out of him as the last of his reservations crumbled away. Your permission, your encouragement, was all the invitation he needed to surrender.

Unable to resist any longer, Lucerys surged forward, closing the scant distance between you in a heartbeat. His lips met yours in a searing kiss that sent electricity through your veins. It was a kiss filled with pent-up longing and barely restrained desire.

One large hand cupped your cheek, his calloused palm warm and slightly rough against the smooth skin. The other hand settled on your waist, his fingers splaying across the damp fabric of your dress, tugging you closer. His body was hard and solid against your own, the muscles of his chest and abdomen pressing into the soft curves of your figure.

Lost in the intensity of the moment, you found yourself melting against him, your curves moulding to the hard planes of his body. Your fingers curled into the damp fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him as the world tilted and spun. The storm outside faded into insignificance, the only sound was the harsh rasp of his breathing and the pounding of your own pulse in your ears.

Lucerys kissed you like a man starved, pouring weeks' worth of longing and desire into the single, searing embrace. His lips crashed against yours again and again, each kiss more desperate than the last, as if he feared this moment would slip away and leave him bereft once more. The weight of his desire was a palpable thing, the heat of his skin searing you even through the barrier of your clothing.

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps between kisses, your lungs burning with the need for air. But you were dizzy with the taste of him, the feel of his strong body pinning you in place, the heat of his skin seeping through the damp fabric of his shirt. You clung to him, your fingers fisting in the worn cotton.

In between the fierce, hungry kisses, he peppered your jaw, your neck, the sensitive skin just behind your ear with far softer ones. His breath was hot against your flesh, his lips and tongue painting a scorching trail down the column of your throat.

"Need… more…" Lucerys panted against your skin, his voice low and needy. "Need to feel… need to touch…"

His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them possessively as he hitched your legs up and around his waist, pulling you into his lap. The new position pressed your most intimate places against him, the heat of his arousal burning through the last of your defences.

A breathless moan escaped you as his hands gripped your thighs, hiking your dress up and pulling you astride him. The new position sent a jolt of white-hot need straight to your core. You could feel every hard, muscular inch of him pressed against you, igniting a hunger you never knew you had.

Your eyes fluttered closed, drunk on the feeling of his hands on your skin and his breath on your neck. The world narrowed down to the electric sensation of his touch, the pounding of your hearts, and the ragged sound of your breathing mingling in the charged air between you. You arched into him, your soft curves pressed against him.

Lucerys's fingers trembled as they slid up your thighs, pushing the damp fabric of your dress out of the way. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent as if he were worshipping every inch of newly exposed skin. He swallowed hard, drinking in the sight of you straddling his lap, your dress rucked up around your waist.

As his fingers brushed against the lace of your undergarments, he heard you gasp, the sound sending a jolt of electricity straight to his core.

His hands settled on your hips, gripping them gently, almost hesitantly, as if seeking permission. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"I want to touch you," he whispered, his voice low and rough with a need he could hardly articulate.

He leaned in, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the hollow of your throat, to the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. Each kiss was a question, a silent plea for more, for permission to explore the depths of this newfound desire.

You admired his beauty, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he gazed at you with hunger and desire.

Slowly, hesitantly, you slid my fingers through his soft curls, gently tugging, drunk on the feeling of his skin beneath your touch. Your heart raced as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer.

Lucerys shuddered as your fingers raked through his hair, his eyes fluttering closed at the sensation. The gentle tugging of your fingers ignited something primal in him, a hunger that clawed at his insides, demanding to be fed.

He surged forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. His tongue delved into the warm cavern of your mouth, stroking along the soft flesh, tasting you, consuming you.

"Tell me," he gasped against your lips, "tell me what you want."

Breathless, you gazed into Luke's intense, searching eyes. "You," I breathed, your lips brushing against his. "I need you." Your voice trembled with nerves and desire, your body aching for his touch.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked softly, his grip on your hips loosening slightly as if giving you a chance to change your mind. "We shouldn't… not here, not like this."

Lucerys hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing as a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He searched your eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty, any reason to pull back. But seeing only the reflection of his desire staring back at him, he knew he could not deny either of you any longer.

With a low, almost pained sound in the back of his throat, Lucerys stood, easily lifting you into his arms. He cradled you against his chest, holding you close as he carried you towards the old bed in the corner of the boathouse.

As he loomed over you, his gaze drank you in, taking in the way your hair splayed out across the pillow, the rise and fall of your breasts with each shallow breath. It was evident he was both thrilled and terrified to be here, caught somewhere between boyish enthusiasm and a deep, fierce desire.

Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest as you gazed at Lucerys through the dim light filtering in through the small window. You felt shy suddenly, like that giddy teenage girl you thought you had left behind.

"Lucerys," you breathed out, hesitantly reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your trembling fingers. "Are you… so?" you asked lamely, words escaping you.

You searched his green eyes. A blush crept across your cheeks as you realized how intimate this moment felt, how vulnerable you both were.

Lucerys leaned into your touch, his skin warm and slightly rough beneath your soft fingers. He covered your hand with his own, turning his head to press a gentle kiss to your palm, his lips lingering against your skin.

"No," he admitted softly, his voice low and slightly rough with emotion. "I'm not. I've never… I mean, I want to, with you. More than anything. But…" He trailed off, swallowing hard as he tried to find the right words.

Lucerys took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes flickering away from yours for a moment as he struggled to express the fears and doubts that still lingered in the back of his mind.

Without voicing his thoughts, Lucerys leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, searching kiss. His hands began to wander over your curves, mapping the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips.

Each touch was tentative at first, as if seeking permission, before growing bolder, more confident. He tugged gently at the neckline of your dress, exposing more of your soft skin to his hungry gaze. His breath grew ragged as he explored your body, marvelling at the way you responded to his touch.

Your body tingled everywhere his fingers grazed your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You arched into his touch, craving more, as a breathy whimper escaped your kiss-swollen lips. It felt too intimate, too perfect, like a scene from a romance novel. Being here with Luke, tucked away in this cosy boathouse as the storm raged outside, just the two of you…

"Luke…" you breathed out, your cheeks flushed and heart racing as you gazed up at him through heavy lids. "You can take it off," you whispered, hardly believing the bold words leaving your own lips. Your pulse hammered in your throat.

Lucerys's breath grew ragged as he slowly, almost reverently, began to peel the fabric up your thighs, inch by excruciating inch. His fingertips brushed against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps and igniting sparks of electricity in their wake.

"Tell me if you need me to stop," he breathed, his voice rough with emotion and the effort of holding himself back. His eyes never left yours, searching, seeking, desperate for any sign that he was doing this right.

You nod softly, your eyes wide and trusting as they meet his gaze. A soft, breathy "I don't want you to stop," falls from your lips as you lean into his touch, craving more.

Lucerys swallowed hard at your breathy words, feeling a surge of heat rush through him at the trust and desire he saw shining in your eyes. He leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to stroke along yours, tasting you, consuming you.

His hands slid up to the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he slowly, teasingly, drew it up and over your head. He broke the kiss just long enough to tug the garment off and toss it carelessly aside, his eyes hungrily drinking in the sight of your bare skin.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his voice low and rough with a need he could hardly articulate. His calloused hands skimmed over your curves, mapping every dip and swell, committing each inch of your skin to memory. He cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks of your nipples, drawing a gasp from your throat.

You could feel the heat of his skin, the strength of his hands on your bare flesh, yet you yearned for more. An imbalance lingered between you, one you suddenly needed to correct.

"I… I want to see you too," you breathed out, your voice small but filled with hesitant courage. Your words were a plea, a soft, intimate request as you traced the firm line of his chest through his shirt.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed his handsome features, and you realized he was still guarding himself, keeping a part of himself hidden behind the fabric. You needed to bridge that gap between you, to break down the last of the walls he'd built.

Lucerys hesitated, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he gazed down at you. The uncertainty was palpable, the weight of his past and his fears threatening to overwhelm him. But as he drank in the sight of you, bare and wanting beneath him, he knew he could not deny you this.

Almost shyly, he reached for the hem of his shirt, slowly peeling the damp fabric over his head. He tossed it aside, leaving him bare from the waist up. The moonlight through the window cast a silver glow over his skin, highlighting the lean muscles and the scattering of freckles across his chest.

Lucerys's chest was toned, the muscles defined and strong from years of flying and training. A thin line of dark hair trailed down from his chest, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches. His skin was slightly flushed, a light sheen of sweat glistening in the dim light.

You gazed up at Lucerys, your heart pounding as you took in the sight of his bare torso. He looked like a Sea God standing before you, all lean muscle and tanned skin. You wanted to tell him how breathtaking he looked, how the sight of him stole the very air from your lungs, but the words stuck in your throat.

Instead, you reached out tentatively, placing your cold fingers on his stomach. You could feel the heat of his skin, the firmness of his muscles beneath your touch. Lucerys shuddered slightly at the contact, his breath hitching softly. Emboldened, you ran your hands up his chest, admiring the way his skin felt beneath your fingertips, the way his heart raced beneath his ribs.

His breath came faster, each inhale and exhale more ragged than the last as your hands explored his body with a boldness he hadn't expected.

He caught your wrist as your hand reached his navel, his fingers curling around yours and holding it still against his skin.

Lucerys gazed down at you, his green eyes dark and intense in the dim light. He swallowed hard, his tongue darting to wet his suddenly dry lips.

"Please," he breathed out, his voice low and rough with a desperation he could no longer hide. "Touch me."

His hand slid from your wrist to your elbow, his fingers trailing up your arm until he could tangle them with yours. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a fervent kiss to your palm before trailing his mouth to the inside of your wrist, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin.

Your heart raced as Luke's lips brushed against your wrist, the intimate gesture sending a shiver down your spine. You couldn't help but gasp, the sound catching in your throat.

Emboldened by his plea, your hand drifted lower, tracing the line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the firmness of his stomach muscles tensing under your touch.

Your fingers dipped just slightly beneath the waistband of his jeans, teasing the sensitive skin there.

Lucerys's abdomen clenched, muscles jerking beneath your teasing touch. A strangled groan escaped his lips, his hips jerking forward slightly as if seeking more contact. His grip on your wrist tightened, fingers curling around your arm instinctively.

Lucerys's breath was coming in short, sharp gasps now, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself back. He was painfully hard, his arousal straining against the confines of his jeans. The denim was rough and coarse against his aching flesh, a contrast to the softness of your skin.

"More," he gasped out, his voice desperate and needy. "Please, I need… I need to feel you." His other hand slid down to cover yours, guiding it to the button of his jeans. With shaking fingers, he helped you pop the button open, the sound seeming to echo obscenely loud in the charged air between you.

You gazed up at Lucerys through your lashes, a soft smile playing at the corners of your mouth. Your heart fluttered in your chest as you slowly, teasingly, pulled down his zipper.

"You'll need to take these off," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Fear gripped your heart, a lingering uncertainty that he might still decide to leave at any moment. You longed to feel every inch of his skin against yours, to banish the last of the distance between you.

But you were still shy, still hesitant, unsure if you dared to believe this was truly happening.

Lucerys swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs as he gazed down at you. The way you looked up at him, the shy smile playing at your lips, sent a bolt of longing straight to his core.

With trembling hands, he stood and shimmied out of his jeans, kicking them off to the side. He hesitated for a moment, standing before you in nothing but his boxers, before hooking his thumbs under the waistband and slowly pulling them down.

His breath hitched as the fabric slid over his aching arousal, his length springing free to stand proud and hard before him. He could feel your eyes on him, drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin, and he fought the urge to cover himself, to hide away from your heated look.

Your breath caught in your throat as you drank in the sight of Luke's naked form. You could feel your heart pounding wildly, a fluttering sensation in your stomach as you openly admired his masculine beauty.

With trembling fingers, you reached for the waistband of your knickers, slowly peeling the damp fabric down your thighs. You lifted your hips, pulling the garment off and tossing it carelessly to the growing pile of clothing on the floor.

Lucerys's eyes darkened with desire as he watched you remove the last barrier between your bodies. His gaze raked over your naked form, taking in every dip and curve, committing each detail to memory. He felt a surge of possessiveness, a fierce need to claim and worship and cherish every inch of you.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Lucerys leaned down, covering your body with his own. The feel of your bare skin against his was electric, sending a jolt of sensation racing through his veins. He shuddered, a low groan escaping his lips as he settled his hips between your thighs.

Lucerys's length, hard and heavy, nestled against your core. The heat of him seared you, the thick length of him throbbing against your most sensitive flesh. He rocked slowly, rubbing himself against you, coating his arousal in your slick heat.

His lips found yours in a hungry, desperate kiss. His hands slid down to grip your hips, holding you in place as he rolled against you, the friction delicious and maddening all at once. He swallowed your soft cries, his own breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps against your skin.

"Lucerys," you gasped, breaking free from the kiss to catch your breath. Your hands clawed at his back, nails digging into his skin, leaving angry red marks in their wake. The feeling of his hard length rubbing against your aching core was driving you wild with lust. You arched your back, pressing your body flush against his muscular frame as you panted softly.

Lucerys shuddered as your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines of passion in their wake. He groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he felt your body arch beneath his own, pressing against him with wanton desperation.

You could feel every thick, pulsing inch of him, and a flicker of fear raced through you at the realization of his impressive size. You knew it would hurt at first, stretching you, filling you.

"Please," you begged, your voice ragged and desperate as you bucked your hips against his, seeking more of that delicious friction. "Use your fingers first, Luke. I need… I need you to prepare me. I can't… I can't take all of you yet."

"Shh, it's alright," he murmured softly, his voice low and soothing. "I've got you. I'm going to take care of you."

His fingers teased along your entrance, stroking and caressing, before slowly sinking inside. He took his time, letting you adjust to the new sensation, before beginning to pump his fingers in and out of you. He curled them, rubbing against that spot deep inside that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed.

Lucerys could feel how tight you were, your walls clenching around his invading fingers. He could only imagine how incredible it would feel to sink his length into your welcoming heat, to feel you enveloping him like a velvet glove. But he knew he had to be patient, had to take his time and make sure you were ready for him.

Your breath came in soft, needy gasps as you gazed up at Luke through hooded, half-lidded eyes.

"Mmm," you whimpered out, your voice breathy and quiet. "So good."

Your hips undulated against his hand as he worked his finger inside you, your body responding instinctively to his touch. You could feel yourself getting wetter, your arousal coating his finger as he pumped it in and out of your tight heat.

"Mmm, you feel so good," he breathed, his voice rough with desire. "So tight and hot and perfect."

He added a second finger, then a third, stretching you slowly. His palm pressed against your mound, applying delicious pressure as he fingered you, his eyes never leaving your face.

"Tell me how it feels," he panted, his own arousal throbbing and aching with the need to be buried inside you. "Tell me what you need."

Lucerys paused, his fingers still buried deep inside your warmth. He gazed down at you, green eyes intense and searching as they roamed your flushed face. His thumb circled your sensitive pearl, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"I want…" You trailed off, suddenly shy, before taking a deep breath and meeting his gaze. "I want you inside me. I'm ready now."

Lucerys swallowed hard, his heart pounding against his ribs at your boldly spoken words. He could hardly believe this was happening, that you wanted this as much as he did. With shaking hands, he reached down to grasp himself, aligning the broad head of his arousal with your dripping entrance.

He hesitated for a moment, giving you one last chance to change your mind. But when no protest came, he began to slowly push forward, the thick length of him parting your folds and sinking inch by delicious inch into your tight, welcoming heat.

Lucerys's breath caught in his throat at the exquisite sensation, his brows furrowing as he struggled to hold himself back. He could feel every pulse and quiver of your walls around him, gripping him like a vice.

"Oh gods," he gasped out, his voice strained. "You feel… you feel incredible."

"Ohh, fuck," a ragged cry tore from your throat as Luke drove his thick length deep inside you, stretching you around him. Your head fell against the pillow, hair fanning around you as you arched into him. You'd had lovers before, but none as well-endowed as him. He was so big, so hard, filling you utterly.

"Move, please, Luke," you mewled wantonly, your nails digging into his back. You needed him to move, to claim you utterly. The anticipation was driving you mad with lust.

Lucerys groaned as he felt your nails digging into his back, urging him on. He knew he should go slow, and take his time, but the way you were arching into him, the desperate pleas falling from your lips, made it impossible to hold back.

With a low growl, he began to move, his hips pulling back so only the tip remained inside you before surging forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your dripping cunt. He set a steady rhythm, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs, each retreat leaving you aching and empty until he filled you again.

Lucerys braced himself on his elbows, his strong arms trembling slightly from the new sensations. He gazed down at you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in the way your face flushed with pleasure, the way your breasts bounced with each powerful thrust.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss as he drove himself deeper, harder, faster. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist as he loomed over you, his powerful body blanketing yours.

"Mmm, you feel so good inside me Luke. S-so deep."

Your fingers trembled as you cupped his chiselled jaw, pulling his face closer to yours. You drank in the sight of his handsome features, the stark contrast of your soft, delicate hands against his masculine face.

"Don't stop," you whimpered. "F-feel every inch of you, stretching me…" Your words trailed off into a soft moan as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves.

Lucerys shuddered as your fingers trembled against his jaw, your breathless praise sending a thrill down his spine. He nuzzled into your touch, his lips brushing against your palm as he gazed down at you with hooded eyes.

"Never…" he panted, his voice low and rough with desire. "Never want to stop. Feel… feel too good. So tight. So perfect."

"You're doing so good," you praised breathlessly, pulling Luke into a passionate kiss. You tugged at his lower lip, pulling it gently between your teeth.

Lucerys gasped as your teeth tugged at his lip, the sharp sensation sending a bolt of electricity straight to his groin. He shuddered, his hips stuttering for a moment before he regained his rhythm, thrusting deep and hard, filling you again and again.

