#i feel like i’m late to the party with this one but you know what we’re figuring it out

[ribbonskiss]

THE LEANOVER → OP81

Part 2 of 2. Read Part 1 here.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Summary: You come home on uni break to find your brother’s best friend, Oscar, is visiting. You both fall back into old habits, but some things are not the same.

Tags: brother’s best friend, friends to lovers, slow burn, SMUT (18+), masturbation, Jack Doohan is from Melbourne in this one for logistical reasons, not proofread at all hah

A/N: finally!!! The end of The Leanover!!!! Sorry for the extended deadline, this one turned out chunkier than I expected and honestly I don’t know if I’m quite satisfied with it but it is what it is. Anyway, enjoy!

Oscar is a handsome boy. This is a fact you find to be so uncontroversial it may as well be accepted as a universal truth. There has never been a time where girls did not whisper amongst themselves when he would enter a room, where the mothers of his friends would not rave with great emphasis to his about how strong and handsome he’d become, where his presence at a function did not brighten up the place, because not only is he handsome, he is beautiful. Beautiful people are magnetic, you think; their beauty lies in their nature, their fundamental quality of supernatural grace, a gift bestowed by the forces that be towards the lucky few.

You recall his last year of high school. You were sixteen, still growing into your body and learning how to use a felt-tip eyeliner pen. Teenagers are fascistic about social hierarchy; they are greatly cognisant of their standings in the high school pecking order, intensely anal about preserving the rigidity of the structure, and thus you had long accepted your status as the forgotten sibling. Oscar and your brother were athletes, students with clout attached to their names; you were awkward, unaware of your own intensity, intimidating to a fault, but more than happy to lay low. Two individuals of such different standings in the social order should never interact—but for the first (and only) time you were now going to the same house parties and birthday bashes, and here was the greatest display of Oscar’s beauty. You can never forget that image: the figure of him standing on the other side of the room, so broad-shouldered and trim, freckles of sun damage littered over his skin all the way down his neck like constellations, his head turned away from you to reveal his chiselled jaw as he speaks to someone while holding a can of Reschs. And suddenly his eyes would meet yours, catching you in the act, and he’d give you a gentle smile.

You were always so grateful for this. So grateful he would look your way and beam so brightly, a glimpse of his inner calmness, his quiet gentle bliss. You were never under the impression you were the only one to be so blessed by his grace; you were just happy to be around him. Sometimes when he would come over, sprawl himself over your couch or lay on the floor, pissing himself laughing at your brother’s antics into the late hours of the night, you’d ask yourself whether you should feel guilty for being the only witness to this part of his life. This secret of his: that Oscar is so much more beautiful than most people will ever know. Not his fans, not his colleagues, not the majority of the world. This is between you and him.

And now you have him all to yourself. A bit greedy, isn’t it? The past week you’ve spent together has been nothing short of lovely. You find out that he’s strangely disciplined. Oscar’s a dutiful housemate, doing the chores you even forget about without the need to be prompted, unlike most guys his age. He likes to hum to himself when he’s got the vacuum going and he thinks you can’t hear him butcher the tune of “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel. He’s a good cook who prefers careful measurement over eyeballing. He doesn’t read books like you do, but he’s happy to lie on the couch all day and watch a show with you on the telly. And he’s surprisingly touchy—he seems most pleased when you’re both on the couch, your legs crossed and stretched out, resting on top of his, his hand on your foot, thumb rubbing circles into your skin. You don’t speak during these moments. Nothing needs to be said; things just sort themselves out.

At some point in the afternoon you get tired, yawning to yourself, and without even needing to look at you Oscar reaches over, tugs at your arm to tell you wordlessly to turn around. You oblige; your head against his chest, his fingers trail up your forearm to your shoulders and, eventually, the back of your neck, smoothing over the soft, fine hairs that reside there. You’re too tired to mind the goosebumps the feeling of his fingertips on your skin gives you, or the increasing thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat underneath you. You shift in his arms, folding your legs up in a way that makes the hem of your shorts ride up, exposing the curve of your thighs all the way up towards the swell of your—well… It would be so uncouth for him to look there.

It never occurs to either of you that the hardest part of the process is done. The feeling returns: the feeling that arises in you when he looked at you from across the room at those parties all those years ago. The feeling of knowing that person so incredibly well. Of sharing a secret together, and letting that secret grow bigger and bigger until it takes on a life of its own. Of sharing that life together. These things do just sort themselves out, but you would never know until you speak of it.

You are growing increasingly needy. There’s no other way to put it. You’re fucking dying. The heat of the dry, punishing Australian summer is starting to get to you, even with how skimpy your attire has gotten, and having him around twenty-four seven is starting to feel more like divine punishment than intervention. You were wrong all along: Oscar is not an angel, but a demon sent to terrorise you all your life until you give in and the Devil can steal your soul for all of eternity.

He works out every other day. That’s at least three days where he’ll disappear into another room in the afternoon for hours, slips right out just to slip into the bathroom, and then waltz back into the living room as if nothing has happened. But something has happened.

Oscar has a very basic wardrobe at home. He likes his soft, mild colours—dark greys and soft whites, beige tones, navy and olives… It’s very on brand for him, yes. And here he is again, today, emerging from the bathroom, a cloud of steam following him out the door as he runs a hand through his slightly damp hair. He’s wearing a crisp heather grey t-shirt, fresh from the pile of laundry you’d folded yesterday. The sleeves can barely withstand the size of his biceps; he’s just gotten new dumbbells in. And god, the smell of his skin, the musk of him mixed with the soft clean scent of soap still radiating off of him. It’s like crisp hot white bedsheets, fresh out the dryer, already crumpling under the weight of two lovers, bodies sticky from tangling into each other; like soft detergent left out in the garden, where the grass is freshly cut, and the warm sun hits your skin.

This is as close to a primal urge as it will ever get for you. The first few times you could just tell yourself to look away, but now the smell of him is unavoidable, overwhelms your senses, and lights your entire body on fire. You stick your nose into your book the entire time and pray he goes away. Oscar retreats into the kitchen and wonders if your book is really so good that you’d be that engrossed by it. He’ll have to start reading again soon.

“The worst thing a woman can do,” you say, hand in the air with great feeling, “is be cut down in her prime by a man.”

Three beers in and you’re starting up your great tirade already. Oscar watches with an amused smile as he sits on the grass, green Peroni bottle in hand. “I know it sounds so pathetic and untrue, but it is true,” you continue, pacing back and forth with a giggle. “It’s true! I’m so much better off now. No offence, Osc, you’re one of the good ones.”

“I’m very flattered.”

“You should be,” you nod.

He reaches over and grabs a fresh beer from the esky, flicks the cap off with the belt he’s taken off, and hands it to you. You thank him; “just trying to stay in your good graces, missy,” he chuckles.

You sigh, taking a swig of it as you look up to the sky. “Frankly, I’m glad that part of my life is over already,” you say. “I’m not happy to admit it, but for a long time, I had just thought of myself as undesirable. Invisible.”

Oscar furrows his eyebrows with great concern, an ocean tide of emotion threatening to wash over him. “Impossible.”

“Possible,” you nod, with a bitter smile that’s less regretful than accepting of your past. “You know. Surely you remember.”

Of course he does. He remembers every little thing, because they’re not little to him. He remembers it all, how he’d scare off sleazy, drunken boys from approaching you at parties. Even after he graduated, the threat remained: you mess with her, you mess with Oscar Piastri, the F1 big shot. Boys never looked your way because of that; he used to hold you by the end of the party, sitting on the porch of whatever house you’re at, you latching onto him in your drunken half-slumber, both of you silently wallowing in your desires. Drowning, suffocating in each other’s warmth. Then he’d stay over at your house and wait until your brother fell asleep to press his ear against the wall, listening to your muffled sobbing. You were always too eager to suffer alone, to make a martyr of yourself and accept the cards you had been dealt.

But you stand tall now, a soft smile on your face suggesting a great deal of growth. It’s what he’s always found so beautiful in you. Beauty, he thinks, lies in the spirit, an ability to have infinite love and bliss in the face of the frustrations of one’s life. You are a complete soul, whole in ways he may never be, capable of learning to love over and over again and of light-heartedness in the face of turmoil. He knows he cannot truly achieve this because you are his Achilles’ heal. He cannot bear to think of you off on your own without him, doing things with other slimy ratty boys, going places he may never know of. Having a life without him in it. Oscar frowns; had he been too selfish in denying you all your opportunities? You had graduated high school without losing your virginity, without ever being in a relationship, and he wasn’t sure your first kiss would even count as a kiss. He can’t imagine how much that must’ve crushed you—and he was away, far away on his stupid little racing circuits instead of being at home, comforting you, as he should’ve been.

You wave it all off, as if you could hear his thoughts. “Well, I’ve done all of it now anyway, and I’m happy to report that it’s not for me.”

He cocks up an eyebrow. “And what exactly is ‘it,’ Tiny?”

“The hookup thing,” you shrug.

Oscar’s chest feels like it could explode; cold flashes wash all over him. “Oh?”

You playfully shush him. “Don’t tell my family, okay?” you chuckle. “But, yes. I tried it. It was good, until it wasn’t. Very quickly I realised I’m kinda, like, spiritually forty. I need to stretch in the mornings and tuck in by eleven.”

“And kick-ons aren’t until at least one,” he tuts. “You’re always been a sleepy girl.”

“That is true,” you nod, taking another sip of your Peroni. “Anyway, it was worth it, at the very least just to get it all out of my system. I’m very comfortably single now.”

The sky is darker than it should be. The sun has already tucked itself away, and it’s not even evening time yet. “You know, it’s so cliché,” you continue. “That Sally Rooney quote, it’s just like that. I went to uni and got pretty. And all of a sudden men saw me—I mean, I was pretty much invisible before. Before in school, when you and my brother were still around, guys used to do this stupid, horrible thing where they wouldn’t speak to me, they’d just speak to you instead. Even when the topic was about me. Well, no one knows I grew up with Oscar Piastri when I’m at ANU. I’m just me, and I’ve got a nice haircut and a decent rack of tits. And they see me, they see me now and I realise now that they’re all just sort of stupid. I’m very sorry, Oscar, but boys are stupid.”

“No need to apologise,” he snickers softly. It makes you smile a little wider. “But surely they were not all so bad?”

“No, I really don’t know how to pick ‘em. They really were all that bad,” you chuckle, eyes creasing as your cheeks push up in laughter. “Think the best one might’ve been the guy I lost my virginity to.”

Oscar’s eyes widen. He hums, pretends to be normal about it. “Tell me more,” he says.

You nod and oblige. “It was early in the school year. I went on four dates with him,” you start. “He seemed right on paper. Double major, worked for a diplomat, spoke two languages and was well-travelled. Maybe a bit pedestrian in his taste in music and films, but it didn’t bother me so much. We talked okay. He knew what to do, how to be courteous, held doors open and shit—I didn’t know what the whole dating thing was meant to be like, and I was easily impressed. He took me back to his after the fourth date and we listened to his vinyls: corny 70s Greatest Hit compilations and his favourite Kanye albums.”

You take a break, pulling out a thing of lip balm and unscrewing the cap before squeezing it out. “He told me he used to take ballroom lessons for some weird high school thing he did, and he twirled me in his arms, and it made me feel so light and small and girlish that I felt like I was floating.” Your finger spreads the balm over your lips, the feeling cool and tingly on your skin. “He told me I was funny. He kissed me, and his stubble was so sharp and gritty against my skin that it gave me traction acne the day after. He held my hand the whole time. He was an awful kisser. Just kept jamming his tongue in. But it was sweet enough. No one’s first time is good, anyway.”

Oscar tries to swallows down the lump stuck in his throat. His fingers and toes are tingling, chest tight and contracting still. You take another swig. “I’ve had too many of these,” you say.

“You’ve had three, Tiny.”

“That’s more than enough for me,” you shrug, yawning as you set the bottle down on the wooden table outside in your garden. “I think I’d better fuck off to bed now. Sleep tight, Osc.”

He doesn’t sleep in your brother’s bed that night. No, he takes out the spare mattress again and drapes the spare velvet blanket over himself, because he could never forgive himself if he jerked off in his best friend’s bed to the thought of his best friend’s sister. No, there would be no good excuse for that, but tonight is one of those nights where a man simply cannot hold himself back anymore. The alcohol is still burning in his stomach; when Oscar shuts his eyes, all he can see is these elaborate images crafted by his mind’s eye of you, placed in all the scenarios you’d described to him, only replacing that dirty fucker was him, being so gentle and delicate and loving, just how you deserve it. It should have been him there instead to do it all right; it is true that losing one’s virginity is often an awkward affair, his own experience was no less lousy, but if anyone were to have a perfect instance of it it should be you. Oscar can see it all now, how he’d go about it. Holding onto your soft curves as he pushes himself in slowly, the little gasps that would escape your honey-sweet mouth, so warm and wet on his lips. He would die happy, he thinks to himself, as his hand roughly palms his length, hair dampening from sweat in the blistering summer night heat. Cicadas sing outside his window; he heaves wildly, chest rising and falling dramatically as his hand gets slicker with each stroke. He had no idea he could even leak that much.

Thank god you’re sound asleep. He grips tightly onto the soft blanket, balling it in his fist as his eyes shut again tightly, the guttural noise he lets out much louder than he intended. Then Oscar collapses; his limbs go slack, heart beating out of his chest still as he lets out a long, drawn-out sigh, hand now sticky with his spent. The mattress is damp with his sweat. If he wasn’t before, he’s royally fucked now.

Your parents called; they’ll be home on Christmas Eve, but only in the afternoon, and they’re picking your brother up as well. Which means the two of you have some shopping to do; the house should be looking festive in time for their arrival. Oscar pushes the shopping cart, following you deep into the maze that is Kmart. He helps you haul the Christmas tree box in and out of his car. And he watches as you pull its branches down, giving it shape before littering it with baubles and tinsel. And when it comes time to finish the tree, you look him with bright eyes. He smiled at you, takes the Angel Gabriel out of your hands and places it on top of the tree carefully. You put on your silly little Santa hats and poorly bake gingerbread men.

You never end up throwing the rager Oscar jokingly suggested, but you do hold a small get-together after running into some old schoolmates at the shops. So it turns out that a few girls you used to do drama class with are in town, and of course anyone Oscar invites is going to show up—he’s Oscar fucking Piastri—so here you are, with a decent turnout of people currently congregated in the back garden and the living room. You’re thankful enough of them showed up on such short notice, with Christmas Eve only a few days away, and you’re thankful everyone seems to have gotten more civil and mature since you’ve left school.

The doorbell rings more than once, and you peel yourself off of the couch to go answer it, Balter tinnie in hand now that you’re all out of Peronis. Your eyes widen once you fling the door open, revealing a familiar face, standing with a smile on his face and a couple guys behind him.

“Surprise,” Jack chuckles.

“Doohan in the flesh,” you quip with a smile. “You cheeky boy. Since when were you in town?”

“Since yesterday,” he shrugs, and the guys behind him file past you into the house at the sight of some of their mates. “Heard you were throwing a thing with Big Shot Oscar. Hope you don’t mind that I’m crashing—I come bearing gifts.”

You shake your head. “Of course not, no, I’m glad to see you,” you say, though you sigh at the sight of the twelve-pack he’s got in his hands. “Mate, Strong Zero? It’s not that kind of party.”

“Some of us can handle our liquor,” Jack laughs, putting the pack in your arms before smoothing his hair back. “Don’t spoil the fun for the rest of us.”

You roll your eyes, turning your back to him as you walk down the hallway back to the kitchen. “Congratulations, by the way,” I say. “I’m glad to see two of our finest graduates succeeding.”

“I can tell. You’re beaming, clearly,” he jokes, following you in. “It was never in doubt for Oscar, anyway, so I think I deserve a bigger congratulations for making it, no?”

You peel apart the drink packaging, the tins of drink coming loose on the kitchen counter. “Let me get this straight: you want me to be more proud of you for being a worse driver than Oscar?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’m just repeating your words, Jack-Jack.”

“Never said I was a worse driver,” he snickers, shaking his head as he folds his arms over his chest. “You snuck that in yourself. But I always knew you were biased, so I won’t take offence to that, Tiny.”

You turn over your shoulder, glaring at him. Dramatically, he throws his hands up in a display of surrender, but your conversation is cut short.

“Well, well, well,” Oscar grins, strolling into the kitchen and approaching Jack with wide arms. “Fancy seeing you here, F1 driver.”

“Fancy seeing you here, F1 driver,” Doohan beams, dapping Oscar up before pulling him into a hug. “How you been, mate, good?”

“Nah, yeah,” Oscar chuckles, glancing back to you with a smile. “It’s been a splendid break for me. You been good? Didn’t realise you were back.”

“Yeah, just landed yesterday,” Jack nods, a hand on the back of his neck. “Heard you two were doing a thing, thought I’d be jet lagged out of my mind but nah. Wouldn’t miss this.”

You notice Jack’s a little taller than Oscar, who’s having to tilt his head up a little. “Appreciate you showing up, mate,” the older one says. “I’m gonna go catch up with some of your mates, but stick around, yeah?”

“Absolutely, man,” the younger one says with a smile. “Good seeing you again.”

Then Oscar leaves, fingers gliding over the skin of your cheek in passing, a gentle action of tenderness, as if to say goodbye wordlessly. Doohan wiggles his eyebrows. “What the fuck was that?”

“What was what?” you exclaim, eyes avoiding his gaze as you snatch a Strong Zero for yourself.

“That,” he presses on, finger extended now to point to where Oscar had put his hand on your cheek. “The little hand-cheek-look thing. The fuck? Do you have something to tell me, pal?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Please mate, just be normal—”

“Don’t gaslight me,” Jack says, as stern as he can be.

“He’s been living in my home!” you gasp. “Of course we’re a little close!”

“Living in your home—”

“Not by choice,” you roll your eyes. “Just—my family’s all out of town right now. He’s kind of all I have at the moment.”

“Agh!” Jack groans, smacking himself on the forehead. “Genius move. Fuck, I should’ve locked you two in a room myself years ago—”

You put the tin back onto the counter and slowly turn to face him. “Excuse me?”

He frowns. “Oh, man,” he pouts. “You don’t mean to tell me you two are still doing the thing?”

“What thing?” you furrow your eyebrows.

“You know, the thing,” he says, eyes innocent and wide as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “The weird game you two play. I thought you guys would have gotten over it already.”

Your breath hitches in your chest, making you stammer and go red in the face as your confusion worsens. Jack notices this. “What, you really don’t know?”

“No, Jack, I do not,” you manage to breathe out. “Please, enlighten me.”

He shakes his head, lets out a strange chuckle as he leans back against the wall, having taken a tinnie off the counter. “This would be funny if it weren’t so tragic,” he starts, grimacing. “Oscar used to push guys on the soccer team around for talking about you. He’d go silent whenever you were around and get clammy in the hands. He got weird whenever he’d even hear your name. And I’m sure I don’t have to list out your incriminating actions.”

Needless to say you’re taken aback by this. Eyes wide and blank, you look at him with shock as your mind oscillates between delight and horror, hand resting on your chest as if your heart needs the help. Jack sighs, and after a moment of tense silence he speaks again. “I take it that’s enough proof for you.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

“We thought you knew,” he shrugs. “And it wouldn’t have been my place to meddle, and also, it was kind of amusing to watch.”

You scoff bitterly. “Amusing.”

“Well, not so much now,” Doohan nods.

Silence fills the kitchen again, the chatter outside quiet against the deafening quietness inside. “You do like him, don’t you?” he asks earnestly.

You don’t answer, but all he has to do is look at your solemn face and see the emotions threatening to spill out of you. He comes closer, puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Hey. Just take your time, mate.”

You nod, but you hear Oscar’s distinct timbre in the distance, speaking rapidly to someone. You turn your head and see him standing in the living room near the couch, and then—like magnets—he seems to feel your eyes raking over his figure, and meets your gaze as his head turns a little. Suddenly you’re sixteen again. He’s smiling at you like he used to, so fondly and sweetly, all the way from another room. Everything has changed but this feeling is the same. Oscar nods his head gently, as if to tell you ‘I’m doing okay over here, and I hope you are too,’ and you realise he’s dropped out of his conversation now just to look at you. He has always done this.

The hard part is over, but you didn’t know until it was spoken of.

