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rodent-diaries · 2 days ago

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"You know I could hear you... Right?"

✓ Betty x GN Reader 🌶️

Acquaintances to friends... With benefits

Content Warning: Sensual massage, whispering in your ear, licking biting and scratching, she's lowkey (highkey) voyeuristic, edging, mention of sex with other people

𓂃 ࣪˖ ⋆.˚ ʚїɞ ⋆

It hadn't been a few days since Skylar had shown you how the Dateviators and the Date-a-Dex—on the nose names, I know—really worked, and you'd been shown around your own house that you'd already lived for quite some time, to be introduced to people who'd apparently lived there long before you'd arrived.

You had already been witness to Dirk's and Harper's constant bickering, been patrolled by Dorian's numerous forms around the house—including the comically pocket-sized one—played games with Connie and Chance, gone to Eddie and Volt's bar, been in a way Stalked by Fantina, talked to the Narrator—The other one—and much, much more. You might've also learned a new thing about yourself the past couple of days: you have quite the serious hoarding problem. Before this week, you hadn't even been sure you had an attic or a water heater, but there's always something new to find.

Alas, what most caught your eye in your sea of household Bachelors and Bachelorettes, was perhaps the most obvious of them all, the one you'd spent the most time with before you had even realized you were doing so: Your bed.

Betty was one of the first objects in the house you met, and ever since you'd laid eyes on her full figure and tired eyes, you couldn't keep her out of your mind. Her arms and collarbone that faintly dusted with freckles caught your attention. You wondered if she hid more of them underneath her cozy looking attire, imagined how it would look like under the bustier fashioned out of your bedframe and headboard. Were her undergarments also made out of fluffed polymer, and hiding beneath them nethers in the same color as her attention-drawing hair?

It was all you could think about when you headed to bed at night, and tonight, in specific, you couldn't resist the lingering temptation in the back of your head. You reached across your duvet, stretching over your mattress and grabbing your Dateviators from your bedside table, the sound of Abel shuddering in surprise not necessarily reaching your ears, but assumed, as you grabbed the oculars and rested them on your ears.

Almost instantly, Betty caught your eye. Seductive is the word that comes to mind when you eye her position. She was laying there—on herself? You make a note to think about it later—head resting on one hand, as her elbow propped itself up onto a pillow, her other hand tracing lines with her incredibly manicured long nails over her thigh.

"Well, hey there," she says in that tone of voice that sounds half tired, half flirty, like she'd been up all night, trying to think of ways to fluster you. Her speech hangs in your ear moments more than it should before you catch yourself from gaping, and her smirk makes your skin flush as your heart speeds inside your ribcage. "Couldn't sleep?"

You stammer on your words for a second, blinking as if you're Mac trying to run a game on max graphics and buffering as you struggle to process it. You bring yourself to focus as you clear your throat and adjust your position, then tell her as smoothly as you can, "Uh... No. Not really."

Betty grins. The corner of her lips raise even as she clearly tries to stop them for a moment, before giving in to whatever she found so funny—maybe your stuttering, your flushed face, your awkwardness while talking to her. Take your pick. "Having nightmares?"

"N—no," you waveringly state, before you focus up your whole entire being to muster up courage and add, "Just... Couldn't stop thinking about you."

Betty raises an eyebrow, then chuckles amusedly—Damn, that laugh sounds good in your ear—and bites her lower lip, the way she usually always does. "I couldn't stop thinking about you either. But in my case, that's because you were just laying there, and you couldn't even see me. I thought Would you feel if I touched you? Unfortunately, you grabbed the glasses before I could find out."

Spurring out without thinking, you blurt out before she's even fully finished her speech, "You can touch me whenever you like."

"Oh?" Betty hums, prompting you to elaborate further as she scoots in just a little bit closer.

"I just meant—" you fumble out, shaking your head and stuttering as you try to come up with a way to correct what you blatantly meant in your entirety. "I mean... If you want to try and touch me when I can't see you, that's fine. I won't mind."

"Hm," Betty nods, entirely unconvinced in your poor excuse, before she notes, "You're blushing."

"A— Am I?" you ask with an awkward chuckle, now suddenly aware of how warm your body was. You pull on your pajama's collar, and realize you're laying in bed with a beautiful woman, while still wearing a shirt that read in bold: GIRLS ❤️ MY AUTISM SWAG, and a pair of old sweatpants. "Gee, I didn't even... Notice."

"You're adorable," Betty points out, reaching out a hand to run across your chest. "And really tense. Have you been stressed lately?"

"As stressed as someone who just got replaced by AI and lost their job can be," you shrug, averting your gaze from Betty's hand to try and ignore her touch—spoiler alert: it didn't work.

"D'aw," Betty clicks her teeth empathetically, sitting up on the bed and getting so close to you, you start wondering if you really remembered to brush your teeth before bed tonight. "Do you need a massage? I'm told I'm... Good with my hands."

You have to restrain yourself from yelling loud enough for your entire house to hear, Yes! Please touch me, Mommy! and instead reply, "Massages are nice..."

"Here, sit up, rest your back against me, nice and warm," she instructs, guiding you to rest your back against her chest. It's an almost immediate reaction, you feel her bust press up against your back muscles, even past the wood, and you shudder out something short of a moan, before she even puts her hands on you.

"Okay," you gulp, your shoulders tensed nervously as Betty trails her smooth fingers over your arms, softly scratching at your skin. You feel goosebumps wherever she touches, like your own body was craving this for so long, it feels the need to welcome her skin.

Betty tiptoes her fingers around your biceps—which probably need more training with Dunk, if we're being fully honest here—and presses her fingertips against your chest, kneading and pressing gently, though just roughly enough to get you grunting and sighing under her hands. She palms your pectorals so vigorously, it's like she expects to milk you from that end. You feel kind of nervous to try and tell her you can't actually produce milk, and the metaphor refers to another body part of yours, before she moves on to start massaging your stomach.

"B—Betty—!" you try and protest as her hands slip under your shirt, but it falls to deaf ears. Your moans are so loud now, you're certain half the objects in the house can hear you gasp and writhe under Betty's grasp.

Your bed runs her tender, smooth fingers over your middle, her pinky ever so often pulling at your waistband, as you feel yourself already anticipating her from under your sweatpants. Before she can do anything of the sort, however, your attention is grabbed when Betty breathes flush against your ear, and nibbles on your helix like it's a sweet treat.

"Betty..." you plead, practically whining in need as you grip the sleeves on her arms, pressing yourself deeper against her chest. "Please."

"Please?" Betty repeats back to you, chuckling softly as she licks your jaw from behind. "Do you want me to touch you, like you touch yourself every night, when you think no one's looking? You know I could hear you... Right?"

It's at that moment you realize that even living alone, you'd had over a hundred objects inside your very home, that were now all people, and they'd heard you touch yourself, and in Betty's case, probably seen it first hand. You wonder how many of them know exactly what you like to do to your own body. You take a moment to scold yourself for being so loud at times, then scoff as you throw the idea out the nearest Wyndolyn, and grasp Betty's sleeves like they're your lifeline.

"Yes," you nod, maybe a little too enthusiastically, but who's really watching to care? Well, besides your whole entire house. Maybe even your neighbors, who knows? You're too much of a depraved pervert to worry about being watched. "Please, Betty, I want it."

"Beg me for it," she hums. Her hands stop moving over your stomach, only resting over your skin that feels like it's seconds away from bursting into flames. "Beg me, just like you beg for release when you do it to yourself. And maybe I'll touch you."

"Please, please, please," you state, over and over again. You lose count of how many times you say it, your brain shutting off like the good little dumb whore Betty wants you to be, and functioning on full autopilot, seeking solely the pleasure only she can give you. "I need it, Betty. I need you. So bad."

Betty chuckles at that, biting her lip before she starts kissing down your neck, your collarbone and shoulder, her nails regaining movement to scratch and smooth over the skin in your pudgy, squishable stomach to purposefully leave behind marks.

"That's good," she praises, slipping a hand beneath your sweatpants and smoothing her fingertips over the wet spot you'd managed to form in your underwear. "Are you excited, baby? All hot and bothered for me? Hm?"

"Yes," you nod, gulping loudly as you buck up into her almost subconsciously. "Please Betty, I can't take this teasing anymore."

Betty hums, pondering the idea over as she runs her thumb over the top of your privates, sending shudders and shivers up your body in pleasure. You moan, but it's all over way before you can enjoy it fully.

Betty retracts her hand, licks over the sticky liquid you'd produced diligently for her, but then she kisses your cheek, pats your stomach like a dog after performing a trick, and she stands up.

You watch as Betty walks away, your eyes following after her. It takes a moment to process, you only watch her figure hungrily, then you realize she's not going away to come back with toys, she's just leaving.

"Betty?" you call weakly, your strained breathing louder than your own words. "Where are you going? I thought—"

Betty turns back to you. You can see the flush in her cheeks as she smiles down at you, before she blows you a kiss. "I'll be hearing you, if you want to continue without me."

"But—"

"Ah-ah," Betty shakes a finger as you try to stand up, stopping you in your tracks. "You can take care of yourself, right? You're an independent person, you can resolve your problems without Mommy's help. You have other... friends, too, don't you?"

You gulp, gaze flickering nervously as you realize she's referring to herself when she says the title, and not your actual mother. "Okay..."

Betty smiles contently, and you're forced to watch her go. She opens the bedroom door, winks at you from the doorway, then closes it behind her. You're left in your room, looking around with your Dateviators on to realize there's really nobody here but yourself now.

You look down at yourself, sighing quietly as you lower your pants. You blink, debating what to do—do as Betty says, and put on a show for her and the rest of the house to hear, or don't?

You go over what she just said to you a moment ago, You have other... friends, too, don't you?

You go to remove your glasses when you realize. You call for her, and almost instantly she's standing over you with a helpful smile, then she flushes as she realizes your current state.

"Skylar..." you mutter, pulling at her clothes. "Can you help?"

#wattpad #canon x reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #x reader #betty date everything #betty x reader #date everything #one shots #betty date everything x reader #betty date everything x you #date everything x you #date everything x reader #date everything x y/n

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x-prettyboy-x · 2 days ago

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Stranger at 24B

Decided to give into the brainrot and write this prompt🫶🏻 a few of you seemed to want it as well, so enjoy. Special love to @tjwritesfanfics for helping with the title🩷

Pairing: Alex Taylor x Trans!Male Reader

Contents: so so much fluff. Alex is the sweetest boy and I tried so hard to portray that.

Warnings: Mentions of transphobia if you really squint

Wc; 1.5k

Masterlist

You've occupied the locker next to Alex all school year. You always watched him quietly when he came to put away some of his books between classes, took note of how organized his locker was. But you never spoke to him.

Not by choice, not really anyway.

You'd came out as trans in your freshman year, and of course, word spread quickly. But not to Alex. Alex had been homeschooled most of his life, and he'd only started public school last year. And by then, your transition was old news. The only time anyone talked about it now was to tease you or make the usual rude comments you'd learned to block out.

You weren't exactly sure why you cared so much about what Alex thought of you. Really, you had no reason to. But every time you see that sweet smile, those pretty blue eyes, you can't imagine the look of confusion or possible disgust he'd give when he heard your voice. The voice that didnt match the name.

Alex couldn't judge based on your looks, of course. That was a blessing in disguise some days. He couldn't look at you and see the slight bump of your chest under your shirt that your binder couldn't quite hide. He couldn't see your feminine bone structure. He just knew your name, the name you'd given yourself.

So, you watched him from afar. Not.. in a creepy way, obviously. Just in passing.

When you'd pass him and Julie at their table during lunch, or when he'd walk past you in the hallway. A part of you looked forward to those moments between classes when you both went to your lockers. That was the closest you ever got to him, and though you'd never speak to him, you cherished those moments.

"Have I.. done something to make you not like me?"

Shit.

His voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you quickly closed your locker, slamming it a bit too harshly. He still had that soft smile while he waited for your response, ever so patient, his head turned slightly in your direction.

This was what you wanted to avoid. Now you were backed into a corner, and you had a choice to make. Speak, and risk it. Or ignore him and let him think you hated him.

Neither choice was ideal.

You shook your head and cleared your throat softly, leaning against your locker and looking down at your hands to nervously pick at the chipped nail polish on your fingernails.

He must have noticed the long beat of silence, or maybe he could hear your nervous fidgeting. Either way, he spoke up again.

"I'm sorry if I have. We've been around each other at least 3 times a day for the whole year, and you've never spoken to me. I don't bite, promise. No matter what Julie tells you." You could've melted at the soft laugh that escaped his lips.

You couldn't let him think you hated him. Not after that.

"No, you haven't.. not at all." You glanced at him as you spoke, holding your breath as you watched the look on his face.