Panting softly, you rested your forehead against his, gazing up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Each deep, slow thrust sent a jolt of pleasure racing through you, drawing a moan from your lips.

"S-seems like you're the one doing all the good things," he panted, his breath mingling with yours as he pressed his forehead against yours. "Feeling you… it's… it's..."

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping them tightly as he rolled into you, grinding his pelvis against yours. He kissed you again, hungry and desperate, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure.

You gazed up at Luke through hooded eyes a breathless giggle escaping your lips at his praise.

"Mmm, you're one to talk," you murmured, your voice low and sultry. "The way you make me feel…" nipping playfully at his jaw.

You could feel the heat building between you, the air growing thick and heavy with your mingled breaths and soft, breathy moans. You tangled your fingers in his hair, urging him closer until your lips were a mere hairsbreadth apart.

A shudder wracked through Lucerys's body as your fingers tangled in his hair, your breath mingling with his own. He could feel the heat building between your bodies, the sweat-slicked skin sliding deliciously with each powerful thrust of his hips.

"Can't… can't help it," he panted, his voice strained with the effort of holding himself back. "You're just… mmm… so responsive. So perfect."

He claimed your mouth again, kissing you deeply, his tongue delving inside to tangle with yours. One hand slid up your side, cupping the slight weight of your breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling and pinching your nipple until it pebbled beneath his touch.

Lucerys could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, his release fast approaching. But he gritted his teeth, determined to hold off until he'd brought you to yours first. He wanted to feel your walls clench around him as you came undone, wanted to hear his name on your lips as ecstasy overtook you.

You moaned into the heated kiss, your body arching into his touch as Lucerys's fingers teased and rolled your sensitive nipple. Sparks of pleasure radiated from the point of contact, stoking the fire that was rapidly building in your core.

"Mmm," you whined as he thrust deep, your walls starting to flutter and clench around his hard, throbbing length. "Lucerys, I'm…" Your words were interrupted by a loud needy cry as he suddenly took one nipple into his mouth.

Lucerys groaned around your nipple as he heard the need in your voice, the desperation. He sucked harder, swirling his tongue around the stiff peak as he felt your walls starting to flutter and clench around him. He could tell you were close, could feel your body tensing and shaking beneath his touch.

"Touch yourself," he murmured urgently against your breast, his voice vibrating against your skin.

Your breath hitched as Lucerys's words sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. You couldn't hold back the desperate whimper that tore from your throat, your pussy clenching around his throbbing length. His commanding tone set your nerves alight.

Shuddering, you obeyed the command, your hand drifting down the curve of your belly to the junction between your thighs. You found your clit, swollen and aching with need and began to rub tight, swift circles over the sensitive nub. The added stimulation had you seeing stars, a choked cry of ecstasy spilling from your lips.

Lucerys's hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your clenching heat as he felt your fingers find your clit. He could feel your walls starting to ripple and squeeze around him, the sensation driving him wild with lust.

"Yes, just like that," he growled, his voice low and rough with desire. "Don't stop touching yourself. I want to feel you come undone around my cock."

He pistoned his hips faster, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs as he chased his own rapidly approaching release. One hand slid down to cover yours, his fingers tangling with your own as he guided your movements, helping you rub your clit in tight, desperate circles.

You gazed up at Luke with lust-glazed eyes, your plump lips parted in a silent scream of pleasure. Brows furrowed, you panted out between clenched teeth, "I'm… I'm so close, Luke. Don't stop."

Your fingers were under his guiding touch as you rubbed at your throbbing clit together. You could feel your walls fluttering wildly around his pistoning length, gripping him.

Lucerys could feel your walls starting to clench erratically around his throbbing cock, your body tensing as your climax approached. He could see the ecstasy playing out across your face, your lips parted, your eyes glazed with lust.

"Y-you feel… ohh," he panted, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "I'm going to… fuck…"

He could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, his heavy balls drawing up tight against his body as his orgasm approached. He knew he couldn't hold back for much longer.

"Lucerys," you gasped out, your voice breathy and weak. "I'm so… Ohh fuuck!" Your words dissolved into a shameless moan as the intense sensation of your climax ripped through you like a tidal wave.

Your body convulsed and shook beneath his. You could feel your release gushing out around his length, your arousal coating his shaft and dripping down onto the sheets below.

Lucerys cried out, his voice breaking with pleasure as he felt your walls clamp down around him. The sensation was too much, too intense, and with a guttural moan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you as his own release crashed over him.

His hips jerked and stuttered as he emptied himself inside you, his thick seed spurting in hot, heavy ropes against your fluttering walls. He shuddered and gasped, his body wracked with the force of his climax as he clung to you, holding you tight against him.

Panting harshly, Lucerys collapsed against you, his muscular frame blanketing your own as the last waves of his release shuddered through him. He peppered your face with soft kisses, his lips brushing against your skin like the gentlest of feathers.

Softly, you turned Lucerys's face, pulling him into a tender kiss. Your lips melded against his. Your heart fluttered in your chest as you lost yourself in the gentle brush of your mouths, the intimate press of your bodies.

Lucerys melted into the tender kiss, his lips moving softly against yours in a dance as old as time.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as he deepened the kiss, his tongue delving inside to tangle with yours in a sensual dance. He could feel your fingers tracing patterns on his back, your touch soothing and exciting in equal measure.

Breathless and sated, you clung to him, your fingers tracing the strong lines of his back. The storm outside raged on, wind howling and rain lashing against the window panes, but inside your little world, all was tranquil. You nuzzled into his chest, breathing in the clean, masculine scent of his skin. Your curves fit perfectly against the hard planes of his body, two puzzle pieces interlocking into one.

Lucerys shuddered, a soft groan escaping his lips as he felt his spent length twitch inside your still-fluttering heat. He knew he should pull out, but he couldn't bring himself to separate from you, not yet. He wanted to stay like this forever, joined with you in the most intimate way possible.

Sighing softly, Lucerys nuzzled into your neck, breathing in your scent as he held you close.

In that moment, Lucerys realised he was falling in love with you, losing himself in the softness of your touch.

The warmth of Lucerys’s body pressed against yours lulled you into a deep, dreamless sleep. The sound of the storm had become a distant murmur, fading into the edges of your awareness as exhaustion overtook you.

You didn’t feel him pull away.

Lucerys lay beside you, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest in the dim glow of the lantern. His fingers itched to reach out and brush a strand of hair from your face, but he stopped himself.

This shouldn’t have happened.

The thought echoed in his mind, sharp and unforgiving. He couldn’t let himself believe in this, in you—not when it was bound to end the way it always did. He had let his guard down, let you in, and now the walls he’d spent years building felt like they were crumbling around him.

Lucerys sat up slowly, careful not to wake you. He ran a hand through his curls, his breath shaky as his mind raced. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, the way your body had moved with his, the softness of your lips against his own. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and utterly terrifying.

Because he knew—knew deep down—that if he let you stay, if he let himself fall any further, it would destroy him when you inevitably left. He stood, his movements silent as he dressed quickly, his damp clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He glanced back at you one last time, his heart twisting painfully in his chest at the sight of you curled up on the small bed.

You looked peaceful, and content, and it made him feel selfish for even thinking about leaving. But he couldn’t stay.

Lucerys slipped out of the boathouse, the door creaking softly behind him as he stepped into the rain-soaked night. The storm had passed, leaving behind a heavy stillness that seemed to press down on him. He walked down the docks, his footsteps muffled against the wet planks.

The guilt clawed at him, a relentless ache that wouldn’t go away. He told himself it was for the best, that putting distance between you now would save him the inevitable heartbreak later. But even as he thought it, the pain of leaving you felt worse than anything he could imagine.

By the time the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Lucerys was long gone, leaving behind only the faint imprint of his presence in the boathouse.

When you woke, the space beside you was empty.

You blinked sleepily, your body sore but pleasantly warm from the remnants of the night before. At first, you thought he’d just stepped outside, maybe to get some air or watch the sunrise. But as you sat up and glanced around the small room, the absence of his belongings told a different story.

“Lucerys?” you called softly, your voice rasping from sleep.

There was no answer, only the faint sound of waves lapping against the dock outside.

A sinking feeling settled in your chest as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your bare feet touched the cool wood floor, grounding you as your mind raced to make sense of his disappearance.

Pulling on your dress his hoodie that he had surprisingly left behind, which still smelled faintly of salt and him, you stepped outside. The boathouse was eerily quiet, the storm from the night before leaving behind a fresh, rain-soaked scent in the air.

You scanned the empty docks, your heart sinking further when you saw no sign of him.

The ache in your chest grew sharper as the truth began to sink in. He had left.

[voxslays]

Hi! I really hope you read this but I had a specific request where y/n wants to play games on Vox’s screen like block blast or something and it takes a bit, but they convince him and likes, they’re in his office and they’re on his lap trying to get a high score like “stay still, I’m trying to get a high score!”

I hope it doesn’t sound too weird and you could decide on this but could it be mostly fluff but a bit suggestive? Thank you! Also don’t do this request if it’s too much, I really like your writing and wouldn’t want you to overwork yourself.

Have a nice day :)

A/N: Thank you for your request, Anonnie. I hope dress to impress is okay. I don’t know very much about block blast except for the fact that it’s a block game lol- I hope you have a nice day aswell! <3

DRESS TO IMPRESS

“C’mon Vox!” You begged, as you bombarded the already overwhelmed overlord with your strange request. He looked up from his mountain of paperwork, his eyes filled with irritation as he glared at you. "I am not letting you play games on my screen." He says harshly, the blue light from his screen flickering and shuddering. “Please…?” You plead, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.

Sighing heavily, Vox rubs his nonexistent temples (the sides of his screen) as if trying to physically push away the looming headache. "Fine. Five minutes." He relents gruffly, sliding his chair sideways to grant you access to the hulking, imposing console. “YES!” You pump your fist in the air enthusiastically. Vox watches you with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity as you eagerly plug his ports in and start up your game, crawling into his lap and straddling the overlord.

Suddenly, instead of his usual facial features that are displayed on his flatscreen TV head, is the game of your choice—dress to impress. His flatscreen TV head now displays the colorful, lobby of the game. "You have four minutes left," You quickly begin dressing up your avatar, the game in progress only having two minutes left. Time passes quickly, but luckily your avatar is almost completely done. You can feel Vox shifting below you—and it startles you. For a moment, you had completely forgotten you were straddling the TV overlord! “Sit still!” He groans in annoyance below you.

He tries to sit still, his large, flatscreen body rumbling slightly as he suppresses the urge to shift and knock you off. His eyes, now the glowing cursors on the screen, stare impatiently at the timer. "One minute," he warns gruffly. The runway portion of the round begins. You give out a few stars to some of your favorite outfits, before it’s your turn. You spam pose 28 as your avatar fashionably walks down the pink and white runway.

Vox’s screen flickers slightly as you spam the poses, showing the vibrant runway show. Unexpectedly, a small spark of interest lights up his digital eyes as he watches the graceful movements of your avatar. "Thirty seconds…" He mutters, though his voice isn't as harsh as before. When the results are revealed, your avatar wins second place!

You are about to type a simple ‘Ty’ in the chat, before Vox’s screen goes completely blue. The screen goes dark, and the room falls silent. For a moment, you're left sitting there, wondering what happened. Then, the screen flickers back to life, but it's not the game anymore. Instead, its his handsome flatscreen face.

“Thanks Vox.” You say as you gracefully climb out of his lap. Once completely standing, you smooth out your clothes. He blinks slowly, his expression unreadable as he stares up at you. For a long moment, he's silent. Then, he speaks, his voice slightly softer than before. "You're welcome." He pauses, then asks curiously, "You play that often?"

“Very often.” You giggle. He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a strange glint in his digital gaze, something almost…appreciative? "I can see why." He murmurs, before adding gruffly, "Don't tell anyone I let you play on my screen." You let out a soft laugh. “I won’t, glitch-boy.” You tease, before walking out of his cold monitor room and out of sight. As you leave, he's left alone with his thoughts. He blinks slowly, his screen flickering slightly as he processes the unusual interaction. A small, rare smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Glitch-boy…" He murmurs to himself, almost fondly.

[tricksh0t]

★ a bushel of oranges

☾ criston cole x top m reader

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 829 words

cw: more talk and story than sex, but it is still nsfw; ass eating, sex with feelings, flashback to when criston "proposed" to rhaenyra on that ship, feelings of resent towards rhaenyra, struggling to say i love you, some mentions of size diff, reader is big but nothing much is done about it, crispy's ass is hairy

It all feels so soft.

The sheets upon his back were a silk he'd never have been worthy of two decades ago; the pillows behind his head were fluffy and seemingly never ending; the lighting even, something Criston has never found it in himself to appreciate before, was warm and cozy, streaming lazily in sparse rays; and your hair between his fingertips too.

Despite the way his body contorts itself to fit your large frame on the big bed and give access to your tongue, he is soft too.

His skin isn't smooth, it's scarred and hairy; but his flesh is soft, like clay under your touch because you have made him so.

Your tongue upon his taint has made his body, soul and hole compliant and soft. The way you eat him out is soft, the way you hold his thighs up for him is soft, the way you suckle and kiss and press your finger into him is soft.

You're slow with it, as if you've got all the time in the world. Your tongue swipes against his hairy hole, and Criston doesn't have to say more, more, more because you don't stop and he has no fear that you will.

You're slow because you know there's no rush. You'll fuck him sooner or later, and though the thought practically has pre dribbling out of Criston's tip, this feels just as good in a different kind of way.

It feels like seven heavens all at once.

Criston sighs, digging his nails into your scalp to scratch. You hum into his hole in turn and Criston melts further into the pillows.

Lust burns in his stomach, makes his thighs shaky, but something else burns in his chest.

Yearning.

Criston looks down at you, at how you're devouring him not like you're starved, but like he's dessert, or a fine meal at the end of another content day to be savoured.

You burrow two fingers knuckle deep into his heat, and he moans, open mouthed and thorough, letting go of the need to make sound until nothing comes out of him anymore.

You stretch an arm up his body, up his lifted thighs and up his chest, up to whatever you can reach. Criston leans down for it, presses a kiss against your clean knuckles.

Oh, you're his.

Suddenly, Criston lifts you up by the shoulders. He doesn't bring you up, not to kiss. He lays you upon his chest, keeping a space between his legs for you.

You rise pliantly yet with confusion. "Criston? What is it?"

"Don't worry, sweetheart." He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You're all soft against him too, big, usually warring body useless at this moment except for holding. He enjoys having the meat of you against him, skin to skin until there is no air in between, just contact.

For a moment, he's just cuddling you, content with keeping you close.

"Have you ever imagined not being a knight?" Criston asks dreamily, hand petting at your hair yet eyes drifting away. He has imagined it frequently: being free of his burden as the Lord Commander of the King's Guard, being free with you, poor in coin but rich in spirit and...love. Rich in love with you, every night of passion, not sex perhaps, but at least holding each other with no worry of who's to come knocking at your door in the morning.

He has imagined being free of Westeros with you, in Essos, near the sea, near bustling ports, knowing a quaint little town like the back of his hand. He has imagined too, living in Westeros still to appease you, perhaps Old Town, where he has heard the lowborn live best.

"My lo–" The word catches in his throat, so ready to be said, yet his mind stops him. He shakes his head. "Have you ever imagined living just to live?"

Criston's mind turns back to the last time he has asked this of someone. Rhaenyra.

"in exchange for a bushel of oranges or a ship to Asshai?"

The words haunt him, taunt him. He had poured his heart out and then laid it bare, said what he'd been planning for the past few weeks, months even, since the beginning of their affair, and she had turned him down like he meant nothing to her; like he was just her whore.

Small kisses against his chest stir him from his thoughts. You must've replied and he hadn't taken note.

"Nevermind." Criston whispers, smoothing back your hair one final time before he wraps his legs around your waist to raise lust between you two.

He rocks his rear against your cock, causing you to grunt. Lust, at least, he can be sure that you have for him. Love? Maybe not...but at least he can keep you here with him, if only during moments hidden away.

I love you rolls on his tongue but Criston doesn't give it the breath to be heard.

[annievrse]

robbers

chuuya x pm!reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic w/c: 0.9k c/w: chuuya calls reader 'doll', guns & murder (ur literally a sniper) a/n: this was gonna be a lot more angsty, but I wanted some cutesy gross relationship shit, so here u go, my babies. enjoy!!

Zooming in your scope, your eye is trained on a familiar redhead. You watch as he tries to talk his way out of an infiltration mission that had gone awry 10 minutes earlier, and with you as the Port Mafia's sniper, it's your job to ensure Chuuya gets out of there unharmed.

The earpiece lodged in your ear fizzles a string of words you can barely focus on, but you press it and talk anyway.

"Yes, Aktuagawa is on the roof," you mumble, lifting your head to confirm the questions streaming through your ear. Squinting into the setting sun, you see the younger boy walking along the edge of the building, hoping to get a better angle to attack. "Will take my shot. Over."

As you try to get comfortable, the leather of your vest and pants drag along the concrete roof you lay on. Steadying your breath, you aim for the head of the mastermind behind the organisation that had been killing ability-users for sport.

Now, you hold your breath and squeeze the trigger. There's no sound, but your hurried exhales, and you begin packing your gear instantly. There's no need to look to confirm your kill.

"—inside is clear—"

"—building empty, return to headquarters—"

The silence is deafening. The subtle ringing in your ear punctuates as such. A sudden crackle through your earpiece startles you as you descend the 38 flights of stairs to the street.

"You could've aimed a little more to the right. I got rat blood on me."

You shake your head. "Be grateful you're alive."

Chuuya scoffs, and you imagine him rolling his eyes. "He was an easy target; I would've easily taken him out."

"Just meet me downstairs, please," you sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The stairwell is humid, and you're starting to sweat under all the leather you sport.

"Yes, ma'am."

You twist the device from your ear and shove it in your pocket.