You sweep the crushed cans off the table and into the garbage bag, back starting to hurt from all the cleanup you’ve had to do. Thank the lord they all left early; you haven’t been able to enjoy yourself fully since that talk with Doohan. Since then his words have just been eating away at you the whole night, but you can speak to Oscar just fine, you think. You’re trying your best, at least.

“Jesus, have the lights always been this bright?” he says, and by the way he’s stumbling onto the couch and slurring his words a little, he’s probably more tipsy than he’d like to admit.

You shake your head, turning around to face him. The cans inside the bag you’re holding clank against one another. “Fun night?”

“Not particularly,” he says, eyes shutting as he throws an arm over his face, lying down flat on the couch. “Just, those fucking Strong Zeroes, man.”

“I told Doohan he shouldn’t have!”

“He really shouldn’t have.” Oscar groans, eyes shutting tighter as he tries to push his face into the couch, and you chuckle before going back to cleaning up, moving towards the pile of cans on the kitchen island.

“Don’t leave,” you hear him say behind you.

You turn around, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What?” you say. “I’m not. I’m just going into the kitch—”

“No,” he whines quietly, muffled by the fabric of the couch. “That’s too far. Stay.”

You stand still, still holding the bag in your hand, visibly confused.

“We should always be in the same room,” he continues. “I don’t want to be away from you.”

You flush at his words. You’re not sure if he quite grasps the implications of what he’s saying, but you chalk it all up to his current state—surely he’s just a clingy drunk. You put the garbage bag down against the wall, approaching the couch as he pulls his legs back to make room for you.

You sit down. “Are you feeling alright, Osc?”

“No,” he replies, too quickly for your liking. Oscar shuffles back onto his back, eyes still shut as his tone is reduced to grumbling. “I had this really awful thought the other day that we’re so far apart. I’m off doing my races and now you’re off at uni doing whatever.”

You cock your head to the side, clearly about to protest, but he starts up again. “I just want to know what you’re doing all the time,” he admits. “And how you’re feeling. I miss you all the time, and I wanna know you’re okay.”

“Oscar,” you frown, putting a hand on his arm tenderly. “If you want to stay in touch more, of course we can—”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t want to stay in touch. I wanna be with you.”

You pull your arm back. He winces, missing your touch. “Tiny, this must sound so crazy.”

“No,” you assure him, though you’re struggling to comprehend his words. “I just don’t know what you me—”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your blood runs cold even as your stomach shatters and explodes into a million butterflies that feel hot like lava inside of your body. “I know it must sound so crazy,” Oscar chuckles bitterly. “I know it must be so crazy…”

“No,” you shake your head. “I don’t think it’s crazy. I just, I wonder how you’ll feel in the morning.”

“It’s not the alcohol.”

He opens his eyes only to look at you, pupils darting around slowly to find you, the only soothing sight when the lights are still killing him. Oscar smiles a little at your familiar face. “I spoke to Doohan,” he explains.

“Ah,” you mumble, flushing. Of course he did.

He pauses a bit, tries to find the courage to speak again. He finds it in how your eyes seem to shine a little brighter where you’re sitting, mesmerised by how beautiful you are tonight. “He’s right, you know. I feel a bit silly, or stupid rather, like I don’t know how to explain myself.”

“Well,” you chuckle timidly, looking down at your hands. “I would have some explaining to do myself, too.”

Oscar smiles to himself. He takes a moment to catch his breath; he didn’t even realise he’d been holding it in this whole time. “You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear that.”

At his words, you look up to meet his eyes again, to see how he’s smiling now, and it makes your chest expand with warmth, heart pumping fast. “I’ll feel the same in the morning,” he says, sitting up clumsily now just to look at your face better. He doesn’t want to look away ever again. “I promise you that. I’ve felt this way since forever—I just didn’t know the word for it yet.”

Your eyes widen just a little more at his words; you don’t recognise the inexplicable feeling that’s captured your body, but you think this is what he means. The thing he didn’t know the word for. But you know the word for it now.

“I think I love you too,” you say.

Oscar lets out a quiet noise of relief. He finds your hand in your lap, takes it in his, and just holds it. You look at each other for a long while, taking in the details of one another’s faces. “You don’t look a day over seven,” you chuckle, and it makes him grin softly.

“That’s alright. Did you feel then how you feel about me now?” he asks.

“I think you sealed the deal when you helped me get up on my feet after falling off the slide,” you quip with a smile, and he squeezes your hand a little approvingly.

“You remember that.”

“The little things aren’t little to me, either,” you say, and his heart soars at your words. Oscar can’t resist it anymore; he tugs on your hand a little and pulls you into his arms, hands latching onto your waist as he holds you tightly. You fall into each other like magnets. It just feels right, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but nothing in this world is truly given this way. You had been working for it your entire life, but you’re only knowing this now.

His lips hover over your cheek, and it makes you shiver, but it shouldn’t be like this. “I don’t want our first kiss to be when you’re drunk,” you tell him, pulling away from his flushed face. “It’s… You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. It just has to be right.”

Oscar swallows dryly, but he nods. “You’re right,” he says, with a gentle smile that tells you he’s being sincere. “You’re right. Not like this.”

He pulls you in again, holding you even tighter this time. You feel his heart beating out of his chest against yours, his warm breath against your skin, the warm his arms keep contracting as if he’s afraid to let you go. A warm waft of air filters through the window, left ajar, and swirls around the two of you, bodies now entangled. Neither of you can find a reason to leave, so you don’t. You never end up cleaning the kitchen that night.

The sun’s starting to filter through your blinds now, and you know you have no excuse to stay in bed anymore, but you don’t have the heart to wake him up. Your brother’s bedroom is probably collecting dust already; ever since that night, Oscar’s been sleeping in your bed now, and you both sleep so much better with a cuddle buddy by your side. He likes to be big spoon, but he’s happy to hold you face to face as well, duh! Why would he upset with getting to see your face, eyes shut so peacefully in slumber? He likes to wake up before you because of this, just so he can catch a glimpse of you so soft and pliable in his arms, comfortably happily asleep, but today you’re the one who wakes up first, stirred awake by the birds chirping outside your window.

You try to slip out of his grasp, but he just tightens his arms around you, furrowing his eyebrows in his sleep. You try again and he does it again, this time with a grumbling noise that makes you chuckle.

“Oscar,” you smile, press a gentle kiss onto his forehead. “They come home today.”

“So?” he grumbles back, eyes still shut as he pulls you in, tucking your head under his chin. “What’s it got to do with us?”

“We’ve got to make them brekky, babe,” you chuckle. You press a kiss to his neck now, before deciding you can’t really resist littering them all over his skin. “They’ll be starving by the time they get here.”

Oscar makes a strange, hushed noise. “Well, doing that certainly won’t get me out of bed.”

You’re confused, but then you realise something’s been pressing up against your thigh, worsened by how he keeps pulling you back into his arms. “Oh my god, Osc,” you yelp. “Just from a few kisses?”

“And maybe a very good dream,” he mumbles back. If he were awake, he’d surely be laughing, pleased with himself.

“You dirty, dirty pervert,” you snicker, but you’re tutting at him in a way that sends a tingle down his spine, and your fingers inching down the trail on his stomach is making him shiver. “You’re shameless.”

“Yeah, but something tells me you like it,” he says, but he can barely finish the sentence before you tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, shimmying them down. His length springs free; your eyes beam a little too brightly at the sight of it, making him laugh.

“Someone’s eager.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been dreaming about riding you into the bed for actual years,” you chuckle, long fingers wrapping around him. “You look delicious in the morning, you know that? All sleepy and dishevelled. It’s very sexy, Osc.”

“Ah?” he says, a moan disguised as a word. Your hand starts to move and he can barely hold himself back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Your mouth is hovering over his cock now, warm breath making him shiver before your tongue makes contact with his tip, swirling all around the head in a way that makes his eyes roll back. “Holy shit,” you hear him mutter to himself, and you smile as you drag your tongue all over the length of him.

“Babe, I love the teasing,” he breathes out. “But I don’t think I can quite take it this morning.”

You hum to yourself, biting back a cheeky smile as a thought pops up in your head. “You know, you’re right,” you say. “We’re running on a tight schedule. And we could use something that saves time, so… if you’re getting head, you could give it too, no?”

Oscar’s face lights up at your words. “You wanna sit on my face? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I mean, if you’re offering.”

“Fuckin’ hell, any day of the week, missy.”

With that, he puts his hands on your head and pulls you up for a kiss that deepens into a little more. His lips are soft, mouth hot and wet; you feel yourself dampen a little against the cotton of your panties, something he feels too as his hands travel all the way down to your ass, fingers reaching past the fabric of your shorts inside to find the wet patch growing at your cunt. Your fingers hook into the waistband of both layers, tugging them off eagerly as he steadies his hands on your hips again. You turn around, and now Oscar’s got your pussy hovering right over his face. He think he’s salivating at the sight of it. Is that too crude? Jesus christ, it’s just so much fucking better than he could have ever imagined, waking up with you by his side, having the girl of all of his dreams with him now, eating your pussy first thing in the morning.

“You’re not so tiny anymore, hey? You’re a big girl now.”

You flush at his words. “Just get to it, Piastri.”

He needs no further encouragement, hands on your hips pulling you down to his face, tongue flicking a long stripe all the way down your cunt. You cry out at the sudden contact, and you realise very soon that he is very good at what he is doing, soft wet tongue sliding between your folds carefully, lips wrapping gently around your sensitive clit, hands gripping onto the meat of your ass, an action that signifies a clinginess you’d never know from how soft-spoken he is. He eats you out like a hungry man, lapping up the wetness that soaked your panties before eagerly. When you wrap your lips around his cock, taking all of him in until he hits the back of your throat, it makes him groan against your pussy, and it feels so strangely good that you keep throating him just like that every once in a while, just to feel him shift underneath you and thrust into your mouth a little. He wants to be gentle with you so badly, and he is, but he just can’t resist it when you’re doing that.

“Fuck, babe,” Oscar gasps out, pulling away as his fingers continue to rub at your clit. “If you keep doing that thing, I won’t last very long.”

You can tell by his tone he’s slightly embarrassed about taking such little time to get there. “We’ll get there together, I promise,” you say. “Just—ah!—keep using your fingers.”

He smiles, happy to oblige. This time he dips a finger inside you, tongue now swirling around your clit as his finger curls, finding that cushiony spot inside you that makes your back arch a little. There it is. He slips another finger in, tongue flicking fast against you, fingers pumping at a steady pace as you suck his cock sloppily, drool pooling at the base, fingers still wrapped around his length, lazily moving up and down. It’s all too much for the both of you, both moaning and whimpering against one another as your bodies start to get more and more sensitive, responding to each motion with a little more volume. Your back arches, his hips thrust; you know you’re both getting to that climax.

“Babe, fuck—”

“I know,” you gasp, a long mewl drawing out of you as his fingers, soaked in your slick now, keep thrusting in and out of you. “I’m—hah—almost there, too.”

He nods his head eagerly and latches his wet mouth back onto you, eating you out desperately as his hips start to move on their own, filling your mouth and muffling your increasing cries of pleasure as your eyes shut and roll back.

“I can’t take it,” he moans loudly. “Babe, I—oh my god!”

Just as Oscar starts to flood your mouth, you collapse onto him as your orgasm washes over you, leaving you breathless, body slack and limp. “Jesus,” you heave out, flipping onto your back off of him, swallowing all of his load down your throat. The sight of it makes him whimper. You take a good look at him; he’s got your slick all over his face, glistening from his lips down to his chin.

“Christ, I made a mess of you,” you chuckle, embarrassed, but he seems proud of himself.

“A souvenir, yeah?” He jokes, and you push his chest, rolling your eyes, but he pulls you into his arms. “God, that was fuckin’ amazing. You’re fuckin’ amazing.”

You pull the duvet back up over the both of you as you lie down once again, resting your head on his chest now as you look up at him with a smile. You wipe at his mouth with your hand. “There.”

“Aw,” he frowns playfully. “I quite liked it.”

“You fuckin’ pervert,” you say, going to push his chest again but he catches your arm with his hand.

“Don’t get feisty,” Oscar chuckles, shaking his head before pecking you on the forehead. “Let’s just lay here for a bit. And you know, I’ve been thinking.”

Your finger traces shapes on the freckled skin of his bare chest. “About what?”

“About you, coming to see me,” he says. “You know… I was thinking, maybe you could schedule your classes with me in my mind? You know, money’s not an issue. Transport, accommodation, passes, I can take care of all of that. I just need to know you can see me. Not for every race, obviously. But some of them. It’d mean so much to me, Tiny.”

You look up at him now, smiling. “Of course I can,” you nod gently. “It’d mean everything to me too, Osc.”

His face blooms into a smile, eyes raking over the details of your face, savouring it as if he hasn’t a million times before. “Then it’s done,” he says, bringing your hand up to kiss it. “You can’t escape me now.”

“Like I’d ever want to,” you roll your eyes.

Before Oscar can counter with a snarky remark, the door flies open.

“Piastri—seriously? My fucking sister?”

That’s the end! Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Leave em all in my askbox, and again, thank you so much for reading!

[himbodruid]

Promised Wildfire

Rafayel x reader

You make a trip to one of Rafayel’s exhibitions to surprise him. How will he react to the surprise? 😏

An expansion on the Promised Wildfire secret times

-:- thigh fucking -:- marking -:- you try to seduce him but he turns it back around -:- “painting”

Fic Masterlist

INTENDED FOR 18+ READERS. MINORS DNI

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a split second decision that made you seek out the hotel Rafayel was staying at, even though the original plan was to meet with him on his return to Linkon in the morning. You were sad that you had to miss the exhibition that he was the guest of honor of, but work kept you preoccupied until you got on the plane.

Getting a key to his room had been suspiciously easy, though the two of you had gone very public with your relationship a little over a month ago. It was almost impossible for you to go anywhere in Linkon without someone recognizing you because of how much he loved to show you off. But you had to wonder if he expected you to come by, and had the hotel put your name on the room too.

So you waited for him in his room, wearing nothing but the lacy negligé you’d grabbed at the last minute before leaving Linkon. You paced between the couch and bed, not sure which would be more enticing to him once he arrived back in his room. You didn’t even know when he would arrive. The show was supposed to last until late evening, but Rafayel enjoyed socializing at the after parties as well, and could be out until who knew when.

As soon as you began questioning your decision, you heard the door handle turn. You had been standing between the bedroom of the suite and the sitting area, but rushed back to the bed to perch at the edge in what you hoped would be an alluring pose.

Rafayel was on the phone, and you could see a bored expression on his face through the crack in the bedroom door. He paced the sitting area, hand on his hip and phone against his ear. He was dressed extravagantly, as usual, and you let your gaze sweep over his beautiful form, from broad shoulders to his narrow waist that fit so nicely between your thighs. You felt your face flush when he slipped out of the maroon jacket, watching his back and shoulders strain against the intricate pattern of his shirt.

“Really, Thomas?” He said, rolling his eyes. “Another last minute event?”

He listened for a moment, turning when he noticed a dim light coming from his room. He paced closer to the door and froze, brow furrowed in confusion and concern at the unexpected intrusion.

“Well, duh. Of course I can't make it. I gotta return to Linkon tomorrow- smell ya later.” He tossed the phone aside haphazardly.

“Is someone there?” His question was stern, but then his eyes widened when he stepped into the room and took in your scantily clad figure draped across his bed. A pretty blush spread across his face, even as mischief sparkled in his eyes.

“Cutie, why are you here so early?” He chuckled, striding closer to you.

“Mmm, too much time’s passed since I saw you last. I missed you.”

“You missed me sooo much that you decided to give me a surprise visit? Are we trying for a new romantic escapade here?”

“Mmmmmmaybe.” You gripped his tie and tugged him closer. His hand found your knee, deft fingers brushing your skin with feather-light touches.

“Okay, I’ll admit your surprise was perfect.”

“Is that so?” You teased him, looking up at him through your lashes. His eyes were darkened by desire and his mouth was quirked in a cheeky smile. A finger came up to smooth a trail along your neck, more of those feather touches that made you shiver and goosebumps pebble your skin.

“I’m excited,” he said, leaning down close to you. “You have no idea. It’s almost like butterflies are about to burst from my chest.”

Feeling bold, you closed the gap and kissed him gently. Just a quick, teasing press of your lips against his. He breathed a chuckle.

“Was this sneak attack also part of your surprise?”

You tried to hide your smile by biting your lower lip, but failed. His gaze zeroed in on the action before flicking back to your eyes. Another breathy chuckle escaped him.

“Ahh…your kiss couldn’t stop the butterflies from flying out of my heart.”

He crowded you against the edge of the bed, not quite crawling atop you. His arm held your legs together, hand caressing the backs of your thighs. Your breath hitched when he tilted your chin up, mouth hovering just above yours.

“But this is how you do it,” he whispered to you. And then he leaned in the rest of the way, capturing your lips in an unhurried kiss that sent heat straight to your core. His hips rolled forward and you could feel the length of him hardening against your thigh. Soft moans escaped him as he coaxed your mouth open to plunge his tongue in. You responded to him in kind, losing control of the situation every second it went on.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he murmured against your lips. His hand trailed down, down, until he found your slit between your thighs. A sharp inhale sounded when he realized you wore nothing down there to conceal yourself from him. “You’ve given me quite a surprise. How should I repay you?”

“Mmmh, how about a nice kiss,” you breathe as he continued to explore your folds, slicking your thighs with your arousal.

“Sure, I can kiss you,” he said, resting his forehead against yours.

“Let's start with just above your eyes-“ he kissed your brow, a painfully tender touch of his lips against your skin.

“Your nose-“ he kissed the very tip of your nose, causing you to giggle.

“Ears…” he dipped his head, lips lingering against the spot just below your ear. When he move back, his teeth scraped your lobe in passing. A moan escaped you, and your hands clenched his shirt and tie.

“And lips, too.” He devoured you again and you opened to him willingly, tangling your tongue with his with shared moans. His hips rocked against your thigh and you could feel him standing at full attention now, even as confined as he still was in his trousers.

“I’ll make sure to say hello to each of them,” he said. He placed his forehead against yours again, those damnably beautiful eyes of his bouncing between yours.

“It’s been so long,” he said. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Rafayel.” He groaned when you said his name, unable to keep from kissing you over and over and over again, all while his hips seemed to move of their own accord.

You shifted as his nimble fingers continued playing with your slit, but never entering you. You longed for him to slide them into you, or better yet, his cock. Your squirming didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t move. I want to savor this moment. I’m always scared that you’re just a figment of my imagination.” His breathy confession made your heart lurch.

“I really am here, Rafayel,” you murmur to him, nipping at his lower lip when you leaned in to kiss him. He didn’t even try to hold back his moan. You were exceptionally appreciative of how vocal he was about his pleasure, the sounds he made shooting straight to your core.

“You’re real. And warm. It’s like I’m being enveloped in a pool of water.”

You weren’t sure the metaphor was the same for him, but you sure felt like your head was swimming. So much stimulation from him, and he hadn’t even begun to have his way with you yet. You were definitely no longer in control of this seduction.

“I don’t want to let you go, I could hold you like this forever.”

“Is that so?” Feeling another wave of boldness, you all but ripped his tie from him. The action was aggressive, but still he moaned.

“What are you-“ his question was cut off when you managed to wrench his wrists together and wrapped the tie firmly around them. You gave him a self-satisfied grin, though you mourned the loss of his touch.

“When I said I wouldn’t let go,” he chuckled. “I wasn’t giving you permission to tie me up.”

He wedged himself between your knees so that he could lean over you, his bound wrists above your head. You hissed in a breath when he nipped at your neck.

“And…you did it with my own tie, no less.”

“It’s just your punishment for not coming back sooner. I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” you admonished, tapping him on the nose. He huffed a chuckle.

“Fine, fiiine. Punish me however you want, cutie.”

You tugged the tie upwards so that his hands would slide out from where he rested his weight on them. The action brought him closer to you until he was half-laying on you.

“Ouch,” he chuckled. “An artist’s wrists are precious, you know.”

His lips hovered over yours and it was a battle of wills that heightened the senses.

“But you’re very very cute, right now. I don’t mind being tied up by you.”

“Mmm so you mean I can do it more? I’ll hold you to that.”

You smoothed your hands down his chest, feeling the firmness of the muscle beneath the fabric. He let out a shaky exhale.