And of course, there it was. The slight tilt of his head, the way his brows furrowed in slight confusion. The way he fumbled over his words ever so slightly and asked your name, his confusion only worsened when you confirmed you were who he was thinking of.

"I'm sorry, I assumed with a name like that you were-"

"I am. You assumed right." You couldn't let him finish that sentence.

You watched his face, watched the confusion fade. Watched him nod and that soft smile return to his face.

"Alright. Well, it's nice to finally meet the stranger at 24B."

"You're not like.. uncomfortable?"

"Why would I be? I mean.. I had an idea. I heard rumors, but I never listened to things like that. I asked Julie about you, and she told me a few things, but " He shrugged his shoulders, "It's not really my business. If that's who you are, and that's how you wanna live, it doesn't matter what I think."

You suddenly felt beyond stupid and embarrassed. You'd wasted nearly an entire year avoiding him over nothing.

The two of you couldn't stop talking after that. Maybe you both felt the need to make up for wasted time.

By the end of the year, you were eating lunch with him and Julie and going with them to Alex's cross country events and his practices. You'd met his parents and spent a lot of time with him, whether it was at school, his house, Julie's house, or Brad's house.

You leaned forward in your seat as you watched Alex swing back and forth on the rope swing in Brad's backyard, a small smile on your face. Brad had gone inside to get drinks for the three of you, leaving you and Alex alone.

"Hey uh.. would you mind if I touched your face?"

You laughed softly, "Feeling lonely, Alex?"

"I just really wanna know what you look like.."

You hummed and carefully got up, walking over to stand in front of him,

"I mean.. you'll be disappointed, but go ahead."

"I doubt that.."

You watched intently as he trailed the pads of his fingers along every detail of your face, tracing down your eyebrows to your eyes, then your nose and your cheekbones, and he spent maybe a little more time than necessary on your lips before he smiled and pulled away.

"Not at all disappointed. You're a very pretty boy."

Now, if anyone else has said that to you. You may have been offended, livid even. But seeing the look in eyes, the smile on his face. He genuinely meant it.

"Yeah? You're not so bad yourself."

The two of you only got closer over the summer, Brad and Julie quickly taking notice of the unspoken shift in the relationship the two of you had. But they gave you two space to figure it out on your own terms, at your own pace. But they still subtly tried to push the two of you together.

Like today. The 4 of you were supposed to spend some time at the park, but Brad and Julie suddenly came up with an excuse and canceled, leaving you two alone yet again.

You'd volunteered to take Alex for a quick run, even though you hated running. And you damn sure couldn't run at the pace Alex liked.

You practically collapsed onto the bench beside Alex once he'd safely sat down, a small laugh leaving his lips as he heard your labored breathing.

"Don't go dying on me."

You scoffed softly, hand over your chest as you struggled to catch your breath, "I don't plan on it. Sorry I can't keep up with you the way Brad does."

"That doesn't matter. I'm just happy you wanted to run with me, I like spending time with you."

You glanced over at him, opening your mouth to speak, but every time you tried, your words failed you. You took a deep breath and just forced the words out of your mouth.

The worst he could say was no.

"Hey, Alex?"

"Hm?"

"Can I kiss you?"

A beat of silence. Then another. And another.

Until finally,

"Please."

You were slow and careful as you leaned forward to gently press your lips against his own, letting him take the lead and set the pace. The kiss wasn't rushed, wasn't heated. It was careful and soft, just like him.

When the two of you finally pulled apart, you took in the state of him. The light redness in his cheeks, the way his breathing was a little heavier than before.

You never wanted to forget the way he looked right now.

"Don't go dying on me." You teased, moving your hand to lace your fingers with his on the bench.

"Oh shut up." He laughed, shaking his head and squeezing your hand softly, "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"I have an idea, but I never actually asked. Why exactly did you avoid talking to me for so long?"

You hummed, sighing lightly under your breath.

"When I first came out, everyone started looking at me like I was some.. circus attraction, you know? Some people avoided me altogether, and others started getting mean, to say the least. I've been called more names than you could imagine. But you.. you weren't there for that. All you knew was my name. You can't see what everyone else does. You can't judge the book by its cover, you know? And I thought talking to you, letting you hear my voice would shatter that illusion. And I just couldn't bear to have you looking at me the way everyone else does."

Alex listened to you intently, hanging on to every word like a lifeline.

"I never would've looked at you differently. I was a little confused, sure. But only because I was afraid to offend you if I assumed one way or the other. But it was never out of discomfort or.. disgust. I understand more than most how people treat you when you're a little different."

"I'm really glad you talked to me, 23B." You smiled, watching the smile that came to his lips as well.

"You too, 24B."

#emson writes♡#alex taylor #alex taylor x reader #if i had wings #richard harmon

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bows4cherri · 3 days ago

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more plug! jaehyun x bimboish! reader

When you two had finally gotten together it was no surprise to anyone in your circle, in fact they’d been waiting for when you two finally made it official. Although no one would’ve guessed how downbad Jaehyun is for you. Honestly it had even surprised you a bit, before your relationships never lasted long because of the fact every guy pulled some dumb shit like saying “You’re too high maintenance.” Like can you blame a girl for being treated like a princess her whole life?

Jaehyun, although he was a one of a kind, he worshiped the ground you walked on as if you are a greek goddess and he is but a putiny mortal who had been given the privilege to even lay eyes on you. He yearns for your presence all day everyday despising anytime he is without you by his side. His angel baby is heaven sent and no one can tell him otherwise.

This had been completely obvious to anyone who has a pair of eyes. Jaehyun is always the first one to pull you into his arms - sitting down? Pulls you into his lap instead. His hands will always find their way into holding you against him. Jaehyun never lets you spend a single dime within your relationship - it got to a point where you didn’t even carry your card or any form of payment became Jaehyun had it. And he was proud of it.

His favorite part of it especially is when he gets to pay for your nails, sometimes he can sit in the appointment and watch the process, other times you let him pick the design or he even makes up his own designs! You of course give him his reward by making sure he can see how pretty your nails look around his cock.

Alwaysss carrying you everywhere claiming what’s the point of working out if he can’t carry his lady anywhere she wishes so her feet don’t get tired. Especially since you’re always walking about in some types of heels meaning your feet start to hurt at the end of the night. Or there’s been a couple times you just drink and drink that eventually you can’t even hold your own weight anymore fear not though Jaehyun already has you up in his arms by this point. Has never let your weed supply get low, joints were always rolled by him never letting you even lift a finger.

But none of that compares to how clingy he is with you, at first it was the simple always wanting to hold hands everywhere and anywhere which you didn’t mind, who wouldn’t want to show off a man like Jaehyun is yours?

Then it escalated into him giving you random updates about his day just because he wants to see your notification put up on his phone, him practically always having his entire body draped on you, every single second of his free time was spent alongside you. His favorite part though is when you two are alone in your apartment together; the cozy warm ambiance that is only shown by your girly apartment full of different little trinkets, fashion accessories all over the place and just about everything that screamed you. He would find his place laying down on the couch with his head resting on your lap while you watch whatever captures your interest on the tv. Once you two have settled in you always give him those lovely head scratches he adores even softly scratching down his back. Each and every time without fail he gets so relaxed that he just falls asleep right on your lap.

The only bad part about that is if Jae goes a day without his nap in your lap he’ll sulk until he gets what he wants. Though Jaehyun tends to sulk about a lot of things.

Leaving without a goodbye kiss? You’re getting a text from Jaehyun the minute you leave the house asking you if you don’t love him anymore with a sad face.

Not saying ‘I love you’? Oo if he was a dog you could’ve seen his ears droop down and his tail no longer wagging.

Once you had smoked without him because he was out with friends and you wanted to relax for bed, you had simply assumed he was going to smoke with his friends. When he had came home he was devastated for a whole week because of it saying something about he had been looking forward to coming home and smoking with his angel girl. He never left home and clinged to you for that entire week.

Jeong Jaehyun was definitely your sweet little lover boy.

#. ☆〜（ゝ。∂）#jaehyun x reader #jeong jaehyun #jaehyun #nct x reader #nct 127 #nct

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flowersforbucky · 1 day ago

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holy shit you absolutely NAILED john's characterization. i could so vividly see and hear him doing and saying everything that you wrote. underneath all of his hotheaded, stubborn, know-it-all-ness, he's a caring guy who always has his teammates best interests in mind. you did an incredible job of showing that here.

the way you wrote the scene where he helped her tend her wounds had the perfect amount of tension and intimacy. the way she gradually came around to him helping her, to his presence and touch, felt so realistic.

more under the cut ~

Everyone has bad habits. Nail biting, skin picking, poor diet, sleep avoidance.

lol skin picking is me 🫠

An insufferable combination of arrogance and irritating self-importance.

yuuupppp that sums him up 🥰🤩

The injuries that marred you wounded your pride far more than they did your flesh. Each new scar felt like a failure, an imperfection that you couldn't accept, especially when the wounds were as severe as these. But part of you liked it, part of you liked the feeling of pain, that sick and twisted part of your brain that had been rotted when you were a captive.

your brain really popped off with this paragraph

"Okay, okay, enough. Let's just stop before either of you say something you will regret later. I do not feel like listening to either of you on the ride back." Yelena mediated the two of you, her hands coming up to hover in front of your chests as a physical barrier. Her expression looked exhausted and you didn’t blame her for it – she'd seen this scenario play out between you too many times before.

girly is always having to break up some kind of argument between SOMEONE and john

It’s not like Valentina can’t just fund more. Sometimes, you use and throw things out on purpose just to irritate her.

LOLLLL real

"Sit down. I'm not giving you a choice anymore."

say no more 🫡🫡

You were already bleeding, and his insistence on helping seemed excessive and unnecessary. You couldn't understand why he was being so adamant about helping with such a simple task, or at all, since you two fought like a snake and mongoose. You assumed he would find a way to bring this up again, probably using it to tease you or prove some point about being right about your behavior. That is what irked you more than anything.

the snake/mongoose analogy is perfect here

His hands were gentle but efficient as he pulled them up for you, and once they were securely in place, he moved back to create distance between you. "Are you going to sit still while I suture it?" He asked directly, making eye contact with you. "Because I will hold you down if necessary."

please do not tempt me with a good time

John returned within five minutes, carrying something carefully cradled in his large hand. He approached your bed, you could see he held two perfectly ripe fuzzy fruits, their skin a gradient of soft sunset red ombres transitioning to a golden orange at the bottom, each featuring a characteristic cleft running down one side. "Got these last week when I went to Georgia to visit my grandmother. They're fresh, perfectly ripe, and ridiculously juicy," he explained, his voice carrying an unusual hint of enthusiasm. “Georgia peaches are the best. Trust me.”

as someone who lives literally 2 seconds from the georgia line and has a giant bowl of georgia peaches on her countertop rn, can confirm he is right

You took a slice, biting it and chewing slowly, savoring the moment as the sweet, fragrant juice filled your mouth and cascaded lovingly over your taste buds. The perfectly ripened fruit was so sweet, its nectar oozing with each careful bite, the tender flesh practically melting against your tongue as you experienced its sun-kissed sweetness. It was delicious beyond words, unlike anything you'd tasted before.

omg every part of this description was so vivid and flawless

"Growing up, my mom would make all sorts of things with peaches from our backyard tree. Cobbler and crumble with a golden brown crust, homemade jams and jellies that we'd store in the cellar for winter, she even made infused sweet tea with peach slices she gave us on hot summer afternoons," he recollected, his voice taking on a softer quality as memories of his childhood washed over him, the distinctive taste of the fruit clearly nostalgic to him.

like the peach jam that i sent you in the mail :')))

For once, you were surrounded by the gentle rhythm of his continued story and the warm presence of someone who asked for nothing in return.

😭🫶🏻😭🫶🏻😭

i for real loved every word of this, definitely one of THE BEST john walker fics that i have read. 7.5k words of john walker hurt/comfort written by you is almost too good to be true <3

𝑮𝒆𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒂 𝑷𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 | 𝑱.𝑾

𝒑: 𝑗𝑜ℎ𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑓!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝒔: 𝑂𝑓 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑡𝑠, 𝐽𝑜ℎ𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚.

𝒂/𝒏: 𝑖 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑢𝑝 𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒. 𝑎𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡/𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑦. 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑗𝑜ℎ𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡. 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑. | 𝒘𝒄: 7.5𝑘

Everyone has bad habits.

Nail biting, skin picking, poor diet, sleep avoidance.

But your poison was a lack of safety for your own life. Truthfully, you had little self preservation.

It wasn’t your fault…you repeated this mantra to yourself daily, convincing yourself to believe the sweet lie.

You had a long history.

The only people on the team you were familiar with were Bucky and John. You met Bucky several years ago when the original Avengers were still around. Before the snap, before Thanos, before the great death of Stark. Way back when, you had been volunteered against your will for illegal human experimentation. Without a say at all, you underwent procedures you’d rather forget.