Emerging from the building, you're hit with a gust of cool night air, the feeling both relieving and chilling. You squint into the darkness. The door behind you slams, and you jump, tripping over your foot and falling to the ground. You put your hand out to stop yourself and brace for the impact.

Except you don't make it to the dirt and are, instead, held mid-air by a familiar force. You roll your eyes when the commander of said force appears before you in the shape of a five-foot-something redhead.

"Careful, doll, don't need you breaking your trigger finger."

You give Chuuya a deadpan look, still surrounded by a red aura. He stalks toward you, the hem of his coat flapping in the wind. You look at him through your lashes and wish he'd let you fall—he gazes at you so intently that if he weren't Chuuya, you'd have punched him by now.

You feel yourself move upwards and stumble once you're on your feet again. Chuuya walks ahead, but his hand hovers behind him slightly.

"Well..." you say, grasping his fingers. You walk toward the PM car, which is parked in the distance.

Chuuya gives you a side look. "Well, what?"

"Well," you say. "Make yourself useful and kiss me."

Chuuya's eyebrows fly up and he stops. "Useful? I just saved your ass from—"

You drop your bag and cover his cheek, smiling as your lips meet his. It's messy, and you swear you felt his teeth nip your bottom lip by accident, but it's nice. Chuuya's fingers tickle the sides of your neck, and he mumbles something incoherent.

You pull back an inch and peck his lips once more when he chases after you. "What?"

Chuuya sighs and leans his forehead against your shoulder, his hands moving to your waist. "Thanks for getting me outta there."

You laugh softly, burying your hands in his hair, moving his hat onto your head so it doesn't fall on the ground. He doesn't thank people often; he doesn't need to with his hatred of initially putting himself in that position and his constant obligation to save everyone.

You don't need his thanks; you never have, but you just kiss his cheek and reassure him. "Always."

Chuuya turns his head, and you feel him press delicate kisses on your neck. He trails his lips to your earlobe before laughing lowly in your ear, squeezing your sides.

You put your hands on his cheeks and pull him out of your neck. His face is squished between your palms, and you stop yourself from kissing him silly. Chuuya wraps his hands around your wrists, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your pulse points. His blue eyes stare into yours, and the butterflies in your stomach refuse to settle.

“You can stop staring now,” Chuuya mumbles, his cheeks blooming red. He'd blame it on the breeze if you tease him about it.

You shake your head, smiling bashfully. “No, you look pretty."

"Oh, please," Chuuya scoffs, eyes sweeping the building behind you. The subordinates deemed the perimeter clear before, but Chuuya scowls at the place anyway. "Let's go."

Sighing, you pluck his hat off your head and put it back on his. "Lead the way, pretty boy."

Chuuya begrudgingly fixes his hat and swings your bag onto his shoulder. "Only if you stop calling me that."

You tsk, wrapping your arms around his middle. "Can't deny what's true."

Grumbling, Chuuya throws his arm over your shoulder and draws you into his side. "Whatever."

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[shadesofmauve]

Alliance Normandy SR-2 redesign: Deck 5

We've finally arrived at the bottom: deck 5, home of the hangar, the Kodiak shuttles, and now, Marine Land!

There are some oddities with this deck, because I was guessing at how fast the hull tapers towards the bottom at the back (I'm working off references that show front and rear elevations, but that only shows you the broadest points). I messed up something with my core chamber measurements and had to make the entire rear end (heh) slightly bigger here before posting, but the deck design errs on the side of narrower.

Hangar

When I wrote A Star To Steer Her By I ignored the silly shipbuilding because I was focused on a relationship (and because it wasn't supposed to be a door-stopper novel. Oops), but as I went on things like "this hangar should be regularly exposed to vacuum, how can you leave gym equipment in here" bothered me more and more. By the time of Sunset and Evening Star I couldn't let that state of affairs stand. So: this hangar is regularly exposed to vacuum. No fancy force fields that keep in the air but let out shuttles. You don't leave anything in here that isn't protected from vacuum and strapped down.

The hangar is the limiting factor in the size of the entire ship; it has to fit between the central elevator and the hangar door, and it must fit two Kodiaks. To reach this size I had to make the Kodiaks boxier; my drawings are taller for their length than the game models. They still seat twelve, and there's room for one to do a 180 on it's axis while the other is in its cradle. The hangar floor slopes down slightly towards the door in the middle, and the Kodiaks are 'shelved' to the sides.

Cortez runs the flight deck from the exact same place he is in game, but now he has bulkheads and windows between himself and the cold death of space. Airlocks on either side give access to the flight deck. There are also giant doors straight into the deck 4 cargo bays, but those won't open unless the hangar is pressurized.

Marine Land

Jack's Sulking Pit is now a gym, with weights, treadmill, stationary bike, heavy bags, and mats for sparing (and occasionally making pillow forts for evacuee toddlers). Mats are usually stored stowed against the wall, and other equipment can be moved as needed.

To port are the marine berths. The usual compliment of marines is a dozen, including their unit leader, but there are twelve bunks as well as the officer's tiny cabin (because there's no point wasting the space, and you never know). Other than their semi-privacy, the marine racks are no different from the enlisted racks on the two decks above.*

*"Except for the smell." — the rest of the crew, probably.

Berthing the marines on deck 5 is all about quick access to their arms, armor, and transport. Directly across from the marine berths is the entrance to the locker room and armory. After armoring up they grab their weapons and can get to the shuttle through an airlock entrance in the armory. On the way back, they reverse the process; stow weapons, strip off armor — often dropping damaged plating into the recycler chute as they go by — strip down, and shower.

The Alliance military is gender neutral, and nowhere is this as obvious as the marine lockers. The marine unit regularly strips down in front of each other; it's just part of getting ready for work. You can't be body-shy and be an Alliance Marine.

(I like to think the separate bathrooms on the crew deck were the Illusive Man's weird traditionalist decision. Sometimes the gendered-bathroom thing starts to grate on Bo Huan, the third-watch pilot, so they come down to deck five to use the locker room showers, leading Joker to quip "Ah, the third gender: marine!")

More engineering, and the answers to a few questions

Ladders from deck 4 lead down to another engineering area on the hangar level. It's not connected to the main areas of the deck by conventional corridors, but it is accessible through the warren of service passages that run throughout the ship. More of those access-ways lead aft of the eezo core chamber to the fusion plant (not shown). Because the core chamber narrows faster than the ship, it's easier to get around it here than it is on the engineering deck, where the core chamber is at it's widest but the hull has started to narrow. These access tunnels are rarely comfortable to get through, though they often open out into areas that are easier to work in, or into surprising pockets of unused space. They may require crawling or climbing, or clambering over obstacles.

All the maintenance accesses are kept pressurized and aired up, but the habitable area shown on these posts is wrapped in an inner hull, and the doors for maintenance access are all pressure doors: if a hit damages the tunnel you use to access the ship's innards, it won't kill all the crew in the room next to it.**

**It will obliterate the illicit still and the not-actually-a-secret-make-out-nest, as well as anyone stupid enough to be distilling and***/or fucking in those locations, which is why we don't lollygag between the hulls in combat, private!

***AND?****

****Some people are remarkably talented.

Normandy redesign posts

Intro

Loft

Command

Crew

Engineering

Hangar

[stolenorchids]

THE SPACE BETWEEN US

CHUUYA NAKAHARA X FEM!READER

WARNINGS: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, mention of interrogation, mention of blood, mentions of fights, reader not believing she's human, 3rd person from readers pov, there might be swearing idk - I think that's all, but lmk if I missed anything!!

WC: 2.5k

dividers by @uzmacchiato and @firefly-graphics

Perhaps she was doomed the moment she learned what it meant to be human.

Or maybe it was even earlier than that - before she had the words to ask why, before she knew that the ache in her chest wasn’t normal. Before she turned fourteen and her mind became a mess of static and silence. A dull emptiness where memories should’ve lived. People she couldn’t name. A childhood she couldn’t recall.

And the years after that - between fourteen and sixteen - were no better. Everything she remembered came to her in pieces, as if someone had painted over her life in thick, clumsy strokes. The colours were there, but the details were gone. Conversations blurred. Rooms that felt familiar without reason. Pain that had no source.

She used to wonder if something was wrong with her. If the cracks in her mind meant she was broken.

But she got good at pretending.

Smiling, joking, laughing too loudly at the right time. Acting normal. Acting human.

No one ever noticed.

Until now.

The glass shattered two feet from her face.

She didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But something deep in her chest twisted - tight and cold, like a pressure she didn’t know how to breathe through.

“Talk,” Chuuya growled, the heel of his boot pressing down against the shoulder of the man pinned beneath him. “Now.”

The warehouse office was trashed. The overhead lights buzzed faintly above the chaos - papers scattered like snowdrifts, a filing cabinet overturned and still leaking folders. Dust floated lazily in the air. The informant on the floor was bleeding from his mouth but still grinning like this was all some kind of game.

“I told you,” he coughed, voice thick with blood, “I don’t know anything.”

“That’s a lie,” she said quietly from where she stood, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. Her voice was calm. Too calm.

Chuuya looked over his shoulder at her. She hadn’t moved from that spot since the fight ended - uncharacteristically still. Her gaze, usually quick and bright with expression, was unreadable.

“She’s right,” Chuuya said, turning back to the informant. “You slipped. You mentioned a lab.”

The man clicked his tongue. “Freudian slip. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means enough,” she murmured.

There was something about the word lab - something she couldn’t pin down. The second he’d said it, her breath had hitched. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone to notice.

Except Chuuya.

She could feel his eyes on her, flicking back every so often with subtle, practiced glances.

“You know, I expected more from the infamous Port Mafia,” the informant said, spitting to the side. “You lot used to be scary.”

The man laughed - loud, messy, bitter.

She wasn’t sure what snapped inside her first. Maybe it was the laughter. Maybe it was the smug tilt of his chin. Maybe it was how familiar this whole place felt. Too familiar. The cold, sterile walls. The exposed concrete. The sour-sweet scent of old chemicals that hadn’t fully faded. She hadn’t been here before - she was sure of that.

And yet…

Her hands clenched at her sides. Fingernails dug into her palm.

“You don’t know what you’ve seen,” she said, and this time her voice was cold. “You don’t even know what you’re part of.”

Even the informant stopped laughing for a moment.

“Enough,” Chuuya said, stepping forward. His voice wasn’t sharp - it was measured. Calming.

She realized then that her own breathing had quickened.

Chuuya knelt beside the man, his gloved fingers gripping the collar of his shirt. “Tell us what you know about the lab. Who’s running it now? Who gave you orders?”

Silence.

Then: “You can break my bones, but I’ll still die knowing you people are nothing but dogs.”

Chuuya’s hand twitched - but he didn’t hit him.

“We’ve got what we need,” he said after a moment, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from his coat.

She blinked. “We do?”

His eyes met hers. “Yeah. You okay?”

She forced a smile. “Of course.”

Her hands hadn’t unclenched.

They left the warehouse in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Outside, the night air was cool. Sharp. The scent of sea salt and oil from the nearby docks lingered in the wind, and the city lights blinked against the horizon like stars that had fallen too far.

She breathed in slowly, but it didn’t help.

“Whatever that guy was hiding,” Chuuya said after a while, “we’ll figure it out. You got that look in your eye.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re halfway to blaming yourself.”

She laughed once under her breath. “I didn’t know I had a look.”

“You do,” he said simply. “You’ve had it since we were halfway through the mission.”

“I’m just tired.”

Chuuya looked at her for a long moment. His expression was unreadable.

“…Right,” he said. But she knew he didn’t believe her.

Back at the Port Mafia headquarters, the familiar buzz of evening activity filled the halls. Higuchi brushed past them in the corridor, phone pressed to her ear, muttering something about needing to reschedule a weapons drop. Hirotsu stood further down the hall, speaking quietly with Gin, who nodded once when their eyes met.

Tachihara caught sight of them just before they turned the corner.

“Oh hey, Chuuya,” he said, slowing his pace. “Successful run?”

Chuuya gave a half-nod. “Mostly.”

Tachihara turned toward her. “You okay? You look kinda- uh-” His sentence stopped short when he caught Chuuya’s glance. “Never mind. None of my business. Good work out there!”

He walked off a little faster than necessary.

Chuuya waited until they were past earshot before saying, “You do look kind of off.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re deflecting.”

They reached Chuuya’s office a few minutes later. She followed him in without thinking, as she always did. She wasn’t even sure when it had become routine - just that at some point, it had.

The door clicked shut behind her. The room was warm, filled with soft lamplight and the faint scent of wine.

She stood near the desk while Chuuya pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the back of a chair. “You want a drink?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

He poured two glasses, setting one down on the small side table next to her. She took it without a word.

Only then - when the silence stretched again, when the adrenaline had worn off - did she realize her hands were shaking. Just slightly. Not enough for someone passing by to notice.

But Chuuya did.

Without a word, he reached out and gently took the glass from her hands. Not fast. Not startled. Just slow, deliberate, grounding.

Her breath hitched again, but for a different reason this time.

He said nothing. Just set the glass aside, then returned to his seat.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ to the wine,” he said, and she was grateful for the quiet humor in his voice.

She sat down beside him.

The office, usually filled with paperwork and occasional sarcastic bickering, felt different now. Heavier.

And yet, sitting there beside him in the quiet hum of lamplight, something in her chest began to ache a little less.

Chuuya didn’t speak again until he’d settled into the chair across from her. His coat hung loosely over the back, sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. He reached for his own glass, but didn’t drink. His gaze stayed on her.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said.

She blinked, trying to smile. “Quiet’s not always bad.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s not you.” He tilted his head slightly. “You used to talk so much I thought about getting earplugs.”

She huffed a soft laugh, because it was true. Once upon a time, she’d filled the space between missions with half-baked jokes and stories that looped into nowhere. She used to say someone had to be the mood-lifter around here, and it might as well be her.

Now? She wasn’t sure she even remembered how to smile without forcing it.

Chuuya set his glass down and leaned back in his chair, watching her the way you would watch the tide attentively, like he already knew something was shifting beneath the surface.

“It’s not just today,” he said. “It’s been a while. You flinched last week when Tachihara threw his arms up during a story. You haven’t been training with Gin. You used to play music in the backroom when you were doing paperwork. Now it’s just… silent.”

She looked away.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered. “Just tired.”

“No,” Chuuya said, his voice coming out a bit harsher than necessary. “It’s not nothing.”

That stung more than she expected. He wasn’t being cruel - he never was. Not with her - but there was no room to run from someone who saw you. Who didn’t fall for your jokes. Who noticed your silences more than your words.

Her voice was thin when she finally answered. “How long have you known?”

Chuuya didn’t hesitate. “Since the day we came back from that job near Yokohama Bay. Three months ago.”

Her eyes snapped to his.

“You looked out at the water for ten minutes straight and didn’t hear me call your name. I thought maybe you were daydreaming, but…” He shrugged, slow. “You had that look again.”

That look.

God. That look.

She set her hands on her thighs, fingers twitching slightly. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

Chuuya’s voice was quiet. “You’re easy to notice.”

The words hit her harder than they should have.

“I’ve been remembering things,” she said after a long moment. “Or… maybe not remembering. It’s hard to tell. I’ll see something, and it feels familiar. A hallway, a smell, a voice. But I don’t know why. It’s like… someone took a piece of my brain and left static in its place.”

Chuuya didn’t interrupt. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press. He just let her speak.

She was grateful for that.

“Before I turned fourteen,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “I can’t... remember anything. Not my family, not my childhood. It’s just… blank. And the years after that?” Her throat tightened. “They don’t feel real. Like someone fed them to me, piece by piece, and told me to believe they were mine.”

She hadn’t planned on saying any of this. It was like the words had been waiting, hiding in the back of her throat for years, and now that they were loose, they wouldn’t stop.

“I don’t think I’m normal,” she said. “I’m starting to think I never was.”

Silence stretched between them again. Chuuya’s gaze never wavered.

“...do you ever feel like you were made for something instead of born for something?” she asked suddenly, almost frantic. “Like your life wasn’t yours to begin with? Like maybe you were… built, or put together from pieces of something else, and no one’s told you yet?”

She laughed bitterly, a hand running through her hair. “I sound insane.”

“You don’t,” Chuuya said.

She looked up.

His voice was steady. “I know that feeling.”

The way he said it - it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t sympathy. It was recognition.

“I used to wonder the same thing,” he continued. “When I was younger. Before I joined the Mafia, before I met Dazai. There were… things I could do that didn’t make sense. People kept secrets from me. Treated me like I was dangerous or not fully real. Like I was just an experiment they were waiting to dissect.”

Her breath caught.

“Did it ever stop?” she asked.

“No.” His voice was honest. “But it got quieter when I found people who didn’t treat me like a weapon.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” he said. “I don’t know who made you question yourself like this, or why your memories are gone. But I know one thing.”

She looked at him.

“You’re real. And you’re you. Not because someone told you what to be. But because you chose to keep going anyway.”

The shaking in her hands had returned, barely visible, but enough. Chuuya reached out again, his fingers brushing against her hand. His fingers lingered.

“And if you ever forget who you are again,” he said, voice softer now, “I’ll remind you.”

A breath slipped from her lips - half sob, half laugh.

“Chuuya…”

His touch moved up, slow, fingers brushing her jaw before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Then, without fanfare, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her temple. Gentle. Grounding.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

And for the first time in what felt like years, the noise in her head went quiet.

It was strange - how easy it was to breathe with him this close.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d been holding in, curling in on herself to keep the cracks hidden. But now, with Chuuya’s hand warm against her cheek and his lips brushing just slightly from her temple to her forehead - soft, reverent, like he didn’t want to scare her back into silence - she felt seen. Like her bones were settling into the shape they were always meant to hold.

She didn’t even think before leaning in again.

Their foreheads touched. Her breath caught in her throat. Chuuya’s fingers shifted to the side of her jaw, the warmth of him grounding her in the moment.