“This shirt is too tight. Can you help me unbutton it?”

Your fingers obediently began working at the buttons. You paced yourself, although you wanted to just rip the shirt from him. But the heated expression he gave you was worth the slow progress. You stopped half way down to touch him, running your hands down his chest and back up.

“It's still too tight…keep unbuttoning it,” he demanded breathily. And so you did. But you didn’t stop at just his shirt. A grin spread across your face when you unbuttoned and unzipped his dress slacks.

He closed his eyes when you palmed him through fabric at first, his breathing becoming laboured when you freed his cock fully and stroked him. He pressed his hips forward to chase your touch when your hand slid to the tip of him. Moaned when you pressed your thumb against the underside of his glans. You were enjoying the flush of his pretty face, the breathlessness, the way his body reacted to your touch. Maybe you could regain control of the situation, after all.

“You broke the rules,” he groaned. He took your legs and lifted, placing your calves against his shoulders while you stroked him faster. “Getting straight to the point, huh?”

You continued to work at his cock, and he watched while placing kisses against your ankles and calves. His moans grew in intensity before he suddenly jerked back, out of your grip.

“Okay, you can stop now..” he whined.

“Rafayel?” His name fell from your lips in a breathier moan than you intended.

“We’ve only been separated for a few days. And you somehow managed to become so bold.”

He shifted your legs again so that both of them rested together on a single shoulder. He pulled you so that you lay flush against him where he stood at the edge of the bed, the lingerie bunching up to expose even more of your curves to him. Your newly unoccupied hands turned to grip at the sheets above you while he looked down at you with a predatory glint in his eye.

“Then..does that mean I can also be a little bold… and spice things up?” His chuckle turned into a sigh of longing. You noticed, then, the tie dangling from only one of his wrists.

“Wait, how did you break free?” You were quickly relinquishing control back to him, it seemed.

“That’s something I can’t tell you. A slippery fish like me can’t be caught so easily.” He let out a breathy chuckle at his silly little rhyme and positioned himself. But he didn’t enter your slicked folds. Instead his cock pressed between your thighs, just above your mound.

“R-Rafayel,” his name came from you on a pleasured breath.

“At this point,” he said, drawing his hips back and then pressing forward into your thighs again. “Begging or running away won't help.”

The sight of him fucking your thighs was nearly your end. Beautiful man that he was, it was never something you would have expected from him. Especially not when you were trying to seduce him. He did a very fine job at turning this seduction back on you and you shivered in anticipation.

“I forgot to turn on the AC…it’ll be hot in here soon enough.” With that, his thrusts into your thighs became long strokes punctuated by his moans. He turned his head to kiss wherever he could on your legs. Your heart thundered in your chest watching him take pleasure from such a simple thing, and you could feel heat building in your core rapidly. This explained why he was insistent in spreading your natural lubricant along the backside of your thighs only moments prior.

Every few thrusts, his gaze would snap to yours. And every time it did, your breath would hitch at the intensity you saw there. He was enjoying this as much as you were, and you were almost certain he knew the sounds he made were driving you insane. Watching him pleasure himself on you was one thing, but every single one of his moans shot straight through you until you couldn’t hold back your own sounds.

And then his hips jerked forward almost violently, his release spilling onto your stomach and pelvis with a hissed moan from him. It was the single most arousing thing you had experienced, and you couldn’t help squirming under him even as he gripped your thighs to keep you still.

“I only touched this and you’re already flushed,” he teased, squeezing your thighs in his grasp before letting go. He slid your legs from his shoulder, opening you to him completely once more. His cock rested heavy against your pelvis, still hard as he took in the mess he made of you.

“I guess Miss Bodyguard is a blank canvas,” he said. He reached down, flattening a hand against your stomach and spreading his seed further against your skin.

“Mmh. I painted a masterpiece on your body, and only I get to admire it.”

He pulled away from you then to shed the rest of his clothing, barely breaking eye contact with you as he did. You shifted backwards onto the bed as he crawled over you until you both rested in the center. His weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock waiting eagerly at your entrance..it was all almost too much for you and you shuddered with anticipation again. You looked down and saw his sculpted stomach resting against yours without a single regard for the mess that slicked there.

“What if I wanna see how beautiful your painting is?” You whined, biting your lip. He chuckled, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

“It’s not finished, yet,” he said, thrusting into you with a guttural moan. Your arousal was at such heights that he glided in without the need to adjust to his size. And you were glad for that, because you wanted him viscerally. You were feral for him, and you wrapped your legs around his hips to lock him to you.

You knew he could feel your need because he set a punishing pace. His mouth roamed your body even as his hips collided with you over and over. Your moans mingled with his, rising to duet the lewd sounds of him pistoning in and out of you.

And then his mouth latched onto your neck, sucking the spot until he was satisfied a mark would be there for some time. He could already see it purpling when he finally let go, and he groaned at the sight.

“I wanna leave my mark here,” he kissed the mark he made.

“And there.” He latched onto your collarbone to draw up another.

“Yes…everywhere,” he moaned when he saw his new mark. And so he went about leaving a trail of those marks while he thrust into you. The sensations surrounding you were overwhelming and all you could do was cling to him.

“Mmmh, oh fu-“ he breathed, freezing and trying to pull from you.

“No,” you growled, locking your ankles so he couldn’t. “Inside.”

“In that case,” he said, thrusting forward. Hard. “I willingly surrender myself to you.”

And so he did. His thrusts grew erratic as he chased his release. Your own built and overflowed so rapidly, all you could do was cry out his name and dig your nails into him. The fluttering pulse of your climax wrapped around his cock was just the push he needed. His hips twitched and his body jerked as he flooded you, whining moans escaping him at the overwhelming rush of sensations.

When you finally came down from the high, your lips lazily found his again. He kissed you in such a painfully tender way, nuzzling into your neck between such kisses. It took some time before either of you could breathe without heavy panting, and you reveled in the way his body continued to press yours into the luxurious mattress.

Your eyes roamed him, taking in every detail of the moment to lock it away in your memories. Your eyes fell on the various marks dotting your body and a thrill jolted through you. You liked being marked by him. Being claimed in such a primal way. And yet..

“Mm, this is unfair,” you said. He pulled back to look at you with confusion in his eyes.

“What is?”

“All these marks on me and not a single one on you!” You feigned a pout and he snorted a laugh, relaxing back into you.

“Well then. You could leave a mark on me, right? It’ll be yours.”

And so you did. Your mouth found his neck and latched on, drawing your own mark up against his skin. His moan was a whimper in your ear and his hips pressed forward again. He was panting, moaning, whining, squirming as your mouth remained secured to his neck. When you finally let him go, he whimpered a soft ‘ow’.

“You’re greedy, aren’t you?” He asked, breathless.

“Mmmh, yup,” you say, your mouth finding his chest to leave another mark there.

“Making me surrender isn’t enough?” He whined.

“I want to leave my mark on you, too,” you say when you release him once more.

“All right then,” he said, tilting his head to the side to give you better access to his neck. “Don’t miss a single spot.”

You left your own trail of marks as he took you again. You were surprised to find that even after his second climax, he was still hard inside you. Every mark that you left on his skin was met by his shuddering, breathy moans. If you tried to stop, an adorable pout would entice you back to your task, all the way until he thrust deep into you again with a guttural moan signalling his release.

You rested with him for some time, a companionable silence spreading between you. He laid atop you, arms wrapped around you with his ear against your chest so he could listen to your heartbeat. You let your hand card through his soft waves in a tender touch. You were certain he’d fallen asleep at some point, but then he sat up and tugged you off the bed with him.

He carried you into the bathroom, stripping the lingerie you were wearing, running the bath and kissing you while waiting for the tub to fill. And then he gently lowered you into the bath, the water hot enough to almost scald- it was perfect. He remained outside the claw foot tub, pampering and caring for you- brushing your hair, using a soft cloth on every inch of your skin, etc. The pout he gave when he realized that he’d washed away the seed he spilled on your abdomen made you laugh. You leaned in, giving him a kiss. A kiss he quickly took over, plunging his tongue into your mouth.

Next thing you knew, he was in the tub with you, pumping into you again and making the water slosh over the edges. Your voices echoed in the tiled room as he took you again and again. You were sure you would be leaking his cum for days by the time he was done with you.

“No more,” you begged him with quivering limbs after he carried you back to bed, and utilized your overstimulation to bring out yet another climax with his skilled tongue. “Rafayel, I can’t take any more.”

He chuckled and relented. He wrapped himself around you, spooning you against him and laying the comforter over you. He buried his nose against the back of your neck, inhaling deeply. He enjoyed the smell of his scent mixed with yours on your skin, another way that he was able to claim you.

The warmth of his embrace lulled you into sleep as the sun began to peek over the horizon.

[slickdickwitchbitchh]

OBX realityshow!au

“Coming Soon: Outer Banks After Dark”

Coming to Netflix this summer !

It’s the show everyone will be talking about—a reality TV experiment like no other. Welcome to the Outer Banks, where the richest of the rich—the Kooks—rule the pristine beaches and country clubs, while the Pogues, the working-class locals, hustle to make a living on the water. The divide between these two worlds has fueled decades of tension, and now, it’s about to hit a boiling point under the summer sun.

This season: Relationships will ignite, friendships will fracture, and secrets will explode.

Meet Y/N: the wildcard in a love triangle that’s shaking the OBX to its core. On one side, there’s JJ—the fun-loving bad boy with a reckless streak and a heart of gold. On the other, Rafe—the reformed kook whose dangerous charm has everyone questioning his motives. Sparks fly as Y/N tries to navigate her feelings, but when a late-night pool party takes a turn, the rivalry between JJ and Rafe threatens to get out of control.

But that’s just the beginning. Sarah Cameron is navigating her own triangle with long-time boyfriend John B and her ex, Topper. "Once a Topper, always a Topper," she teases in her confessional—but John B isn’t laughing. When an innocent game of truth or dare turns personal, things get messy.

And then there’s Sarah and Kiara. Once inseparable, now anything but. Their unresolved tension from Kiara’s kook year resurfaces, threatening to split the group down the middle. "She acts like she’s better than me now," Sarah snaps. "But we all remember who she was."

"I feel like I’m stuck in the middle of this," Y/N admits in her confessional. "I’m friends with both of them, but it’s exhausting trying to keep the peace when they can’t even be in the same room together."

And while Cleo and Pope are the group’s newest power couple, even they aren’t immune to the drama. "We’re just trying to stay out of it," Cleo jokes in her confessional. Pope smirks, adding, "But let’s be real, these people live for chaos."

Friendships will be tested. Lines will be crossed. Hearts will be broken.

So, grab your drink and settle in for the world’s most dramatic beach house experiment. This isn’t just summer in the OBX—this is Outer Banks After Dark.

First Chapter

Author's Note

Hey guys,

Thank you so much for checking out my story! This is my very first fanfiction, and I’m so excited (and nervous) to share it with you all. I’m keeping things open and fun, so if you have any ideas or plotlines you’d like to see, my requests are definitely open. I’d love to hear your thoughts and suggestions—this story is for all of us to enjoy together!

This will be a love triangle for Y/N, and honestly… I don’t even know who she’s going to end up with yet! I’m just as torn as she is, so we’ll figure it out together as the story unfolds.

Oh, and one last thing! I’ll be posting a moodboard for Y/N and the show tomorrow, so stay tuned for that! I can’t wait to dive deeper into the vibes of this story with you.

Thank you again for all your support, and I hope you love what’s coming!

xoxo, [Z]

[achilles-rage]

hiiii hope im not to late to your prompt party.

how about “tracing a finger across your lover’s scar” and “kissing your lovers forehead or knuckles” for Buck

because I’m a cool lightning strike scar truther 🫙

yess i’m so glad i got a fluffy prompt request!! i was expecting mostly smut ones, so i love this!! this is also an idea i've had for a while, but never got around to writing, so i'm glad i finally got to write it!! also, i know these scars wouldn’t last that long, but just pretend<3

"tracing a finger across your lover's scar" and "kissing your lovers forehead or knuckles" from this post

you still remember the night there was a knock on your door. you weren’t expecting anyone, which was the first red flag, but when you looked through the peephole and saw the familiar fabric of an lafd uniform, you knew something was terribly wrong. 

you could barely look at buck shirtless for weeks; the lightning scars across his torso too painful of a reminder of when you saw him in the hospital. of when his heart stopped. 

3 minutes and 17 seconds.

when buck had finally noticed what you were doing; turning the a/c up so it was too cold for him to sleep shirtless, and always coming up with excuses to either of you taking off clothes during sex, he finally pieced everything together.

“baby, what’s going on? why don’t you want to see me anymore?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest as he stands in front of you in your shared bedroom.

you blink slowly, feeling tears well up in your eyes as you take in his hurt expression. you don’t want to tell him the truth, you don’t want to make it into a big deal. and you especially don’t want to face that he had died. not again.

“i can’t look at those scars everyday, buck. it fucking hurts.” you tell him, voice cracking. 

his brows furrow as he studies your face, and then his expression falls, realization dawning on his face.

“what, you think they’re ugly? you don’t think i’m attractive anymore?” you can see the tears in his eyes, and you shake your head quickly, closing the distance between the two of you and cupping his cheeks in your hands.

“oh, baby, no. of course not.” you assure him in a soft voice. you can’t believe yourself; you’ve put your needs completely over his. you didn’t even think of how this would look to him. “it’s just that, all i think about when i see those scars is how you left me. you died, buck, and then you were in a hospital bed, in a coma. you have no idea what that was like for me. for a while, we didn’t even know if you’d even wake up.” 

he lets out a shaky breath as a tear runs down his cheek, nodding slowly at your words. it’s true, he doesn’t know what that was like, and he feels an odd sense of guilt filling his belly.

“i’m sorry. i just thought that-” he whispers, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against yours as he lets out a long sigh.

you shake your head, smiling sadly as you keep his face right against yours, feeling a tear fall down your own cheek.

“don’t you dare apologize. i’m sorry. i didn’t think about how you’d take what i was doing. your scars aren’t ugly. at all. you’re still you, and you’re still as handsome as you were without your scars, i promise. it was only ever about the memories attached to those scars.” you tell him, voice firm enough for him to believe you, yet soft enough to know that you’re not upset in any way. 

you feel him nod against your forehead, and you finally pull back from him and place a kiss on his forehead, lips lingering on his skin for a second or two longer than normal.

“i love you.” you whisper when you pull back, smile softly as you see the sadness and uncertainty melting from his features. “now take off your shirt.”

he raises a brow, a glimpse of his usual self coming back as he smirks down at you and places his hands on your hips.

“are you trying to get me naked, pretty girl?” he teases, and you laugh softly, shrugging.

“just your shirt, lover boy. wanna see you.” you tell him with a smile, turning him around and pushing him down to sit on the bed. 

he pulls his shirt off quickly, and when it’s off, you’re quick to straddle his lap and push his back down onto the bed. you let your fingers drag across his skin, tracing the patterns of the scar littering his torso. your eyes follow the path of your fingers, touch feather-light as you take in every dark patch of skin. 

buck can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he watches you, eyes darting between your face and your fingers as his hands squeeze your hips, keeping you firmly in place.

when you finally look back up at him, you smile, fingers still pressed against his chest.

“beautiful boy.” you whisper, then lean down and begin to press gentle kisses to his scars, starting at the tips of each lightning strike, then moving up and kissing where each branch of lightning separates from the other, moving in different directions across his tan skin.

he doesn’t know what to do as he relishes in your touch, your attention to his scars feeling so overwhelming and mind numbing. he hadn’t told anyone, but he’s a little insecure about his scars. everyone tells him how cool they look, but he just doesn’t see it. it just reminds him of what happened to him, and what he could’ve lost.but, now, he doesn’t feel bad about them at all, because you like them, and that’s all that matters.

[ialreadymadeyouapromise]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓.

PAIRING: jj maybank x fem!reader WARNINGS: readers upset, no use of y/n GENRE: angst, fluff, comfort SONG INSPIRATION: my kind of woman - mac demarco WORD COUNT: 638 NOTE: been really sick recently so here's a short one!

navigation | inbox | jj maybank masterlist

the party had been loud, chaotic even. the bass thumped through the floorboards of the chateau, the laughter echoed over the music. you had managed to push your way through the crowd, searching for a quieter escape.

the air outside was cooler, the sound of the waves more soothing than the pounding speakers inside.

you walked down to the beach, away from the festivities, the sand cool under your feet. you found a spot where the shoreline stretched wide and empty, a place where you could sit and breathe in the calm.

the sun was starting to set, it’s light reflecting off the sea in beautiful hues of pinks and oranges. you sat down in the sand, the warmth still lingering from the late afternoon, but the breeze was beginning to carry a chill.

you sipped on your beer, watching as the waves crashed against the shore.

jj wasn’t supposed to follow you.

he had been at the party, laughing and talking, taking in the atmosphere like always. but as the evening wore on, he began to notice you weren’t around.

at first, he thought you might be inside with the crowd, but when he glanced through the windows, you weren’t there.

then he spotted you, alone, by the water. it wasn’t unusual for you to be a little more reserved, but something about the way you sat there, the distance in your posture, made him pause. he excused himself from the group and quietly followed, footsteps soft against the sand.

“hey,” he said softly, coming up beside you.

you turned toward him, startled slightly. you hadn’t expected him to follow, let alone see you in the quiet, vulnerable state you were in. a smile bloomed on your face, though it trembled at the edges. “jj,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

he sat down beside you, leaving a space between you two at first, but the silence stretched, thick with unspoken words. he noticed how you were clinging tightly to your drink, how your gaze kept shifting between the ocean and the setting sun, almost as if you were trying to keep yourself grounded.

but then he saw it. a tear slipped down your cheek, unnoticed until the light caught it. his brow furrowed deeply, concern washing over him as he gently reached out, brushing the tear away with his thumb.

“hey,” he said quietly, his voice softer than before. “what’s wrong?”

you shook your head, swallowing back a sob. “it’s… nothing,” you whispered, but your voice cracked.

he wasn’t buying it. he had seen you like this before. this wasn’t just nothing. his arm slid around your shoulder again, pulling you closer. “don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “talk to me.”

you hesitated for a moment, tears welling up faster now. you wanted to be strong, but something about the way he looked at you, concern etched into every line of his face, broke through the walls you had built. “i don’t know,” you said quietly, your voice trembling.

“i guess everything just got a little much. and now… now i’m just here, and i feel…”

“alone?” he finished softly, brushing away another tear that escaped down your cheek. his touch was tender, comforting. a touch that spoke of trust, understanding, and care.

you nodded, finally resting your head against his shoulder. the steadiness of his presence anchored you, offering a sense of calm amidst the chaos in your mind.

“i’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice calm and steady. “always.”

the sound of the waves crashing around you, his steady heartbeat against your ear. these were the only things that mattered now. the party, the noise, the drama of life. 

it all seemed far away as you sat together in silence, comforted by the quiet, by his unwavering comfort.

reblogs and comments are appreciated ᯓ★

© ialreadymadeyouapromise 2025.

[sabrinasopposite]

drinks or coffee?

college!charlie baker x photographer!reader

I'm feeling so good At a bad party We don't have to talk I know that you want me Gotta keep it nice We cannot be naughty We can get drinks Or we could get coffee

summary: y/n is stuck in this lame, boring and bad college party, yet she starts to find more reasons to stay there as she was talking to her crush, charlie baker.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her vintage camera, letting the weight of it steady her. She stood in the corner of the crowded apartment, where strings of fairy lights stretched across the ceiling, casting warm, uneven glows on the peeling walls. The party was alive, pulsing with music and laughter, but Y/N felt like she was outside looking in, a ghost in a room of vibrant, living people.

She raised her camera, the familiar click and hum of the focus grounding her. Through the lens, the world always made sense: fragmented, composed, controllable. She scanned the room, her eye catching on flashes of movement and laughter, on the way the light hit someone’s cheekbone just right. But when her camera landed on him, she froze.

Charlie Baker.

He was leaning against the worn-out bookshelf on the other side of the room, casually laughing at something one of his friends said. He had that effortless charisma Y/N couldn’t look away from.

His dark curls fell perfectly messy over his forehead, and his faded denim jacket looked like it had seen its fair share of oil changes and late-night drives. He was all sharp angles and soft smiles, an easy magnetism that made everyone around him feel seen.