You had become rogue, having botched serums injected into you, it changed how your body and mind operated. Various organizations tried to claim you like you were a stray dog, but none succeeded.

You met Bucky back in Romania, just after his escape from HYDRA. It was a rocky start, you both had pretty severe trust issues. But, as you continued to see one another at the same market, you became more receptive to each other. You were comfortable around him, feeling no pressure to share about your life, have him pry and demand to know things.

But nothing lasts forever.

You didn’t really understand, but he had been framed for a kill, and he disappeared. You tried to follow and help, by now you cared a lot about him. Things crumbled down, fight after fight, running and hiding, nothing but an endless cycle of pure survival. Not really living at all.

Several years later, he found you again. He seemed better than before, he cut his hair and appeared to ask for your help in stopping some people who were trying to spread the serum that made super soldiers. Or, that’s what you thought it was, you weren't really sure, just glad to see a familiar face you could trust.

That’s when you met John.

An insufferable combination of arrogance and irritating self-importance.

You did what you could to help them, but honestly, you didn’t want to be involved. You’d rather be left alone, trying to figure your own life out.

Once that mess was settled, it was your turn to disappear. You wouldn’t resurface until Bucky found you once again, this time demanding for you to help him.

The nerve on him.

That’s when you were dragged into the so called Thunderbolts. Reuniting with John was…what you expected. After hearing his voice for the first time in years, you were already done with him. He acted like he was god's gift to earth, something you didn't miss one bit.

New faces, ones you initially didn’t care about. You only cared to complete whatever the mission was so you could be alone again, but ironically, you stuck around. Forced to maintain your role as Valentina blatantly announced to the world your role. Part of you actually liked being part of the team, as much as your independence screamed at you to leave. But even living with a group of misfits, you still felt…out of place.

You felt like you were sharing space with people who were more bonded than you - a group of idiots, you think with affection - so you naturally held back on a lot of things. Missions, group activities, training - you did things on your own instead, not wanting to feel pressure to keep up with individuals who were better adapt than you.

The reality was that simply being accepted into a team didn't automatically provide you with a sense of purpose or belonging like most would think.

Your past came to surface when everyone's files were published, and naturally, everyone was nosey. You were an unwilling test subject to rogue scientists - former HYDRA researchers who, despite their claims of brief involvement, had clearly absorbed the organization's ruthless ways. Though they had officially severed ties with HYDRA by the time you were their subject, they had retained their knowledge and continued their experiments in secret. All the while, they were being pursued by interested parties.

Aka, they were wanted. By bad people.

Who? No idea, that wasn't your business. All you cared about was that the needles didn't inject you with anything fatal.

It was never fatal. It just burned.

You wished it would kill you, sometimes.

Besides your own story, everyone in the tower had a tragic past, you weren’t special and you were fine with that. You never felt comfortable discussing or comparing - it felt disrespectful to measure one person's pain against another's - but there was an unspoken understanding, a weird comfort in knowing that everyone around you carried their own emotional scars. It made you feel less isolated, less like an anomaly in a world of perfect people.

And as far from perfect as you were, you found yourself doing more reckless things lately.

A rough mission with John and Yelena brought your tendencies to the surface - infiltrate an old OXE base that Val kept hidden from all of you in the small hope that she would be able to salvage old research for her projects. Fortunately, that wouldn't be a possibility. You weren't thrilled to do something that would help Val's reputation, but it's not like you had a choice.

While you were surrounded by operatives, you didn't hesitate for a moment before bursting into that room filled with armed guards. Your combat expertise gave you a certain confidence, and your extensive, forced training wired with HYDRA's methods meant you could efficiently neutralize multiple opponents. It didn’t matter if you were outnumbered.

Hand to hand combat was as easy for you as ballroom dancing was for a ballerina.

Wayward bullets found their mark on your flesh, silver blades left their bright red trails, and dark bruises bloomed across your skin like a sore garden. You absorbed every hit, every injury, taking the full force of combat onto yourself.

The aftermath was always the same.

John...god you hated John. He would launch into a tirade, always making point to mention his military background, talking down at you like an insubordinate soldier, focusing on your disregard for protocol and how you had become a liability. He always made you feel small, and it pissed you off. You didn't like working with him during the Flag Smashers, and you still didn't.

"Would you shut up already, Walker? I got it done didn't I? Infiltrate, exterminate, it's done. You didn't even have to do anything." You snapped after hearing enough of him, the frustration building and beginning to spill out. The tension between you had been mounting for hours, and your patience had finally worn thin. The blond glared at you with intense disapproval, his eyes narrowing as you watched his lip curl upward in that familiar way, a clear sign he was trying with considerable effort not to fully snap at you.

His deeply ingrained need for control and leadership whenever it was just the three of you really began to rise to the surface at moments like these, especially when dealing with someone like you - someone who didn't listen to anyone. Ever.

"You could've died in there! Then what? It would ruin our reputation and reveal everything Val is trying to keep secret. If the world sees us doing shadowy missions for her then our entire rebrand would go to shit." John’s way of saying his new reputation would be ruined. He spoke to you as if you were stupid or worthless, his tone dripping with condescension and barely contained anger.

"I didn't." You grumbled out, tired of hearing his voice continue to berate you despite the mission's success. Your response was short, a refusal to engage further in his attempted power play. The way he raised his voice when agitated reminded you of things from your past you'd rather forget.

John wouldn't strike you, but you didn't know that. The serum amplified everything in his core personality, magnifying both strengths and weaknesses, and John was a very angry man. It boiled beneath his skin like molten lava, unrelenting rage stemming from past failures, personal losses, and years of mistreatment that had shaped him into the volatile person he'd become. The serum only made it all feel more overwhelming for him, intensifying emotions that were already difficult to manage, and he was known for having bouts of uncontrollable violence when pushed too far.

"Let's go before anyone else shows up." Yelena added after no one else spoke, her voice cutting through the heavy silence that had fallen over. She was ready to get out of there, and probably get away from you too.

The trip back to the tower passed in a hazy, exhausted blur. Your mind focused solely on the desire to shower and wash away the layers of dried blood and sweat that caked uncomfortably against your skin and underneath your dark uniform. So upon landing in the hanger, you practically sprinted toward your quarters once you arrived at the tower, rushing through the hallways until you finally reached the welcome sight of your own door.

The familiar, comforting atmosphere of your personal space washed over you immediately upon entry, helping to gradually ease the tension from your physical and emotional state. You could feel the characteristic tingling sensation of electricity dancing across your fingertips - a clear warning sign of your unstable powers.

Unstable being a sensitive word for you.

Yet you heard it daily from your teammates.

Your electrokinetic abilities had always been tied to your emotions, the raw energy proving especially difficult to control given your naturally volatile temperament and tendency toward intense emotional responses.

Your chest rose and fell with several long breaths as you allowed yourself to focus on the soothing traces of lavender that permeated the air from your ridiculous collection of scented products and aromatherapy items. The scent worked its magic, gradually helping to center your thoughts. You were drawn to them when nothing else worked to relax you, clinging to the hope you'd be able to control yourself when you were freshly new with powers. The surges you released were deadly, you couldn't even touch anyone. Lavender had been the only thing to help, a stupid herb you were always desperate to have.

As your mind began to clear and the last remnants of adrenaline faded from your system, you became aware of every ache and injury - you groaned in discomfort as you realized that you still needed to endure a shower and get proper medical attention before you could finally surrender to the sleep your body desperately craved.

All you wanted to do was collapse in your bed.

The image of your teammates flashed in your mind, their disapproving looks plastered on your memory. You would never give John or Yelena the satisfaction of thinking you had any regret about your impulsive actions during the mission. After all, regardless of how reckless your methods might have been, you had succeeded.

That was the important thing. Why couldn’t they just understand that?

The shower was uncomfortable. You could barely wash properly but like hell you were going to ask Yelena for help. Ava would just tattle to Yelena and you'd get another earful so...there was no one to help you without risking the leak of your difficulty.

There was a nasty, jagged cut stretching across your ribs and extending down to your lower back, positioned in such an awkward location that you could barely reach it without causing fresh blood to ooze out with the slightest additional pressure. The wound throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, making you feel dizzy. One of your palms had been sliced open - you blocked a blade from coming down across your face with your hand instead of just dodging the attack - an awkward and annoying spot to have a gash.

After you got out of the hot shower, you reluctantly put on a pair of sleep shorts, they were really all you could wear until your cuts were properly sealed. You bitterly cursed yourself under your breath, glancing with frustration at the heavily fogged mirror. Through the patchy condensation, you could only make out the angry red lacerations that stood out amongst the darker blemishes and bruises that had already begun to mottle your skin.

You couldn't believe part of you liked it. Some part of your brain craved the sting and throb, the burn and ache of it all. Maybe it was because pain was the most familiar thing to you.

You grit your teeth as your hands moved under the sink, grabbing the well-worn first aid kit that was tucked away in the far corner. You hastily unzipped the weathered kit and laid out all the sterile gauze alongside a small, clean hand towel on the countertop. The light-colored towel would need to be thrown out when you were finished but...with pain radiating through your body, you didn't care about the fate of one insignificant towel.

It’s not like Valentina can’t just fund more. Sometimes, you use and throw things out on purpose just to irritate her.

The antiseptic bottle glared at you menacingly from the bathroom counter, your trembling fingers grasping the damned thing as you glared right back. You had always hated antiseptic solution. The pungent medicinal smell, the innocent clear liquid that promised nothing but searing, white-hot pain upon contact with broken skin. It always hurt more than the actual injury…cruel irony.

You angled the plastic bottle over your side, taking a deep breath to steady yourself as you prepared for the inevitable sting. The bathroom light reflected off the clear liquid as it edged on the cap, just about to pour the acidic solution over your open wound when a voice suddenly startled you from your concentrated task.

"You're not supposed to put that on an open wound." John's familiar and irritating voice cut through the silence of your room, causing you to stiffen at the unexpected intrusion.

You dropped the bottle in favor to cover your breasts, not bothering to hide the grimace as the cut across your ribs stretched painfully against the sudden movement. The sting radiated outward in sharp pulses that only intensified your frustration. "What the fuck are you doing," You snapped, hostility lacing your tone as you fully faced him. Your posture immediately shifted to defensive and you suddenly began to feel more cornered than you actually were, backed against the bathroom counter with your vulnerability on full display to a man you never wanted to appear vulnerable to.

Of all the people in the tower, John was the one to make his way into your room. Yelena or Ava would be fine, their presence welcome and understanding in this situation. Hell, you'd take Bucky's scolding first, his stern but caring approach something you could at least tolerate. You were sure Bob wouldn't know what to do but hold the towel as you drug a needle through your own flesh, his awkward and somewhat unsteady assistance better than nothing. It at least came from a place of genuine concern.

But John? Just your luck. The one person whose presence set your teeth on edge and made everything feel twice as difficult.

"It says so on the bottle, you can't put that on an open wound, especially not a lac like that." John pointed toward the antiseptic that was now on the floor, his voice was mundane and held an heir of obviousness. His eyes remained focused on your injury, though that hardly made the situation less uncomfortable.

"Go away! I've done this dozens of times." You snapped again, wanting him to leave before the situation became even more mortifying. You tried desperately to think about anything besides the fact that you were completely topless. What made it feel worse is that he wasn’t even phased by it, he just stood there, more attention on your injuries than your arm over your chest. He just stepped closer with that infuriating confidence, and in return you stepped back until the cold edge of the counter pressed against your spine.

"You need to use a mild soap and warm water to clean a lac like that. Antiseptic interrupts the healing and the chemicals can cause tissue damage." He continued with that know-it-all tone, looking at your sink and seeing a plain bar of soap sitting in its dish. "That will work better," he added, reaching past you to retrieve it, invading your personal space even further.

Panic seized your mind with his proximity, an overwhelming wave of fear washing through your body like ice water when you saw his arm raise. You felt like you were blacking out, the edges of your vision growing dark and fuzzy as sounds began to echo in your ears. Your breath caught in your throat as your hands instinctively pressed against his chest with surprising force, desperately trying to shove him back and away from you.

He barely moved.

Actually, you don't think he moved at all - his solid frame remaining as unmovable as a stone wall against your push, which only heightened your sense of vulnerability in that moment.

But, sensing your desperation for space, he quietly stepped back to give it to you, though not like you noticed much as your mind began to race with chaotic thoughts and fragmented memories. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears like a war drum as you tried to regain your composure.

He quirked a brow, his expression shifting from concern to something more clinical and detached. "I've handled first aid in the military on dozens of soldiers, man and woman. This isn't weird for me," he stated, his voice level and still just as irritating as usual. He tried to explain, since he thought you were freaked out by the fact you were half naked, misinterpreting your reaction as simple modesty or embarrassment, but the raw, unfiltered panic was clear on your face when he got close.