Then - just a little closer. Just enough for the edges to blur. Just enough for the air between them to hum with something unspoken.

And then-

SLAM.

The door flew open like it had been kicked off its hinges (it hadn’t - barely - but it felt that dramatic).

“Chuuya-san,” came Akutagawa’s voice - sharp, flat, entirely unimpressed. “Boss asked me to deliver-”

Silence.

Her entire body locked up. Chuuya froze mid-motion, his hand still cradling her jaw. Their lips were - almost (definitely) - entirely too close.

Akutagawa blinked once. His expression didn’t change, but it somehow became more judgmental nevertheless.

“…I’ll come back later.”

Chuuya recoiled like he’d been shot. “No- wait, it’s not-” He let go of her like her skin had turned to fire. “Akutagawa.”

But Akutagawa had already turned on his heel, silent as a ghost, the door clicking shut behind him with far too much finality.

A heavy, suffocating beat of silence.

Then-

“…Oh my god,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Chuuya said at the exact same time, face already flushed a dangerous shade of crimson.

There was a beat. Another.

And then they both broke into laughter - exhausted, incredulous, slightly unhinged.

She wiped her eyes, breath hiccupping. “He’s never gonna let you live that down.”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone and somehow he’s still gonna find a way to tell the entire organization.”

She snorted. “You think Higuchi’s gonna hear about it first?”

“Either her or Gin. Or - God forbid - Tachihara.”

The horror of Tachihara knowing was enough to send them both into another round of silent wheezing.

When the laughter faded, there was still a softness between them. Her shoulder was nearly touching his. He didn’t move away again. And this time, when the silence returned, it felt comfortable. Shared.

Not the kind you needed to fill.

The kind that said we’ll talk more when you’re ready.

[hottpinkpenguin]

Easy Company HCs: Coming Home To You After the War

A/n: ahhhh my first time writing for a new fandom always makes me nervous. I'm rewatching BoB for probably the 5th or 6th time and just felt compelled to start writing for some of these incredible characters. please note all writings are based solely on the BoB TV characters and not the actual veterans. Let me know if you want any other BoB HC's or oneshots!

*Please refer to each character for warnings*

Dick Winters Warnings: angsty Major Winters, vague references to PTSD/war trauma

Dick is standing outside on the deck of the ship before the sun is up on the day they’re due into port. He can’t stop looking towards the horizon, waiting for the shoreline to swim into view.

He’s melancholy, thoughtful. Reflects on all he’s seen in the war. He feels different than how he was when he left almost 3 years ago. He thinks about all the men he left behind in Normandy, in Foy, in Bastogne, in Holland, in Hagenau, in Germany. And he looks around at the men whose bodies are coming home, but who lost pieces of themselves in foxholes, in the bombed out streets of Europe, on the beaches. 

He also finds himself wondering what it’s been like for you. He hasn’t thought about that much, hasn’t let himself think on it too hard. He feels ashamed that he never asked much in his letters about how you were. He knows it was to protect himself. If he’d asked, and if you’d been honest and told him about the rationing, the fear, how many of your friends were losing their brothers, husbands, and lovers overseas, the suicides of the men who couldn’t go… well, Dick knew he’d have been distracted. And distracted leaders got men killed. So Dick had sealed off his thoughts on that account. He knew it was the right choice. But now, he doubted. 

So as the ship pulls into port, he’s sad in a broken way. Like the war has finally caught up with him. And he’s terrified, suddenly. How is he going to see you like this? What are you going to see in him when you finally do? More importantly, what are you not going to see? 

He lets all of his men debark before him. Partially because that’s what a good officer does, but partially to try and collect himself. 

You know what to expect. You know Dick Winters isn’t going to really stop fighting the war until he sees every last man in Easy Company off that ship and safely home. So you wait. You’ve waited this long, after all. You can wait another thirty minutes.

When you finally see him in the thinning crowd, you call out his name and break into a beaming smile. He’s here, he’s home. He’s safe. 

As soon as he sees you, the ice in his veins thaws. The sun is warm on his skin, he’s surrounded by clean sea air far from the burnt out husk of Europe, and you’re there. You’re smiling at him. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen something so singularly beautiful.

He strives over to you, taking his cap off as he approaches. His stomach is flipping like a schoolboy and he couldn’t keep the smile from his face if he had an entire firing squad of Krauts in front of him. 

You run the last few dozen paces into his arms. He catches you easily, spinning you around with a long, languid sigh of contentment. Your laughter is like a peeling bell in his ear. 

Richard, how dare you make me wait? you tease him. 

He can’t find any words except to smile at you, looking into your eyes, memorizing your smile, reacquainting himself with the dusting of freckles across your nose, the scent of your shampoo, basking in the feeling of you in his arms. He smiles, then laughs. Your hands frame his face and suddenly he’s kissing you. 

Dick Winters’ mind goes blissfully blank. The harsh edges of all his worries, his responsibilities, the burden of leading a company of men and ordering some of them to their deaths. It’s all soft now. There’s just you. You and that piece of land he’s been dreaming about.

Lewis Nixon Warnings: alcohol abuse, war-time violence, detailed reference to parental suicide

Lewis Nixon came back from the front with an exorbitant amount of contraband, shadows in the back of his eyes, and a terrible drinking habit. You had no idea what to do with any of it.

Two months after his return and you found yourself staring out across a sea of boxes piled haphazardly in the foyer of the summer home Lew had bought you for your six-month wedding anniversary. Your home had never been more crowded, and yet you’d never felt so lonely. 

You wiped the damp tea towel you’d soaked in the kitchen sink against the back of your neck in a vain attempt to keep the heat at bay. 

Lew! you called up to him, although you knew he wouldn’t answer. A brief glance at the clock - 2:15 pm - told you as much. Since coming back, Lew hadn’t woken up before 3:00 pm and you’d yet to share a goodnight kiss with him because he was liable to stay out until sunrise. Doing what, you’d rather not know. 

With a weighty sigh, you decided you might as well pick a box and get started. Otherwise, this ridiculous maze of illegally shipped stolen goods would just go to rot in your foyer. And with your in-laws due in next month to visit your shell of a husband, you’d better try to clean up the mess. 

You chose the box closest to you. It came up to your waist. As you ripped into it, you realized it was incredibly heavy, and you heard the unmistakable tinkling of glass on glass. You sliced the tape open with the boxcutter, marveling at how sharply the instrument cut into the flesh of the tape and cardboard. One of the first few nights after arriving back home, Lew had managed to stay at home and get drunk rather than do so out on the town. Somewhere between bottle three and four of the Chateau Rhone that you’d served at the reception, Lew had started to talk. Once he’d started, he hadn’t seemed willing to stop, as if he had one chance to pour out all the misery and regret and terror he’d accumulated in Europe. You remembered that at one point - one of his more lucid memories, when the slur in his words was light enough for you to understand him - he’d told you that he had seen a whole platoon of men shredded to ribbons by a Kraut tank. He’d recounted in excruciating detail how one of their fingers had landed on him, the blood and sinew drying on his uniform like an adhesive, and he hadn’t noticed it until the next day. You’d never seen anything quite so distasteful or violent in your life, but you imagined that it might be something like watching someone get sliced apart the way your boxcutter glided through tape.

With a shiver, you sheathed the blade and set the boxcutter aside to rip into the contents of the box. Tipping the heavy box sideways a bit, you spooned out the top layer of packing peanuts to reveal a familiar sight. Four corked bottles of wine sat at the top of the box. You stopped, staring down at the wine in the box in disbelief. This was the precious contraband that Lewis had spent thousands on to smuggle out of Europe? Fucking wine?

Your temper flamed to life with a vengeance. You pushed the heavy box over, letting loose a scream of frustration as you did. One of the bottles shattered as the box tipped over, a puddle of red wine staining the white marble floor. Once again, your mind flashed back to the war. Not to Lew’s memories, but your own. To the black-and-white films you’d seen in the theaters, to the newspaper clippings, to the reports that had come out of Germany about the death camps and the killing fields and the brutality of the war, to the letters your brother had written to you before his death at St. Vith. You thought of all the men you’d known who hadn’t come home - your brother Johnny, your childhood neighbor Tim Viens, your cousins Luis and Giovanni, the florist’s son from your hometown, your girl friend Jill’s fiance… 

Your head was spinning and your blood was boiling as you summited the stairs to the darkened upstairs two at a time. When you flung open the door to Lew’s study where he’d taken to sleeping, you were seeing black at the edges of your vision.

Lewis fucking Nixon, you better wake the fuck up or so help me God I will strangle you in your sleep!

The words flew off your tongue faster than you knew what to do with. You’d never had a foul mouth, and you’d certainly never threatened your husband before. Despite his obvious hangover, he snapped to wakefulness faster than you’d expected him to. He regarded you with a wary, tired expression, and you wondered for a half second if he was going to ask you to make good on your threat. 

Saints above woman, what is it? he demanded, reaching around the graveyard of beer and wine bottles strewn about the floor next to him. You noticed a particularly foul smell in the room at the same time you noticed the stain of vomit caked on one of the pillows he’d propped under his head. 

The sight of your husband fumbling around for another drink at 2:30 in the afternoon with vomit caked on his cheek did something to you. You weren’t sure if the sight broke you or if it snapped you into form. Whatever it did, it took the wind out of the hateful words that had been boiling in your gut. You snapped your mouth shut as you became acutely aware that you had nothing left to say to him. You’d said it all already. You’d cried, threatened, screamed, pleaded, reasoned, demanded, and done just about everything you could think of in your power to bring Lewis Nixon back to something resembling sense. You weren’t without feeling - you knew that he wasn’t the only man who hadn’t fully come back from the front. Memories of your father’s glassy, empty-looking eyes flicked in your mind like a silent movie. Your father never really left the trenches, your mother used to say by way of explanation and apology. Some men just can’t come home after a war like that. 

The last memory you have of your father was the sight of him leaned back in his chair, his head bent away from his neck at an unnatural angle, with a ghoulish bloodstain on his chest from the hole his pistol had left where he’d fired it under his chin and up into his skull. You’d found him like that when you were just six years old. At almost twenty six now, you were resolved never to see someone you love waste away like that again. Yet here you were, watching someone who’d once been your brash, fun-loving, hot-headed husband fade away like a ghost.

As Lew braced for what he felt sure was going to be a proper dressing down, you felt yourself deflate like a punctured balloon. Something final and irrevocable had happened in those few moments since you’d come running up the stairs, and you knew deep in your bones that there was no going back. 

I’m leaving. 

It was all you could say. Lewis looked over at you through slitted eyes, stifling down an acidic belch as he tried to figure out your angle. Usually your arguments started with much more heat than this, but he wasn’t sober enough to hear the goodbye in your tone. 

After a few agonizing moments, he grunted at you by way of dismissal. Get me some Vat 69, while you’re out. Vat 69 was the only thing that Lewis Nixon had asked from you since he’d gotten back to the States. 

You didn’t have the heart to answer him, so you just turned on your heel, letting the boxcutter that you hadn’t even realized you’d been gripping like a vice slide out of your hand and land with a thump on the carpet. 

You descended the stairs with a strange buzzing in your head. You wondered if you should pack something, although you realized that all you really wanted to was to get as far away from the time bomb that was Lewis Nixon as fast as you possibly could. You called your mother from the kitchen phone. She didn’t need to hear you say the words to know what had happened. Come on home honey,  she said gently. I’ll make your favorite key lime pie. The kind and simple gesture brought tears to your eyes.

After a few minutes to gather the essentials - your wallet, your pearls, your father’s WWI medals - you thought of one more phone call to make. A parting kindness, you thought, as you sifted through the Rolodex you kept next to the phone until you found the card you wanted. 

The phone rang twice before a voice you knew well picked up. 

Hello? Dick, it’s me, it’s y/n Nixon. Listen, you better come get Lew. He’s… he’s not well. And I’m leaving. 

You didn’t wait for a reply before you clicked the receiver. If there was any saving of Lewis Nixon now, it wouldn’t be by you. 

With one final glance at the house and the sad trove of memories it contained, you closed the door on your past and left, hoping that both you and Lew would find some corner of peace to spend the rest of your days. 

Ronald Speirs Warnings: smut, sweet baby boy Speirs

Ron doesn’t even tell you that he’s coming home. You know it’ll be soon, and you’re waiting for a letter. None come. Years of waiting, years of him faithfully writing, years of dreaming and praying for this day. Now? Radio silence. 

So when this man shows up at your door, his duty bag in one hand and his hat in the other, the first thing you can do is scream at him. 

Ronald fucking Speirs! You didn’t fucking write me, I thought you were dead or lost or just done with me! Why didn’t you tell me! You fucking bastard, you utter fucking bastard! 

You’re hitting him and screaming and tears are everywhere. Ron just smiles. You’re precisely how he remembers you. Better even. 

He wraps you up in a hug, so tight that you can’t move. You’re still struggling, wiggling and sobbing into his shirt, trying to beat your fists against him. 

When you feel him kiss the top of your head, it all just melts. Your knees buckle and instead of beating on him you’re clinging to him. Realization hits you in waves. Ron is home. Those are Ron’s arms around you. Ron’s voice murmuring into your ear. Ron’s breath on your forehead. 

When you finally look up to him - eyes bloodshot, nose running, mascara streaking, cheeks tear stained and red - Ron smiles down at you. My beautiful girl, he says softly before catching your lips in a kiss. Everything breaks loose in that kiss. You practically want to crawl into his mouth. It’s all need: lips devouring each other, hands grabbing and nails dragging, tongues invading each other. Ron moans and you’re done, you’re a mess. 

He knows. He pushes you across the doorway, his hat and duty bag long forgotten on the porch, lifts you up and carries you to the nearest couch, undressing on the way. He rips your blouse, knocks over one of your side tables when he kicks off his shoe, and almost drops you to let you rip off his belt. 

Ron’s home to you when he slams inside of you. Your thoughts disintegrate as the two of you collide together, alternating between frenzied ferocious fucking and softer sweeter sensuality as lust, love, longing and whatever lives between those things rips open the walls you’d both built up around your hearts. 

But Ron isn’t home until after, long after, hours even. The house is trashed, clothes and pillows and furniture disheveled and everywhere. You’re both in bed, exhausted from countless rounds of tangling, with dawn threatening. You’re asleep, and Ron’s watching you dream. There’s a small crease between your eyebrows, and you’re muttering. You look troubled; and he wonders if he should wake you. He can’t stand the sight of you in anything resembling pain. But then, suddenly, you roll towards him, your head settling on his chest and one of your legs slung over his. 

Your face relaxes. You nuzzle into him. You sigh, a gentle smile on your lips. The crease is gone, your face smooth and peaceful. 

He marvels. His head tips back against the headboard, looking down at you in awe as a distinct wave of content washes over and through him.

Ronald Speirs is finally home.

Carwood Lipton Warnings: just Lip and his perpetual angel-status <3

Lip is standing with the throng of men on the deck, watching as they pull into port. The crowd below is cheering and waving American flags, popping off champagne, and the women are waving handkerchiefs. There’s a band somewhere playing patriotic songs and jaunty marches. Home has never looked so good.

‘Ey, Lip, I think I see your girl

It’s Malarkey who spies her - why and how he picked her out so easily, Lip didn't rightfully know nor want to know. But Malarkey was right, there she was.

White ribbons in her hair, white dress on, white handkerchief waving. She’s craning over the other sweethearts and mothers and fathers, eyes combing the deck of the ship. Her expression - impatient longing - snaps Lip in two. How the hell did he ever leave that girl halfway across the world?

Carwood?! Carwood Lipton?! 

He can’t hear her, but he sees her lips moving and he knows that she’s calling out his name. He doubts that any of the deck goers are having luck finding their men that way. The ship is alive with soldiers and airmen buzzing with excitement, calling out to the shore and cheering. The dock is no less vibrant, so the entire place is drowning in the sounds of joy.

Lip stares at her, unwilling to lose sight of her ever again. He vaguely registers the ship jolting to a halt at its berth, the enormous horn announcing the official arrival and, for all the men on board, the uproarious end to the war from Hell. Lip exchanges hugs, slaps on the back, firm handshakes with the men of Easy. It’s strange to have so many painful goodbyes at the same time as a long-awaited hello, but Lip knows he’ll see these men again. He can’t imagine life without them, just like he can’t imagine living without her.

The crowd of soldiers and airmen begins to move, a mass of jumbled emotions with a healthy sprinkling of joy. He watches as the first few men off the ship are swept up into the awaiting crowd as they step off the planks. He can still see her, a beacon of white. An angel, he realizes. 

He shuffles forward with the rest of the disembarking ranks. The process is painfully slow, and he’s not close enough to call out to her yet. He tries to catch her eye with a few waves, but he can only imagine how many waving hands and beaming faces she can see at once. She’s almost passed him on the dock, and Lip feels himself losing patience with the slowness of the men around him. He contemplates yelling at the men to keep it moving or don’t stand at the end of the ramp, but he doesn’t. He can’t bear to ruin a moment of this, for anyone. 

Suddenly, she sees him. Her hands fly to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. That handkerchief blots at her face. She’s gone quiet; just staring at him, waiting. He waves at her, swallowing down the tears threatening in his eyes. She waves back, unsure whether to laugh or cry, so she ends up doing both. Once again, Lip wonders how he’d ever left her. He realizes he’ll never be able to again. He’s stuck to her like glue now, it can’t be helped. And he’s got his eye on a ring. He’ll buy it tomorrow, he decides. Maybe even today, if he can find a jeweler. No more wasted time.  

The wait is agonizing. Every few minutes, she waves at him again, as if afraid that he’ll disappear like a ghost. He can’t stop smiling at her. He doesn’t notice, but the Easy men all softly agree that they’ve never seen this Lip before. A smile reserved all for her.