Charlie wasn’t like the others on campus who dressed to impress or strutted their way into conversations. He was real, grounded in a way that felt rare. Y/N had heard bits and pieces about him—how he grew up in a big, chaotic family, how he used to be the star of the football team but decided to trade that life for working with his hands.

Word was he wanted to drop out of college altogether and become a car mechanic, though most people couldn’t understand why someone who looked like that wouldn’t want to be famous instead.

Through the lens, Y/N could admire him without fear. She could notice the little things: the way his hands moved when he talked, rough and calloused but deliberate, or the faint grease stains on his jacket cuffs. He had a habit of glancing down when he laughed, like he didn’t realize how captivating he was.

Her heart tugged, a quiet ache she wasn’t sure what to do with. She lowered the camera and sighed.

“Still hiding behind that thing?”

Her breath hitched. She turned to find Charlie standing beside her, a crooked grin on his face. How did he move so quietly?

“Still asking obvious questions?” she shot back, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

Charlie chuckled, a low, warm sound that made the noise of the party blur into static. His smile was lopsided, like he wasn’t sure it belonged to him. “Touché,” he said. “So, what’s the verdict? Getting any good shots, or is this place a creative wasteland?”

Y/N shrugged, her pulse racing. “It’s... lively.”

“Diplomatic answer.” He tilted his head, studying her the way he might study a car engine that wouldn’t start, his brown eyes sharp and curious. “What are you really thinking?”

She tightened her grip on the camera strap. You’re making it impossible to think. Instead, she said, “I’m thinking that not every party needs to be immortalized.”

“Maybe not,” he said, leaning a little closer. “But I’m betting you’ve already found something worth keeping.”

Charlie was the kind of guy who could make anyone feel at ease. He had this way of giving people his full attention, like whatever they were saying was the most important thing in the world. Tonight, though, it felt like his focus was entirely on her, and Y/N didn’t know what to do with it.

He asked her about her photography, genuinely curious, and she found herself talking more than she expected—about her gallery submission, her love for capturing fleeting moments, how the camera helped her make sense of the world.

“You must have the patience of a saint,” he said, his voice low and warm.

“Not really.” She smiled, feeling her cheeks heat. “I just know what I’m looking for.”

His gaze lingered on her, a beat too long. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I can see that.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped, and she quickly looked away, pretending to adjust her camera.

It wasn’t fair, the way Charlie existed. He was every bit the campus heartthrob, but there was nothing flashy about him. He didn’t chase attention—it just followed him, like moths to a flame. He continued to carry the conversation as he told her about his love for cars, how he’d spend hours in the garage back home with his dad, rebuilding engines and making junkers run like new. “It’s honest work,” he said, his voice tinged with longing. “There’s something satisfying about fixing something with your hands, you know?”

Y/N nodded, though she didn’t fully understand. What she did understand was the way his face lit up when he talked about it, like it was more than a job—it was who he was. She found herself noticing everything about him: the way his hair caught the light, the faint smudge of grease on his forearm, the way his voice softened when he talked about home. She wanted to capture it all, not with her camera, but just for herself.

As the party wound down, Charlie stayed, lingering in her orbit like a half-finished thought. Someone called him away, and she thought the moment was over. But later, as she stood on the balcony, trying to let the cold air clear her mind, he appeared again. “Thinking about calling it a night?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Maybe.”

He hesitated, then smiled, something shy in the curve of it. “I was thinking of getting coffee. You know, to detox from all... this.” He gestured vaguely toward the party behind them.

Her heart raced, but she shrugged, keeping her face neutral. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

When she finally decided to leave, he was waiting by the door.

“Still up for coffee?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She hesitated, a thousand thoughts colliding in her mind. But then she nodded. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

They walked through the quiet streets, the tension between them humming like the low purr of an engine. At the café, under the golden glow of the lights, Charlie leaned forward, his hands wrapped around his cup.

“You know,” he said, his voice soft, “I wasn’t really thinking about the party tonight. I was thinking about you.”

Y/N’s breath caught, her fingers tightening around her own cup.

“I’ve been seeing you in a different light,” he admitted. “And I don’t know if I’m reading this wrong, but...”

She met his gaze, the courage rising unbidden. “You’re not.”

His smile widened, slow and warm, and suddenly, the weight of unspoken words lifted. The night stretched ahead of them, full of possibility, and for the first time, Y/N felt like she didn’t need her camera to hold on to it.

🥡 taglist: @blackynsupremacy @alelo23 @collywobblvs @tvdelrey @angelsgalore @callicela @seulgi-burgundy

[ravennaortiz]

hi love! for juicy january could i request fluff prompts 18 and 32 please

love the idea for your event, so very much may be back for another request!

Thank you! Please feel free to come back for more! As Always 18+

Butterfly.

Juice was sipping his beer as he did another lap of the clubhouse. He frowned, it was unlike you to no show for a club party let alone one that signified a big deal they had made. Maybe you and your late were running late? He thought to himself. While he was relieved a bit to not have to deal with pretending he was happy about this guy you were with a bigger part of him was worried. If you were running late you would have texted or called. Maybe the guy got cold feet about meeting your family? His eyes landed on Chibs as he sat with Tig and Happy. Making his way over he figured it wouldn’t be odd to inquire.

“Lassies not coming” stated Chibs the minute Juice came into view making Tig and Happy laugh.

“I …wasn’t…” started Juice as he looked away. Cheeks warm as he took a sip of his beer. “Was just coming over to say hi and chat” he added trying to sound casual.

Chibs snorted and shared a glance with Tig. “Uh-huh. What did you want to chat about then?”

“The weather” replied Juice as he scuffed his boot on the floor. “It’s been weird”

“Like you” stated Happy quietly setting Tig over again.  Juice shot him a quick glare before turning back to Chibs.

“So why is she not coming? Car trouble? I can go get them?’ he questioned as he played with his keys. Truthfully he would rather just get you but he would be nice and pick your date up as well.

“Aye, shes got a little heartbreak and wasn’t feeling like socializing” answered Chibs as he sighed. “These young bucks just don’t know how to handle a lass”.

“Oh” replied Juice perking up. He nodded a moment before tossing his half empty beer and heading towards the door. Chibs and Tig shared another look as they watched him go.

You had just finished up changing into a pair of sweats and a SAMCRO tshirt you had stolen from Juice when you heard a knock at your door. Sighing you wiped at a couple tears that had fallen before looking through the peephole. Your heart rate sped up as your eyes fell on the guy you had had a crush on for forever. You had never acted on it because you didn’t want to make things awkward and he could have any woman he wanted. No way he would be interested in you, socially since your uncle was one of his brothers.

“Hey” you stated quietly as you opened the door.

“Hey!” greeted Juice enthusiastically as he held up a shopping bag as he stepped towards you. “I got ice cream, wine and popcorn”.

You laughed as you moved to let him enter. “You didn’t have to leave the party to bring me that” you stated as you watched him curiously as he kicked his boots off before heading to your kitchen. You had expected him to just be doing a drop off not staying.

“It’s no big deal. Club parties happen all the time. So many people there they won’t notice I’m gone” he called as he rummaged around in your drawers for your wine opener, spoons and ice cream scoop. “Besides you’re my best friend and need me.

“You cancelled your plans and are skipping the party for me?” you asked in shock as you grabbed bowls and set them in front of him as he began scooping huge chunks of ice cream into them.

“Yep” replied Juice as he glanced up at you briefly. Taking a deep breath he set the scoop down “You give me butterflies. Make me nervous and I just need to do this sorry” he stated before grabbing your face and kissing you gently.

“Don’t apologize” you replied as he pulled back before you pushed forward kissing him.

[themindofachronicdaydreamer]

Suites & Sweets

freshman year at Jujutsu University Tokyo seems like it will be uneventful. and, well, that's true... until you meet the boys in the suite across the hall, and one in particular piques your interest.

satoru gojo x reader | jjk college au | no curse au | fem! reader | fluff, angst, & slow burn | SMAU & writing <3

introduction | previous | next

₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.

ˋ°•*⁀➷˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 25. 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓣𝓐𝓛𝓚 ⍣ ೋ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ... wc: 3.9k

You wiggle the doorknob of 12B behind you, ensuring it's locked before taking one step across the hall and knocking on the door of Suite 12A. It doesn’t take long for the door to swing open, revealing Satoru in his usual laid-back ensemble: grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips and a baggy black crewneck.

He leans against the doorframe with that signature lopsided grin of his, gesturing you inside with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome in, your majesty. To what occasion do I owe the honor of this late-night visit?”

You roll your eyes and scoff, but scoot around him and step inside anyway, the soft click of the door shutting behind you sounding loud in the quiet of the suite. The dimly lit living area feels sleepy, the glow from a single lamp in the corner casting long, lazy shadows. You’re surprised by how quiet it is; there are no sounds of laughter, no late-night snacking in the kitchen, no signs of life at all.

“It’s only eleven,” you muse aloud, slipping off your shoes and aligning them with the other pairs at the entrance. “Where even is everyone?”

“Being boring,” Satoru groans, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his sweats. “Kento’s probably doing homework in the library or whatever responsible people do. The other two...” He pauses, tilting his head as if searching his memory. "Something with Choso, I think? Maybe smoking? I know Yu was invited and Suguru tagged along."

He shrugs nonchalantly, though the faintest hint of a smirk dances on his lips. “Which means it’s just you and me. Lucky you.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you look at Satoru. “Lucky me, huh?”

“Of course,” he quips, spinning on his heel to lead you down the hallway. “An uninterrupted evening with yours truly? What more could you ask for?”

"I could think of a few things," you tease.

"Hey!" he whines, and you giggle at his antics. Satoru throws a playful pout at you, but it’s quickly replaced by that signature grin, the one that always makes your heart trip over itself. "I'm hurt. Here I am, offering my time and charm, and you’re already thinking of alternatives?"

“Don’t take it so personally, Toru,” you say with a smirk, falling into step beside him. The familiar teasing cadence between you feels comforting, yet tonight it carries an undercurrent of something else you feel in the way your pulse quickens whenever his gaze lingers on you.

Does he feel it too?

Satoru opens the door to his room with a flourish, stepping aside to let you in first. “Well, I’m choosing to ignore the sting of that comment because I’m generous like that.”

You laugh at the ridiculous statement, then enter his room and inquire, "When will they be back?" Since it's a Thursday night, they will need to go to class tomorrow, and you wouldn't want to be a bother. You've been feeling guilty for spending so much time in their suite lately, and as you take a seat at the foot of his bed, you feel even worse for taking up so much of Satoru's time he could be spending with his friends, not with you dragging him down to your personal pity parties.

"Hmm," he contemplates. "Nanami will probably be a while since the library is open all night. The other two were gonna crash at Choso's." Satoru walks in behind you, and in one fluid motion, swings the door shut behind him. He glances at you, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips. "Why? You want me all to yourself or something?"

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. "Don’t flatter yourself, Toru."

His smirk only deepens at the nickname, a playful glint flashing in his eyes. "Too late," he quips, plopping beside you onto his bed without a shred of grace. He sprawls out across the blankets, one arm tucked behind his head, as if daring you to contradict him further.

You shake your head, but the corner of your lips twitch upward despite yourself. There’s something about Satoru’s ability to simultaneously infuriate and amuse you that you’ve never been able to resist.

“On a real note, though,” he says after a beat, his tone softening just slightly as he tilts his head to look at you. “You okay?"

You cross your legs and angle yourself to have a better view of Satoru laying beside you. "Mhm," you brush off his concern. "Why?"

"Jus' checking in," he hums, sitting up and moving so he's closer to you. “You seem nervous.” 

His eyes stare practically into your soul with how intensely he is scanning you. You look fondly back at him, but the words you wish to say feel stuck in your throat, heavy and impossible to untangle. Your mouth twists as your mind wanders. 

It's been a few weeks since everything with Naoya happened at the frat. You're back to feeling like yourself, but the visits to Satoru's room or him crashing your own has become such a routine, you find yourself looking forward to falling asleep in his arms and getting butterflies when you wake up to him pressing a kiss on the top of your head.

Obviously, you've been aware of your feelings for Satoru for a while now, but it never felt like the right timing. Plus, you've been so anxious of whatever Naoya seems to be planning. Your mental state was in such a frenzy for a bit, if you didn't have Satoru by your side, you're sure you wouldn't have even gotten up to use the restroom.

The past two weeks, with the help of Choso's concert, the world has regained it's color. The grey overcast that affected your vision and mind lifted, and the world was back to it's vibrant shades of red, green, and a cerulean shade of blue - the same color as the eyes that look at you so tenderly as Satoru talks to you now, lips moving but the words not processing in your head.

A sudden thought crosses your mind: Is he not upset for missing out the hangout with Choso because of you? Even if you only asked to come over a handful of minutes ago, it's been a routine lately to do so. Did he opt out of being with his friends because he was expecting you to invade his space once more? You've been intruding his life so much lately, you worry if he finds you annoying or secretly hates you or pities everything that happened to you.

No. You can't think that way. You're friends all tease you about him - they see it, too. If they thought there was no chance, they would never have encouraged you to make a complete fool of yourself after everything they've seen you go through.

What if he rejects you, though? Would you be able to handle that? You know you aren't the shell of yourself you allowed him to see after Naoya drained your spirits, but you're still rather sensitive emotionally. Worst comes to worst, could you even handle it? What if-

Your ears pick up on your name being repeated, and you turn to look at the boy who invades every thought in your head. He’s sitting up now, legs crossed and leaning close to you. ”Angel? You here with me?"

"Yeah," you mutter, sounding much more uncertain than you intended for it to be. "Sorry."

Satoru shakes his head at your apology, studying you with a look of concern as his gaze softens. He takes a deep breath, then speaks, "You got nothing to apologize for, mkay?" He reaches out, resting a hand lightly on yours. "I just wanna be there for you, baby. When you space out like that, I can't help but wanna hear what's going on up that head of yours.” His other hand pokes the side of your head, and a giggle escapes you. “What’s got you all anxious?”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the rapid beat of your heart. With a heavy exhale, you respond,  “I guess I have something on my mind I need to get off my chest.”

He sits up more, propping himself on his elbows as he leans in, giving you his full attention. He crosses his legs to sit more comfortably. “Well, I’m all ears,” he says softly, his voice no longer teasing, but warm and patient.

You fidget slightly, your hands twisting the fabric of your sleeve, unsure of how to begin. The words feel heavy in your chest, and for a moment, you think about pushing them back down, retreating to the safety of the familiar silence between you.

You take a breath, the words finally bubbling to the surface, and they spill out before you can stop them. “I’ve been thinking a lot about… us."

You risk a glance up at him, and his expression remains unreadable, but the tension in his posture is gone, replaced with that soft, reassuring energy that makes your heart thrum faster than you'd like to admit. You quickly turn to stare at the end of your sleeve.

“Us?” His tone is gentle, concerned. Satoru takes his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers. It serves as motivation for you to continue. 

“Yeah, I…” you stare at the hand laced with your own, memorizing the shape of the fingers curling around yours. “I know you’re aware I’ve been…struggling, I guess. And you’ve really been a rock for me this whole time. Thank you, by the way.”

“I’m glad I could help somehow,” he says, squeezing your hand firmly, encouraging you in your moment of vulnerability. “Happy to, really.” 

You smile, but it doesn’t last long. “I feel guilty for leaning on you so much. You’ve been so patient and understanding. I know I’ve been a lot to handle, but you’ve taken such good care of me.”

Satoru’s brows furrow, and he leans in closer, his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly. “Hey,” he says firmly, his tone soft but insistent. “That’s what people do for the ones they care about. And I care about you. Y’know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I care about you, too,” you respond, face feeling warm. You turn away from him, finding the wall really interesting all of the sudden. “I’ve been so scared of you getting tired of me. Every bone in my body is telling me to stay away to avoid getting hurt again, but I just can’t get enough of you. I feel safe with you. I trust you, and I can’t keep ignoring how much you mean to me, Satoru.”

Satoru’s lips part slightly, and for a moment, he looks almost surprised, but the expression quickly shifts into something softer, more vulnerable. He tilts his head, his gaze never leaving yours. “Sweets, listen to me,” he says, his voice steady but laced with emotion. His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles. “I will never get tired of you. You could show up at my door every single day for the rest of forever, and I’d still open it like it’s the best part of my day. because you are the best part of my day.” His voice softens, his words carrying a weight that makes your chest ache. “I care about you, not out of pity or obligation, but because you’re you. You’re the light of my life, angel. I want to be here, not just for the hard parts but for everything. You mean the world to me. I’m not letting anything happen to you anytime soon, ‘kay?"

You stare into the eyes of the boy you are absolutely enamored with. Your eyes are watery, tears threatening to fall. “You really mean all of that? You’re not just saying it?” You can’t help but be hesitant to believe him. 

“I’ll say it to you a million times and mean it just as much.” He brings your intertwined hands to his chest. “I mean every word I say. Could never lie to you.” 

You squeeze his hand tightly, pouring all the things you can’t find the words to articulate into it. Satoru's chest rises and falls with each breath, and you feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm. It’s like everything is slowing down, and for a brief, perfect moment, it’s just the two of you in this space, a bubble that no one else can penetrate.

“I know you’re scared, baby,” Satoru’s voice is soft as he confesses. “New things like this tend to be. Honestly, I am too. Knowing me, I’ll mess something up - piss you off too much or something, do something stupid that gets me in trouble. As much as it pains me to say, I’m not perfect. I’m gonna make mistakes, but I don’t wanna hold back just ‘cause of that.”

Suddenly, you pull back, realizing your faces closer than you realized. You understand what he’s saying, but you’re getting tired of tiptoeing around what you really want to ask him. So, with furrowed brows, you ask the question you’ve wanted to for a while now: 

“What is ‘this’ though, Satoru?”

Satoru freezes for a moment, as if your question caught him off guard. The easy smile he’s been wearing falters just a bit, replaced by a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, his hand still holding yours, but his other reaches up, running through his hair in a gesture of hesitation.

For a moment, he doesn't say anything. His eyes search yours, as if trying to find the right words—words that seem so simple, yet so tangled in the air between you.

“This?” he asks. 

“This. What are we? Because we aren’t just friends, that’s for sure,” you say, and with a newfound confidence, you continue on. “We’re something more, but I need to know what that is. What are you asking me for? What’s happening here? What do you even think of me?”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a brief moment, Satoru looks almost stunned. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes, and there's a tension in the way he holds your hand - it’s as though he's afraid of saying the wrong thing but also knows he can’t keep dancing around it either.

Satoru takes a deep breath, his chest rising as he seems to gather his thoughts. He shifts slightly, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand, a soft touch that gives you comfort but also heightens the tension between you. He looks at you intently, like he's seeing you with new eyes full of emotion and vulnerability, the kind you’ve never quite seen in him before.

"You wanna know what I think?" he asks, his voice quiet but certain, as if he's weighing the question carefully, savoring the moment. You can feel his pulse, steady and strong, through the hand that's holding yours, and it brings you back to reality, the moment you’re in.

You nod, your heart pounding louder now that the question’s out there, and there's no going back. "Yeah," you breathe out, the simple word carrying all the weight of everything you've been holding back. "Please."

Satoru shifts slightly, still keeping his focus on you, his thumb still tracing a light pattern over your knuckles. His smile widens just a fraction, and you can see the playfulness return to his eyes, but it’s different - gentler, warmer, more sincere. “I think," he begins, his tone shifting into that familiar teasing one, but there's a softness there that makes your heart flutter, “you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.” 

His free hand moves to cup your cheek. “I think you’re so, so strong. I think, even though I know we've only been in each other's lives for a couple months now, you've quickly become my favorite person to be around. I think that you’re caring, even to those who don’t deserve your care. I think you have the cutest laugh, the best smile.” His eyes don’t leave yours once as he speaks, and you feel yourself leaning up towards him. 

“Now, do you want to hear what I know?” As you nod, his thumb swipes tear you didn’t know fell. “I know I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I know there’s something between us. I know you feel it, too.” His eyes fill with uncertainty as he looks down at you.“Right?” You smile in response, unable to form the words to affirm his question. He seems to understand what you're saying, his eyes again brewing with some new conviction.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what this is, too,” he admits, his voice softer than it’s ever been. There’s no playful tease in his tone now, no flippancy. It's just raw, real. “Because you’re right, we’re not just friends, but I didn’t want to assume things or make you feel pressured. I’ve been trying to let you lead the way with what you’re comfortable with.” He shakes his head, leaning closer to close space between you, resting his forehead against yours. “But fuck, baby... I don’t know what this is either.” His fingers tighten slightly around yours; an anchor. “All I know is I want you.”