"It's weird for me!" You spat, the words coming out sharper than you intended, laced with a defensive edge. You kept yourself pressed firmly against the counter, your knuckles white from gripping the edge, as if you were trying to push through the solid surface to disappear entirely. The cool porcelain against your back provided your only anchor to reality as you fought to control your breathing. He tilted his head, watching you for a moment with an unreadable expression, his eyes cataloging your reaction, and he bent down to pick up the peroxide bottle from the floor where it had been dropped. He didn’t seem to mind that his sock was soaked in it.

"Alright, fine," He relented, his tone softer now. He closed the cap of the bottle with a click so it couldn't spill anymore, the small sound louder than normal in your ears. He set it on the counter, just inches beside you, careful not to make any sudden movements that might trigger another reaction. "Just saying, this won't help you," John turned to leave, his shoulders slightly hunched as he exited your bathroom.

You still heard him in your bedroom, his heavy footfalls marking his path as he made his way to your door, giving you the space you so desperately needed. You grabbed the bottle and flicked the cap open again, ignoring his warning. The sharp scent of peroxide filling your nostrils once again as it insulted you. At the sound, his footsteps paused somewhere beyond the bathroom doorway, then came back towards you.

"God, you're just helpless aren't you?" John grunted and took the bottle from your hands, his weathered fingers brushing against yours momentarily. "I told you this won't help." His voice grew more stern, taking on that familiar authoritative tone as he poured the bottle down the drain, the harsh chemical disappearing slowly through the narrow cap. "No wonder you're always so grumpy. This is what you put on everything..."

"I can handle myself!" You tried to stop him, lunging forward with what little strength you had left, but your weakened state was pathetic compared to his unscathed body. Your muscles trembled with the effort, and you could feel fresh blood seeping through the still untreated wound on your torso.

"Like hell you can. Look at you. You're more blood than person right now." He muttered as he grabbed your shoulders and spun you so he could look at your ribs again, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle despite the firmness of his grip. The bathroom light cast harsh shadows across your injuries, making them look even worse than they felt – and they felt pretty damn terrible.

You tensed as he touched you, every muscle in your body going rigid, reacting before you could think. "Don't touch me! Get away!" The rawness in your voice ripped through your throat like sandpaper, leaving behind a burning sensation as you forced yourself away from his touch. The sudden movement sent pain shooting through your side, and you almost slipped on the puddle of spilled peroxide on the floor. John grabbed your forearm and prevented you from smacking your face on the bathroom tile, his reflexes too fast for your own.

"Sit down. I'm not giving you a choice anymore." He was firm, and you knew by that tone that he wouldn't leave until he felt like it. As much as every bone in your body wanted to be defiant and challenge him, your exhaustion betrayed you. You slumped down and you sat on the toilet seat, arm still covering your chest as your other held the counter for support.

The room seemed to tilt slightly as you settled, the harsh light amplifying the pallor of your skin. Even sitting, you felt like you would pass out - blood loss or exhaustion. Or both. The throbbing pain pulsed with each heartbeat, your powers stressed and surging beneath your skin like static.

He shuffled through your first aid kit, looking at each item before setting it aside. It seemed like everything was in there because he made no backhanded comment about what you had. The soft clinks of metal instruments against plastic filled the quiet bathroom, you managed to swallow and speak through the haze. "Why did you even come in here..." You muttered, your voice slightly slurred.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, his hair was messier than usual, falling in unruly waves rather than his typical controlled style. He was probably freshly showered like you too. Loose pieces fell over his forehead, creating soft shadows across his furrowed brow. He wore an old army shirt that was somewhat loose around the torso but hugged his biceps and highlighted years of training. Relaxed joggers hung low on his hips, exposing a peak of the navy blue boxers snugly fit beneath them.

It was weird seeing John out of his uniform, or even just compression clothes he wore to work out or train in. The domestic version felt out of place, like seeing a tiger lounging on a living room couch. Seeing John in this setting was almost disturbing, a glimpse into a side of him that existed beyond the boundaries you maintained.

"Because I knew you were hurt. You left your seat on the jet completely soaked, but you ran off before any of us could comment." His voice was matter-of-fact, practical in a way that somehow made your defenses rise even further. "I knew you were going to try to tend to yourself, and normally I wouldn't try to come in here like this. But the amount left behind, I knew you were more hurt than you would let on." John turned to you, bar of soap in hand, he gestured to your ribs with it. "It will be easier to wash that if you get in the tub."

"Go to hell." You grumbled, the words coming out with less heat than you intended. Your head felt increasingly heavy on your shoulders as you fought to maintain consciousness. "I'm not getting naked just so you can wash the cut." The thought alone made your cheeks feel hot despite your pallor, embarrassment temporarily overriding pain.

"That is not what I said at all." He replied with narrowed eyes, a flash of exasperation crossing his features as he moved closer. "I said get in the tub so the water doesn't get on the floor. You don't have to take your shorts off." His tone softened slightly at the end, watching your head lull slightly. “I’ll be quick.”

Your desperate longing for the comfort of your bed compelled you to give in. You managed to stand up, though your legs trembled violently beneath you, feeling like jello with each step you took toward the bathtub. The effort required to simply move across the short distance was almost overwhelming, but somehow you forced yourself to continue, wincing with every movement.

John noticed your struggle and moved to assist, reaching for the shower-head and turning on the faucet. He held his hand beneath the stream, patiently waiting as the initially cold water gradually warmed to a comfortable lukewarm temperature. "Try not to move," he instructed, "I'm just going to let the water run directly over the wound and then use some soap to thoroughly clean it out."

"Fine...just please hurry up. I feel like I'm about to pass out at any second." You barely managed to respond, your voice weak and strained as you leaned your weight against the cool tile wall of the shower for support so your legs wouldn’t buckle beneath you. He set to work, the lukewarm water cascaded over your ribs, rivulets streamed across the angry laceration, washing away the blood and debris you failed to get in your previous attempt.

You watched with a strange detachment as crimson tendrils swirled down the drain, the steady stream of water slowly revealing the true extent of the wound beneath. John lathered the bar of soap between his hands until a rich foam formed, then applied it around the perimeter of the cut, careful not to touch the open wound directly.

You flinched when he touched you, but forced your body to remain still. He didn’t comment, he just waited before he touched you again and continued when you didn’t flinch a second time. He allowed the soap suds to flow into the laceration, providing the cleaning it needed without the pain that direct contact would have caused.

Once he had cleaned the wound, John reached for a clean towel and used it to dab the area dry with light touches wouldn’t further irritate the injury. "Here, take this and apply pressure to the wound," he instructed, his voice dropping to a murmur as he handed you the towel. "I'll go find you some new shorts to replace these wet ones."

You nodded, "Bottom dresser drawer," you managed to direct him, your voice slightly stronger now that the immediate pain had somewhat subsided.

John disappeared briefly into the bedroom, returning moments later with the requested garment clutched in his hand. "Let me help you take those off and put these on, I can -"

"No, for god's sake...I'm perfectly capable of putting on my own shorts," you interrupted, a flash of your usual independent spirit breaking through the haze of exhaustion, your voice tinged with annoyance at the suggestion that he dress you.

"Not without risking reopening that wound and making it bleed all over again," he countered firmly, pointing directly at the freshly cleaned laceration with obvious concern. "Just let me help you. I promise I won't look at anything I shouldn't," he added, his tone softening slightly in an attempt to make the situation less awkward for both of you. “Like I said, I’ve done all sorts of stuff like this when I was in Iran -”

"Okay, okay, fine…” You exasperated, “You're so weird about this stuff," you groaned softly with resignation, but ultimately complied with his request. You allowed the wet shorts to fall unceremoniously around your ankles, then hastily attempted to dry yourself with the corner of the towel that wasn't pressed against your wound. You couldn't help but feel humiliated, being dressed like a helpless toddler simply because he was overly concerned about your bleeding.

You tried to ignore the blend of evergreen and cedarwood that enveloped your senses as he moved closer, his careful hands helping you step into your shorts. Why did he have to smell so good? Why did you find yourself enjoying it so much? Fighting against the conflicting urge to both lean into and shove him away, you reluctantly used his sturdy shoulders to steady yourself while awkwardly stepping into your shorts.

Why did his eyes have to be so goddamn blue? Like the clearest summer sky reflected in mountain water.

Why were they so pretty that you couldn't look away?

"Yes," the grumbled word escaping through barely parted lips, your fingers still instinctively gripping his forearms for much-needed support, feeling the solid muscle beneath your fingertips. His skin was warm to the touch, it felt nice on your palms.

He had you carefully lay down on a clean towel he'd positioned for you. You maintained a protective arm across your chest as he knelt beside you with the needle and surgical thread. He peeled away the blood-soaked towel, examining the wound with scrutiny.

"You know how serious this is? How serious it could be? Any deeper and it would've punctured into your lung cavity. The angle they attacked you from could've easily allowed the blade to slide between your ribs and puncture straight through to your lung and you would’ve suffocated." His assessment came without emotion as he carefully positioned his index finger and thumb around the edges of the gash, applying just enough pressure to bring the torn flesh closer together, narrowing the wound's opening in preparation for the first stitch.

You felt pressure, then a distinct tug, the sensation traveling across your skin like a whisper of discomfort.

You didn't like it, but it wasn't extremely painful as you had initially anticipated. More so just an uncomfortable sensation that lingered beneath your awareness, the fact that the wound itself was throbbing with each beat of your heart provided significantly more pain than the actual stitches being sewn.

John worked with quiet concentration, his calloused hands moving a gentle way you never could’ve expected. He didn't bother making small talk, clearly noticing that you were just on the verge of passing out, your consciousness wavering like a flame in the wind. But your lingering anxiety from being half naked in front of him prevented your body from allowing you to pass out.

Before you knew it, he finished with the wound on your side, using the fresh gauze he set out earlier and medical tape to secure the protective covering over the neat row of sutures. He helped you sit up into a slumped position, "Hey, hey come on...stay with me." He muttered calmly, his hand coming up to gently tilt your head to assess your alertness. "Just a little bit more, come on. I know you can do it. You're stubborn as all hell, just a few more minutes." His words carried a hint of encouragement that seemed almost foreign coming from him.

John took your wrist, eyeing the jagged cut that stretched across your palm. "This is going to feel weird.” He used the small soap dish to fill with water, the soap that clung to the dish mixing to make the cleanser he needed. Then, he gently dabbed the wound with soapy mix before he started to drag the needle through the parted flesh. The thread followed obediently, helping to pull your skin together with each stitch. You took in a shaky breath that rattled in your chest, and without meaning to, your head fell forward heavily against his shoulder, seeking stability in your dizzy state.

He didn't sit you up or correct your position, allowing you this small comfort. He wasn’t sure why it made his chest flutter, either. "Come on, stay up for me..." His voice reverberated through his chest, the vibration traveling through to your forehead where it rested against him. Your face scrunched up as each puncture of the needle felt like a sharp sting, the persistent tugging of thread through your flesh made waves of nausea roll through your stomach.

Somehow, through stubborn refusal lingering behind your vulnerability, you managed to stay awake through the entire ordeal. Though your consciousness remained a fragile thing, threatening to slip away with every second.

When he was finally done with the needle, he wrapped up your hand. The soft gauze felt comforting against the sting and rhythmic throb of your wounded palm. He secured it all again with medical tape, ensuring it would stay in place, and then gently pulled your head from its resting place on his shoulder to get a proper look at you. His eyes scanned your face with an intensity that felt almost like concern. "Jesus...you look like shit," he spoke under his breath, the words lacking their usual sharpness. “Come on, I’ll help you to bed.”

When your legs refused to obey, he swiftly hooked his arm behind your knees and carried you. Your body instinctively curled against his chest like it were the most natural thing in the world, finding unexpected comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth radiating through his shirt. He pretended not to notice this unconscious gesture, and you likewise feigned ignorance, mentally attributing your uncharacteristic behavior to your weakened, possibly delirious state.

He laid you in bed, pulling the sheets back with one hand while supporting your weight, then covering you with the soft cotton blanket once you were settled. Your mind raced wildly, confusion and underlying anger taking over your thoughts. Why was he, of all people – the very person whose presence typically irritated you to no end – now here helping you when you were most vulnerable and why were you letting him?

Why him specifically, out of all the teammates you had developed actual friendships with over the months? Why did he take it upon himself to come in unannounced, and why was he so insistent on helping you when you'd barely exchanged civil words before today?

You wanted to voice these questions aloud when your stomach betrayed you by growling loudly, the embarrassing sound cutting through the silence of the room. He paused mid-motion, his eyes traveling slowly from your face down to your belly, his expression shifting subtly. "...did you even eat anything today?" John asked, his normally gruff voice was softer now, no longer tinged with that signature growl.