He steps off the ramp and she’s there, pushed through the crowd. He envelopes her in his arms as she peppers his face and neck with kisses. Soggy ones, from the tears. His or hers, anybody’s guess. She keeps repeating his name like a prayer and a plea. He holds her as she comes undone in his arms, body-wracking sobs and her head buried in his neck. He tells her it’s alright, I’m home and it makes her squeal with delight. Then they’re both laughing. He carries her a bit, not trusting her legs quite yet, and honestly unsure if he trusts himself to walk without her weight in his arms holding him to Earth. She babbles, he listens, she asks something, he talks. It’s easy - so easy - and Carwood Lipton feels himself stepping back into himself after so many years of being Lip and First Sergeant. 

Her hand in his, they walk the streets of this strange town that neither of them are from, but yet somehow always find themselves feeling right at home. He has to squeeze her hand every once in a while to remind himself that she’s real, and he’s really here, and the war is behind him. All day and late into the evening, Lipton and his girl stroll together, two friends, two lovers, one very happy ending. 

Buck Compton Warnings: cursing, references to alcohol abuse

No one’s there at the train depot when Buck gets home. His mother is tied up taking care of his baby sister and her new baby, sick with colic, and his dad is too frail to make the forty-minute trip by car to the station. And you’re done with him, as of Christmas time. 

Some homecoming.

He wanders through the town’s sleepy Main Street, killing time before his brother-in-law’s shift ends at the munitions factory and he can pick Buck up. It’s a hot day, sweat runs down his back. It reminds him of Toccoa. He chuckles darkly, grateful that he’s not running up Currahee with Sobel’s sour puss hot on his heels. He’s grateful for a moment, but then he wonders if maybe those were the best days of his life, and he just didn’t know it. So far, the end of the war hasn’t brought much happiness his way. Maybe the best is behind him already. 

He stops for a root beer float at the local soda counter. He brought you here for the first date. He still remembered that your lips tasted like strawberry milkshake later when he’d parked his truck in front of an empty cornfield and kissed you until he was dizzy. He knows he’ll never be able to order a strawberry milkshake again.  

A couple of the old men sitting in the window side booths nod at him, one even pays for his tab. Buck thanks them but makes no move to engage in conversation. He’s not gloomy, exactly. Just lonely. He thinks about Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere, about the marrow-deep cold of Bastogne, and about just how far away he feels from the taste of strawberry on your tongue. Despite the scorching summer heat, he suppresses a shiver. 

Buck’s sitting on a bench in front of the depot when his brother-in-law pulls up. 

Hey Buck! Welcome home, buddy.

Thanks, Dickie.

His sister’s husband has a noticeable limp, one of his legs visibly wasted and bent at an unnatural angle from the knee down. Bike accident when he was six, kept him out of the war. From his sisters letters, Buck knows that Dickie’s been hitting the bottle hard after he got 4F’ed and told under no uncertain terms that he won’t fight for Uncle Sam. Buck can see the strain in Dickie’s smile, the dark bags under his eyes and the faint stain of gray at his temples. Buck feels about three decades older than when he left home, but Dickie looks it. 

The ride home is quiet. Buck asks after his sister, Dickie asks after the war. Neither of them really listen to the answers. 

When Dickie cuts the engine off in front of Buck’s parents’ place, the porch light is on and there’s a lamp in the front room window, shining merrily. Buck sighs deeply. He’d expected to come home to you, a little apartment somewhere. He’d planned on picking up his life from there, but instead he’s here, looking at a place he calls home without feeling at home. He thinks he might prefer a cot in Toccoa, or a hot cot on a transport ship, or maybe even a foxhole. 

Aight Buck, you take it easy. I’ll see you ‘round. Make sure you stop in and see Kitty soon, she’s dying to see ya.

Sure, Dickie. Thanks for the lift. 

The sun is setting fast behind the mountains. Cicadas are beginning to strum and the fireflies dance in the fields gone farrow behind the house. Buck climbs up the front steps, his duty bag slung over one shoulder. 

Buck?

He freezes where he is, hand outstretched towards the doorknob. It can’t be… can it?

He hears the creak of the swing from the darkened corner of the porch as you stand up. 

Welcome home, Buck.

It is you. Buck is still frozen, his upper lip beginning to tremble. He wished it were darker, wished the damn light was off so you wouldn’t have to see him like this. He feels the boards vibrate as you step towards him, hesitating at his side.

I’m sorry, Buck. I… I made a mistake…

A tear slips out. He swipes at it angrily. What the hell is he crying for? he wonders. 

It’s just that Louise told me she read in a magazine that it’s harder for the men sometimes if they’re worried about someone back home and in your letters you were just always asking about me and how I was and what I was doing and I just knew that you were going through it, Buck, you know, I read the news and I knew you were right on the front lines and I started thinking about you being out there and distracted and what would happen if you lost your focus at the wrong time and you got shot or you got hit by a grenade or a sniper and I thought about losing you, Buck, and I just couldn’t, I couldn’t lose you, and I started to think maybe I needed to make it easier on you and I wrote you that awful letter and it was terrible Buck it was so bad and I hated writing it and I hated sending it but I convinced myself I had to and-

Buck silenced you by pressing his lips to yours mid-sentence. Whatever other explanations and apologies you had died in your mouth with a soft whimper, and suddenly your hands were traveling up his arms and tickling the base of his neck and you were sighing like you hadn’t really exhaled in months. Buck swallowed it up, kissing you deeply and gently. He didn’t know how to say that he didn’t care about all that, that all he wanted was you with him. The rest would work itself out. Buck knew from the war that if you surrounded yourself with good people, then you could get through anything. 

He laughed when he tasted the strawberry milkshake on your lips. Smiling against your mouth, he broke the kiss and held you in his arms, his hands at the small of your back. 

Why are you laughing you ask incredulously. Did you hear what I said? aren’t you mad? You hadn’t expected this reaction. In fact, you’d prepared yourself for Buck to be so furious that he wouldn’t even speak with you. It was less than half of what you felt you deserved. 

Buck just shook his head, smiling to himself at a private joke. You wondered if he was laughing at how easily you fell for that kiss before he told you to take a hike and disappeared from your life forever. 

Mad? He sounds incredulous, like that’s the most ridiculous question anyone’s ever asked him. 

Yeah, Buck. I mean… I know I broke your heart.

He doesn’t deny it, just nods simply and looks deep into your eyes.

Don’t leave me again, darlin’, and I’ll consider it even.

You can’t reply because his lips are on yours again. All you can do is smile as you kiss your apology into Buck’s mouth until the sunset has faded and his dad calls out to the two of you to come inside already!

Bull Randleman Warnings: angst (you have been warned!!)

Something strange happened to Bull in the convent at Foy. He hadn’t expected it. But suddenly, there you were. Sitting in the back of his mind like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. His third grade crush from Ms. Wheeler’s class. And his eighth grade crush. And his prom date. 

Bull grew up in a small town, and it had only gotten smaller to him since he’d left. Sometimes in quieter moments he’d wondered if he’d ever be able to go back home. He’d seen a lot of the world - granted, most of it with the threat of German artillery at his back - but still. His hometown felt so far away and so small that he couldn’t imagine fitting the size of his memories back there. 

And yet, sitting there in the dim candlelight of that convent, listening to those angelic voices, that tiny podunk town was all he could think of. Why couldn’t he remember the name of that street, the one with the post office on it? And what was the name of those neighbors with the herd of basset hounds? He couldn’t recall what kind of flowers his Ma planted in front of the house, facing due east. Bull realized that he was forgetting home, and it opened a gaping wound in his heart.

One thing he did remember clearly was you. He hadn’t seen you in a long time, maybe not for months before he’d signed up for the 101st. You’d been working at the florist right off 1st Street the last he’d heard. Why he hadn’t looked in on you after high school, he couldn’t say. He’d been sweet on you back then, puppy love head-over-heels type stuff. You were his first kiss, his first date, his first of just about everything. Including his first love.

Somewhere along the way, Bull had gotten the hare-brained idea that he’d outgrown you. He’d stopped calling, stopped asking you out to the movies or to the diner. He remembered how he’d seen you out one night, his arm slung over some other girl that his buddy had set him up with. He remembered the way you’d stared with your lip shaking, your eyes welling with tears, before you’d practically run off into the Sears department store. Bull knew damn well you couldn’t afford anything in Sears; all of the money you’d ever made working as an English tutor and a nanny went to taking care of your eleven foster siblings. He knew you ran in there just to get away from him. At the time, he’d laughed about it. He’d told himself you’d be fine, you’d grow up eventually and get over it. He told himself that’s exactly what he’d done - grown up - but now he realized quite the opposite. He’d been intimidated by how much he’d liked you, how much he’d thought about you and worried after you and how scared he’d been when he’d realized that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed you anymore. You with your hand-me-down dresses and your sweet, shy smile and your head always in the clouds of a romance novel. His buddies had commented on it, and suddenly Bull had felt jealous, insecure even. He’d hated it, and he’d run from it. 

But that night in Foy, you were the only place his mind could land. You were all he thought of. And he’d promised himself that if he somehow managed to walk out of hell at the end of the war, that he’d ask you out again. Who knew what you were up to now. He thought he remembered his Ma make an off-hand comment that you’d started working at the hospital in the next town over, but he couldn’t be sure. But Bull knew you’d be back in that small town, probably just as sweet as ever. And if you gave him another chance, he’d never let you go again.

Three days after stepping foot back in the States, and Bill was standing outside your house in his Army dress uniform, a bouquet of orange lilies in his hands. He wondered if you’d remember that he’d gotten you those same flowers for your prom corsage. They’d stood out against the baby pink of your dress that you’d borrowed from your cousin. Every time Bull saw a sunset or a flower bed, he thought of you. In fact, there wasn’t much that Bull saw these days that didn’t make him think of you.

He knocked three times sharply on the door. Your house looked just the same as ever: the front porch sagged in the middle, the curtains drawn and stained, the paint peeling. There was a ruckus inside, and what sounded to be about a dozen kids all screamed out “DOOR!” 

A severe woman with dark gray hair slicked back into a tight bun answered. Her mouth was a thin, straight gash and her eyes narrowed in something between distaste and disbelief. She glanced down at the flowers in Bull’s hands and at the sharp, crisply ironed lines of his uniform.

Mother Beatrice, Bull said with a slight bow. Not sure if you remember me, ma’am, but I-

I remember you. Randelman, right? You here for the girl? 

Your foster mother looked older but her manner was as cold and loveless as ever. She never used names for the children she took in - just called them by various impersonal monikers. For some reason, yours had always been “the girl”. Bull wasn’t the only one who’d overlooked you.  

He nodded, thinking that if Easy had Mother Beatrice in their ranks then Germany might have fallen about a year earlier. He’d have to be sure to tell you that. He was certain you would laugh.

I wondered if anyone would come Mother Beatrice commented as she shut the door behind her, muffling the sounds of screeching children. She walked down the front porch steps and turned towards the back of the old farmhouse without a backwards glance. Bull followed, his brow furrowing slightly at her cryptic comment. He figured you might have had a few pen pals on the front, some girls would do that sort of thing, write to strangers to try and keep their spirits up. He’d heard that some of the men had made a point to look in on their pen pals when they’d gotten back home. Maybe that’s what she meant.

She’s back here? Bull asked, taking in the sight of the rundown farmhouse-turned-orphanage and its weedy lawn. As long as he’d known you, he’d never known you to linger here. Too loud, no privacy you’d always told him. Bull usually found you in the library or a park bench. Somewhere quiet. 

Mother Beatrice nodded, shooting him a strangely exasperated look. Course she is, where else would she go? The girl doesn’t have any other home.

Bull chewed his lip thoughtfully. He supposed that was true. Maybe things had changed. 

Mother Beatrice led him around the backside of the dingy farmhouse, past a rundown chicken coop with a few mangy looking birds pecking at the dirt. There was a dilapidated stable off in the distance with one bony mare grazing on the tall grass and an overgrown vegetable garden. The tree line off in the distance looked ominously dark, like a line of guards sent to make sure the misery of this place didn’t spread.

Mother Beatrice stopped short, and Bull almost walked into her. There she is.

Bull looked around but didn’t see you. In addition to the forlorn horse, the garden and the coop, he noted a greenhouse missing more windows than it had and a towering oak tree reaching up for the sky as if running away from the unfortunate place it’d been planted. But no sign of you anywhere

Mother Beatrice looked at him intently for a moment, making Bull squirm in his boots, before sharply turning on her heel to leave. She called back to him at the base of the tree and vanished around the side of the house. 

Alone at last, Bull looked at the shadowy trunk but didn’t see anything. Must be around the backside, he reasoned. He started walking towards the tree, but a strange quiet settled over him. Suddenly, his collar felt too tight and his chest felt hollow. Something wasn’t right.

As he approached the tree, he began to make out what Mother Beatrice was referring to. He could hardly believe his eyes, and with each step forward he felt his feet grow heavier as if his boots were filled with lead. About ten paces from the trunk, he stopped, unable to go any closer. His shoulders sagged and he felt the bouquet slip out of his hands.

There you were, your name staring back at him from the headstone. 

Y/n Y/l/n October 11, 1924-January 9, 1945 Army Nurse Corps May she rest in the peace of the Lord

Bull wasn’t sure how long he stared at the stone. At your name. At the words Army Nurse Corps. Bull hadn’t known you were a nurse. He hadn’t remembered your birthday. He realized he’d been misspelling your last name this whole time.

Bull stood and stared until the light was almost gone from the sky. The sound of Mother Beatrice ringing a bell and calling out dinner! from the front porch jarred him out of his reverie. He hastily wiped the tears that had long ago dried on his face, feeling out of place and like an unwelcome intruder. 

He left without saying goodbye. He did manage to tilt the bouquet against your headstone, and run his fingers over the cold edges of your name cut into the marble. He didn’t feel entitled to much else. 

It wasn’t until he was home that night, deeper into a bottle of whiskey than a grieving man ought to be, when he realized something.

January 9th, 1945. The day you’d died. It was the same day he’d sat in that convent outside Foy, listening to that angelic choir, reminiscing about you and imagining a future that would never come to be.

***********************************************************************

Still working on... Joseph Liebgott Doc Roe Maybe David Webster too? *let me know if you have any other requests

[justbelievinginmagic]

the captain & his sea. davy jones!kim hongjoong x calypso!reader pt 3/ previous drabble / drabble masterlist 780 words. barely edited.

Since he could remember, Hongjoong knew he belonged to the sea. Being born of a sailor father and his mother dying in childbirth, it was only natural to think that the ship he grew up on was where he was meant to be. With the sweet-salt air tacky against his skin and the ever-luring light on the horizon taunting him that his adventure was not yet over, Hongjoong was a devoted sailor through and through. He never truly gained control of his land legs, preferring the rickety wood planks of a ship to the terrain of an island.

He had been in love with the sea for as long as he could remember.

His one and only love.

He had thought it had all changed when he met her.

Hongjoong almost was convinced she was a ghost when he first spotted her; the way the sun hit her skin seemed ethereal. Like an oil slick was upon her skin, she gleamed in the sunlight like the way the waves licking at the shore sparkled with an aurora of colors. She was sat on the docks of a port with her dresses damp with salt water spray and her feet bare, sticky with sand. Her eyes glanced at the bustling port from atop of her barrel like a queen overlooking her land. She smiled at the way some sailors thanked Poseidon for safe passage. She grinned as they set off once more, riggings clanking as they made sail.

An albatross landed beside her, cawing and chirping. Not a head turned to look. She didnt even flinch at the big bird. He almost thought she was invisible, but then there was the immediate follow-up question of how could anyone ignore something so beautiful?

He saw her there, against the sky. Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair. And all he felt was that she was someone he’d always known. The curl of her lip, the calm yet chaos that radiated from her as she rose a hand to pet at the albatross.

“That there is a bad omen, you know,” he commented, his chin nodding towards the bird that chittered at the woman.

She smiled at him as if she knew he’d say that, and he felt the air get knocked out of his lungs.

“Is it now?” she chuckled. “I’ve been told women are bad luck as well.”

Hongjoong’s chuckles were a bashful thing as he watched as she leaned forward on her palms. Her intrigue in him felt special. He had watched her eye and glance away at many sailors that passed by her. Not one had caught her attention as he had. Not one looked at her with such admiration.

“Aye, some say that,” he agreed. His hand went to fiddle with the soft-brown hair that tickled his neck. “They say the sea – that she is a jealous lover. Can’t stand another lady around her men.”

She rolled her eyes lightly, but the fondness in her tone was palpable as a breeze on the ocean. “These tales you sailors make up.” It was gentle before she tilted her head. “Do you believe it?”

“That women are bad luck?” he clarified raising a brow.

“That the sea is a jealous lover?” It was a sharper query.

Hongjoong blinked at that, taken a back.

“No.” It was an easy thing to admit. “She isn’t. She is everything. The sea is powerful and mysterious and welcoming and cruel and wonderful. Her waves are my compass.”

“Hm.” It was a sound of approval. The bird beside her cawed and flew off as she shifted from her spot, shoving off the barrel and landing besides the sailor.

His hand went to grasp her arm to steady her. She felt sun-warmed. Humid-tacky. A wave of the smell of her brushed over him – warm, salt-tinged sweetness. Like salt-water taffy. Coconut cream, over-ripened bananas, the grit of sand. How could she be so much? He didn’t know anything except that he knew he was intrigued.

“What’s your name, sailor?” she queried, glancing the young man up and down.

Hongjoong stepped back then. His work-roughened hand left her skin – with it the static electric hum tingling up his arm.

“Hongjoong,” he replied.

She smiled at his name and, for the first time, something outshined the horizon.

“I sense a touch of destiny about you, Captain Kim Hongjoong.” She teased, stepping closer. Her smile sparkled as she leaned in. He had a fleeting thought of how did she know his name, his full name… but then she trailed her hand over his arm, boldly. Each stroke of her soft skin against his felt like heaven, like lightning climbing over his cells.