Blue eyes looks at yours thoughtfully. He moves a strand of hair out of your eye, tucking it behind your ear. “I’m not gonna push you to do anything you’re not ready for. We can take things slow, if it helps. Whatever pace feels right for you, that’s what I’ll follow,” he says, his voice steady, filled with care and patience. He leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, and for a second, you think he might kiss you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls back just slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation or doubt. You find yourself disappointed he backed away, frustrated at the newly formed space between you two. 

“We don’t have into rush anything. I don’t want you to feel like a new relationship is something you have to force yourself into,” he continues, his voice soft, almost like a promise. “We’ll take it one step at a time. I’ll be patient. Just… tell me what you need, and I’ll do my best to give it to you.”

Your heart feels like it might burst from the weight of his words, and you can’t help the soft smile that curls your lips. The reassurance, the tenderness, the way he’s been patient with you this whole time—it all feels like a beautiful thing you're afraid to touch, but it’s right there, waiting for you.

“I’ve told you what I think,” Satoru hums. “What do you think?” 

“I think,” you begin, smile turning into a mischievous smirk, “you should kiss me.”

“Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing whisper that makes your pulse quicken. He’s so close now, his presence overwhelming in the best way possible. “You sure about that, sweets?”

Your breath hitches as you nod, your heart pounding in your chest, but there’s no more hesitation. No more second-guessing. You’re done playing it safe. You want this. You want him.

“I’m sure,” you reply, your voice almost a breathless challenge. The tension in the air is thick, crackling with the promise of something inevitable, something you both know is coming.

Satoru’s smile softens, and in one smooth motion, he closes the distance between you. His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s slow at first - tentative, testing the waters. It doesn’t take long for the kiss to deepen, both of you giving into the pull between you, the emotions that have been building for so long.

Satoru pulls back just slightly, his breath warm against your lips. “You taste so sweet, angel,” he mutters, his voice low, barely audible, like a secret meant just for you. His forehead rests against yours again, his breath shaky now. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting this.”

Your heart skips a beat, your body flush against his, feeling his heartbeat echo yours. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as though saying the words aloud will make everything real.

He chuckles softly, but there’s a hint of nervousness in it, a rare vulnerability that you don’t often see from him. “I’ve been thirsting over you in your comment section for a month now… I haven’t exactly not said anything.”

You let out a soft laugh, the warmth of it mixing with the heat rising in your chest. The teasing tone in his voice is so familiar, yet this moment feels unlike anything that’s come before. It’s real. It’s raw. It’s you and him, and for the first time, you feel no fear of what might come next. “Yeah, I guess you’re not the most subtle. The girls even said something about it.”

Satoru’s lips quirk into a smile, but there’s a touch of mischief in his eyes. He brushes his thumb gently across your cheek, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than it needs to. “I just wanted to do this the right way, angel. I wanted to be patient, give you space, let you come to me when you were ready.” He shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t dying to kiss you every time you smiled at me. Or I was gonna pass up the chance to let you know you look good.”

The sincerity in his words hits you deep, and you feel a swell of affection, of something even deeper—something you’ve been craving for so long without knowing it. You want this. You want him.

And it’s all so real now, nothing holding you back; everything is out in the open.

Satoru leans in again, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that contrasts the intensity of his words. He deepens the kiss, this time with more certainty, as if it’s not just a kiss, but a promise.

You respond eagerly, hands moving to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Everything else falls away in the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, the way his body molds to yours.

When he pulls back again, his eyes are dark with something unspoken, something you both know but haven’t yet named. His forehead rests against yours, and for a long moment, the two of you simply breathe, your lips still humming from the kiss.

“You’re positive this is okay, right?” he asks quietly, his voice laced with the same tenderness he’s been offering you all this time.

You smile, feeling your heart swell with something soft and steady. “Yes, Satoru,” you murmur, gazing up at him with more certainty than you’ve ever felt. “I’m positive.”

Satoru exhales, as if a weight has been lifted from his chest, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time, savoring every moment. It’s not rushed, it’s not about urgency or need; it’s about the quiet, unspoken connection between you two, the foundation you’re both building together, step by slow, steady step.

And when you pull away once more, the air around you feels different. Lighter. Brighter. And somehow, you know this is just the beginning of something incredible. Something worth every step, every hesitation, every moment of uncertainty that led to now.

You can’t wait to tell Shoko everything.  

₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.

TAGLIST (currently open!):

@kentozwife @inthedarkshadows000 @yoimiya-m @makeshiftproject @frogfishie

@therealanxiety @kaged-kitty @pellucid-constellations @fuckisthatahotghost

@harryzcherry @briezy04764 @ohio-gyatt-mega-sigma-rizzler @babysoo-meu

@sorenflyinn @raquel12 @ermbehindyou @bxnfire @muli-wam @emlient

@diearama @miscellaneous-misty @blubearxy @twoderanged @kisakunt

@fallingpinkstars

₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.

THIS MAKES ME ASO HAPPY

[cokoweee]

So… I always thought the first kiss would get me all giddy. Instead, I am heartbroken. I will elucidate (I don’t have enough spoons to get screenshots, so words will have to do.) I think Kendra was terrified out of her mind. She had to compartmentalize so much lately. I think what happened was, initially Big Mama gave her the deal over the phone in the bathroom, and then right before meeting Donnie in the gala gear was when she had the “eldritch horror” reminder. Thing is, Kendra has apparently been making some mental health positives since reforming, but when she is getting too stressed, she goes back to her vices. She started smoking again after getting stabbed by Bishop. And so here, in the Hidden City, being told to romance a guy, she isn’t even sure likes her back? (The ghosts said he “cared” but what if they mean like Casey and Draxum?) Time for some liquid courage and a LOT of it! Kendra is getting drunk off her rocker, because she knows she has to make a move before the end of the party. But it’s not fair to her, and honestly, it’s not fair to Donnie either. She would have liked to see their relationship develop naturally and if kisses come, then kisses come. But here, she has to drink, enough to get her inhibitions lowered, enough where she is fine forcing a kiss on one of the only supports she has left in the world. And here, Mr. Cirrhosis, himself is not only sober, but batting away her future drinks. She’ll never get shit faced drunk at this pace. Finally, she notices Donnie is getting in her space, trying to get her to leave. But she can’t leave! Who knows if this crazy spider lady is going to go after them?! She already has one psycho on her trail and he’s human (?). So Donnie is giving her grief, she notices him holding onto her shoulders. His outrageous height isn’t quite an obstacle now. He’s close enough to.. Yea, fuck it, guess we gotta go in! And… smooch And I’m just like… I feel so bad! I’m holding these two in my hands going “I’m so sorry! You two need a do-over on that kiss!” And what probably sucks is Donnie gonna chalk it up to her being drunk, and Kendra might think Donnie is gonna kick her out (or get distant again) Also I see you finally had her call him by his given name! just *keyboard smash*

Kiku back at it again with being 80% spot on. You lil pickle you are

You made me remember why I had Frida say her super edgy cringe ass line lol. It relates to this ahahah

My liking to Kendra is showing to much. I’m putting her through the blender. WHO KNOWS WHATLL HAPPEN THO HUH? WACKY KISS AFTERALL AAAHUU. Maybe they’ll get a redo maybe they won’t. (Acting like I didn’t already show them in the future with literal kids)

[araybiaaa]

sofia valdez is not amused by rafe cameron; not when she’s heard enough stories from her friends to know that he’s dangerous. what starts off as disdain towards him, in solidarity with her friends, slowly turns into her falling for the boy she promised to stay away from.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

pairing: rafe cameron x sofia

tags: enemies to lovers, pining, drinking, mentions of drugs.

notes: after what feels like an eternity i’ve finally updated this story lol. i revamped this chapter so much but i think i’m happy with how it turned out! this one is super long, so be aware!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Country Club!” Rafe smirks in amusement when he hears the familiar proclamation of Barry’s sing-songy greeting.

He wades his way through the crowd of people, feeling Nicole vehemently lug on his hand as she followed in tow behind him. He peers at her over his shoulder, seeing the upturned furrow of her nose as she clutched her purse securely against her chest. Rafe shakes his head, rolling his eyes at her pompous attitude.

“Rafe, are you sure it’s safe over here?” She whispers, releasing his hand so that she’s able to anchor herself against his arm instead.

When Barry invited him to his party, Rafe had every intention of attending the party alone, but as soon as Nicole learned that he was going out tonight she was adamant on accompanying him even when he told her that the party’s location was behind held on the other side of the island in The Cut. He was reluctant on bringing her, but she promised to keep thoughts and behavior in tact.

“Relax. Nothing’s gonna happen to you,”

Nicole seemed unconvinced at his attempted reassurance, pursing her lips in a deeper frown when a group of guys greeted Rafe in passing. “Ugh! How do you even know these people?” And when she sees Barry suddenly approaching them, she nearly cowers behind Rafe as she tightened her grip.

“Rafe Cameron!” Barry proffered his hand out to greet him in a dapped embrace. Rafe retracts himself from around Nicole’s vice grip so that he’s able to return the gesture. “Took you long enough, the party already started without you!”

Rafe chuckles, casually wandering his eyes around at the partygoers. Everyone here was either inebriated or on the precipice of it. Unlike the parties on figure eight that were lavish and were often thrown at mansions and had hundreds of occupants in attendance; this one was more lowkey which Rafe favored.

He liked that he had separated worlds with separate friends.

Sometimes, it was admittedly easier being around Barry than his other friends. Though years of friendship bonded them as more as brothers than friends, Rafe can admit that he’s found himself preferring Barry’s company as of late as opposed to Topper and Kelce’s. He knows that at least with Barry, he’ll get a night free of pogue-bashing and will actually get to enjoy himself rather than listen to another one of Topper’s drunken spiels.

“You and your lady friend go grab a cup and catch up! You can’t be the only sober motherfuckers here,” Barry insisted; clasping a hand on Rafe’s back before he’s sauntering away to talk to a group of his friends. Knowing that a few cups of beer would definitely be needed with a night with Nicole especially with how she’s acting, Rafe retreated to the keg.

“You want some?” He offers as he pulled the lever down and filled his cup with the frothy liquid until it’s pooled at the rim. She shakes her head in decline, tucking her arms across her chest as she looked around warily at her surroundings. “No one’s going to steal anything from you, Nicole. You’ve gotta lighten up.”

“You don’t know that!”

Rafe rolls his eyes, already past the point of exasperation at her prudish behavior. He’s looking around the party again, absentminded in the gesture, when he sees her. He feels his breath catch in his throat at the sight of her and he averts his eyes over to Nicole, desperately hoping that she hadn’t noticed his unabashed gawking.

He hasn’t seen her since the beach incident. He’d stopped by the club a few times to see if she would be there so he could apologize on behalf of his friends again. But she was either adamantly avoiding him or hadn’t returned to work recently, because every time he asked one of her coworkers for her whereabouts they’d say that she wasn’t there that day.

(And now that he thinks about it — they probably told him that because they were cautious of him; probably thinking he was stalking her or something. Upon this realization, he feels his cheeks pinken and warm in chagrin.)

He hides his blush behind his cup, taking another sip of his beer. His eyes never avert away from her even as she approached Barry. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that they know each other but it does. Barry’s a good friend, but he was a bit rough hewn which was completely antithetical of Sofia’s quiet and more reserved personality.

But then Rafe remembered that she’s also friends with JJ Maybank who’s just as intrepid (probably more so) than Barry, so his initial surprise is dissuaded almost immediately. However, unlike JJ, there’s a certain familiarity that he notices between Sofia and Barry that has his curiosity piqued.

When she approaches him, Barry’s mouth stretched in a mirthful smile while hers mimicked a shy one. When he pulls her in for a hug, Rafe notices how long the embrace lasts and how Barry’s hand rests on the small of her back; comfortable in its perch. He turns his head and whispers something into her ear and whatever he says must be hilarious because he could hear Sofia’s laughter ricochet all the way through the kitchen to where he stood.

And it only takes a moment for the realization that they were flirting to dawn upon him. He feels a tightening pulling in his jaw and the skin between his eyebrows furrowed deeply as he narrowed his gaze. It was ridiculous for him to be harboring these feelings of jealousy over someone that wasn’t his (or didn’t even like him) but he couldn’t help the feeling of envy that arose the longer he stared at them.

His mind began to concoct torturous thoughts that did absolutely nothing to subside his jealousy — wondering how they met, why Barry didn’t tell him about her and why his hand hasn’t moved away from her back yet.

“I uh, I have to go talk to Barry about something. I’ll be right back,”

Nicole’s eyes widen in bewilderment as she gives him a perplexed look. “You’re leaving me here alone?” She asks incredulously, almost offended at the prospect.

Rafe sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead in contemplation. He didn’t want to walk over there with Nicole especially after everything that happened at the beach, but he knows he’ll never hear the end of her nagging if he left her side for even the slightest second.

“Okay, fine. But just don’t say anything when we get over there. Alright?” He didn’t want her taunting Sofia about Ruthie’s rude behavior.

“Okay, jeez.” She murmurs, rolling her eyes as she huffed a petulant pout before trailing behind him in tow. Rafe squeezes his way through the crowd of people, beelining his way over to where Barry and Sofia stood.

They’re still deeply engaged in their conversation; too distracted — with him still leaned down talking in her ear and her eyes crinkling in mirth as her heartfelt laughter filled throughout the room — to notice Rafe’s sudden approach. He substitutes his glower in exchange for a genial smile as he clasped a hand over Barry’s shoulder.

Both Barry and Sofia are retracted from their conversation at Rafe’s sudden interjection. He blinks a look of surprise, but greets Rafe with the same amicability as before, unmoored by the interruption. “Wassup?” His hand abandons it perch on Sofia’s back but he still remains in close proximity of her to where he’s nearly shielding her from his view.

And Rafe wonders if it was intentional.

His eyes wander over Barry’s shoulder, peering down at Sofia. He’s surprised to see that she was already looking at him too with raised brows and an indiscernible expression marring her features. “I uh—” Shit. Rafe paused, inwardly muttering a chastising curse when he realized that he hadn’t fully thought of something to say on his way over here.

He was just so focused on interrupting their moment of intimacy that he didn’t think of a excuse for his interruption. Luckily, it’s Nicole who’s breaking the barrier of the awkward silence as she directed her question to Barry, “Where’s the bathroom?”

Barry looked questioningly over at Rafe before nudging his chin outwardly. “It’s through there. First door on the right,” Nicole murmurs a halfhearted thanks to him, before disappearing down the hallway.

When she’s gone, Barry shakes his head and emanates an amused chuckle. He shakes a finger at Rafe, proclaiming, “You’re my dog, so I can get a pass when I say this, but you’ve gotta get better taste in women. That dick of yours is gonna get you in trouble one of these days,” Barry’s attention averts at the sound of someone beckoning him from across the room. He alerts, narrowing his gaze on the person as recognition settles in.

He turns back to Sofia, “I gotta go handle somethin’ real quick. You cool standin’ here with Rafe til I come back?”

She looks at him warily, but nods at Barry. “I’ll be okay.” And Rafe doesn’t know if he should be offended at the insinuation that she wouldn’t be safe around him. It seemed as if the rumors about him and his past history of violence had caused her to be apprehensive of being alone with him.

After Barry’s left to tend to one of his customers, Rafe averts his attention back on Sofia who stood there hugging her arms around herself as she avoided his gaze. “I uh, I know that I said it before but I really am sorry about what happened,” Her eyes slowly meet his gaze; staring at him with profound intensity like she’s assessing him to determine if there’s any sincerity behind his apology.

After a moment, she shrugs, lowering her eyes as she looked away from him again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Rafe nods, feeling grateful that he was at least absolved from that. “So, uh, how do you know Barry?” He attempted to appear causal in his inquiry, hoping that she didn’t decipher his ulterior motive behind the question.

She gives him a guarded look, “How do you know him?” She redirects, seemingly avoiding answering the question. “He doesn’t really seem like someone you’d be friends with,”

Rafe shrugged, “Maybe you don’t know me like you think you do,”

Their conversation is interrupted as two guys, stumbling in their inebriated stupor, make their way over to where they’re standing. One of the guys inadvertently loses his footing and nearly collides directly into Sofia. But she manages to evade out of his pathway, gasping softly when she collides against Rafe’s chest instead. He reacts almost instinctively, resting a hand on her waist to steady her.

“Shit. Are you okay?” Sofia nods, her eyes briefly hold his gaze as he stared down at her in concern. Her hand’s pressed against his chest, anchoring herself in place. And he hopes that she doesn’t feel how his heartbeat quickens at her touch — at how much just being in her proximity was affecting him.

At the realization of how close they were standing to each other, Sofia immediately recoils from the embrace as she takes a few steps away from him accruing to the space between them again. He doesn’t even have the opportunity to dwell over his disappointment because Nicole’s suddenly announcing her return. “This party is so lame. Why don’t we go to Topper’s at least he has a pool and coke,”

“Jesus, Nicole!” Rafe reproaches, grabbing ahold of her hand as he tugs her offside, keeping them sequestered from any eavesdropping. “If you didn’t want to be here you didn’t have to come. You’ve been complaining since we got here!”

She gives him a pointed look as she tugs her hand free from his grasp so that she’s able to perch them akimbo instead. “Excuse me for wanting to spend time with my boyfriend but you’ve done nothing but ignore me the entire night—”

Rafe careens, bewildered. “Boyfriend?” He wasn’t exactly certain how she came to this very false assumption about their relationship and the extremities of it; especially when he informed her beforehand that it would be strictly for both of their sexual gratifications and nothing more. But it seemed as if she concocted some idea about this being more than what he intended for it to be.

She furrowed a narrowed look like she’s unsure why he’s the one that confused. She nods, watching as Rafe suspired wryly, running a hand over his face. “Look, we hang out and we have sex but we aren’t dating. I told you what this was before we even started sleeping together.”

He’s trying to assuage his rejection as nicely as he can, cautious to not inadvertently say the wrong thing so that she doesn’t get offended and cause a scene but it appears as if his efforts are futile because he can see her expression altering at his words.

She scoffs in disbelief, shaking her head. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“You’re a nice girl and you’re fun to hang out with,” When you aren’t being possessive and needy for my attention. “But—”

“Nice and fun to hang out with?!” She reiterates, chuckling in incredulous disbelief at his apparent trivialization. “We’ve been seeing each other for months! So you’re telling me that it was all meaningless sex to you is that it?” He wants to say yes, because she deserves the truth especially after this misconstrued situation but he knows that her reaction would be anything but civil if he were to do so.

So he doesn’t verbally respond, only rubs a hand over his neck as he lowered his eyes away from her unflinched gaze.

“Wow. You’re a fucking asshole.” He parts his mouth to offer a sheepish apology, but her hands are shoving at his chest as she continued her verbal onslaught towards him.

The commotion of everything caught the other partygoers attention. Their gazes thwart from their own conversations onto them, their interests piqued at the sudden entertainment. “You know what? Lose my number and don’t ever call me again!” She says, brushing past him with a nudge of her shoulder.

…

When he turns back around, Sofia’s looking at him with an amused expression lilting across her face. “Wow,” Rafe sighs, wiping off a bit of drink that inadvertently spilled onto his pants in the midst of Nicole’s collision. “Barry’s right, you do have interesting taste in women.”

He gives her a pointed look, admittedly annoyed at the fact that she keeps using Barry’s name in such a familiar context. “Wow, for a second there it almost sounds like you actually care about me and my interests,”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She avers, tucking her arms against her chest.

He sighs in defeat realizing that the brief moment that they shared earlier where she didn’t seem to despise his presence was merely fleeting and that her disdain for him had made an abrupt return. He didn’t understand her. She wouldn’t even give him the opportunity of salvaging his reputation that his sister tarnished.

He’s gotten accustomed to being the island’s social pariah — he’s heard all of the gossiping whispers and seen the judgmental stares, but none of that compared to withdrawn feeling of rejection that he carries knowing how she feels about him.

“Yo, Sof!” Barry’s voice pierces through the silence that lingered between them. He saunters over to where they’re standing, lugging his arm around Sofia’s shoulder again. “You want some?” He asks, outwardly proffering his cup of beer towards her in a questioning gesture.