Your mouth opened to respond, perhaps with some defensive retort, but nothing came out – no words, no excuses, no explanation for your self neglect. He shook his head disapprovingly, the gesture somehow lacking its usual judgment. "Figures...I'll be back. Don't pass out while I'm gone," he all but ordered as he left your bedroom, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

You took the moment of isolation to think about what just happened, realizing that your feelings toward him were different than normal. It felt strange, why his presence suddenly felt comforting rather than aggravating, why you enjoyed his attention and concern when you'd previously gone out of your way to avoid it. The contradictory nature confused you, leaving you staring at the ceiling.

He sat on the edge of your bed as if he had done it a hundred times before, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he reached into his pocket for a well-worn pocket knife he had clipped to his heather-gray joggers. He flicked it open, the blade catching the light from the bedside lamp as he began to carefully cut perfect slices of the fragrant peaches.

You loved peaches.

And you were so hungry there was no way you were going to deny fresh ones straight from Georgia.

A soft, appreciative moan involuntarily left your mouth, causing John to look over in your direction and give a small, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Told you," he said with just a hint of pride in his voice, clearly pleased by your obvious enjoyment.

"I didn't doubt you..." You muttered with a slight shake of your head, already feeling a renewed sense of energy flowing through you from the small bite you had taken. The fruit's natural sugars seemed to work their magic, revitalizing your tired body enough to allow you to speak again. You held your hand out toward him, silently asking for another slice. Instead of quipping at you, or making some kind of teasing comment about asking nicely as he might normally do, he silently acknowledged your request and carefully cut another piece from the ripe fruit, handing it to you.

"Might try to replicate some of her recipes sometime soon, if I can handle everyone's teasing about my kitchen adventures." He paused before looking back at you as you continued to eat the juicy slices he patiently fed you, one after another. His eyes met yours, "Think I can handle it? The cooking and the teasing?" He asked with a hint of playfulness in his voice.

You listened attentively, savoring each bite of fruit while allowing his voice to wash over you like a gentle stream. His voice now felt comforting, his steady tone creating a sense of calm you hadn't felt in some time. As you finished the last piece and watched him collect the remnants - nothing remaining but two pits resting in his upturned palm - he shifted his weight forward, preparing to stand and leave you to rest and recover in solitude.

Something inside you suddenly protested at the thought of being alone again. Before you could fully process what you were doing, your uninjured hand darted out and wrapped firmly around his wrist, surprising both of you with the urgency of the gesture. "Wait..." The word escaped your lips as a gentle, yet unsure plea.

He halted, his body half-risen from his seated position as he turned to look back down at you. His eyebrows drew together with curiosity, creating faint lines across his forehead. Your unexpected behavior clearly caught him off guard, the confusion in his eyes mirroring your own internal surprise. "Yeah? What?" he asked, his voice dropping to a softer register as he studied your face. "Need some painkillers? I forgot to look in your bathroom. But I can grab you some."

"No." You mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks as embarrassment settled in at having to voice your request aloud. Your fingers loosened slightly around his wrist but didn't release completely. "Can you just...stay and talk to me for a while longer? I don't know why..." You paused, searching for the right words to explain the calm his presence seemed to bring instead of raising your negative emotions. "But I feel less stressed out right now when you're talking. Your voice somehow makes everything quieter in my head."

His eyebrows rose slightly as he processed your admission. For a moment, you feared he might decline or make some excuse to leave, but instead, he gave you a small but genuine nod. "Sure," he agreed easily, settling back into his previous position. "Not a problem. But let me toss these pits and wash my hands first. Don't want them to get all sticky and make a mess of your things."

John extricated himself from your grasp and crossed to your bathroom. You listened as water rushed from the faucet, ran for several seconds, then shut off with a small squeak of the handle. He returned to your bedside moments later and lowered himself once more, adjusting his position to get comfortable for what might be an extended stay. By no means did he expect to sleep over, but he did sit more comfortably next to you.

You turned, elevating the pain on your wounded side and laying on his chest, just barely - but enough. He didn’t move, didn’t shove you off, instead he stayed still and let his arm come behind you to support your body so you didn’t roll away and potentially hurt your stitching. His thumb brushed the bandages, the sore flesh beneath throbbed but you trusted him. In this moment, you trusted John.

"How about I tell you about when I got caught stealing from an orchard as a kid?" he offered with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes carefully watching your reaction to gauge your interest. "It's funny, I promise. One of those childhood stories that's embarrassing enough to be entertaining."

You responded with a soft nod, feeling the heaviness of exhaustion pressing down on you despite your desire to remain awake. His voice seemed to be the only thing keeping you tethered. "Okay, so, I was about seven years old at the time," he began, settling into the rhythm of storytelling. "We lived in this small town near a large orchard that supplied most of the local area with fresh fruits throughout the season. My mom bought from there regularly, but the farmer charged quite a premium since everything was home grown and organic before that was even a marketing term." He chuckled softly at the memory, his hand rubbing up and down your back and side idly.

"My mom complained about the prices getting higher every season, saying something about highway robbery for a simple bag of peaches. So naturally, being the helpful child I was, I decided to take matters into my own hands and solve her problem..."

As John continued, his voice began to grow more distant and dreamlike to your ears. The cadence of his words formed a soothing pattern that lulled you deeper toward sleep. You slipped away like sand through loosely clasped fingers, but unlike previous nights, there was no fight against it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the constant, uncomfortable surge of electricity that pulsed just beneath your skin was completely silenced.

The familiar, overwhelming chorus of anxiety and paranoia that typically screamed through your thoughts had quieted to nothing more than a whisper before disappearing in exchange for John’s voice.

For once, you were surrounded by the gentle rhythm of his continued story and the warm presence of someone who asked for nothing in return.

For once, you felt safe.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑰𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝑷𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

#john walker x reader #fic rec

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rawliverandgoronspice · 1 year ago

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I just: finished my translation work 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

#thoughts #IT'S DONE!!!!!!#IT'S DONE!!!!#I've been working on this game since almost exactly 2 years #two years and one month to be exact #so I'm a little emotional!!#it's going to be a really sweet game I'm happy I got to work on it #with a story that is simple and approachable but with pretty neat character depth #like a hot cocoa and cinnamon cookie during a rainy day kind of game #ALSO I got my first feedback on the unmanageable thralls outline #and the issues weren't where I expected them to be #it's always the thing I assumed I had nailed...................#actually once I secure an acceptable v2 #I Might look for people willing to give me feedback #especially on the most sensitive parts (but also overall)#I just need to be more sure of myself + have some kind of sample scene that I can slide alongside so people can get an idea of #what it actually looks like re: medium and mood etc #ANYWAY

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freeforaugust · 1 year ago

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Communicate like an adult and get results :)

#one the best things I've learned to do in the last five years is advocate for myself #new people took over the kennel I contract at and they haven't been giving me any of the boarding nail trims #I've been a little miffed about it but didn't say anything bc I assumed it was a money thing - if I do the nail trim I get commission #but if a kennel tech does it they don't get commission #today I caught them with a special baby of mine tho and they had just gotten started so I said #I'm supposed to be the only one who does her nails #and the tech was thrilled bc she doesn't like doing nail trims anyway #so after that I pulled myself together and said something to the manager about how the old owner had me do basically all of the nail trims #and he goes #great!#we all hate doing nail trims #and I ended up with 3 today and 2 tomorrow which is an extra $25 in my pocket so that's awesome #i really have found just talking about things like an adult (calmly and rationally) can get you the things you want most of the time #ig bc I grew up with a parent who would sometimes snap at me just for speaking I always expect the worst reactions from people #but so far I've found I almost always get the best #and even when I don't get what I want #nobody has yelled at me for asking

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luvlyycy · 6 days ago

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neighbor!phainon is a handy man. [suggestive, cursing]

What does being a handy man mean to Phainon?

Everything. He can do anything. Fix anything. It only takes him an hour to understand the problem and how to fix it. Fixing your sink?

Phainon had it done within a day.

Fixing your TV?

Done within thirty minutes.

Making your food?

He's never made a bad meal.

You once even jokingly asked if he could take a look at your car.

"I used to be a mechanic!"

What?? How many jobs exactly did he have?

Your sat on his bedroom floor, back up against his bed as he sits in front of you. His guitar in his hands as he plays it like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"I used to be in a band." he hums out, fingers strumming against the strings.

"You're joking. You used to do everything, apparently."

He laughs at the way you say it, like it's a bad thing. You think it is, he's way out of your league.

"Mm, it wasn't that long. Just a year?"

You huff, blowing your hair out of your face. Maybe you're a bit jealous. It seems like every attractive guy is good at everything.

"To be honest," he starts, now tapping his fingers against his guitar before looking at you, "If it's with my hands, I'll always be good at it."

Oh.

There he goes again. It's always sexual tension with him. First it was at parties, then it was at his house, now here? He always finds a way to make you flustered.

"That, that's cool."

He stares for a second, smiling, "I can prove it."

"Phainon."

"What? What is your pretty head thinking about, huh? Silly. I mean like, I can do whatever you want me to. I am a handy man after all."

You huff and lean your head back roughly against his bed, "Can you like, do massages?" why would you ask that?

"That's easy. I can massage, do nails, do hair, makeup, waxing—"

"What the fuck did you go to college for?"

"Mechanical engineering. With Mydei. We used to live together, with a shitty landlord." he winces at a thought before shaking his head to forget it.

"I can fix lamps to, I found that out the hard way."

You laugh for a second, "Okay, genius. I'm assuming you paint to?"

"I can paint with my fingers and paintbrushes."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious!" he laughs out, placing the guitar gently on the ground beside him and leaning back, resting his palms against the floor.

"Yeah right, there's no way!"

"The painting in my living room."

"You're fucking kidding."

He raises his eyebrows with a smirk, "I'm not."

"Phainon, that's genuinely amazing."

"Thank you, princess. I do it when I'm bored."

"Wait wait, so can you like.." you start thinking for a second. It's like a fun game of trivia.

"Origami?"

"Easy."

"Rubiks cube?"

"Oh honey, try a little harder."

You flush for a moment, looking away from his face, "Crocheting?"

"Mom taught me. That and knitting."

You stare in awe, before laughing in disbelief, "What the hell? How?"

"I could teach you, it's so easy. Like playing golf, or pool."

"Can you swim really good too?"

He grins, "I used to be on my basketball, football, and swimming team."

"How??"

"I moved around a lot!"

You stare at him for a second and he watches you back, his head tilting to the side— resting on his shoulder. It's silent, not awkward. Just quiet as you both look at each other.

"Could you teach me?" you mumble out, fidgeting on your lap and he laughs for a second.

"I may not be a good teacher. Although, maybe I am good with my mouth?"

You wonder if he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

taglist! : @httpshujii @lost-wicked-artist @lov3-ly @aloudice @blushho @aerithsthingss @rxstrife @whatamidoing89 @boycock-boycunt-boyslut @foreverz @emperatris-rinaka @monoclesnapple @panpanstyle @dyingsweetmackerel @stardustbee @diluxama @thebasicbword @comet-kun @killsxu @reminiscingthesea @mei-simp @n8mareee @qiqifruit @miyamizuna @ravinee @nico707 @what-is-wrong-with-everyone

#phainon x reader #Neighbor!Phainon — .txt 💌#hsr x reader #phainon smut #phainon #hsr #honkai #honkai star rail #honkai star rail smut #hsr smut

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coralaura · 5 months ago

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Primadonna

"You say that I'm kinda difficult”

Your father was never a present figure; sometimes, he would see you, give you a pat on the head, and disappear into the darkness of the mansion.

In reality, he vanished for the entire day, especially when the sun set, and the moon greeted the sky. Like all the other inhabitants of the mansion, nighttime was when you were left alone and could wander without anyone noticing or caring.

Every now and then, you’d see Alfred, but he, too, would soon disappear. It didn’t bother you; in fact, it gave you free time, allowing you to take late modeling jobs without anyone asking the typical questions: “Why are you coming home so late?” or “What were you doing outside so late?”

Sometimes, you went out with friends (if you could call them that people you used and who defended you when someone doubted your innocence). Rarely, you stayed in the enormous mansion, but honestly, you didn’t care where you were.

And it wasn’t like they cared about what you did or where you were, so maybe that’s why you didn’t care when Dick left the mansion. When Jason arrived—his unwanted presence and lack of manners—it was annoying, especially when he dared to compare his mother to yours. How dare he compare the two?! Despite that insult, spoken right to your face, you simply smiled. But inside, you were about to beat him senseless, to put that fool in his place for comparing your beloved mother to his and when he died, you cried at the funeral, pretending to be in pain, mourning the loss of a life.