“Y/N.” she introduced as she interlaced their hands in a sort of greeting. Intimate and special, just like her. She squeezed his hand like an octopus capturing its prey.

“Y/N.” he echoed, enraptured by what vexed all men: a woman.

[rangersoup]

WIP Wednesday

It's 2:00AM and that means its Wednesday! Which means it's WIP WEDNESDAY!! and i am unreasonably excited. So im kicking us off bright (or dark technically cause the suns not even up yet) and early! im screaming cause i can't decide what part of this fic i want to post today but anyway! here's a bit of my current wip that's occupying ALL of my brain!

TK nearly jumps out of his skin as a hand touches his shoulders. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn’t even heard anyone come into the hospital room. He whips his head around and finds himself looking up at his dad. He’s here. He finally made it. He's finally here. “Dad?” he chokes. He almost doesn’t believe it. The last thing he knew was that his dad was making a hail mary drive south of New York to find an air port that could actually get a flight out. He didn’t expect him to be here so soon. “I’m here, son,” Owen says quietly, and TK doesn’t give him time to say anything else before standing up so quickly he almost knocks his chair over and flings himself into his dad’s arms. He’s crying before his mind can even catch up with what’s happening. “I’m here,” his dad repeats, wrapping his arms around him and cradles his head. “I’m here.” “They don’t think he’s going to wake up,” TK sobs into his shoulder. “Ssshhh,” Owen whispers into the top of his head and rocks him as they stand there at Carlos’s bedside. “Everything’s going to be okay.” TK wants to believe him, he wishes with all of his might that he could force himself to believe him, but its bad. It’s so, so, so bad. “I was back there with him.” His dad squeezes him a little tighter, and he feels like a child again, tucked somewhere safe and secure, somewhere where the world seems less scary, somewhere where everything might just be okay… but not quite. Not quite. The only place on the entire planet that really truely feels like that is in Carlos’s arms, the one place he can’t be right now. “I got here as fast I could.” “I know,” TK says, swallowing and finally pulling away from his dad’s warm embrace. We wipes the tears away and steps back, ducking his head. “What happened?” TK shakes his head. “They were serving a warrant and ended up in a shoot out. He got hit. That’s really all I know, other than…” he trails off, glancing over at Carlos. “Other than what happened after.” “What happened in the ambulance, you mean?” Owen prompts, his lips pursed as he looks TK over with pitying eyes. TK nods. “I– Dad I can’t get it out of my head.” He’s crying again. “Come here,” his dad says gently, and pulls him into another hug. He knows he understands, he understands the horrors, the helplessness, the inability to purge every horrifying image from his mind. He’s been the back of an ambulance with TK more times than any father should ever have to. “What do you need?” TK shakes his head, driving it against his chest as his shoulder shake, he can’t get them to stop shaking. He can’t stop crying. He needs a million things. He wants to let the words come pouring out, he wants to spill everything pent up inside of him, but only one thing makes out. It’s broken and hoarse as it leaves his lips. “Carlos.” he needs Carlos.

Tags under the cut!

@lonestardust @futures-tense @annoyingcloudearthquake @nisbanisba @lemonlyman-dotcom @heartstringsduet @carlos-in-glasses @welcometololaland @emsprovisions @paperstorm @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @henrygrass @ccgrizzy @thisbuildinghasfeelings @lightningboltreader @strandnreyes @reyesstrand @eclectic-sassycoweyes @giuhina @happilylovingchaos

and @my-beloved-lakes, I know you're writing now, so i am calling you out specifically. This tag list is a no pressure tag list for everyone except you. Lots of pressure for you! Your bitch ass better post something! im allowed to call her out like this. she's my sister.

And open tagging anyone else that wants to participate!

I may have gotten a little over excited about this one. I really really really can't wait to start posting it, but i want to be way farther along with it before i do. As is 10k words isn't "far enough along"

[rafesapologist]

the setback ─ rafe cameron (sequel to the set up)

summary: it's been two years since your departure from the outer banks and rafe cameron has seemingly convinced himself that he can go on with his life as if you never happened, except now more than ever his addiction is at an all time high. whether he was snorting lines of cocaine at wild parties or drowning himself in alcohol to numb the pain, rafe couldn't escape the memories of you. despite his efforts to bury his feelings, your absence lingered like a shadow, haunting him at every turn. meanwhile, you've been navigating life outside the outer banks, trying to carve out a new path for yourself. but no matter how far you've traveled, the memories of rafe cameron still linger in your heart, leaving you with a sense of unfinished business. as you find yourself facing new challenges and opportunities, you can't help but wonder if fate will eventually bring you back to the place where it all began.

warnings: not much, angst, mentions of addiction and drug use, mentions of alcohol

author's note: the sequel is here!! thank you guys for showing so much love for the set up and i can't wait for you guys to read the continuation of the series! mwah

Rafe wiped the sweat from his brow as he hoisted another crate onto the ship's deck, the muscles in his arms straining against the weight. The salty tang of the sea filled the air around him, mingling with the scent of freshly sawn wood and the metallic hint of the gold hidden within the crates. His father, a rugged man with a weather-beaten face and a glint of mischief in his eyes, worked alongside him, his movements deft and sure.

"You're moving slower than a sloth today, Rafe," Ward teased, his voice carrying over the sounds of the bustling port. "Pick up the pace, boy!"

Rafe shot his father a mock glare before responding with a grin. "Maybe if you'd stop distracting me with your incessant chatter, old man, I could actually get some work done."

Ward chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Ah, but where's the fun in that? Besides, a little banter makes the time go by faster."

As they continued their task, Ward's tone shifted, his voice taking on a more serious note. "You know, Rafe, I've been hard on you over the years. Pushed you to be better than you thought you could be."

Rafe paused, surprised by his father's admission. He glanced up, meeting Ward's gaze with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation.

"But you've turned out to be my best child," Ward continued, his expression softening with pride. "Strong, capable, and fiercely loyal. I couldn't ask for more."

Rafe's heart swelled at his father's words, a rush of emotion flooding through him. For so long, he had sought his father's approval, yearning for even the smallest sign of acceptance. And now, here it was, offered freely in the midst of their everyday routine.

"Unlike your sister," Ward muttered, his voice heavy with regret. "Sarah always had a wild streak in her. Ran off two years ago, couldn't handle the life we lead. Sometimes I wonder if I pushed her too hard."

Rafe's heart clenched at the mention of Sarah, his sister who had always been their father's favorite. He'd watched with a mixture of resentment and envy as Ward showered her with praise and affection, leaving Rafe to feel like an afterthought.

"Yeah, well, maybe if you'd paid as much attention to me as you did to her, she wouldn't have felt the need to run," Rafe blurted out before he could stop himself.

Ward's gaze snapped to Rafe, his expression a mix of surprise and hurt. For a moment, the air between them crackled with tension, each of them grappling with the weight of their unspoken words.

But then Ward's features softened, his gaze filled with a mixture of regret and understanding. "I'm sorry, Rafe," he said quietly. "I never meant to make you feel like you weren't enough. You're my son, and I love you, no matter what."

Rafe swallowed past the lump in his throat, his eyes burning with unshed tears. In that moment, he realized that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for their fractured relationship after all.

Rafe wiped his forehead with his shirt, the midday sun beating down relentlessly as he and his father continued their task under the sweltering heat of Figure Eight's early summer. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and sweat, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the dock providing a backdrop to their labor.

"So, how're things with you and Sofia?" Ward asked, his voice cutting through the oppressive heat as he glanced over at Rafe.

Rafe paused, taken aback by his father's sudden inquiry. He hadn't expected Ward to broach the subject of his relationship with Sofia, not after their last conversation had ended in a heated argument about Rafe's antics.

"Uh, things are good," Rafe replied cautiously, unsure of how much he wanted to divulge. "We're… figuring things out, I guess."

Ward nodded, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "She's a good girl, that one. Strong-willed, like you. You two make a good match."

Rafe couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at his father's words, a warmth spreading through him despite the oppressive heat. It was rare for Ward to offer his approval so freely, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

"Yeah, she's something special," Rafe agreed, a fond smile playing at his lips as he thought of Sofia. "I'm lucky to have her."

Ward clapped him on the back, a grin spreading across his weathered face. "That you are, son. That you are."

As Rafe continued with his work, his thoughts drifted back to the early days of his relationship with Sofia, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. They had been through so much together, weathering storms both literal and figurative, yet somehow emerging stronger each time.

But as memories of their first meeting flooded his mind, Rafe's smile faltered, replaced by a pang of sadness. He remembered the excitement and nervousness he had felt as he approached her that day, the thrill of possibility mingling with the uncertainty of the unknown.

And then, like a sudden storm cloud on a clear day, another memory intruded upon his thoughts. A memory of someone else, someone who had once been a constant presence in his life but had vanished without a trace.

"You were still here," Rafe whispered to himself, the words barely audible over the din of the bustling port. "Before you ran away."

The pain of your disappearance still lingered, a wound that had yet to fully heal. Rafe couldn't help but wonder where you had gone, what had driven you to leave without so much as an explanation. Had it been something he had said or done? Or had you simply grown tired of waiting for him to change, to become the person you had hoped he would be?

As the memories threatened to overwhelm him, Rafe shook his head, banishing them to the recesses of his mind once more. There was work to be done, and he couldn't afford to let himself be consumed by thoughts of the past, no matter how painful they might be.

But deep down, in the quiet corners of his heart, he couldn't shake the feeling that he would never truly be able to move on until he had unraveled the reasoning of your disappearance and found closure once and for all.

With a determined shake of his head, Rafe pushed aside the tumult of emotions swirling within him and focused on the task at hand. He hoisted the final crate onto the ship with a grunt of effort, the weight of it a physical reminder of the burdens he carried both on and off the dock.

"Finished up here, Dad," Rafe called out, wiping his hands on his trousers as he made his way over to where Ward stood overseeing the loading process.

Ward glanced up, his brow furrowing in mild surprise at the sudden interruption. "Already? Well, I'll be damned. Looks like you're finally starting to earn your keep around here."

Rafe grinned at his father's gruff praise, a sense of satisfaction settling over him despite the lingering ache in his heart. "Guess I'm good for something after all."

Ward chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder with a rough hand. "Don't sell yourself short, son. You've got more potential than you give yourself credit for."

With a nod of thanks, Rafe stepped away from his father and headed toward the gangplank, eager to escape the confines of the dock and lose himself in the familiar streets of Figure Eight once more.

"I'm heading out to meet up with Sofia," he called over his shoulder, his voice carrying on the breeze. "I'll be back later."

Ward waved him off with a casual salute, his attention already turning back to the task at hand. "Take your time, Rafe. Just don't keep the girl waiting too long, or she might start thinking you've forgotten about her."

Rafe laughed, the sound ringing out clear and bright against the backdrop of the bustling port. "Trust me, Dad. That's the last thing I'd ever do."

As Rafe cruised down the sun-drenched streets of Figure Eight in his trusty old truck, a sense of freedom washed over him. The wind whipped through the open windows, tousling his hair and carrying with it the scent of salt and sea. He couldn't help but feel a surge of joy bubbling up inside him, the promise of the afternoon ahead adding an extra spring to his step.

But as he idly flipped through the radio stations, searching for the perfect soundtrack to accompany his journey, his heart skipped a beat when he stumbled upon a familiar melody. The haunting strains of "Gold Dust Woman" by Fleetwood Mac filled the cab of the truck, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.

For a moment, Rafe's finger hovered over the buttons, torn between the desire to switch the song and the inexplicable pull of nostalgia that tugged at his heartstrings. It was a song you had loved, one that had become intertwined with memories of lazy afternoons spent driving aimlessly along the coast, lost in each other's company.

With a sigh, Rafe let his finger fall away from the radio, surrendering to the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be swept away by the bittersweet melody, the lyrics weaving a tapestry of emotions that mirrored the tangled mess of his thoughts.

In that moment, you felt closer to him than ever, your presence lingering in the spaces between the notes, in the warmth of the sunlight on his skin. And as he drove on, your memory by his side, Rafe couldn't help but wonder if somewhere out there, you were listening to the same song, thinking of him as he was thinking of you.

As Rafe pulled into Sofia's driveway, he couldn't shake the feeling of being haunted by your presence, like a ghost lingering in the shadows of his mind. He sighed heavily, trying to push aside the memories that threatened to overwhelm him, focusing instead on the task at hand.

He turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat, the familiar comfort of his truck offering him a brief respite from the turmoil within. But even as he tried to clear his mind, he found himself unable to shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him from within.

With a shaky breath, Rafe closed his eyes, willing himself to find some semblance of peace amidst the storm of emotions that raged inside him. He reminded himself that he was here for Sofia, that she was the one who mattered in this moment, not the ghosts of his past that threatened to consume him.

Minutes passed like hours as Rafe waited in silence, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him like a heavy burden. But just when he felt like he couldn't bear it any longer, the front door of Sofia's house swung open, and she emerged onto the porch, a bright smile lighting up her face.

Rafe's heart skipped a beat at the sight of her, the warmth of her presence chasing away the shadows that had threatened to engulf him. With a sense of relief washing over him, he pushed open the door of his truck and stepped out onto the gravel driveway, ready to leave the ghosts of his past behind and embrace the promise of the present moment with Sofia by his side.

Sofia's cheerful voice broke through the haze of Rafe's thoughts as she opened the passenger door and greeted him with a warm smile. The kiss she placed on his cheek sent a flutter through his chest, dispelling the lingering shadows that had haunted him moments before.

"Hey, you," Sofia said, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Ready for tonight?"

Rafe returned her smile, the weight of his worries easing at the sight of her infectious enthusiasm. "Absolutely," he replied, his voice laced with anticipation. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

As he stepped out of the truck and joined Sofia on the driveway, he felt a renewed sense of purpose wash over him. Whatever demons lurked in the corners of his mind, he knew that as long as he had Sofia by his side, he could face them head-on with unwavering determination.

With a quick squeeze of Sofia's hand, Rafe followed her lead as they made their way towards the house, leaving the shadows of his past behind and embracing the promise of the night ahead. Whatever challenges awaited them at the party, Rafe knew that together, they could conquer anything that came their way.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You were sprawled out on a hammock with JJ, the gentle sway of the hammock lulling you into a state of blissful relaxation. The warm summer breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the sweet scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers. You took a deep inhale, the fragrant smoke from the blunt swirling around you as you passed it back and forth with JJ.

"Man, this is the life," JJ said, his voice lazy with contentment as he took another hit before passing the blunt back to you. "Just kicking back, enjoying the sun, and getting high with my favorite person."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his words, the corners of your lips curling up into a lazy smile. "Right back at you, JJ," you replied, taking a long drag from the blunt before passing it back to him. "Couldn't think of a better way to spend the day."

As the two of you lounged in comfortable silence, the stresses of the outside world melted away, leaving nothing but the warmth of the sun on your skin and the soothing rhythm of the hammock beneath you. In that moment, surrounded by the peaceful tranquility of nature and the company of a good friend, you felt truly at ease, content to simply exist in the here and now.

JJ took another hit from the blunt, his gaze distant as he reminisced. "Life was wild back on the cut, huh?" he mused, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air. "But I gotta say, we're much better off where we are now."

You nodded in agreement, the memories of your past life tugging at the corners of your mind. "Yeah, definitely," you replied, your voice soft as you passed the blunt back to him. "It's been a crazy journey, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."

As you took another hit, however, your smile faltered, a shadow passing over your features. Memories of your time on the cut flooded back, and with them came thoughts of Rafe. "Remember those days at the chateau?" you said, your voice tinged with nostalgia. "Those were some good times."

JJ's expression softened, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he nodded in agreement. "Yeah, they were," he said quietly. "But you know what they say about nostalgia… sometimes, it ain't all it's cracked up to be."

You couldn't help but laugh at his words, the tension easing from your shoulders as you took another hit from the blunt. "True that," you replied, a wistful smile playing at your lips. "But hey, at least we made it out alive, right?"

With a shared chuckle, you and JJ settled back into the comforting rhythm of the hammock, content to bask in the warmth of the sun and the camaraderie of each other's company, even as the memories of the past lingered on the edges of your consciousness.

As you and JJ lounged on the hammock, lost in reminiscence, the sound of footsteps approaching drew your attention. You glanced up to see Kiara emerging from the house, a cooler full of drinks in her hands, followed closely by Sarah, a mischievous smirk playing at her lips.

"Hey, look who decided to join the party," Kiara said with a grin, setting the cooler down beside the hammock. "Thought you two could use a little refreshment."

You couldn't help but sit up in excitement, the prospect of cold drinks on a hot day too good to pass up. "Hell yeah, thanks Kiara," you said, reaching eagerly for a beverage as she offered them around.

Sarah followed suit, her smirk widening as she made eye contact with you. "Enjoying yourselves, I see?" she teased, her tone light-hearted as she handed you a drink.

You chuckled in response, taking a swig from the can and relishing the cool liquid as it slid down your throat. "Absolutely," you replied, a grin spreading across your face. "Nothing beats kicking back with good company and a cold drink on a day like today."

JJ echoed your sentiment, taking a drink of his own and offering a nod of thanks to Sarah and Kiara. As the four of you settled into easy conversation, the worries of the past and the uncertainties of the future faded into the background, replaced by the simple pleasure of the present moment and the warmth of friendship.

As you enjoyed the drinks and banter with Kiara, Sarah, and JJ, your attention was drawn to a nearby jacuzzi where John B and Pope lounged, seemingly lost in their own conversation. You couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of JJ's impulsive purchase, a jacuzzi that seemed out of place yet strangely fitting in the backyard of the house.

"Check it out," you said, nudging JJ with your elbow and gesturing towards the jacuzzi. "Looks like John B and Pope are living the high life over there."

JJ grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched his friends. "Hey, if we're gonna do this whole beach lifestyle thing, might as well do it right," he remarked, a hint of pride in his voice.