Sofia shakes her head, declining his offer as she gently pushed the cup away. “I have to work tomorrow, I can’t show up babysitting a hangover.”

Barry laughs boisterously as he brings his cup up to his parted lips and takes a large swig of the drink. “I forgot how much of a lightweight you are,” He teases, much to her flushing chagrin as she rolls her eyes and playfully nudged at his shoulder.

Having grown tired of being an evidential third wheel to their playful banter, Rafe announces his leave.

“What? Nah. Bro, you just got here!” Barry accents, removing his arm from around Sofia so that he’s able to approach Rafe. “Look, there’s a whole party full of other women to help you get over…ah,” He snaps his fingers as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying (and failing) to remember Nicole’s name.

“Nicole,”

“Nicole!” Barry exclaims, nodding his head as he clasped a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Go mingle and find someone else to help you forget about that stuck up bitch.”

He couldn’t tell him that the one person that he wanted to give his time and attention to, couldn’t care less about him. Rafe was jealous of Barry’s fortunate luck of being with someone like Sofia but he also felt guilt ridden for having these traitorous feelings. Barry was a good friend who’s seen and helped him get through some of the most darkest times in his life. What kind of friend was he to repay that kind of support by crushing on his girlfriend in return?

Barry was right about one thing though; he did need to forget about Nicole (and Sofia) and what better way to do that than self indulge in liquor and women to help distract him from his troubling thoughts?

…

When Barry invited her to his party, the last person she expected to see in attendance was kook king Rafe Cameron. Another thing she was completely unaware of? The fact that he and Barry were friends. Sofia’s brain couldn’t comprehend the reality of it even as she watched them interact. Barry despised kooks and everything they stood for and Rafe was the island’s biggest kook — with a father like Ward Cameron and them living in one of the biggest houses on the island to prove it.

It’s about twelve thirty when she decides to call it in for the night. She looks around the room, searching for Barry so she could bid her farewells before she left but he’d disappeared with a group of friends fifteen minutes ago and hadn’t returned since. She didn’t have time to go around to search for him, so she decided to send him a goodbye text instead.

As she’s walking from the front porch to the driveway, she could see Rafe slouched out in one of the chairs on the lawn. His eyes are glossy and as she approached closer to him, she could smell the strong stench of beer wafting off of him.

“Are you okay?” He looked visibly drunk — his head’s lolling to the side, barely able to remain upright and his expression’s languid.

He blinks, guffawing softly at her apropos. “I’m fine. But it’s not like you actually care anyway, right?” He rebuttals, a bit defensive in his response.

Sofia tucks her phone into her back pocket as she sighs, ignoring his abrasive tone. “Are you waiting on someone to pick you up? Or do you need a ride?” Her eyes lowered to his feet where she could see his car keys in the grass next to an empty red solo cup. “I can take you,” She offered, immediately intervening just in case he was thinking about driving himself home.

Rafe shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand at her. “I told you that I’m fine.”

She reaches forward and snatches his keys, tucking them inside her front pocket. “You’re drunk.” She says, perching her hands akimbo as she stared down at him.

“I’m not an idiot, Sofia,” He beseeches, fixing his blurry gaze on her. “Contrary to what you think about me I’m not stupid enough to drink and drive.”

While it relieves her to hear him reassure her of this, it still doesn’t dissuade the discomfort of leaving him alone in this drunken state. “Okay, good. But I’m still keeping your keys so since you don’t have a way home, I’ll take you.”

“I don’t need—I can walk by myself, you know.” He mutters, though contradicting himself a moment later when he inadvertently stumbles when he stands to his feet and has to rest a hand on her forearm to anchor himself.

Sofia wraps an arm around his waist, holding onto him securely as she schlepped him towards her car. The height difference between the two of them along his loss of cognition has Rafe leaning most of his body weight on her, to where she’s pressed up against his chest. He barred his arm around her shoulder, sluggish in his gait as she lead them forward.

Opening the passenger’s door, Rafe slides his arm off of her and murmurs a soft thanks as he brushes past her to climb inside. Her car is much smaller than he is so he has to maneuver around a bit to get comfortable, but despite his efforts his knees still end up being pressed against the dashboard.

“Here, put your address in.” She says, extending her phone outwardly towards him once she’s perched in the driver’s seat.

She turns the keys over as the ignition spurs on. She secures her seatbelt in place, setting the car in reverse as she pulls out of the driveway and descends down the street.

“Do you need water or anything?” She offers, peering over at him as he leaned his head against her window while his hand rubbed at his throbbing temples.

“Careful there Sofia, you’re starting to sound like you actually care about my well-being,” He remarks sarcastically, shifting his position in the seat with a soft grunt as he spreads his legs wider for room.

“You’re in my car. I don’t want you to throw up or pass out or anything,”

Rafe rolls his eyes, scoffing. “I’m fine. I know how to handle my liquor,” He murmurs, fluttering his eyes close as he mindlessly tapped his fingers against his thigh.

Sofia ends the conversation there, leaning forward to turn on the radio to drown out the car’s silence. She thinks he’s fallen asleep and that she’d have a peaceful drive for the rest of the way, but it’s not even five minutes later that he’s blinking his eyes open and turning his head to look at her.

“What?” She questions, suddenly feeling her face flush at the way he’s watching her. She averts her attention away from the road and peers over at him with a raised brow.

“Why do you hate me? I know you’re friends with my sister and she’s said some shit about me but that’s how she feels and it’s understandable. But why do you hate me?”

Sofia looks back at the road, biting on her lip as she tightened her grip around the wheel. She didn’t feel like this was the most appropriate time to talk about this especially while he was drunk, but if he wanted a truthful answer then she wouldn’t hesitate to give him one.

“I don’t hate you, Rafe. I don’t trust you. I might not know you like the rest of them do, but I know my friends and I know that the way they and other people on the island talk about you isn’t for no reason.”

His jaw clenched as he looks away, staring vacantly out of the window. “If you don’t trust me then you shouldn’t have given me a ride home. I don’t want to ruin your reputation by having you be seen with me,” He laments through offense that’s underlined with sarcasm.

“I told you, I couldn’t leave you sitting there.”

Rafe shakes his head at her rebuttal, falling silent for the remainder of the car ride as he kept his attention thwarted on the windows and scenery that they passed by.

When the gps announces their arrival and they pull into the driveway of his mansion, Rafe unlatches his seatbelt and mutters another halfhearted thanks before he’s making his haste exit. She unclicks her seatbelt, just to accompany him to the house to make sure he doesn’t accidentally keel over but he rejects her offer, assuring her that he’d make it inside unscathed. “Are you sure? Because you could barely walk by yourself the first time.”

“I’m good.” He asserts, giving her an indescribable look as he closes the door before walking off. Even with his reassurance, she remains sitting there waiting until he’s entered inside of the house before finally driving off.

…

“Dude, it is a Christmas movie!”

“No, it’s a movie set around Christmas time,” Pope rebuttals.

They all lounged around listening to Pope and John B’s debate on the validity of Die Hard’s categorization for the past ten minutes with Pope regarding the technicalities of why it wasn’t and John B arguing against it. Sofia was listening halfheartedly, laughing every so often at JJ’s interfering commentary though she mostly kept her attention on the strokes of her pencil as she drew in her sketchbook.

“There’s a distinct difference between the two. Christmas isn’t central to the movie’s plot; the heist is.” Pope accents, earning collective groans from both John B and JJ. “If it were more focused on that then maybe—”

“Well, if you’re using that argument that’s like saying Home Alone isn’t a Christmas movie either then,” Sarah ripostes, leaning against John B’s chest as he instinctively wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“What? No, that’s two different—” Pope’s rebuff falls halfheartedly off of his lips, forgotten in the void. At his abrupt silence, Sofia looks up from her sketchbook to see what was the cause of everyone’s sudden alert attention. Looking around, she gauges her friends’ reaction, seeing all of them wearing the same narrowed and defensive expressions.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” She hears JJ inquire as he clambered to his feet, maneuvering his way out of Kiara’s embrace.

Turning around in her chair, Sofia’s surprised to see that it’s Rafe standing there. He looks undaunted by JJ’s combative tone and disregards the wayward looks that the rest of the pogues give him. Instead, his eyes focus on Sofia as he looks down at her.

“I need my car keys,”

JJ’s face furrows in a confused expression. “What the fuck are you talking about, Cameron?”

Rafe rolls his eyes, “Nothing that you need to worry about. I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to Sofia,”

JJ scoffs, moving from where he stood so that he was now standing in front of Sofia, blocking her from Rafe’s view. “Last time I remember you two talking, one of your friends threw a drink on her. So, nah, there isn’t about to be anymore talking going on between the two of you again.”

Sofia closed her sketchbook and stood to her feet, resting a hand on JJ’s arm. “It’s fine, JJ.” She attempts to placate, wanting to intervene before the situation had the opportunity to turn hostile. But both Rafe and JJ’s combative personalities made it challenging to assuage.

Rafe chuckles wryly, “You actually think that I’d hurt her?”

“Oh, please!” JJ scoffs, “Don’t act like you haven’t done anythin’ like it before you fuckin’ psycho!”

“J,” Kiara laments, reaching a hand out for his as she gave Rafe a wary look. “Look, just get what you need to get from her and leave all of us alone. Don’t come by here again.” She avers, gently tugging at JJ’s hand so that he’s seated next to her again instead of posted defensively in front of Sofia.

Sofia looks over at Rafe, gesturing a hand towards her car. “They’re in my purse,”

His jaw clenches as he nods, his footsteps recede as he follows Sofia from the house’s porch out to the front yard where her car was parked. She tugs the driver’s door open and grabs her purse, scouring around inside until she finds his keys that she’d kept tucked in there.

She extends the keys towards Rafe, biting on her bottom lip as she lowered her eyes. She doesn’t know why, but she suddenly felt sorry for the way her friends bombarded him like that. It was confusing; because she knows her friends were only protecting her from him (which greatly she appreciated) but there was still a part of her couldn’t help but feel guilt ridden at their verbal attack on him.

“Thanks again,” He turns away, beginning to walk back over towards the truck where she could see Topper in the driver’s seat drumming his fingers in a staccato against the wheel as he waited for him.

“Hey, Rafe?” Rafe pauses mid-gait at the sound of her beckon. He turns around, looking at her with a raised a brow. Sofia falters, swallowing down the concern and apology she was about to extend to him for JJ’s behavior. She shakes her head, waving a dismissive hand. “Nothing,” She laments, watching as the furrow deepened in his expression. She feels herself flushing underneath his unflinched scrutiny and has to hurriedly turn away from him and walk away to avoid his smothering gaze.

“What was that all about?” Sarah asks once Sofia returns to her seated position on the chair.

“Nothing,” She shrugs, “He just got really drunk the other day at a party so I gave him a ride home. But I forgot to give him his keys back.”

“Shit. He didn’t try or say anything did he?” Kiara questions, her face reflects that same worn look of concern that Sarah has upon learning that Sofia had been alone with Rafe. She shakes her reassuringly, easing their worries.

Their playful bickering resumes once they’ve all calmed down after Rafe’s departure. Sofia picks up her sketching pencil, attempting to continue her drawing.

But she found her mind wandering waywardly about something else —

about someone else.

Shit.

[kitkat13001]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚞𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎

drunken monologues, confused because it’s not like i’m falling in love i just want you to do me no good and you look like you could the look of love, the rush of blood the “she’s with me”s, the gallic shrugs

⤷ denki kaminari x reader

⤷ denki calls reader “ma’am” once as a joke (no pronouns used), brief mentions of alcohol and small descriptions of anxiety, title and lyrics from arctic monkeys’ “no. 1 party anthem”

you didn’t feel like going out tonight. 

you had told denki this much when he barged into your room after you’d declined his million calls, instead finding you buried under a mountain of blankets just a few hours away from midnight on the 31st. 

not the best way to start the new year, he’d pointed out. you had only grumbled, tossing over in your bed and ignoring him. 

you’re surprised he’s not at the party right now. surely everyone else you two know is there, if the pictures mina, sero and kirishima had blown up your phone with were any indication. 

denki nudges your lifeless body and your grumble again, louder this time as he plops himself down on your bed beside you. 

“come onnn, it’s new year’s eve! you can’t go into a new year moping around like this, you need to get out and have some fun!”

unfortunately, he makes a pretty compelling case. it was something stupid that had you in such a bad mood, and getting out would probably do you a great deal of good. but then again, the party…the lights, the crowd, and ugh not even to mention the noise…

it’s like denki can sense your dilemma, the crack in your stubborn attitude, and he jumps at the opportunity to sway you. 

“pleeeaseee, you said you would come!” he whines, tugging on your arm insistently. 

contrary to popular belief, denki is actually very hard to say “no” to. 

you narrow your eyes at him, but you can’t muster up any malice in the face of his big golden eyes. 

you hold out for another couple seconds, internally debating, but he just keeps pouting and you know he won’t leave you alone until you agree and his hands on you are so warm and he’s so infuriatingly cute and—

“ugh, fine!” you groan, pushing him away so he can’t see the way you flush. “go away so i can change!”

“yes, ma’am,” he replies quickly with a cheeky smile. “so bossy.”

the party is in full swing once you two arrive, and it’s not even midnight yet. it’s packed, just like you thought. you stick tight to denki's side as he weaves through the crowd with a smile, ever his charming little self. his body against yours as you clutch his arm is the only one that doesn’t make your skin crawl.

it takes a few drinks to loosen you up, but once the tension has bled from your shoulders you’re out dancing with mina and jirou like it’s nobody’s business. 

you’re not sure at what point denki left your side, but it tugs at the back of your mind that even though you’re enjoying yourself, you kind of miss him. 

you try to shrug the odd feeling off, throwing yourself back into the dancing and the drinking as the music drowns out every thought from your head. 

it’s a good distraction, probably what you needed just about now. not just the dancing, but the party—seeing your friends, getting out of your head. you’d been so down lately, and without good reason, too, which just made you more frustrated. 

it’s good you’re getting it all out there, isn’t it? isn’t this what you’re supposed to do? dance it out, drink it away, crash and sleep it off, then wake up to a new day and start over again? 

someone bumps into you from behind just then, and the hypnotic haze you’ve been wallowing in begins to clear. that claustrophobic feeling is coming back, and suddenly the music is too loud and the people are too close and you find yourself stumbling for the patio door. 

the fresh night air is a godsend and you stand there for a moment, leaning against the sliding glass door and taking in deep lungfuls of it. 

there’s a little couch setup around an empty bonfire pit, and that’s where you drop down to look at the sky as you regain your bearings. 

it’s also where denki finds you when he comes out of the house, eyes alight at the sight of you. it makes your heart jump. 

“hey! i was looking for you just now.”

“yeah, sorry,” you murmur. “crowd was too much, i was starting to feel…urgh, y’know?”

“yeah,” he agrees sheepishly, ambling over. “it was really packed in there.”

he takes a seat beside you, propping his feet up on the brick pit in front of you. 

you feel his golden eyes on you, but you keep your gaze skyward. 

“you okay?” he asks after a minute, carefully nudging his leg against yours. 

your only response is a half-hearted shrug. 

“you wanna go?”

you think about it for a second, the allure of home calling out to you, but the night breeze feels so cool on your warm skin and the steadiness of denki’s body against yours brings you peace. you don’t really want to go. 

“not just yet,” you tell him, letting yourself lean against him more. “do you think…can we stay like this a little longer?”

“yeah. yeah, we can stay as long as you like.” denki opens his arms, letting you kick your feet up on the couch and nestle comfortably into his side. you rest your head on his bicep, surprised by how sturdy the muscle is beneath you. you knew denki was fit—it was impossible not to be in this course—but it’s never something you’ve really thought about. or felt. 

the two of you sit in soft silence, watching as fireworks light up the sky. you can hear denki humming softly to the music still pouring out of the house. it makes you smile. 

the yelling inside the house is getting louder and you check your phone. 11:59. they must be starting the countdown now. 

ten. 

“hey denki?”

“yeah?”

nine. 

“thanks for making me come out tonight. it’s…”

eight. 

“i’ve had a better time than i thought i would,” you admit, toying with his fingers from where his arm is draped gently across your collarbone. 

seven. 

“really? i felt kinda for bad dragging you out when i saw you out here by yourself,” he replies with a nervous laugh. 

six. 

“well, maybe. but ‘m not by myself anymore,” you tell him, allowing yourself a cheeky little smile. you tilt your head back to look up at him, and he’s beaming at you. 

five. 

the fireworks are lighting up his face in the most beautiful colors. even from upside down, denki is probably the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen. 

four. 

it’s faint from under all the shouting inside, but you can still hear the music. you love this song. 

three. 

you reach up to trace your fingers gently over denki’s freckles. they’ve faded some in the winter, but they’re still there if you look closely. his hand comes up to intertwine your fingers, holding them to his face.

two. 

you’re leaning in, both of you, like magnets. you let your eyes close as denki pulls you closer, the music and shouting and fireworks fading into the distance as your lips meet his. 

one. 

it’s a long time before you separate, and even longer before either of you even think about getting up from the patio couch. 

“happy new year, denki,” you murmur through a little smile. 

even though you’re both looking up at the sky, you can practically hear the matching smile in his voice. “happy new year.”

i meant to get this out closer to new years, but i’m actually happy with how it turned out either way. denki is so special to me. take care and much love,

- 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 ! 🩷🩷

[neo91502]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOMM TIREDSMASHBROS!!!

note for tomm under the read more... lalala💥💥 @tiredsmashbros

ohhh tomm. tomm tiredmashbros, oh do you even know what has happened this, what, past half a year and counting? There has been so, so much improvement these past few months, whether that was to be art or even being able to grow the confidence to actually make a discord server and how well it is and how active it is to this day!!! It’s genuinely felt like it’s been so long, but truly only has been maybe about. since september so like 4 months maybe of the discord server? and so much has happened since then.

Onto the actual much deeper depths of paragraphs, you genuinely have changed my life in ways that I don’t think I could even achieve. Many days on vc’s, joking about the most random things, to the (about) most unexpected things, late night vc’s, the silly sleepover vc’s (technically late night... but shhhh), your paragraphs here, your just genuinely amazing self and personality. Even if you’re just another person in this world, I think you’re some of the best among everyone that I could’ve had the pleasure of getting to meet and know you.