But deep down, you felt nothing for him. Sure, his death was gruesome and ruthless, but it wasn’t like you felt anything beyond antipathy for the poor devil in the coffin. When Tim arrived at the mansion, you couldn’t have cared less. After all, you would only see him for a few weeks before heading off to university, so your interactions were minimal, barely enough to count on one hand.

Alfred saw you off with a smile, though there was a hint of sadness in it. He didn’t try to stop you or convince you not to move out; in fact, he encouraged you to pursue your career, as long as you sent some sign of life a letter or a text message. But let’s be honest, student life was expensive, and as a model, you made little money for just a few hours of work. So, when you had to choose between your studies and a full-time modeling career, the choice was obvious you went with the long-term option and pursued your modeling career. No one was supposed to know. You’d write to Alfred, telling him you were still studying, just to keep him from worrying.

In reality, you could have been in Metropolis, about to step into a photoshoot. But of course, things couldn’t stay perfect forever. Some idiot spotted you and then compared you to Bruce Wayne. And for the first time in years, people seemed to have more than two brain cells because the question immediately popped up all over the internet:

"Is it just me, or do Bruce Wayne and Y/N look alike?"

And unfortunately, they attached your image right next to that billionaire’s. To say that the media explosion and the interview requests for both you and Bruce were the worst possible thing that could happen was an understatement. As headlines and news reports flooded in, you bit your nails in frustration, enraged by your inability to control the situation.

So, when they asked about your parents or if you were a poor orphan, you responded with a warm smile—though deep inside, you were disgusted that you couldn’t just avoid answering or shut those nosy reporters down.

"I have no parents."

Most people, moved by your kind smile and the false tears welling in your eyes, dropped the subject and moved on with their lives. But the press always loved fresh, juicy gossip, especially when it involved Bruce Wayne.

Since your father didn’t comment or give an interview, part of you assumed he either didn’t care or considered it a minor issue his PR team could handle. For a moment, you thought you had dodged this problem. Until you saw him in the middle of a photoshoot—waiting for you to finish so he could talk to you. And, of course, right behind him was his family… or rather, his walking orphanage.

Alfred believed in you. He loved you like a father loves his child. You were practically the normal kid he had always wished Bruce could be so sweet, so innocent. But when he saw your face in the morning paper, next to your father’s, with the full story laid out, for the first time… he felt disappointed in you.

Why would you hide something like this?

Did you not trust him?...

It hurt him, but deep down, he knew you must have had a reason for keeping your modeling career a secret. Maybe his thoughts consumed him for too long because Damian’s voice pulled him back to reality.

“What are you reading, Pennyworth?"

“It seems the press has discovered the connection between Master Bruce and Master Y/N.”

Damian frowned in confusion. He had never heard of you. Taking the newspaper from Alfred’s hands, he scanned the headline and the full story, noting your features and how similar you looked to his father. The picture they used of you was… bold, striking. He wondered if you were really family, but Alfred had called you "Master Y/N," so you must have been. Damian didn’t waste time.

He stormed to his father, slamming the newspaper onto his desk, demanding answers. Bruce raised an eyebrow at his behavior until he read the headline and saw your picture. The only thing Bruce thought in that moment was how much you had grown.

How tall were you now?

He picked up the paper, reading the article, noticing how you denied any connection to him or his family. He didn’t understand.

Had he done something to make you reject him?

Thinking about it left a bitter taste in his mouth. The more he read, the more that bitterness spread.

“Who are them, Father?”

Finally, Damian asked. The answer was simple yet so complicated. You were his child, his firstborn, and yet he had no idea how to be a proper father. He had never seen you in the mansion, maybe because he never had time, maybe because he felt guilty, knowing he could never raise a normal child. He could only raise someone to become a vigilante.

"They are your siblings."

And that was the beginning of the end of your modeling career. Because, in the end, it was only natural for your father to crave control, both as Bruce and as Batman. It was something you had inherited from him.

When you saw your father there, standing in the middle of your shoot, clearly annoyed that you had noticed him and yet continued with your session, you knew he would eventually step in. Still, you wanted to push his patience, to see how long he could endure before leaving. But you hadn’t counted on your manager asking you to stop the session to talk to him instead. You sighed. He was just doing his job, though a part of you couldn’t help but glare at him, hating that he was wasting your time.

"What is it, Ethan?"

You didn’t even acknowledge Bruce. Instead, you spoke to your manager, Ethan, who forced a tense smile, silently begging you to be respectful.

"Bruce Wayne is here to see you."

He emphasized the last name, almost as if reminding you of your place beneath the great Wayne name. Not that he knew the truth, that Bruce’s blood ran through your veins and that your striking resemblance was nothing but shared genetics.

"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Grayson, and company, what brings you here?"

You didn’t bother greeting them. You recognized a few faces, but most were either forgotten or simply unknown to you. And honestly, you didn’t care.

"Y/N, we need to talk."

Your father's deep voice and condescending gaze turned to you, hating that he spoke to you that way, as if you were a child, when in reality you were more than him, more than any of them, you were Y/N, the person that everyone would pay for because at some point you would look at them or simply greet them, there were people who would kill for a simple touch from you.You hid your displeasure in the mask that you always wore on your face that was difficult to remove, the one that had buried itself in your face and had taken root until you simply couldn't get it off, at least not until you were alone and no one could see your true and unpleasant personality that eclipsed your cute face and false golden boy personality.

You thought about the possibility of being rude to them, after all it's not like they could prove that you were something of theirs, you still had your mother's last name and they had never seen you with the Waynes until now, besides, who could blame you? Being rude was your privilege for being a model and also being attractive, it would be your first time being rude to someone, besides, everyone knew you, you were so kind that the ones who would end up being reproached for things would be the Waynes, so you decided.

“I don’t want to and if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do”

For the first time, your father stopped looking at you with that condescending look and in its place there was something you couldn’t identify. Anger? Indignation? Frustration? Surprise? You didn’t know and honestly you didn’t care, you were surely the first or at least one of the few people who says no to your father’s face and in front of so many people, that thought made you smile to yourself, it was the satisfaction and pride of making that cold expression of your father go away.

“But it's always someone else's fault”

#yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam

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pitlanepeach · 3 months ago

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Gentle Thing | OP81 + LN4

Summary — They’ve always been something soft, something golden—Oscar and Elodie. But then came F1. Then came Lando Norris, with his fast mouth and wide blue eyes. And suddenly, it’s not just the two of them anymore, because that was never how their fairytale was supposed to end. They were always supposed to be three.

Pairing — Oscar Piastri x Original Female Character x Lando Norris (MMF)

Word Count — 7k

My Masterlist

Melbourne, 2013 - Age 11 + 12

Oscar had a busted lip and a fourth-place karting medal clenched in his fist, and Elodie was painting delicate sparkles onto a pair of old ballet flats on her bedroom floor.

“You’re not gonna win every time,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And fourth isn’t that bad. You still beat, like, sixteen other people to the line.”

Oscar flopped back on her bed with a choked moan. “I don’t like being fourth.”

“Fourth seems to like you.” She grinned at him.

He glared at her. “Don’t remind me. I hate it. I’ve decided that the number four is my mortal enemy. I never want to come fourth again.”

Elodie glanced at him over the rim of her rhinestone-covered sunglasses. They were heart shaped. “You look kind of cute with a split lip.”

He cracked a smile despite himself, and in doing so, re-split the cut that’d tentatively started to heal. “Do not.” He argued.

She sighed. “You do. If I didn’t know that it was from you tripping over your own kart, I’d assume you’d been in a fight. Bad-boys are hot.”

He just stared at her, his eyebrows pulling together in disbelief.

Elodie Jade, his best friend since nursery school, was wearing a pink cotton sundress, smudged with glue and glitter. Her legs were curled under her like a cat and she was surrounded by cheap craft supplies.

Oscar had dirt under his nails and a gravel burn on his arm. He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d put on a pair of clean boxer shorts.

“I don’t want to be a bad boy,” he muttered.

“I know,” she said, flipping one of the shoes over delicately. He leaned over to look at them. They looked good. Better than before. More… Elodie. ”What do you think?” She asked, chewing on her lip.

“Pretty.” He told her.

She beamed.

⸻

Melbourne, 2017 - Age 15 + 16

They celebrated Oscar’s first European test session with pizza. Sat around the table, Elodie had fabric swatches strewn all over the kitchen.

Oscar had engine grease under his fingernails.

Elodie had a sketchbook open and a stress breakout all across her forehead.

“I might not get in,” she whispered, like saying the words out loud might somehow make them more likely to come true. “They only take like, thirty students a year.”

Oscar gave her a look, folding his piece of pizza in order to eat it more effeciently. “You will.” He told her. She blinked at him, venerability flashing on her face, and he sighed. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re really good at this stuff.” He pointed at the mannequin in the corner of the kitchen. It was covered in sewing pins and layered with a million different textured fabrics.

Elodie rolled her eyes and gave a tiny laugh. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She teased.

“It’s not even top ten.” He argued flatly. But then he bumped his knee against hers under the table. And she adjusted her position so that she could wrap her ankle around his.

Her smile was soft. Careful. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss, nor since it had happened. Two weeks ago, behind the garage after his last race, when she’d grabbed his face like she was scared of herself and he’d kissed her back like it was something inevitable, not something downright terrifying.

It hadn’t happened again since. But things felt different between them now. The energy was charged, like a million little sparks of electricity was connecting them now.

A week later, when her acceptance letter appeared in her email, she called him first.

He picked up on the second ring, groggy in some hotel room three time zones away. “Elodie?” He grumbled.

“I got in.” She said on an exhale.

She heard the rustle of sheets, the shift in his voice as he sat up. “You did?”

“I did.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. Wide and unguarded. “Of course you did.”

⸻

Paris, 2019 - Age 17 + 18

Elodie’s first collection debuted at a small fashion week offshoot in Paris; nothing major, but enough to land a few editorials and a feature in a niche luxury magazine. She wore custom satin sling backs to every event. She barely slept.

She was seventeen. In Paris, that passed for adulthood—old enough to wear red lipstick and pretend she wasn’t still full of childlike naivety.

Oscar wasn’t there. He was in the middle of a race weekend in Italy. But he sent flowers. And a note.

“I love you.”

She kept the card in her purse for weeks, until it crumpled. Then she put it in the back of her phone case. Just because.

⸻

Barcelona, 2020 - Age 18 + 19

Oscar had just won his first F3 race.

Elodie was waiting outside the paddock entrance, wearing a dress he hadn’t seen before; white, with puffed sleeves and ribbon-tie shoulders.

“You’re going to be a world champion,” she said, as he leaned into her hug. Squeezed her.

He breathed in the scent of the same perfume she’d been wearing for years and track dust and something sweet, always something sweet, and pretended the words didn’t make his stomach twist. “Just focused on surviving this season,” he murmured into her hair.

She leaned up. Kissed him softly. “You’ll do more than that.“

⸻

Baku, 2021 - Age 19 + 20

Elodie had a migraine and a décolleté crisis. Oscar had a back-of-the-grid start and an angry press officer breathing down his neck.

He called her from the cool tile floor of his hotel bathroom, lying flat on his back with his legs propped up against the door, phone balanced on his chest. His voice was hollow with exhaustion. “Tell me something not about racing.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “I stabbed my finger trying to sew lace onto a bias-cut bodice. I bled on the muslin.”

Oscar smiled faintly, eyes closed. “That’s hot.”

“You’re weird.” She laughed.

“You knew that when you started dating me.” He retorted.

She sighed, dramatic and fond. “Don’t remind me.”

He could picture her perfectly, even thousands of miles away, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her Melbourne studio, hair up in a velvet ribbon, sleeves pushed to her elbows, surrounded by half-dressed mannequins and tangled threads. Probably in one of his old team shirts. Probably glowing, even under ugly fluorescent lights.

“What happened with the bodice?” He asked.

“It didn’t sit right on the model. I cut it three times and it still looked off. Like the neckline was holding a grudge.” She paused, then added more quietly, “I think I’m going to reshoot the whole thing. The photos are wrong. The lighting’s wrong. The girls don’t… they’re beautiful, but they don’t feel like they fit my brand.”

Oscar let the silence stretch for a second, then said, “branding is important. Reshoot it.” He agreed.

“You make it sound easy.” She complained.

“Because I’m clueless.” He told her flatly,

That earned a breath of a laugh, all musical and pretty. She shifted on the other end of the line; he could hear fabric rustle, something ceramic clink, probably a teacup or a wineglass. Depending on her mood.

“Are you okay?” She asked eventually, voice somehow gentler than usual. It was impressive, how he’d managed to make someone so soft and goddamn sweet fall in love with him.

Oscar pressed his thumb into the space between his eyebrows. “Grid penalty. Shit quali. Everyone’s thinking the same thing — ‘that Aussie boy is a shit racer’.”