You couldn't argue with that logic, especially not when you saw the smiles on John B and Pope's faces as they relaxed in the warm water, their cares melting away with each passing moment. With a nod of agreement, you settled back into the hammock, content to bask in the simple joys of friendship and camaraderie, even as the world around you seemed to spin with uncertainty.

As you basked in the warmth and joy of the moment, a sense of contentment washed over you like a soothing tide. Here, in this idyllic setting, you were free from the debts and drama that had plagued your life back in the Outer Banks. The weight of those burdens lifted from your shoulders, leaving you feeling light and unencumbered for the first time in what felt like ages.

You couldn't help but marvel at the peace you had found in this new life, a life where you weren't constantly running from something or someone. Here, surrounded by friends who felt more like family, you finally felt like you belonged.

But even as you reveled in the happiness of the present, a twinge of guilt gnawed at the edges of your consciousness. You couldn't shake the feeling that despite the freedom and joy you now experienced, a part of you still felt tethered to the past, to the people you had left behind without a word of explanation.

Memories of your abrupt departure crept into your mind, casting a shadow over the tranquility of the moment. You couldn't help but wonder if you had made the right choice, if leaving had been the only option or simply the easiest one.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed aside the doubts and regrets that threatened to dampen your spirits, focusing instead on the warmth of the sun on your skin and the laughter of your friends echoing in the air. Here, in this moment, you were determined to embrace the peace and happiness that surrounded you, letting go of the past and embracing the promise of the future with open arms.

With a satisfied sigh, you finished the last sips of your drink and set the empty can aside. Feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin, you decided it was time for a refreshing dip in the jacuzzi. With practiced ease, you peeled off your loose t-shirt, revealing the vibrant bikini underneath.

As you sat up from the hammock, the cool breeze playing across your skin, you made your way over to the jacuzzi where John B and Pope lounged, enjoying the warm water. With a playful grin, you called out to them, "Hey guys, mind making some room for me?"

John B and Pope looked up, their faces breaking into wide smiles at the sight of you approaching. "Of course, come on in!" John B exclaimed, scooting over to make space for you beside him.

You slipped into the jacuzzi with a contented sigh, the warm water enveloping you in its comforting embrace. As you settled in between your friends, you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the simple pleasures of life, for moments like these spent with good friends in the warmth of the sun. With a smile, you leaned back and let the worries of the world slip away, fully embracing the peace and happiness of the present moment.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Rafe leaned against the doorway of Sofia's room, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched her finish getting ready. She moved with effortless grace, her movements fluid and purposeful as she applied the final touches to her outfit.

"You look beautiful," Rafe said softly, his voice filled with genuine admiration as he took in the sight of her.

Sofia turned to him, a radiant smile lighting up her features. "Thanks, Rafe," she replied, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "You're not looking too bad yourself."

Rafe chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through him at her compliment. He couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for this girl who had stolen his heart, who had stood by him through thick and thin, who had helped him find his place in the world.

As Sofia put the finishing touches on her makeup, Rafe couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation building within him. Tonight was going to be special, he could feel it in his bones. And with Sofia by his side, he knew that no matter what the night held in store, it would be a memory he would cherish for years to come.

With a final glance in the mirror, Sofia turned to Rafe, a playful glint in her eye. "Ready to go?" she asked, holding out her hand to him.

Rafe nodded, a grin spreading across his face as he took her hand in his. "Absolutely," he replied, his heart racing with excitement as they made their way out the door and into the night, ready to take on whatever adventures awaited them together.

As Rafe and Sofia headed to Topper's house party, the anticipation buzzed between them, filling the car with an infectious energy. With the windows down and the music blaring, they sang along to their favorite songs, laughter dancing on their lips as they shared the joy of the moment.

Rafe stole glances at Sofia in the passenger seat, his heart swelling with affection as he watched her sing her heart out, her laughter filling the air like music. Her happiness was contagious, and he couldn't help but smile as he soaked in the sight of her, the love he felt for her radiating from every fiber of his being.

But as he glanced over at her once more, something shifted. For a split second, he thought he saw a flash of your face superimposed over hers, your eyes meeting his in a haunting echo of the past. His heart skipped a beat, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he blinked in disbelief.

The moment passed in the blink of an eye, leaving Rafe shaken and disoriented. He shook his head, trying to shake off the strange sensation that lingered in the air. But deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that your presence still lingered, a ghost haunting the edges of his consciousness, refusing to be ignored.

Sofia's sweet gesture snapped Rafe out of his momentary dissociation, her warm kiss on his cheek grounding him in the present. He blinked, the remnants of the strange sensation fading away as he met her gaze, her smile a beacon of light in the darkness.

"Can't wait for the party, huh?" Rafe echoed, a smile spreading across his face as he reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. "Me neither. It's gonna be a blast."

Sofia's eyes sparkled with excitement as she settled back into her seat, the anticipation palpable in the air between them. With a renewed sense of determination, Rafe refocused his attention on the road ahead, the memory of your face fading into the recesses of his mind as he focused on the promise of the night ahead with Sofia by his side.

As Rafe drove, the weight of what had just happened settled heavily on his shoulders, casting a shadow over his thoughts. Try as he might to shake off the strange sensation, the memory of your face superimposed over Sofia's lingered in the corners of his mind, refusing to be ignored.

With a heavy sigh, Rafe felt himself zoning out, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he lost himself in the rhythm of the road. The familiar longing for escape crept up on him like an unwelcome guest, gnawing at his impulses and filling him with a restless energy.

He couldn't help but feel trapped, caught between the pull of his past and the promise of the future. The road stretched out before him, endless and unforgiving, a tantalizing temptation beckoning him to leave it all behind and disappear into the unknown.

As Rafe navigated the streets towards the party, a sense of unease gnawed at him. He couldn't shake the feeling that this party was just another part of his plan to escape, a temporary reprieve from the weight of his troubles. And buried beneath that unease lurked the insidious craving for something more, something that promised to numb the pain and quiet the demons that haunted him.

Coke.

The mere thought sent a shiver down Rafe's spine, a mixture of desire and dread swirling in the pit of his stomach. He knew the dangers of succumbing to his cravings, knew the havoc it could wreak on his life and the lives of those he cared about. But in moments of weakness, the allure of escape proved too strong to resist.

As he pulled into the driveway of Topper's house, the bass thumping from the speakers and the laughter of the partygoers filling the air, Rafe felt a familiar sense of anticipation building within him. He knew what awaited him inside, knew the temptations that lurked in the shadows, yet he couldn't deny the pull they held over him.

With a heavy sigh, Rafe steeled himself for what lay ahead, determined to navigate the minefield of his desires with caution and restraint. But deep down, he couldn't shake the sinking feeling that tonight, like so many nights before, would end in a blur of euphoria and regret.

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[sobbing2sapphic]

skye riley x reader who isn’t popular

The Art of Small Talk

a/n: by “not popular” i'm assuming you meant not famous and also not many friends. also in hindsight this is more of a headcanon sort of request but… it’s okay. I suck at titles. there are 3 unfortunate uses of y/n. so sorry. and I need to rewatch smile 2 so I can remember how she speaks...

word count: 2.5k

Sitting in an inconspicuous cafe, you drum your fingers along the tabletop while staring blankly at your empty Google Docs page.

You’re sitting in a corner by yourself. You are totally alone, except for the few girls behind the counter chatting away. The lights were dimmed, and candles were lit at the counter and on a few other tables. The warm environment mixed with the hot chocolate you were drinking and the smell of food, you were getting sleepy. You slouch against the plush chair you were sitting in and let out a sigh. You were meant to be writing. 

Here you were, lazily nodding your head along to Eternal Life blasting through your earbuds, tapping away at your table instead of working. At least I’m having a good time, you think to yourself. 

You wonder about your best friends, across the country. Feels like they’re across the world. Ever since you moved to New York to pursue your dreams of becoming a writer, you’ve been so lonely. So damn lonely.

Your train of thought is interrupted when you feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn to this person, removing an earbud at the same time.

You take in the woman’s appearance. Bleached blonde hair in a pixie cut, messy, but in a cute way. She was wearing a navy blue hoodie with an oversized jacket that was just too oversized. Her hood was on, leaving her face shadowy. 

“Excuse me. Hi. Uh… do you have a charging port here? My phone’s about to die and… My table over there didn’t have one. So. Yeah.” She looked at you, and then to your laptop. The sweet smell of her enveloped you, but you couldn’t quite place what perfume she used. Or if that’s just how she smells.

“Yeah. Think so,” you say, a little too coolly. She probably thinks you’re rude, you thought, while looking underneath your table for a charging port beside. “Yeah, there’s one below the table.” 

“Okay, great! Do you mind if I—“ she smiles, almost sheepishly, “— if I sit with you? I won’t bother you.” She fidgets with the sleeve of her jacket. 

“No problem.” You could feel her looking at you from your peripherals, and though it was unfocused, you could’ve sworn she was looking at you oddly.

She sits down opposite of you, leaning over to get the charger in the port. You don’t watch her, but you can hear the inevitable struggle of the metal connectors hitting everywhere except the port. You fail to stifle your smile.

When she finally plugs it in, she sits back up and looks at you. You avoid looking at her. Because you’re afraid you’ll end up giggling at her. She lets out a little huff at that, and does exactly what she says. She doesn’t bother you.

For a little while. She’s scribbling something in her notebook, or maybe drawing? You’re working away at your laptop. But you keep feeling her looking at you. It’s very off putting. Eventually, you look back at her and maintain this weird eye contact.

“Do I have something on my face?” you say, half-jokingly because you were getting a little scared you did have something on your face.

She shakes her head no. With a subtle tilt of her head, she says “I’ve came here a couple times, but I’ve never seen you. What’s your name?” She speaks with an air of casualness, but you felt that there was something about her that was intrigued by you. Or maybe she was being polite and your ego is playing into it.

“Yeah, this cafe is so hidden, I didn’t notice it until last week.” You played with the rings on your index finger absently-mindedly. “My name’s (y/n).” 

She nods. “That’s a pretty name.” You note that she doesn’t mention her name.

 After a brief pause you muster up the courage to ask. “So, what am I supposed to call you?” 

She takes a sip of her coffee, and looks out the window on the opposite side of the cafe. It’s starting to drizzle outside.

“Skye,” she says softly.

“Hm?”

“My name’s Skye.” 

“Oh. Cool.” You raise your brows a bit to acknowledge her, and go back to work.

You can still feel her looking. 

She takes her hood off. You don’t want to stare like a freak, so you continue to aimlessly type words just to look busy. As if Skye could see what you’re doing.

She lets out a breathy laugh after a few moments, smiling out of disbelief. “Do you.. not know me?”

Your brows furrow. “No?”

“Skye. Skye Riley. Does that name not ring a bell?” she laughs incredulously. 

Holy shit. You’ve heard about her everywhere. The scandal of her and her drug problems. The car accident, where her boyfriend died. And she's just… sitting in front of you. Holy crap. She looks different.

“Oh. I thought—“you inhale sharply before saying this, “— she was in a— I mean, I thought you were in an accident. I thought your hair was long.. and dark too. Probably why I didn’t recognize you.”

Her smile falls. She swallows the imaginary lump in her throat, “Yeah. I was. And after it happened, after rehab, I changed my look.” While speaking her eyes were averted, and she wrapped a small strand of hair around her finger. Tugging it once. She looks back at you, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Awkward. So awkward. Why the hell would you mention the car accident? How insensitive could a person be?! You cringe internally, hoping this was all a weird dream and you’d wake up dazed but relieved. There’s a silence that smothers the both of you, and you try to quickly change the subject. Should you apologize and end up dragging it out, or just… Compliment her? You could say something about her hair.

“Hmm. I like the short hair.” You gesture to her head, “Think it suits you.”

She rolls her eyes, “You’re just saying that because you know who I am now.” She doesn't look quite as upset anymore.

 You laughed, “Seriously! You look great. I’m not the type of person to flatter others.” 

She smiles gently, her eyes wandering through your features. You can’t stand when people look at your face for too long. It doesn’t matter if you took your time getting ready in the morning, you felt that she could see the modest asymmetry of your brows, the blemishes on your face. She looked.. perfect. Perfect skin, teeth, brows. Perfect everything. 

You look away from her. “I’ve heard a couple of your songs. Like, on the radio,” you mention. 

You didn’t notice the admiring look in her eyes.

“Oh, yeah? What do you think?” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table as her hands supported her head. A smile plays on her lips. Your eyes lingered on them, and the brown mole just above her lip. God, you thought, she’s so beautiful. You felt heat rush to your ears.

“Makes the other songs sound like shit.” You hide a shy smile behind your cup of hot chocolate, taking a sip and feeling a slight burning sensation on the tip of your tongue. 

She snorts, “Okay, now you’re just flattering me.” But, she was smiling too. “Anyway, why were you just sitting here alone?”

“Because I wanted to write and focus,” you deadpan. “And.. because I don’t have any friends here in New York.”

“Oh. Dumb question. So, where are your friends?” 

“They’re studying in different places. I have two in Seattle, and another friend in Vancouver.”

She nods slowly, like she’s deep in thought. “That sucks. I don’t have many friends either.”

You laugh a little at that. How could Skye Riley not have many friends? “Is that why you sat with me? There’s literally nobody here, you could’ve tried another table.”

“I did check… one table..” she trails off. “Is it a crime to sit with another human being and have a nice conversation?” Skye asks, very defensively.

“Woah there, I didn’t say anything,” you raise your hands in a “settle down” gesture, “What if I ended up being a super fan of you or something?”

“I’d get the fuck out of here.”

“Aw man.” 

She lets out a giggle from your childish response, and the conversation slowly dies out.

This is weird. You, talking to Skye. Like she’s your friend! 

You then notice how it’s begun to rain heavily. How were you meant to get home? This is what you get for taking a walk and helping the planet a little. The rain lashes at the windows, spooking you a little.

“Shit, I have to walk in that rain.”

She perks up all of a sudden. “No you don’t, I can get my assistant to get us home.”

“Uh oh, you’re gonna know where I live.” 

She raises her brows, “Yeah, as if I have the time to stalk you.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, can I have that ride home? Please?”

“Sure, since you said the magic word without me asking,” she teases. Skye goes through her phone and dials someone’s number.

You don’t pay much attention to what she says, instead packing up your stuff in your grey backpack. You pull it on, and practically feel the weight of the world on your back and shoulders. You put your earbuds away too. 

About ten minutes later, you see a black car waiting outside the cafe. 

“Damn, that was quick.”

She shrugs in response, and gestures for the both of you to get up.

You leave the wondrously cozy cafe and the harsh wind and rain whip your face and ruin your hair. Damn it.

A man steps out of the driver's seat and opens the door for Skye, giving her a questioning look. Was it about you? 

“She’s with me.” Skye doesn’t even look at him, and mumbles a “Thanks,” as she gets into the backseat of the car.

You, hesitantly, get in beside her. She’s sitting in the middle of the three seats, and there’s another guy sitting on the opposite side of her, so you have to sit directly next to her. Great.

The seats of the car are leather, and so comfortable. In front of you, there’s a compartment with bottles and bottles of Voss water and, below it, some snacks.

Skye sees you looking at them, “Do you want something to eat?” She’s drowned out by the revving of the car.

You lean closer to her, your ear facing her mouth to hear her better. You hear her say “something to eat” and shake your head no.

When you move away, you catch her smiling at you. The sweetest smile.

“You smell good,” she says. Your heart starts chugging like a train. You smile awkwardly, “Thanks. You too.” You look out the window beside you, and cover your mouth in a casual way so she doesn’t see that the smile didn’t leave your face.

 As the car pulls off the curb, the man beside her starts speaking to you. “So, you’re a friend of Skye’s?” The man asks, leaning forward to look past Skye and look at you, “I’m Joshua, and this is Elizabeth, Skye’s manager and mother.” He motions towards the woman sitting in front of you. That lady and Skye do not look alike. 

“Oh, cool. Nice to meet you guys. My name is (y/n).” 

“Sweet. How’d you guys meet?” Only Joshua is making conversation with you, and Elizabeth is on her phone, looking vaguely frustrated. He looks happy and refreshed, like he got a full eight hours of sleep. Lucky him.

“Oh we.. uh.. just..” You look over to Skye for some help.

“We met at that fundraiser a couple weeks ago, don’t you remember?” The lie came quite easily to her. “Stop interrogating her.”

“Sorry Skye, I didn’t mean to question you guys so much. Also sorry about getting this car instead of the limo. It would’ve dragged too much attention over here.” Joshua says, almost in a panicked way. 

“It’s fine.” She’s very curt with Joshua, you wonder why she was so amiable with you.

A silence settles over the car. You clear your throat before telling Joshua your address, so he would tell the driver and they could drop you off. 

“That’s not a good area to live in.” Elizabeth says. She turns around to look at you and Skye. She already rubs you the wrong way. “Is it safe?”

“Ehh. As long as it’s daytime it’s fine.”

As she turns back to face the front, she scrunches her nose up slightly, as if smelling something rotten. 

You smooth down your hair after the wind dishevelled it. When your hands come down to rest on your lap, you feel another hand on top of yours. It’s soft and warm.

You look down at the hand, and then back up to look at Skye. She mouths “Ignore her.”

Oh. She thought you were upset about what her mom said. You mouth back “It’s okay.” Sweet of her to care.

The weird thing was how her hand didn’t move off yours. It was like you two were in your own warm little bubble. You leaned against her, and she laid her head on your shoulder. When you looked down at her, she didn’t meet your eyes. You hoped she couldn’t hear your heart drumming away.

You could feel Joshua looking, but he didn’t say anything at all. It would be pretty embarrassing if you were already disliked by Elizabeth in the first 10 minutes of knowing her.

When you finally got to the parking lot of your apartment complex, you sighed with relief. You gently got Skye off your shoulder, and opening the door for yourself, you step out and put your hoodie on. 