I always loved the times when we vced and went “hey it’d be funny if we watched this video” then did that or, mainly, plan ahead and all. The pikmin iceberg (even if i fell asleep. whoops.), isaacwhy ltlvc, epic the musical, and so much more probably HSJDNSJ. I’ll always remember the first vc I was in with you, or at least the one that I think is the first since I think we both were muted then eventually unmuted JSIDJSSJ I still don’t remember who was all there... i think it’s really funny that like 1-2 months after that, we vced so much and literally couldn’t remember who was there in the first vc JSAKJSKDJD i think that vc was when we had that silly “IM NOT A TYPER” or something i think... I DONT HAVE THE ORIGINAL IMAGE SAVED RN JAHDJDSJ 💔💔💔 and i sounded in such despair because it was like 1 or 2 am for me and i had to be quiet... I always absolutely LOVE our vc’s together, even if i’m caught, i typically don’t actually feel that bad since it’s just like. augh. i have no idea how to explain it💔💔 but yeah 💥💥💥 —> EDIT HERE... LTIERALLY TALKING TO YOU IN DMS AND YOU LITERALY HAVE JT ON HAND. THE IM NOT A TYPER. BROOOOO IM GONNA GET YOU

The surprise you gave me for my birthday and the fact that you did an entire PARTY IN THE SERVER ???? dude i was genuinely so gobsmacked, even if i was late to it NSKDNSKAJA... there was so much going on, i’ll be so fr i literally can barely remember it other than you asking my favroite scene and saying flowerfield sunset and then some bit later you surprised me with the fanart of neo like GUH?????? oh my GOS AJAJSNSNbut even just the MERE IDEA of having a birthday party and the fact that you wanted to do one for me was so surprising and i’m so genuinely hyped for yours like GUH. I’m so HSJSNSJSJSKSKNDJD

as you already know, the drawing above took about 12 hours and 30 minutes to fully finish. honestly, to my first fanart of tsb to this one is just amazing and i wouldn’t be able to see such improvement if it weren’t for you, for your amazing lore of tsb (i will yap about this later...), stealing some of your silly techniques here and there, and so much more. i’m just. baffled at the thought of being here with your birthday today.

oh and your ART. oh my GOODNESS. Where do i even START. for one, i know for a FACT i have stolen silly little things out of your style because of how unique and silly it is and how i do this with all of my friends because i genuinely appreciate and love everything that everyone makes,,, i especially LOVE, oh my goodness do i LOVE how you do your coloring and shading. it’s so unique in a way that works so damn well with how you do your lines, whether it’s sketchy or not, the outlines, everything bro. the rendering gets me the most. you WITNESSED me STRUGGLE to recreate it because i really wanted to try out and do a piece more in your style of things!! i do want to say it had been actually so fun doijg that... i should do it again lalalala... BUT ANYWASY!!!!! i’ve always just. oh my god. LOVE and just BUSHSURHEJSNA i just love how do you comics bro,.... no matter if they’re the ones like your final or the ones like the memories tsb lore... and especially the SPEED YOU GET THESE DONE AT ???? BRO IM SO JEALOUS IN THE BEST WAY POSSINLE... i don’t think i’ll ever stop looking up to you bro...

and now the lore. oh my Lore. Lore lore lore lore . im gonna gET YOUUUUUUU. i’m so INVESTED in tsb’s lore... the creation of this whole universe with cartoony characteristics (it’s literally just. HOW DO I EXPLIJA IT ITS BASISLY LIKE JUST A CARTOON WHDJSNS AND I LOVE IT), pipedream, watchman, the mysterious feeling, the character development. bro EVERYHTING. i cant BELEIVE you hide so much shit in the tiniest things, make entire comics out of what look like such simple asks but no your ass is over here producing COMICS for this bro..... i’m so jealous oh my GOD...... there’s so much i can think of but it feels so little of what we actually know (confirmed) so far... also i see you editing the playlist... your ass is NOT SLICK!!!

comsider all of these paragraphs and everything i’ve said to you already in vc as revenge for all the genuine most kindest paragraphs i’ve read in my life in the reblogs of tsb fanart... guh.... also off topic from this, i realized this is the first time you’ll see me draw emmet oh my god....

i’m so sure i have more to say but my ass actually cant think of anything brooooo.... maybe i’ll send you paragraphs in dms when i think of it and actually remember it GUH.... OH OH WAIT WAIT ALL THE JOKES THAT WE’VE MADE. dude i’m always just being so silly in vc and i think it’s really silly and comedic when you’re over there making silly little doodles and i just go “you should draw tsmg4/smg4 with long hair/smg34” or other alike things.... i don’t think i’ll also ever live down the times when i fell asleep on vc and you were there for i think all of them except maybe 1 ? i have no clue... bro your voice genuinely so calming i’m gonna fall asleep again some day 😭😭

okay enough yapping about that i THINK...., when I first found you, it was literally from the lipbite part 1 comic 😭😭 and i was like “oh hey, i actually kind of really like this person’s art!!” so yk. i followed you!!! if i told my past self that i’d be sitting here right now, typing all of this out, they wouldnt believe me. I’m genuinely just so baffled at the mere thought of being here and being able to call you a friend. hell. i’d even say best friends / close friends bro... i cannot even fathom the thought of that in the past, yet, here i am, able to call you a friend that i talk to about regularly i’d say.

I want to say it again; Happy birthday Tomm, I hope you have one of the best birthdays in your life and thank you for everything.

-Neo 💙

also,,, here’s a silly meme

part 1 of 2 ... i mean. who said that!!!!

part 2 here

[goldsbitch]

Twelve grapes

chapter 3 - Obsessed with me "Let me get this straight. You want me to throw a party for your Ferrari seat that nobody’s supposed to know about, but definitely everyone knows about, and now it’s going to be on a yacht you don’t even have yet?"

This is not how Charles imagined this conversation.

„Pierre, you're not being a supportive friend with these useless comments," he says, opting for emotional blackmail.

warning: unhinged reasoning, endless pining, 7k words

For a moment, Charles is everywhere - and then, faster than a blink of an eye - he is nowhere.

He doesn't give Max enough time to adjust, react or even comprehend what just happened. Has him standing there, frozen and...confused?

There is panic in his chest and when that happens, he wants to talk. So used to addressing complicated situations verbally. The art of feedback and analyses burned into him since the early age. It helps him process things.

He can't speak to Charles right now. A - he is on a plane. B - he is the one person he wants to talk about.

Images flash in front of his eyes like a film on fast-forward. Glimpses of the intruder that Charles inevitably was. At his motorhome, his childhood cottage and with his hand on the back of Max's head. Lips melting into lips.

Autopilot in his head worked and he's now parked in front of his hotel, without having any memory of driving there.

Deep breath in, and out. He pops his knuckles and turns the damn radio off.

And then he whips his phone out and calls the one person he feels like he might speak to.

The phone rings one, two, three, seven thousand times. Just as he considers hanging up, Daniel’s voice pulls through, bright and ready. 

"Maxie! What’s this? A late-night call? I gotta tell you - I’m already back from the bar, if you finally decided to show up. And I’m not alone, if you know what I mean.“

Max groans, leaning back against the headrest of his seat. "You’re an idiot."

"True," Daniel replies easily. "But you still called me. What’s up? Couldn’t resist the charm, huh?"

Max hesitates, his free hand gripping the steering wheel even though the car isn’t moving. He tries avoiding looking into the mirror. 

"Just…,“ The words are there, tangled in his throat, but none of them feel right. "Wanted to check in," Max says finally, cringing at how pathetic he feels right now. 

There’s a moment of silence, unusual for Daniel, before he speaks again, his tone softer but still laced with curiosity. "Check in? Mate, you’re not exactly the type to call for a chat. Is everything all right?"

Max is debates turning the car on and crashing into a wall.  "No. Nothing happened. Just... a long day." He decides that a hospital visit ins’t something he needs to add to this day. He is already barely breathing. 

Daniel hums, and Max hopes he manages to pick up a more convincing tone for the rest of the call. "A long day? Or a long day?"

"What does that even mean?" Max snaps, his voice edgier than intended.

"It means," Daniel prolongs his vowels, "that you sound weird. Like, you’re sick of something.“

Max presses his lips together, his jaw clenching. Daniel has this talent of getting under people’s skin, which many people find annoying. Max is usually on the sideline, laughing. Not today. 

"Maybe I just wanted to talk to someone who’s not a complete idiot," Max retorts, his tone too defensive.

"Ah, so you called the next-best thing, nice" Daniel shoots back, his laugh making it clear, that he is unaffected by the awkwardness max must radiate.  "Come on, Max. Spill it. You sound... I don’t know, off."

Max opens his mouth to respond, but freezes. His mind flashes back to the kiss—Charles’s hand on the back of his neck, the press of his lips, the way he ran like he was being chased.

"I kissed someone," Max blurts out.

The line goes dead silent for a second, and Max can practically see Daniel’s eyes widening.

„Niiice,“ Daniel says finally, his voice tinged with approval. "You? Kissed someone? Like, willingly? Without a contract forcing you to?"

"Shut up," Max mutters, running a hand through his hair.

"Okay, okay," Daniel says quickly, "Details. Who was it? When? And do I need to send flowers or an apology note?"

Max hesitates, the words hovering on the tip of his tongue. He could tell Daniel. He should tell Daniel. He needs to share with someone. But something inside him stops him cold.

"No one important," Max whispers, his voice raspy. "Just... a stupid mistake."

"Max... you don’t sound like you think it was a mistake." Daniel speaks like he knows something that Max doesn’t and it’s pissing him off royally. 

"Forget it," he says and decides that this time, talking to other people won't solve his problems.

"Noo, come on. Tell me who it is. Someone I know?!" Max panics even more, realizing that even though he wasn't the brightest, the last person Daniel saw him, with was Charles. And out of nowhere, the thought of Daniel figuring it all out freaks him out.

"I’m hanging up now," Max says definitively, his thumb already moving toward the red button.

"Max, wait-"

The call ends, the screen going dark, and Max sits in the silence of his car, his heart pounding. He tosses the phone onto the passenger seat and leans back, staring at the ceiling.

Charles’s face flashes in his mind again—his lips, his hand, the way he looked before he ran.

Max exhales sharply, running a hand over his face.

"Idiot," he mutters, though he’s not sure who he’s talking about anymore - Charles, Daniel, or himself.

And then - he puts a crown onto his own inexplicable recklessness of this day. He's been acting like a lunatic the whole day, why stop now. He reaches back for his phone and types quickly, before left side of his brain realizes what the right side is doing. Send.

Have a safe flight.

//

Charles never replies (no matter how much and how often Max stares at his phone) and ultimate, Max blames the Swiss mountains, where the Sauber HQ lies for the obvious lack of cell phone service.

Daniel teases him endlessly when they're alone, so he makes sure that there is someone from his side of the garage following him at all times. Be it an engineer, his trainer, the PR coordinator, an intern, a reporter or even the fucking cleaner - just so that he does not have to be reminded of his slip up. He also makes sure that he picks the people who like to talk. Preferably about anything not involving the Sauber team, their drivers and kissing. No order of preference.

It is Monza next, or as Max likes to refer to it - the headache race. Tifosi everywhere, even at places one would think is not suitable for humans. He is surprised no one has jumped at him yet from the toilets.

And this year, it really delivers in it's name. People racing around him making stupid mistakes and inevitably costing him a podium. He is mad, furious in fact. But if he were to pick one podium to have snatched from his hands, it would the god-forsaken Monza.

Now, however impatient and hot-headed Max is on track, it is something completely different outside the car. He is used to playing the long game - think of a goal, set it and follow methodical steps until he reaches it. This is what he did with Daniel - these past few months, he got real fed up of seeing everyone having all these friendships. He figured it was finally time to crack that can of worms. It wasn't his first choice, he had several people "in development", but the loud Australian is the one that actually worked. And now - there was a different kind of problem that required some long term plan.

The Charles element of this all is on his mind almost nonstop. The list of questions, one tripping over another, yet if he were to somehow say all of them, it would always come out as the same, one sentence.

Charles, do you regret it?

Max Verstappen was not a man prone to introspection. His world was one of facts, numbers, and actions—things he could control. But Charles Leclerc had thrown a wrench into that system, and now Max was stuck trying to decipher emotions he’d spent years ignoring. Not only he has to focus on racing, get into the car every weekend for these next three weeks, he now has to take into account that anytime he merely thinks of Charles, he freezes, mumbles and his brain switches off. Off all the things he should be worried about - like for example, does the fact he has to control himself, in order to not think about the kiss mean he is gay? His head spins when he thinks about that. So, he decides not to even open that question. He will figure that out once he finds out how Charles feels. No need to be going on a self-discovery journey, that might shift his world upside down and create more harm than good, if Charles considers this a mistake.

Now, it was starting to become painfully obvious that his brain is set on clearing that out. He could do that. Of course. If this also wasn't combined with the absolute fear and embarrasment he felt at the thought of talking about this with anyone, especially Charles. No, Max is not going to initiate this conversation. This is just how he's going to be for the rest of his life.

Max doesn’t have to look for Charles at Monza. His move to Ferrari, not yet announced, but heavily rumored, makes him the topic number one, almost outshining the actual current drivers in the scarlet team. The reporters are on a hunt, people talk and heads turn whenever he walks by. And he, the man who was kissing him just few days ago, has to catch glimpses over the crowds. There is a part of Max that is waiting for Charles to make the first move. After all - he is the one who did not respond to his text. It is only when Max catches sight of him during the driver parade, that Charles, all sharp smiles and practiced nods, actually looks at him. They stand so far apart that talking is not on the table. But, there is a moment - Max thinks it's about five seconds - when Charles's eyes practically bore into his own. And it's like anything that happened since the kiss was a mere, pointless dream. Max is coming to terms with the fact he is feeling things (not ready to analyse which things).

He spends his evenings locked in his room. The risk of running into Charles unaccompanied is low, but not minimal. Max is hiding from the one person that hold the key to the madness happening on the inside. He is not ready, but also wonders if one ever is.

//

It's like people forgot there are other topics than Charles moving to Ferrari. Not only does Max have to listen to his own PR manager feeding him lines to deflect reporters from the questions, the frenzy has infected the other drivers as well.

Max wonders how and why he finds himself, standing next to Pierre Gasly, who is blocking his exit and borderline interrogating him.

“Why would Charles tell me anything?”

Pierre leans in, little devils dancing in his eyes. “Because you’re Max Verstappen. He’d probably think you already know. You’ve got, like, Red Bull spies or something.”

“Spies,” Max repeats flatly and debates internally whether crawling away from this is socially acceptable. “I don’t know anything about Ferrari.”

“You don’t?” Pierre narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe him. “Come on. You guys were talking after Belgium, weren’t you?”

Max's stomach flips three times. Talking, joking, kissing, smashing cars. Then he ran away from me, because I am disgusting.

"Aren't you suppose to be best friends or something? Why would you think that I know if you don't know?" he opts for the reverse-attack strategy. It is, however, a question he keeps wondering himself. One would expect someone like Pierre to have that information, especially if Max already knows. His face goes blank—the Verstappen Default Setting for don’t ask me anything else.

"You know how he is," Pierre waltzes around it and Max is running out of ideas.

No, I apparently don't know how he is.

Pierre is good at reading the room and doubles down a bit. "Look, just tell me what you talked about and I'm off."

Max's first instinct is to say something along the lines "Go, ask him yourself," but he doesn't, because Pierre and Charles talking together about him might just about be the worst outcome of this all.

“We were talking,” Max says, picking his words carefully, “about... tires.”

“Tires,” Pierre deadpans.

“Yes. Tire degradation. Very important topic.” Max crosses his arms, hoping he looks convincing. “You know, something that involves actual racing and not rumor hunting.”

Pierre studies him for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. “So, let me get this straight. You and Charles Leclerc, standing alone after Belgium, decided to have a heart-to-heart about... tire degradation?”

“Yes.” Max nods. “It’s a very pressing issue.”

Pierre snorts. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Max rolls his eyes. “I’m not lying. I don’t care where Charles ends up next season. Why would I?”

Pierre's eyes light up as he looks somewhere behind Max's head. There is a glimmer of hope in Max, the potential end of this interaction. One that dies very quickly.

“Charles!” Pierre calls cheerfully, waving him over.

Charles walks up to them, not really having any other choice if he wants to get to the other side of the paddock. Max does not look at him. He is busy trying to keep his expression politely neutral and it's proving to be a tortuous task.

"Pierre. Max," Charles acknowledges and it feels weird to hear his own name rolling of Charles's tongue. Nobody says it in this specific accent.

Max gives a small nod, feeling like he’s caught in a trap. He wonders how long people usually look at each other, as if he lost the ability to function in a society. He makes all the effort not to glance at Charles. Like he's not even here. Then he panics, because that might just be the most suspicious way to go about this. So he turns his eyes towards Charles, without moving his head too much. He figures that is a good compromise. His mouth turns into a smile, but he can't escape the notion his eyes are giving it all away.

“Just talking about you,” Pierre says casually. Max wants to die.

Charles’s eyebrows shoot up, his gaze flicking to Max. “Oh?”

Panic, pure undiluted panic floats over every part of him. Max glares at Pierre, silently willing him to stop. Damage control, now. No, no, no, not talking like that! Oh, my God, now he's going to assume I'm so desperate that I go and talk to his best friend about it. “We weren’t—”

Pierre cuts him off. “Max was just saying how much he loves racing against you. Right, Max?”

Max’s jaw clenches and the smile he gives is one of his fakest, reserved for the truly, most awfully annoying PR activities. “Right. Love it.”

Pierre continues glaring at Charles, suddenly not interested in the Dutch driver at all, puts his arm around him and drills him over the Ferrari rumors as they slowly walk away.

Max has to try really hard to remember where he was going. Hell, probably.

//

The post race media pen is its usual chaotic mess, with microphones shoved in faces and reporters almost fighting for space. Max finishes his last interview, giving the practiced nods and all the right answers.  He’s just about to leave when he sees him.

Perfection incarnated, as always. His jaw is set, his walk determined and measured. He's ready to hand out smiles, like he owns it to God for making him this handsome. The paddock bends over to get a moment of his attention.

It’s not deliberate - Charles isn’t walking toward him; he’s just there, and Max freezes at the sight of him.

Their eyes meet briefly, and Charles hesitates before changing course, heading straight for Max. It’s momentary, just a flicker, but something in Charles’s face shifts. Hesitates, but keeps walking.

Max is seriously considering bolting out. He hates how his pulse quickens, how the world feels suddenly too loud and too quiet at the same time.

But, he misses all the chances he has on a swift exit and the man of the hour is standing right in front of him. Second row away from the reporters. “Max,” Charles says quietly, his tone low enough to be buried under the surrounding noise. But Max hears it. Of course he hears it. Again, with the accent. Max is starting to hate it.

Max raises an eyebrow, and replied a little too sharply. He feels cornered. “Charles.”

A quick glance over to the reporters nearby let's Max know Charles is also hyper aware of how exposed they are. Somehow, he can't shake away the feeling this is intentional. “I need to...” His voice trails off, and he shifts his weight, the faintest hint of unease breaking through the polished exterior.

Max waits. But nothing comes. “You need to...?”

First response he gets is a loud sigh. Rude.

“About Belgium.” Charles shifts and pulls his cap further into his face, as if to hide. “I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have-”

Max stiffens, his stomach twisting. He doesn’t want to do this here - not with a dozen cameras pointed at them. Of course, Leclerc, the menace he is, chooses the one place where Max can't have the luxury of a proper reaction. It is infuriating. Hundreds of moments and Charles picks this one? It’s infuriating.

"It's nothing," he dismissed it and only when he overplays this conversation back in the safe space of his hotel room over and over again realizes just how badly it came out. What he meant to say was: It's nothing to worry about. Not it's nothing. Because it is anything but that.

The Sauber driver visibly gulps, his composure cracking. "I never wanted-" he starts, but it comes out too rushed, sour undertone lacing both words. Before he can continue he is pushed by his PR manager to the hoard of reporters. Max watches as Charles is swept away, his apology unfinished, his expression unreadable. But then - then - Charles turns back. Just for a moment. His eyes meet Max’s, and there’s something there, unspoken and lingering.

What. The. Fuck. If Charles was trying to make Max question his sanity, he was doing an excellent job. Between cryptic apologies and half-finished sentences, Max was starting to think he’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe Charles Leclerc is just another fever dream, a perfect proof that Max is riding a train to an asylum.

He knows better. He should let go of...whatever this it. It's exactly what all the stupid mental coaches blabbed about.

But the look in Charles’s eyes? That was real. And it’s going to drive Max insane. He should let go.

//

He does, in fact, not let go.

The evening is spent collecting extra steps into his daily count, despite how tired his legs feel after the race. Some clarity is gained at the end of the day - and it has nothing to do with anything Charles said or did. It is gained despite his lunatic actions and words. Max is proud of himself. He, unlike someone, is able to get his thoughts in a coherent line, before he bothers others by speaking. It's a new thing he's trying. Desperate times.

After a full analysis of his own mistakes - credit where credit is due - he shifts onto exploring what exactly bothers him most.

The fact that Charles ran. He was gone so quickly and didn't even bother to face what had happened.

It's different this time when he rewatches Charles's race. They could have as well raced on different days all together, both far apart on the track, no way of interacting in the way they know best. Outsmarting each other with late breaking and bordeline dive bombs. He's sitting on edge of the random hotel bed, in the same uncomfortable position he took in an hour ago.

Max presses play again, the race replay sparking to life on his laptop screen. His heart still beats too fast from his own disastrous race. An overtake attempt that turned into a near-miss, everyone blaming him for "forcing Bottas off the track" (total bullshit, of course) and mediocre points finish. His accidental radio show and poor performance, something Helmut will absolutely make him relive tomorrow.

But it’s not his mistakes he’s watching. It’s Charles.

Charles in his Sauber truck, threading the car through Monza like he owns the place, despite the car being no more than an underdog trying to keep up. Charles late-braking, like he’s piloting a Red Bull, not a machine held together by duct tape and prayer. Making moves that, objectively, have no business working but somehow do. To watch him finish just off the points makes him regret he didn't push Bottas further into an actual spin. He got the penalty anyway, so what.

Max rewinds the clip, watching the Sauber dart into a gap that doesn’t really exist, Charles perfectly timing the pass to avoid disaster. The commentators praise him, calling it brave, daring, genius. Max cracks his knuckles.