“You’re not.” She retorted.

He grunted. “Yeah. I know. But it’s loud. All the time. Even when they’re not saying it, they’re thinking it.”

Elodie didn’t try to offer empty comfort. She knew him too well for that. Instead, she filled the silence with her presence. Her breathing. The soft rustle of paper. The click of a lighter—one of the candles, probably.

“I miss you,” he said finally.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. “I miss you too.”

He opened his eyes, blinking up at the ceiling light. “Will you still love me if I crash tomorrow?”

“I’ll love you even if you spin into a barrier and throw up in your helmet.” She chimed.

“You’re weird.” He shot her earlier words back at her.

“You knew what you were signing up for.”

Oscar smiled, and it felt easier. He could hear her smiling, too.

They talked for another ten minutes—about the espresso machine in her new studio that hissed like it was threatening to explode, about her satin samples arriving late, about whether she should start doing video content for her website (“Only if I can be your cameraman,” he smirked, and then, just as he predicted, she sharply told him that him and his oily hands were not welcome anywhere near her fabrics).

⸻

London, 2022

The news broke at 8am.

By 8:15, her phone was hot with notifications.

ALPINE ANNOUNCE OSCAR PIASTRI AS 2023 DRIVER ALONGSIDE GASLY

F2 SUPERSTAR PIASTRI ANNOUNCED AS PART OF ALPINE’S 2023 LINE-UP

He didn’t call. Not right away.

Elodie watched the digital chaos unfold from the couch in their London flat. Her inbox buzzed with emails she didn’t open; old friends sending their congratulations, Oscar’s old racing teammates asking her a million questions like they expected her to be able to answer all of them.

Her next runway show was in six weeks. Her dressmaker had the flu.

When her phone finally rang, blocked number, go figure, she picked up before the first ring finished.

“Oscar.” She said, immediately.

“I’m with Mark.” His voice was ragged. “It’s not true. I didn’t sign anything.”

“I know. You would’ve told me.” She said.

“They went public without telling me.”

She closed her eyes. “I know.”

“I’m gonna lose everything.” He breathed.

“No, you’re not.” She whispered.

He let out a sound that cracked halfway through. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or scream. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

She stared at one of the paint swatches on the wall. They couldn’t decide between eggshell blue and jade green. “Let Mark handle it. Stop blaming yourself. And then come home.”

⸻

Oscar let the door click shut behind him and dropped his keys into the strawberry-print bowl by the front door. The flat was quiet, lights low, warm, but not empty. Never empty.

He could smell bergamot and fabric glue, the unmistakable signature of Elodie in work mode. Therefore he headed straight to her studio, alternatively known as the spare bedroom, exactly where he knew she’d be.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pins between her teeth, measuring tape slung around her neck, one wrist marked up with lipstick and foundation swatches from testing tones against fabric. Muslin mockups draped her mannequins like half-formed dreams. Pattern paper curled like petals around her.

She looked like everything he wanted to protect.

“Hi, baby,” she said, not looking up from the sizing chart that she was editing.

He didn’t answer. Just toed off his shoes and crossed the room in silence. Then, without a word, he sat on the floor in front of her and leaned back into the space between her knees, his shoulders brushing hers. Seeking warmth. Permission to fall apart, just a little.

Elodie blinked down at him, reading the lines in his face instantly.

Without speaking, she set her work aside and slid her fingers into his hair.

She combed through it slowly with her long, artsy nails, brushing it back from his eyes, the way she used to when they were kids and he came home from a karting trip with scraped-up knees, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

He exhaled shakily. She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, then another to his temple, and another at the corner of his jaw when he tilted his face toward her.

“I’m sorry this is all such a mess,” he said after a long silence, voice rough.

“Not your fault,” she murmured.

He gave a half-laugh, tired and tight. “Still feels like I’m failing. Trusted Alpine. Shouldn’t have.”

“Osc.” She whispered.

He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “you’re the only reason I’ve made it this far.”

Her hand paused against his head.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’ve built your brand, your vision, your whole world. You’re doing so well, Elodie. And I’m still here hoping this F1 thing finally makes me someone worth—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, voice cracking at the edges.

“Oscar.”

She leaned down toward him, eyes glassy with tears, and something twisted in his chest like a blade.

She wasn’t meant to cry. Elodie was meant to be light and elegance and all the soft, lovely things in the world. Seeing her like this—eyes shining, mouth trembling—felt like the universe folding in on itself.

It hurt. It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

She was too beautiful for sorrow. Too golden to be anything but happy.

“I haven’t made any real money,” he said quietly, feeling discomfort curl in his gut. “Not yet. And I want—God, I want to be able to give you something solid. A full, comfortable life. I want you to build your empire with silk and organza and not for one second have to worry about how we’re going to pay for your expensive fabric swatches.”

Elodie wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him into her chest, into her warmth. “You’ve already given me so much,” she said against his hair. “Your love. Your friendship. You.” She breathed delicately. “Oscar, I would live in a hobbit hole, or a tent in the woods, if it meant being with you.”

He was silent for a beat. “Did you see the tweet?”

She hummed. “Of course. I have your notifications turned on.”

He smirked, but it was hesitant. “It felt good.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “I bet. It was very sassy.”

He hesitated, the amusement wavering. “I might never make it to Formula One now. Might’ve burned too many bridges.”

She kissed the curve of his neck, soft and sure. “You will. Trust me.”

⸻

A Week Later - Melbourne, 2022

The evening air was warm, thick with the scent of salt and jasmine. Pale pink bougainvillaea curled over the railing like something out of a painting. The sky over St Kilda was soft watercolor gold, the sun bleeding into the horizon in quiet surrender.

Elodie sat curled on the top step in a white linen sundress, bare feet tucked beneath her, her hair pinned up with one of her mother’s old tortoiseshell clips. She looked like she belonged somewhere else, somewhere older, slower, more romantic. A character from a vintage novel, Oscar often thought, or the ghost of an eighteenth century ballerina.

There was a punnet of strawberries sat between them.

“I signed,” Oscar said, out of nowhere.

Elodie turned to him, eyes wide and impossibly clear. “I— What? Signed what?”

“With McLaren.” He said. “For 2023.”

She blinked once. Then twice. And then she smiled. Slowly. Radiantly. “You’re going to drive in Formula One,” she whispered, reverent and proud.

“I’m going to drive in Formula One.” He confirmed.

The words hung between them like starlight.

She didn’t cheer, didn’t gasp or throw herself into his arms. She just reached for his hand, gently—like it was instinct, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her palm was warm and soft against his. Her nails were painted a pale blush, her wrist dusted with the scent of gardenia, the diamond bracelet that hung off of her delicate wrist real and the most expensive thing he’s ever bought. He went into debt for it—but he’d never once regretted buying it.

She leaned forward until their foreheads touched, her long, painted lashes fluttering against his cheekbones.

“You did it,” she breathed against his cheek.

“Yeah.” He smiled.

The screen door creaked behind them.

“God, you two are terrible,” came Mark’s voice, fond and dry. “Can’t keep you apart for five minutes, ay?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. Elodie only turned slightly, offering the older man one of her serene, almost too-sweet smiles. “Hello, Mark.”

“Evening, angel,” he said, walking down the steps with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. “You look precious as always.” He teased.

“She doesn’t own anything without embroidery,” Oscar muttered, fond.

“I like pretty things,” Elodie replied simply. “And I like them even more when I’ve made them with my own hands.”

Mark snorted, crouching beside them and producing three slightly crushed paper cups from the depths of his jacket. “Alright, then. A toast. To Oscar, McLaren, the downfall of Alpine, and you, Elodie girl. You’ll be the prettiest WAG in the paddock.”

Oscar groaned, low and half-hearted.

Elodie blinked but smiled anyway. Oscar stared at her. The way her lips curved when she smiled, glossed and sparkling with flecks of glitter, caught the last bit of golden light like it was made for her.

Mark poured a generous splash of wine into two of the cups, then offered the third to Elodie. She took it with her fingertips, delicate and careful, and held it like it might bite.

She peered into it, nose wrinkling in the cutest little grimace.

“You don’t have to drink it,” Oscar murmured, leaning in, voice just for her.

Mark caught it. “Shit. Sorry, forgot.” Then, laughing, he pulled a can of Sprite out of his back pocket and handed it over.

Elodie beamed. “You’re my favourite person in the world.”

“Don’t tell Oscar,” Mark said with a wink.

She cracked the can open and leaned against Oscar’s side, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Her hair smelled like something citrusy and expensive, and he instinctively tilted his head so it brushed against hers.

Mark settled into the step below them, stretching his long legs out and launching into a story about his rookie season—something about a gearbox, a helicopter, and Jacques Villeneuve that probably wasn’t entirely legal.

Oscar only half listened.

His hand was resting over Elodie’s knee, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the soft cotton of her dress. Her fingers curled lightly around his wrist. The sky was going grey-blue now, city lights flickering on in the distance.

And for the first time in a long time, Oscar let himself feel it.

Pride.

Not just in the contract, though that felt surreal in its own right, but in everything that had gotten him here. The endless hours of sim work. The thousands of karting tracks and cheap medals and grazed knees—bruised eyes. The months at a time spent away from Elodie, feeling every single mile like a knife to his gut.

All of it. Every sacrifice, every near miss.

It had all come together to lead him here.

To this perfect girl with stardust lips and sun-kissed skin. To this quiet moment on a warm Melbourne night, sitting with the two people who’d believed in him without question since the very beginning. To the knowledge that he hadn’t just made it to Formula One—he’d made something for them.

A life. A future.

He squeezed Elodie’s knee gently. She glanced up, emerald eyes catching the light, and gave him a soft, warm stare.

Yeah, Oscar thought. This is what it’s all for.

—

Oscar meets Lando on his first day at MTC.

It’s awkward. Fumbling. Lando fidgets, practically vibrating as he talks, clearly still getting used to the idea of being the team’s senior driver. That’s fine; Oscar has no intention of being anyone’s second driver, so Lando will get over himself soon enough.

They spend a few hours working on the sim before Lando takes him to meet the engineers. Zak’s there—beaming, boisterous, all overzealous shoulder pats and rib-crushing squeezes of enthusiasm.

Lando clings. As soon as he realises Oscar is nice, friendly, and capable of holding a conversation despite being quiet, blunt, and a little stoic, he latches on. Doesn’t stray more than five feet away all day. Talks too fast, changes topics mid-sentence, and circles back like it makes sense. Oscar mostly just nods. He doesn’t mind it as much as he probably should.

They eat lunch together in the cafeteria. Lando leans over the table with sudden, serious focus.

“You’re not allowed to eat fish,” he says.

Oscar blinks. Frowns. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies slowly, confused but—strangely—willing to go along with it.

Lando nods like that settles it.

Oscar drives himself back to London in the evening, exhausted in the way that only first days and new environments can make you. Elodie’s in her studio when he gets in, barefoot on the hardwood, her hair twisted up in a silk scarf, glue fumes thick in the air. She’s hunched over a mannequin, hands full of pearl beading, soft music playing from the little speaker on her windowsill.

He pushes the nearest window open to clear the smell before crossing the room and bending to kiss her. She tastes like strawberries and green tea, her lips soft and glossed, and she hums against his mouth like he’s exactly what she needed.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along her cheek, already breathless.

She smiles, warm and dreamy, and the whole world sparkles at the edges.

“I missed you too.”

—

Elodie spends eight weeks hand-crafting her paddock outfit for Oscar’s first race as a Formula One driver in Bahrain.

It’s a labour of love—ivory silk, structured but soft, with a modest neckline and long, fluttering sleeves that catch on the breeze like petals. The beadwork is intricate, papaya-toned to match the McLaren livery, stitched in quiet, looping patterns down the cuffs and hem. Just above the curve of her hip, nestled into the folds of the fabric, is a tiny, hand-stitched OP81.

She steps into the paddock for the first time with her press pass clutched between two fingers, trying not to look as out of place as she feels. It’s loud and busy, the air dry and sun-hot, smelling of rubber and fuel and sunscreen.

Oscar waits for her at the McLaren hospitality entrance. He’s still in his civvy’s, shorts and a plain white t-shirt. He grins when he sees her. “You wore it.”

She smooths her skirt self-consciously. “Of course I did.”

His hand finds her waist. His thumb brushes the little OP81 like it’s a secret just for him.

They don’t get more than a few seconds before a voice interrupts—bright and slightly too loud, bouncing with energy. “Oh, hey!”

Lando Norris.

He’s flushed from the heat, curls damp at the edges, eyes wide behind dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. He skids to a halt in front of them, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

Oscar steps back a little, hand still on Elodie’s waist. “Lando, this is my girlfriend, Elodie.”

Lando blinks at her. Then blinks again. “Oh. You’re real.”