“Okay, thanks for the ride, Skye.” You turn to quickly dash into your apartment.

“Wait, (y/n)!” Skye says.

You turn around, and stick your head into the car, “Yeah?”

“Can I have your number?” 

You were taken aback. Why did she want your number? I mean… You and her basically cuddled but still. It’s Skye friggin Riley. “Okay, sure. Give me your phone, I’ll put it in for you.”

“Okay. I’ll put mine into yours,” she says.

You exchange phones and put your phone number as a contact. After, you snoop a little and see that she has Beyoncé and Adele in her contacts. Dang, you thought. You’re technically connected to them now.

You hand her back her phone, and she gives yours back to you. 

“I’ll text you. Or call, ” she says. 

You smile at her. “Sure thing. Later!” 

You’re already half drenched from standing in the rain, and you waste no time jogging to the front door where there’s cover. You unlock the door with your key, and wave at the car before heading inside.

As you walk to the elevator, your mind is totally overwhelmed by this experience. Skye completely consumes you, without even being there. You wonder why she even talked to you. You wonder why she gave you a ride home, why she held your hand and asked for your number. Is she just as lonely as you are?

➽──────────────❥

After a few days, you wake up from a nap and see 2 new messages from Skye.

“heyyy how are you”

“are you free next week haha”

[hardlyinteresting]

A thorough analysis of medals, ribbons, and awards in Top Gun: Maverick

Have you ever wanted to know what medals The Dagger Squad and company wear in TGM? I did, and then I just kept reading and then I started a google doc and now I have a list I can share with all of you! (I feel like my brain might actually be melting)

I have done my absolute best to identify as many of their medals/ribbons as possible based on the clearest images I could find, and I have tried my best to comment on how realistic they may be for these characters. The photos I referenced for this deep dive are included at the bottom of this post.

Analysis below the cut

LT. Jake “Hangman” Seresin He wears 9 ribbons on his uniform. 

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Jake wears an additional device on his but it doesn’t look like a star. It is likely a bronze “V” for valour worn to denote that the award was given for combat heroism. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Jake wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 3 times.

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism). 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) * The pin Jake wears on his ribbon looks like a Fleet Marine Force combat operation insignia indicates that he may have been assigned to a unit that operated under a Marine Corps attachment and carried out duties under the Marine Corps operational control 

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Jake wears two stars on his ribbon. I can’t tell if they are silver or bronze. Bronze would indicate he has met this criteria 3 times during his service. Two silver stars would 10. Both are possible for his character. 

From what I can tell, and the research I have done, Jake’s medals make sense for his age, rank, and experience level. They all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Natasha “Pheonix” Trace Natasha also wears 9 ribbons on her uniform. 

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Natasha wears hers with 2 bronze stars which would indicate that she has received the commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Natasha wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating she has been given this award 3 times.

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Natasha wears a pin/device on her ribbon, though it’s significantly smaller than the stars she wears on her other ribbons. The only devices authorized to be worn with this ribbon are bronze or silver stars, so I’m unsure what it is. 

NATO Medal (The NATO Medal is a decoration presented by the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) to recognize international NATO military members who have participated in various peacekeeping operations.) However, there are 10 different variations and versions of this medal and I can’t see in enough detail to confirm which one it is that Natasha wears. 

Again, from the research I’ve done, the ribbons that Natasha wears seem to make sense for her age, rank, and experience level. I have not been able to confirm if her NATO ribbon is in the correct order of presence, but I do believe it is. 

LT. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

I can find only one image of him in his uniform and wearing his ribbons. However, I would have to assume that it’s an older photo and would have been taken long before the beginning of the beginning of the TGM film timeline and that he would have more by the time we see him on screen. I would also expect that having his papers pulled and being held back in his career timeline may have changed things for him as well. But, he’s wearing 8 ribbons in the photo. This could be a continuity error but I have no way of knowing for sure. Alas, I can only break down what I can see. (But if anyone can find me a still from the film where we can see his current ribbons I’d be over the moon). 

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Bradley wears his with 2 bronze stars which would indicate that he has received the commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Bradley wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 3 times.

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Bradley wears two silver stars on his ribbon which would indicate that he has met this criteria 10 times. 

Beyond the question of timeline, I would say that these ribbons all make sense for his level of experience, his rank, and his age. The ribbons all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia  Mickey wears eight ribbons on his uniform. 

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Mickey wears his with 2 bronze stars which would indicate that he has received the commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Mickey wears 1 bronze star on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 2 times.

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Mickey wears two bronze stars on his ribbon which would indicate that he has met this criteria 3 times. 

From what I can tell, and the research I have done, all of these medals make sense for his age, rank, and experience level. They all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Reuben “Payback” Fitch  Reuben wears 9 ribbons on his uniform

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Reuben wears his with 1 star, but I can’t quite tell for sure if it’s bronze or silver. One bronze star would indicate that he has received the commendation 2times. One Silver star would indicate 5 times. Both would be possible. 

 Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal (Awarded to members of the U.S. Armed Forces who, after July 1, 1958, participated in U.S. military operations, U.S. operations in direct support of the United Nations, or U.S. operations of assistance for friendly foreign nations). It is hard to tell from the photos I have if this is for sure the correct medal, but it’s the only one that fits the colour order I can see. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Reuben wears his with 2 bronze stars indicating he’s been given this award 3 times. 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Rueben wears one star on his ribbon. I cannot confirm whether it is a bronze star or a silver star. A bronze star would indicate that he has met this criteria 3 times. A silver star would indicate he met this criteria 10 times. 

If the third ribbon Rueben wears is the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal I am 95% sure it would be in the wrong order. I believe it should come after his Afghanistan Campaign medal and before his Inherent Resolve Campaign medal for them to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Robert “BOB” Floyd Robert wears seven ribbons on his uniform. 

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Bob wears his with 2 bronze stars which would indicate that he has received the commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Bob wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 3 times.

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism). 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Bob wears a pin/device on this ribbon, though it’s significantly smaller than the stars he wears on his other ribbons. The only devices authorized to be worn with this ribbon are bronze or silver stars, so I’m unsure what it is. 

From what I can tell, and the research I have done, all of these medals make sense for his age, rank, and experience level. They all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Javy “Coyote” Machado Javy wears nine ribbons.

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Javy  wears his with 2 star bronze stars so he has been given this commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Javy wears 1 bronze star on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 2 times.

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism). 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Javy wears what looks like one bronze star on this ribbon which would indicate he has met this criteria twice. But I haven’t been able to find a clear enough image to confirm. 

From what I can tell, and the research I have done, all of these medals make sense for his age, rank, and experience level. They all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

CWO Bernie “Hondo” Coleman Hondo wears 15 ribbons on his uniform

Purple Heart (Given to members of the US Military who have been wounded or killed in any action against an enemy of the United States or as a result of an act of any such enemy or opposing armed forces)

Meritorious Service Medal (presented to members of the United States Armed Forces who distinguish themselves with outstanding meritorious achievement or service to the United States.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Hondo wears his with 1  bronze star so he has been given this commendation twice. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Hondo wears 1 bronze star on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 2 times.

Meritorious Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit who have shown Valorous or meritorious achievement or service, or exceptionally meritorious conduct and outstanding achievement or service, in combat or non-combat.)

Navy E Ribbon (Awarded to service members who were on permanent duty aboard a U.S. Navy ship or in a unit that won a battle efficiency competition after July 1, 1974.)* Hondo wears a silver wreathed E pin on his ribbon showing he has received this award 5 or more times. 

Good Conduct Medal (awarded to any active duty enlisted member of the United States military who completes three consecutive years of "honorable and faithful service," without any non-judicial punishment, disciplinary infractions, or court martial offenses.)

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Iraq Campaign Medal (The Iraq Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Iraq  (or its territorial waters) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal (For  military service members who have deployed overseas in direct service to the War on Terror starting from 2001 to a date to be determined.) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Armed Forces Service Medal (Awarded to Service members who have participated in “significant action” for which no other service or campaign medal is authorized, ie. military operation that did not encounter foreign armed opposition or imminent hostile action)

Humanitarian Service Medal (Awarded to service members who partake in military acts or operations which are deemed to be humanitarian in nature) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.)

His Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal from what I understand would have later been replaced with the Afghanistan and Iraq Campaign Medals which he has also received and wears. He would not have received all three, so this is odd. Regardless, the ribbons he wears are in the correct order of precedence and make sense for his age and rank. However, I have less direct context and understanding of his role as a Chief Warrant Officer and what his career path may have looked like compared to the Dager Squad members and cannot comment on whether or not he is missing any that you may expect to see on a CWO. 

CAPT. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell Maverick wears 22 ribbons on his uniform

Silver Star Medal (awarded primarily to members of the United States Armed Forces for gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States. It is the third-highest decoration for valour in combat)

Legion of Merit (for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services and achievements.)

Defense Meritorious Service Medal (For members of the armed forces who while serving in a joint activity showed outstanding achievement or meritorious service in non-combat situations, but not of a degree to warrant award of the Defense Superior Service Medal.)

Meritorious Service Medal (awarded to those who have shown meritorious achievement or service to the United States.)

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.) *Mav wears a bronze pin device on his ribbon on the second yellow stripe. This is usually a strike/flight numerals device. I cannot make out the number, but this would serve to indicate the number of Strike/Flight awards given for operations in hostile territory and count the total number of Strikes (operations that faced enemy opposition) and Flights (operations that did not encounter enemy opposition) added together.

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Mav wears his with 3 silver stars implying he has received this award a total of 15 times

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.)

Combat Action Ribbon (Given to United States Sea Service Members who have actively participated in ground or surface combat)

Joint Meritorious Unit Award (given to joint units or units tasked with a joint mission where they have displayed meritorious achievement or service beyond what is normally expected, or for actions in combat with an armed enemy of the, a declared national emergency, or under extraordinary circumstances of national interest)

Navy E Ribbon (Awarded to service members who were on permanent duty aboard a U.S. Navy ship or in a unit that won a battle efficiency competition after July 1, 1974.)* Mav wears a silver E pin on his ribbon showing he has received this award 2 times. 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Armed Forces Service Medal (Awarded to Service members who have participated in “significant action” for which no other service or campaign medal is authorized, ie. military operation that did not encounter foreign armed opposition or imminent hostile action)

South West Asia Service Medal (Awarded to those who participated in operations in South West Asia between 1990 and 1995. Including participation in operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Operations and support may have been carried out in any of the following nations and/or areas: Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Oman, Bahrain, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Israel, Eygpt, Türkiye, Syria, Jordan, Persian Gulf, Red Sea, Gulf of Oman, Gulf of Aden) *Mav wears 2 bronze stars indicating he served in 2 of 3 major campaigns. His bronze stars are pinned in the incorrect positions however, they should not be centred side by side, but rather one on each of the inside yellow stripes. 

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) *Maverick wears two bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he served during 2 of the 6 campaign phases. Once again his stars are in the incorrect positions. Instead of being centred side by side, they should each be on each of the inner black stripes. 

Iraq Campaign Medal (The Iraq Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Iraq  (or its territorial waters) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) *Maverick wears two bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he served during 2 of the 7 campaign phases. Once again his stars are in the incorrect positions. Instead of being centred side by side, they should each be on each of the inner black stripes.

Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal (For  military service members who have deployed overseas in direct service to the War on Terror starting from 2001 to a date to be determined.) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.)

United Nations Medal (award for any action in which a member of the military participated in a joint UN activity)

Kuwait Liberation Medal (Awarded by the government of Kuwait to regional and foreign military personnel who served during the Gulf War’s “Liberation of Kuwait” campaign phase between 1990 and 1993. 

Navy Rifle Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Mav wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

Navy Pistol Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Mav wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

His Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal from what I understand would have later been replaced with the Afghanistan and Iraq Campaign Medals which he has also received and wears. He would not have received all three, so this is odd. Regardless, the ribbons he wears are in the correct order of precedence and make sense for his age and rank. I do have questions about how many years he’s been serving and only making it to the rank of Captain but he also has not received, or at least does not wear any ribbons for good conduct, and he is known to rock the boat so I will suspend my disbelief.

VADM. Beau “Cyclone” Simpson  Cyclone wears 19 ribbons on his uniform 

Bronze Star Medal (heroic achievement, heroic service, meritorious achievement, or meritorious service in a combat zone.)

Purple Heart (Given to members of the US Military who have been wounded or killed in any action against an enemy of the United States or as a result of an act of any such enemy or opposing armed forces)

Meritorious Service Medal (awarded to those who have shown meritorious achievement or service to the United States.)

Joint Service Commendation Medal (meritorious achievement or service in a joint duty capacity.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of heroism or meritorious service) *Beau wears his with 2 silver stars so he has been given this commendation 10 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Cyclone wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 3 times.

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism). *Cyclone wears a device on this ribbon, it’s not a star, but from what I’ve read there are no other devices authorized to wear with this ribbon.  

Navy  Meritorious Unit Commendation ( for valorous or meritorious achievement or service in combat or non-combat situations) 

Navy E Ribbon (Awarded to service members who were on permanent duty aboard a U.S. Navy ship or in a unit that won a battle efficiency competition after July 1, 1974.)* Cyclone wears a silver E pin with a wreath on his ribbon showing he has received this award 5 times. 

Good Conduct Medal (awarded to any active duty enlisted member of the United States military who completes three consecutive years of "honourable and faithful service," without any non-judicial punishment, disciplinary infractions, or court martial offences.) *Beau wears what looks to be 2 stars on this ribbon. I cannot tell what colour they are. 2 bronze would me he’s received this award 3 times for 9 consecutive years of honorable service. 2 silver would mean he’s received this award 10 times for 30 consecutive years of honorable service. However, before 1996 they were awarded every 4 years. So I think we’re likely looking at between 20-25 years of service, which makes sense for his rank. 

Navy Expeditionary Medal ( Awarded to enlisted Navy service members who were confirmed to have landed on foreign territory and engaged in operations against armed opposition) 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Iraq Campaign Medal (The Iraq Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Iraq  (or its territorial waters) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have deployed in support of the War on Terror to locations beyond Iraq and Afghanistan.) 

Global War on Terrorism Service Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

UNIDENTIFIED SERVICE MEDAL

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Beau wears what looks like one bronze star on this ribbon which would indicate he has met this criteria twice. But I haven’t been able to find a clear enough image to confirm. 

Navy Rifle Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Beau wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

Navy Pistol Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Cyclone wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

His Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal, from what I understand, would have later been replaced with his Iraq Campaign Medal which he has also received and wears. He would not have received both, so this is odd. Regardless, the ribbons he wears are in the correct order of precedence and make sense for his age and rank. However, I have less direct context and understanding of his role as a Vice Admiral and what his career path may have looked like compared to the Dager Squad members, and cannot comment on whether or not he is missing any that you may expect to see on a VADM. 

RADM. Solomon “Warlock” Bates Warlock wears 22 ribbons on his uniform

Legion of Merit (for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services and achievements.)

Bronze Star Medal (heroic achievement, heroic service, meritorious achievement, or meritorious service in a combat zone.)

Purple Heart (Given to members of the US Military who have been wounded or killed in any action against an enemy of the United States or as a result of an act of any such enemy or opposing armed forces)

Meritorious Service Medal (awarded to those who have shown meritorious achievement or service to the United States.)

Joint Service Commendation Medal (meritorious achievement or service in a joint duty capacity.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of heroism or meritorious service) 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) 

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism).

UNIDENTIFIED SERVICE MEDAL

Navy E Ribbon (Awarded to service members who were on permanent duty aboard a U.S. Navy ship or in a unit that won a battle efficiency competition after July 1, 1974.)* Warlock wears 3 silver E pins on his ribbon showing he has received this award 4 times. 

Good Conduct Medal (awarded to any active duty enlisted member of the United States military who completes three consecutive years of "honourable and faithful service," without any non-judicial punishment, disciplinary infractions, or court martial offences.) *Solomon wears what looks to be 2 stars on this ribbon. I cannot tell what colour they are. 2 bronze would me he’s received this award 3 times for 9 consecutive years of honorable service. 2 silver would mean he’s received this award 10 times for 30 consecutive years of honorable service. However, before 1996 they were awarded every 4 years. So I think we’re likely looking at between 20-25 years of service, which makes sense for his rank. 

Navy Expeditionary Medal ( Awarded to enlisted Navy service members who were confirmed to have landed on foreign territory and engaged in operations against armed opposition) 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Iraq Campaign Medal (The IraqCampaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Iraq  (or its territorial waters) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) *Warlock wears two bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he served during 2 of the 7 campaign phases. Once again his stars are in the incorrect positions. Instead of being centred side by side, they should each be on each of the inner black stripes.

Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal (For  military service members who have deployed overseas in direct service to the War on Terror starting from 2001 to a date to be determined.) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have deployed in support of the War on Terror to locations beyond Iraq and Afghanistan.) 

Humanitarian Service Medal (Awarded to service members who partake in military acts or operations which are deemed to be humanitarian in nature) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Warlock wears what looks like 3 bronze star on this ribbon which would indicate he has met this criteria 4 times. But I haven’t been able to find a clear enough image to confirm. 

Navy Overseas Service Ribbon (recognizes those service members who have performed military tours outside the borders of the United States of America. 12 months of consecutive or accumulated duty at an overseas shore-based duty station)

United Nations Medal (award for any action in which a member of the military participated in a joint UN activity)

Navy Rifle Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Solomon wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification.

Navy Pistol Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Warlock wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

His Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal, from what I understand, would have later been replaced with his Iraq Campaign Medal which he has also received and wears. He would not have received both, so this is odd. Regardless, the ribbons he wears are in the correct order of precedence and make sense for his age and rank. However, I have less direct context and understanding of his role as a Rear Admiral and what his career path may have looked like compared to the Dager Squad members, and cannot comment on whether or not he is missing any that you may expect to see on a RADM.