“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath. “That’s what it is. Stupid.”

Because it is stupid. It’s the kind of move Max would have made last year, the kind that gets you called reckless and wild and dangerous. The kind that gets you a lecture from your race engineer or worse, your dad.

Except Charles gets away with it. The golden boy he is. He doesn’t just get away with it—he gets praised for it. The commentators cheer, the fans love him for it, and Max can’t stop watching because... because he’s probably a bit stupid too.

Max fast-forwards. There was this one move that he can't stomach. He dives to the inside, the car twitching slightly but holding. Max watches, his heart pounding in time with the replay.

“Why there?” Max mutters, rewinding again. “Why not wait for the straight? DRS was right there.”

But he knows why. Because waiting is boring. Waiting is for people who don’t believe in their own instincts. And Charles? Charles believes. Even it end with him in the wall. Better there, than in a 17th place.

Max exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. It’s not like he’s one to talk. His own race today was hardly a masterclass in patience. He’d thrown his car into gaps that barely existed, cursed out his engineer when things didn’t go his way, and barely kept his Red Bull from spinning into the gravel.

Maybe that’s what bothers him most. Seeing his own recklessness mirrored in Charles but wrapped in a smile that makes it look effortless. Max’s recklessness is raw, angry, a middle finger to anyone who doubts him. Charles’s recklessness is different. It’s calculated chaos. Beautiful in a way that Max hates himself for noticing.

Another rewind to avoid the boring laps. Charles overtakes two cars into Parabolica, threading the needle with infuriating precision. Max freezes the frame, staring at the screen.

“What are you trying to prove?” he whispers, though the question feels aimed at both of them. He certainly does not seem to be the type to run out of a fight.

His chest tightens as he remembers Belgium, Charles’s hand on the back of his neck, the kiss that came out of nowhere. The smell of damp air cut with Charles's cologne. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? The same recklessness, the same audacity to leap without looking. And then Charles ran, just like that. No explanation, no closure. Just gone. Max is sure he would never do that in racing. He is angry at him. Why does he use all of his bravery on track only. Charles kissed him. He kissed him back. And then, the ever so brave Charles ran away.

Max turns the thing off, the sudden silence in the room deafening. His heart races, the adrenaline from the replay mixing with something deeper, something he doesn’t want to name.

He tosses the laptop onto the bed, pacing the room like a caged animal. His thoughts are all over the place, colliding and crashing like cars at the first corner.

Max races like he has nothing to lose. Charles races like he has everything to prove. Maybe that’s why they’re drawn to each other, why the kiss feels less like a mistake and more like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Max stops pacing, staring at the blank laptop screen, his own reflection staring at him back in on the dark screen. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Frustration, longing, anger. Maybe all of it. All he knows is that Charles Leclerc is in his head, and he can’t get him out.

And maybe, Max thinks, he doesn’t want to.

//

It's the following morning, as all the teams depart for their next destination of this triple header, when he sees him again. Standing in the hotel lobby, waiting for a transfer and there is something about his smile making it seem like this man just won the lottery.

Max tries to go about his way. His excuse is that there is too many people auditioning to be nosy witnesses and he does not want to repeat the whole "Pierre Gasly Interrogation" again. But, as soon as Charles sees him, he rushes over to him, with a smile Max imagines is on his face when he completes one of his brilliant overtakes. It's hard not to smile back. His body is doing it on his own. Because there is so much lightness in Charles's face, childlike carelessness and brutal honesty. You can't fake a vibe like that, no matter how good of an actor you are.

Max nods to greet him, unsure what to say, all the words dying in his throat. He does not have to, Charles looks like he is going to explode if he does not talk soon.

As soon as he is next to him, closer than a stranger would be, his smile grows even wider, something Max found impossible. Is Charles so happy to see him? What happened to him overnight that changed his attitude so drastically? Max considers it to be a blessing to be on the receiving end of Charles's wide grin. He watches him take a deep breath in, like he is about to say something really big.

He leans in, faces almost touching and the hairs on the back of Max's neck stand up. He is pretty sure Charles must be able to hear his heartbeat. The cologne Charles uses must have been made with clear intent on getting Max drunk in broad daylight.

"I signed the Ferrari contract," he states quietly, so subtly Max has to pierce it together for few seconds.

Of course. That's the cause of the smile.

Charles leans back and searches eagerly for Max's reaction in his face. And when Charles Leclerc looks at you like that, there is no other option in life than to retaliate. They stare at each other for good few seconds. Max wants to reach over and hug him. Tell him he's proud of him and that he never doubted that. He wants him to hear that he is looking forward for Charles making his job harder. He wants to tell him that he is not at all surprised. That this might be the one good decision Ferrari has made in a while.

He tries to fit all of that in one muffled "Nice. Good job." It takes everything he has to keep himself in check. Charles seems to be satisfied with this. He nods and before he departs, squeezes Max's shoulder two times. And just like that, he floats away on his Cloud 9.

Max stays glued at the same spot. He does not bother watching Charles rushing back over to his team. The only wish he has is that one day, maybe, Charles looks at him like just did, only because he is happy to see him. Max had let himself hope for a minute there, before he found out what the source of Charles's joy is, and it's like any other kind of drug. Slowly invites you in and before you know it, you can't think of anything else.

Max recalls when Charles showed his first photos with Sauber into his face that one time. There is a bitter sweet feeling in his mouth. Today, he's probably pay more attention if he'd showed him his first photos with Ferrari.

//

The Ferrari deal is done. His future is set. Years and years of dedication and sacrifice paying off. It is so much to wrap his head around. The whole weekend has been focus on meetings with Ferrari officials, so much he almost forgot they were suppose to race there. He drove on complete autopilot. But finally - last night, it happened. He wants to dance it the streets (and he eventually does, to amusement of the rest of his team). And yet, for some reason, the memory of Max’s faint smile and his quiet “Nice. Good job,” lingers in the back of his mind, warm and confusing all at once.

He's been full on ignoring this part of his life ever since his grand exit at the airport. Put all of this in a tiny box in his brain and locked it, with the intention not to open any of it until Monza is over.

Alas - Monza was over. But he is so wrapped up in the Ferrari of it all, that he postpones it - whatever it is. When he saw Max in the lobby that morning, he just acted on his impulse. He was already containing so much. The curse of unprovoked split-second decisions is looming on him whenever Max is nearby. Charles figures Max is simply a victim of some voodoo hoodoo. Maybe he forgot to resend a mass email chain and now he is cursed. He should be glad Charles didn't kiss him again. On a day like today, he took no remorse. But, there were too many people anyway. Max is cursed, but not that much. In Charles's post-contract-hyper-dopamine brain, this all makes sense. Everything is brighter, the colors are all alligning and even the airport is an amazing place to be. Charles is loving life and everything will be great from now on.

//

The first thing Charles does when he gets home is drop his bag by the door and collapse face-first onto the couch. One of the perks that getting a dream contract apparently is that his mom leaves him to do that and does not bug him about taking his shoes off. He is so, so tired. All the turmoil, stressful meetings followed by unmasked and unfiltered joy are bound to take a tool, even on someone so young and fresh as Charles.

For the first time in weeks, he dreams.

//

It takes him a moment to realize he is standing barefoot on the track. Blood-orange sky locks the scenery in. He knows he's in Monaco, but it looks nothing like it. There are fields and deep woods lining the track. The stands are empty and there are only few people dressed in multicolored fireproofs working the track. The ground shifts and he notices his father, standing, leaning casually against the Red Bull pit wall.

"Nice suit," he says and it's only then when Charles realizes he is wearing a Ferrari racing suit. It's now impossible to ignore that it is two sizes too small.

"It does not fit," Charles whispers, but know his father can hear him.

“You’ll grow into it.”

Charles wants to reply, to argue, but the track shifts beneath him, the world tilting like a kaleidoscope. He’s suddenly in the cockpit, the roar of the engine filling his ears. The lights above the grid turn red, one by one. He knows he needs to start. But he doesn't. Instead, he stays put as about million race cars pass him by.

He knows he should have started, but before can do so, there is and impossibly bright light and without hearing or actually feeling it, he knows someone rear ended him, full F1 speed. Max is out of his Red Bull, Charles is out of his Ferrari and they both examine the damage. There is a green liquid leaking out of the car. Charles’s blood boils.

"Why would you crash into me?!" he shouts at Max.

“You’re running,” Max says, his tone soft and calm. “Why are you running?”

“I’m not running,” Charles snaps. Even in his dream, he feels tired.

Max tilts his head, studying him. “You kissed me.”

Charles’s breath catches. “I-”

He is woken up by the smell of home cooked dinner.

//

The little five hour nap only made him more tired and disoriented. He is immediately pulled into family dinner, his mama obviously unable to contain herself where there is good news. She is unapologetic about things she love and moments of excitement. Charles likes to think he inherited that from her.

He is slowly eating the food - his favorite, made just for him - even though he is not hungry, not even a bit. He does not usually remember his dreams. This one is clear as day.

There is barely a moment for him to breathe, given how many questions his giddy mom asks him, expecting him to answer while simultaneously clearing his plate. Laughter fills the room and it's all so domestic and comforting.

Until, of course, faith decides that Charles has had quite enough of that for one day.

“Oh, by the way, Max is coming over to my salon on Thursday,” she says casually, sipping on her red wine.

Charles chokes, forcing himself to dislodge a piece of carrot before it kills him. “Max?” His mouth is full. It's the first time he speaks like that and mama is shooting arrows at him for bad table manners.

“For his haircut,” she replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You know, he’s been coming here for months.”

He stares at her, his brain short-circuiting. “Since when?”

“Oh, since...maybe February? Possibly March? He said he needed someone reliable, and you know how picky I am about hair.”

Charles stares into nothing, his thoughts racing. Max had been coming to his mother for haircuts. For months. Without saying a word. That explains the sudden glow up and the mysterious disappearance of his spiky hair era, when the only thing Charles wanted to do was buy many, many hats for him to wear.

“And he’s such a polite young man,” she continues, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him. “He always asks about you, you know.”

Oh, this is just perfect. His mom and his overly complicated pseudo crush are chit chatting regularly, apparently, and none of them thought Charles should be made aware of it. Polite young man my ass.

Charles freezes. “He asks about me?” he repeats, after catching up with his new reality.

She nods, sipping her tea. “Last time, he wanted to know if you were always so competitive. I told him yes, of course.”

Plan A - ignore everything and pretend life is normal - is no longer an option. This is becoming a Plan C situation (whatever Plan B was anyway). He needs to address this properly with Max before the incidentally two most chattiest people in his life meet again.

The affects of this going unsupervised could be catastrophic.

//

You don't have these conversation over the phone, Charles thinks as he spends his entire morning figuring out whereabouts in Monte Carlo Max could be, so that he can "run into him accidentally." Or - stalking, as it is usually referred to by the police. It's fine. They know each other. It's completely okay to do so.

He's gonna run into him, properly apologize, they will laugh it off and then, Max is free to go to have his hair cut by Pascale Leclerc. Only, of course, after he swears on his secrecy. Charles has two days before the early morning appointment on Thursday. His mom made few comments about how Max is always the first customer she has, as he insists on coming in as early as possible. This was the final piece of information Charles needed in order to finally declare that Max is a crazy person. He knew it already, but lacked evidence.

In the next two days, Charles ends up going on five runs, visits the one ice-bath in Monaco seven times, buys three coffees and four croissants at the bakery Max mentioned once (all on separate occasions) and tries to bribe the gym receptionist, where apparently Max is a member, for information. All without any result what-so-ever.

Technically, he could text him and just ask to meet him. Yes, that is an option normal people see as a possibility and it's probably effective.

But, Charles has a plan. And when that happens, he's not going to resort to something as pathetic as texting him. He needs to play it nonchalantly, can't have him thinking that he cares about the kiss in any way.

It is Wednesday afternoon when he start to panic properly. Like, he's about to set his mom's salon on fire kind of panic. There is one thing he can do before resulting to destroying his family's life long business.

What are friends for if not for desperate times.

"Let me get this straight," Pierre says on the phone and it's like Charles can visibly see his face just by tone of the voice he is using. "You want me to organize a party... tonight? Like, two hours from now?"

They'd done wilder things in the past. Honestly, Charles finds Pierre's disbelief mildly insulting.

"Everybody knows Wednesday is the new Friday," he argues, knowing he could do better. If his tired legs weren't occupying his mind. He did sort of ran a half-marathon in the past 48 hours.

Pierre laughs so loudly that Charles has to pull the phone away from his ear. "Tonight? Do you know what Monaco is like on a Wednesday night?"

"Perfect for a party," Charles says, forcing a casualness that isn’t remotely convincing. "People here don’t need a notice."

"You’re insane," Pierre replies, still laughing. "What are we even celebrating? Or is this just you being bored?"

Charles has bitten off all of his nails, but tries one more time, while he brainstorms. "Friendship," Charles says firmly. "Good vibes. You know, c'est la vie."

"Good vibes," Pierre echoes, flat and skeptical. "That’s the best you’ve got? Not that little Ferrari deal everyone and their grandma already knows about?"

Charles's stomach flips. He is joking. "Nobody knows about that."

Pierre snorts. "Charles, come on. Monaco is basically one big group chat with yachts. 

Charles freezes, the words clicking into place. "A yacht," he mutters under his breath, his brain spinning wildly.

"No," Pierre says, suddenly cautious, already knowing where this is going.

"A yacht!" Charles exclaims, suddenly full of life. "It’s perfect! Not a club - a boat party! It’s more intimate, exclusive. Very Monaco. And..."

And Max loves boats, but he manages to stop himself from saying it out loud.

Pierre snorts. " Ok, allow just one tiny question. Do you have a yacht, Charles?"

"I’ll find one," Charles says with a confidence only sleep deprivation can provide. "This is Monaco. It’s basically the yachting capital of the world. I’ll call... someone."

"Right. Someone," Pierre deadpans. "Let me get this straight. You want me to throw a party for your Ferrari seat that nobody’s supposed to know about, but definitely everyone knows about, and now it’s going to be on a yacht you don’t even have yet?" This is not how Charles imagined this conversation.

"You're not being a supportive friend with these useless comments," he says, opting for emotional blackmail.

He can almost hear Pierre eye roll. "Fiiiine. I'll take care of inviting the people and pretending this was my idea. Who do we want there?"

This is the spirit! Now, he just needs to be as coy and subtle as possible. "Um...yeah, it should be like exclusive, I think. But, like not too exclusive, my team, your team if you want, some girls," he adds, knowing this will keep Pierre engaged, "Oh, definitely some drivers. But like, our age. You know? I'm not sure Vettel is the right vibe."

Perfect. Charles is so proud of himself for coming up with that.

"Ok, understand," Pierre responds. Finally, an answer Charles wanted to hear.

"Is it ok if I invite Max?"

Why must God hate Charles so much.

"Um...," he thinks how not to come off too eager or too indifferent. "Sure, if he's free. He's been acting like less of a dick than usually, so why not."

Charles is a genius. Or at least thinks that he is right now.

"Got it, just wanted to check before. He's been staring at you so much, when he thinks nobody is watching. I wasn't sure if you were still on speaking terms."

He has to applaud Pierre for his observation skills. But only silently.

"Nah, we're good. Invite him, whatever. Gotta go - I have a boat to find!" he says and hangs up quickly.

So. A party. On a yacht. With Max. What could possibly go wrong? He is trying not to over-think Pierre's comment about Max staring at him.

------- @chezmardybum

[justageekk]

❛❛ color caramelo ❜❜ — marc bernal x fem!reader

summary: Marc gets jealous when a boy tries to flirt with you.

warnings: jealousy, small discussion.

word count: 1,015

inspiration: “color caramelo” by beny jr

❛❛ Si alguno a ella le tira

Puede que en su mismo barrio yo me plante ❜❜

NOTE : My native language is not English, I'm sorry if I write something wrong.

The music inside the house thumped softly as you walked into the party with Marc. He lightly took your arm and leaned closer to discreetly whisper in your ear.

“Are you okay, cariño?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he waited for your response.

“Yes, although I’m surprised you agreed to come here.”

“I couldn’t leave you alone. I made an exception for you,” he said with a smile, giving you a quick glance.

The two of you separated as the party began to liven up. You weren’t too far apart, but you both knew you needed to keep your relationship hidden for both your sakes—mostly because of Marc’s rising fame. People lately had been invasive, and neither of you wanted to risk your relationship being destroyed by rumors or other complications.

You were in the kitchen pouring yourself a drink while Marc chatted with Guillermo, though his eyes stayed fixed on your every move.

Taking a sip of your beer, you suddenly heard a familiar voice behind you.

“Well, I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Alex, a friend of one of your friends, said, flashing a confident smile and running a hand through his messy blond hair.

You chuckled politely before responding, “I didn’t want to stay cooped up on a Saturday.”

He let out a soft laugh, leaning closer to you and starting to play with your hair, curling it around his finger before letting it go. His gaze lingered on your face, occasionally dropping to your body as though he wanted to devour you right then and there.

“I’m glad you’re here. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, beautiful?”

You clenched your jaw, smiling awkwardly as you nodded, gripping your glass tightly before taking another sip.

At first, Marc didn’t pay much attention, thinking you were just having a normal conversation. He couldn’t act like a jealous maniac, after all. But his demeanor shifted completely when Alex leaned in far too close to your face.

The brunet rose from the couch in a fury, striding over to where you were and shoving Alex by the shoulder to get to you.

“Is he bothering you?” Marc asked, pointing at the blond with his thumb over his shoulder.

Alex smirked, as if the situation was a joke to him. “Relax, we were just talking, man.”

“Shut up. Who asked you?” Marc snapped, turning abruptly and shoving Alex again.

“Take it easy, bro. It’s not that serious. What’s your problem?” Alex let out a nervous laugh, stepping back.

“My problem is idiots like you trying to hit on what’s mine with other intentions. Got it?”

Your eyes widened as you stood frozen, unsure of what to do in this situation.

“Alright, man, I didn’t know she was taken.”

“Well, now you do,” Marc said firmly, giving Alex one last glare before turning toward you. His expression softened instantly as he stepped closer, reaching out his hand to you. His fingers brushed against yours with a tenderness that starkly contrasted with his earlier anger.

“Let’s go,” he murmured quietly.

Without saying a word, you took his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch as he began leading you out of the party. His body remained tense, his posture firm, as though he was still ready to confront anyone who dared get in his way.

As you moved through the crowd, you felt the weight of people’s stares. Some whispered to one another, probably surprised by the scene they had just witnessed, but Marc didn’t pay them any mind. His only focus was getting you out of there.

When you finally stepped into the cool night air, Marc let out a long sigh, as if releasing all the tension he’d been holding in. He still held your hand, but this time, he stopped and turned to face you, his eyes scanning you carefully.

“Was all of that really necessary?” you asked, meeting his gaze.

“Are you seriously asking me that? Did you not see how he was looking at you? Or the way he was talking to you?”

“Marc, it was nothing. You know I didn’t pay him any attention.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to stand there while someone tries to make a move on you.”

He shook his head, exhaling heavily as his hands gripped yours tightly.

“I’m not going to just stand by while someone flirts with you,” he said firmly.

You looked at him silently for a moment. Before you could respond, Marc took a step closer, closing the distance between the two of you.

“Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?” he murmured, his voice barely audible as he leaned in, his dark eyes locked on yours. Without waiting for an answer, he closed the gap, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips.

The kiss made your heart race instantly, and your hands, almost instinctively, moved to rest against his chest. Marc’s hand slid up to cup your cheek, his fingers brushing your skin gently, while his other hand moved to your waist. With a determined motion, he pulled you closer, pressing your body against his as if he wanted to ensure there was no space left between you.

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses.

[sundayin96]

wait i’m probably completely wrong about this but uh was roger’s whole ‘comfortably numb’ experience in philadelphia only like a week prior to the whole spitting incident in montreal???? cause i just kind of accidently noticed that the dates lined up and now i keep thinking about it and now i need someone to tell me i’m wrong about this so i can let it go hahahaha please help 😅

[wander-wren]

if i don’t look New Media in the eye i won’t develop a hyperfixation, right?

i say, binging seasons 8-10 of hermitcraft as fast as humanly possible, diving into fanfiction and finally understanding why people write about mcyt, and pivoting to watch double life with my shipping goggles on