Elodie smiles, polite, a little hesitant. “Yes. I think so.”

“No, I just—he talks about you a lot,” Lando says quickly, shifting his weight. “Not in a weird way. Just—like, normal. Nice. Supportive.”

Oscar groans softly. Elodie purses her lips softly.

“I’ve heard a lot about you too,” she says, and it’s not a lie. Oscar had mumbled things about “a bit chaotic” and “kind of funny” and “I think he eats four chocolate croissants a day, I’m not sure how it’s even possible.”

Lando rocks back on his heels. “You look amazing. That dress is… like… I don’t even know what it is.”

“She made it,” Oscar tells him.

Lando’s eyebrows lift. “No way.”

She manages a small nod. “I did.”

Lando whistles, low and sincere. “You’re way too talented to be stuck with him.”

Oscar elbows him in the ribs, but it’s gentle. Familiar.

Elodie just smiles again. Soft, poised, unreadable. But when Oscar glances down, he can see the curve of her fingers tightening slightly around his wrist.

Later, when Lando finally wanders off (mid-sentence, distracted by something shiny and unusual near the garage entrance) Elodie watches him go with a curious tilt of her head.

“He’s… nice,” she says softly.

Oscar hums. “He grows on you.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer. “He races with the number four, doesn’t he?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah.”

She laces their fingers together with quiet ease. “You never liked that number.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

They walk slowly, past tire trolleys and engineers and the familiar hum of a team preparing for a new season. Oscar shows her where she’ll sit, where she’ll be able to see his garage and the track.

He squeezes her fingers once. “No,” he agrees. “I’ve never liked it.”

Elodie smiles, lightly, knowingly, and tucks herself closer to his side. He doesn’t say it out loud, but she can feel it anyway.

Maybe that won’t be true for much longer.

—

Zandvoort, 2023

It started raining midway through FP3. The kind of sudden, wind-lashed downpour that turned everything slick and halted everything. Engineers ducked under awnings, pit crews scrambled to cover tyres, media teams rushed to save their equipment.

Elodie hadn’t moved.

She stood just under the edge of the overhang at Oscar’s garage, rain misting across her face, curls slipping free from the tortoiseshell comb at the back of her head. Her papaya-hued trench coat had darkened at the seams, damp fabric clinging to her sleeves like second skin.

Lando spotted her before anyone else did.

He paused halfway through a sip of Monster, blinking. Tilted his head slightly. “Is she—why is she just standing there?”

Oscar looked up from the telemetry monitor and followed his gaze.

“Elodie,” he said. Softly. Simply.

Lando waited for more. When it didn’t come, he turned toward him, brows raised.

“She likes the sound,” Oscar said after a moment. “And the smell. Of the rain.”

Lando frowned. “She’s gonna get drenched.”

But Oscar didn’t move.

And Lando, already in motion, realised, for the first time, how strange that was. The lack of tension. The stillness. Like Oscar was fully in tune with everything Elodie was feeling, seeing, hearing.

Elodie didn’t flinch when Lando stopped beside her. She only looked up with that small, gentle smile—the kind that made him feel oddly exposed. Her eyes were soft and storm-lit. Her lips glossed with the same faint shimmer that seemed to settle over everything she touched.

“Hi,” she said, voice light.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he offered, extending the McLaren umbrella toward her with both hands, like he didn’t quite trust himself to just hold it over her and not stare.

She blinked up at him. “I’m alright, Lando,” she said. “It’s only a bit of rain.”

He blinked back. “Yeah, but—wet, innit?”

There was a pause. And then—she giggled. Actually giggled. It was light and breathless, like wind chimes. Clear and sudden and completely, utterly unexpected.

He liked the sound of it far more than he should’ve.

Inside the garage, Oscar still hadn’t moved. Arms crossed. Helmet tucked under one elbow. Watching.

He didn’t feel angry. Or possessive. Or anything he was supposed to feel. And maybe that unsettled him more than anything else.

Because Elodie looked lovely in the rain.

Raindrops clung to the edge of her skin. Her cheeks were pink with cold. The coat hugged her frame in a way that made her look even smaller than she was, her embroidery catching faint glints of light beneath the grey sky. She looked like she’d been painted there. Dreamlike. Half-imagined.

Lando adjusted the umbrella, held it closer. His elbow brushed hers.

She didn’t move away.

“I heard you cracked a joke in the drivers’ briefing,” she said. Like she was continuing a conversation they’d already been having.

Lando winced. Smiled around an embarrassed grimace. His cheeks went a little red. “Did Oscar say it was bad?”

“He didn’t need to, Lando.”

She smiled again. Fully, this time. Wide. With teeth. And somehow, it hit him differently. He’d seen that smile before, in passing—on Oscar’s phone, in paddock photos. But not like this. Not when it was for him.

It was beautiful.

And suddenly, painfully, he knew it.

He forgot everything else for a second. The team radios, the storm warnings, the puddle slowly soaking into his races shoes.

She was just standing there—rain in her hair, glitter on her lips, saying his name like it meant something good.

And Oscar was still watching. Quiet. Still. Something flickering behind his eyes.

Lando swallowed, glanced at his teammate and then looked away just as quickly.

Oscar worked his jaw; four had always been his least favourite number—his six-month long fourth place curse when he’d still been in karts had made sure of that.

So why, now, could he picture it stitched right beside 81? Papaya thread. The soft curve of her embroidery font. A quiet, private claim.

OP81. LN4.

He turned away before he could think too hard about what that meant.

Walked further into the garage with his hands curled into loose fists, flexing open and closed in a rhythm he didn’t quite understand.

—

Lando sank onto the little padded bench at the back of the hospitality suite, still damp around the ankles, the McLaren umbrella propped uselessly by the wall. He stared at it like it might tell him something.

Something useful. Like what the hell he was doing.

She was Oscar’s girlfriend.

That was the headline. That was the full story. Had been from the moment they’d first met, when she’d said hi in her quiet, polite way, like it didn’t even occur to her that she might be worth noticing. And maybe that was the problem.

She didn’t seem to know. That she was worth noticing.

He kept thinking about the rain. The way it made her eyelashes stick together in little wet triangles. The way she’d tilted her head when he fumbled through telling her not to stand outside—wet, like an idiot—and how she’d just laughed all sweetly.

He liked the way she looked at people.

But mostly he just liked the way she looked at him.

Lando dragged a hand through his hair and groaned under his breath. Somewhere across the room, someone was talking about tyre degradation, and he tried—tried—to focus. He’d never had trouble focusing on racing before. Racing was simple. Clean. Numbers and instinct.

This wasn’t.

Oscar had said nothing. Had just stood there watching, cool and unreadable as always. Not jealous. Not angry.

Just watching.

That was worse, somehow. Because it meant there was no line being drawn. No boundary to respect. No solid ground to stand on.

There was a brief knock, then a head poking in—one of the engineers. “You coming to the debrief?”

Lando blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.”

He stood too fast and stumbled into the umbrella on the way out. It clattered to the floor behind him, and he didn’t stop to pick it up.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how she hadn’t stepped away.

And he didn’t know what that meant.

Not yet.

But he thought maybe Oscar did.

—

The flat smelled like garlic and basil. Warm bread, rain on a pavement. Elodie sat cross-legged on the kitchen bench, sketchbook balanced on her lap, pencil tucked between her fingers like it belonged there. She was wearing Oscar’s sweatshirt. The navy one with the loose hem and faded collar. Her hair was damp, curling where it dried against her neck.

Oscar set down her bowl without saying anything. Pasta with roasted tomato, soft white cheese melting at the edges. He poured her water—over ice, a piece of fresh mint.

Sat across from her.

She didn’t look up. Just kept sketching. Lines, flourishes, thread work. Something soft. Ornate.

Oscar watched her. Ate. The clink of cutlery, the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

“Dinner, Elodie,” he prompted eventually.

She looked up. “Mm. Thank you.”

They ate. Something French and slow playing from the little speaker near the stove. Her foot brushed his knee once. She didn’t notice. He didn’t move.

Then—

She turned slightly, already mid-thought. “Lan, do you…”

Pause.

Her head tilted. She stared at the empty seat on her left. Blinked once. “Oh,” she whispered.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

She looked down at her pasta. Bit her lip, soft and unthinking. “Sorry. I meant—”

“Lando?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

Oscar shrugged, like it was fine. Like he didn’t mind that they were sat here, just the two of them, eating dinner as they always had—and still, she’d turned to speak to someone who wasn’t even there. Like it had become muscle memory to expect him to be. Elbows on the table. Half a smile. Talking too loud about something too specific.

“He’s like that.” Oscar told her, quiet. “Clingy. Makes you think about him even when you shouldn't.”

Her fingers rested on the corner of her sketchbook. She didn’t speak, not at first. But he could see it in her—the flicker of thought. That little crease between her brows. Her teeth pressing gently into her lower lip.

Oscar leaned back in his chair. “Elodie.”

She blinked at him, her beautiful eyes shining. “Oscar.” She breathed.

They’d spent the first three race weekends of Oscar’s rookie season with Lando attached to them like a fifth limb. Traveling together, eating together, laughing together.

Hotel rooms that meant for two that ended up fitting three — Oscar and Elodie in the bed, Lando on the sofa (“I don’t really like being alone,” he’d said, once, and Elodie had hurt). Lando stealing the last of Elodie’s lip balm. Oscar accidentally wearing Lando’s boxers, and vice versa.

Now, it was quiet.

A lovely pasta. A one-on-one date night that mirrored a thousand they’d had before.

But suddenly it felt like there was a piece missing. A hyperactive, freckled, Monster-fuelled piece.

Elodie reached across the table, brushing her knuckles against the back of Oscar’s hand. Gentle. Like always. “I didn’t even realise,” she said softly. “That I was missing him.”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

They both already knew.

—

The hotel room was quiet.

Warm light filtered through linen curtains, brushing over the edge of the bed in pale, dusky streaks.

Oscar was on his side, propped up on one elbow. Elodie was tucked beside him, one leg thrown loosely over his hip, embroidery circle abandoned on the duvet. Her hair was still slightly damp from her shower, curling softly at her temples. She smelled like vanilla body oil and her expensive conditioner.

She always smelled lovely

The TV was playing something neither of them were paying much attention to—some old film, all long glances and black-and-white glamour. Oscar couldn’t tell if she’d chosen it for the aesthetic or if it had just been the first thing she’d clicked.

Elodie shifted slightly, gaze still fixed on the screen. Her thumb traced absent little arcs over Oscar’s ribs. His eyes fluttered shut.

Then the door slammed open.

They both startled. A thump, a muttered curse, and then Lando stumbled in, hoodie half-zipped, curls damp, cheeks splotched with red. “Sorry,” he said, breathless, kicking the door shut behind him. “Media stuff ran long. And then Jensen cornered me in the paddock.”

Elodie sat up a little, smiling, all warm and… Elodie. “Hi, Lando.”

Lando blinked at them on the bed, then dropped his bag to the floor with a heavy, tired thud. “Hi.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but shifted back just enough to make space. Elodie tugged the duvet up. Without another word, Lando dropped onto the mattress like he belonged there.

His head landed somewhere near Oscar’s knee. He exhaled hard, a long, whiny sigh. “I’m dying.”

“You qualified second,” Oscar said, voice low.

“I’m emotionally dying,” Lando clarified. “That’s different.”

Elodie’s hand found the curls at the back of his neck. She didn’t say anything, just combed through them gently, rhythmically. Lando made a small, pleased noise, somewhere between a sigh and a hum. His eyes slid closed.

Within minutes, he was asleep. Sprawled halfway across the bed, long limbs thrown out like a starfish, mouth open, one hand curled loosely around the edge of Elodie’s embroidery circle. There was a smear of engine oil on his jaw and his socks didn’t match. One of them had a hole.

Oscar didn’t move. Just lay back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Elodie reached for his hand under the blanket.

She squeezed it, gently.

And just like that, they were three again.

—

Lando gives up pretending six weeks later.

Its been six weeks of sharing hotel rooms, of tiptoeing around each other, of lingering touches that were too soft to be anything but an invitation, of pillow talk that lingered in the air even after the lights went out. Of awkward glances when Elodie and Oscar ask the front desk, “Do you have any bigger beds?” because they both knew the time would come. And yet, none of them quite dared to speak the words out loud.

But now, standing in the paddock in Austin, Lando can’t take it anymore.

He corners her, pulling her into the dark corner between the motorhomes, where no one can see them. There’s a strange sense of urgency in his chest, and the way her bohemian dress flows around her, catching the light just right, makes his stomach twist and curl.

She looks up at him, those wide eyes full of curiosity, maybe even a hint of sweet amusement. And that smile of hers, soft and knowing, makes him burn a little on the inside.

“I want to kiss Oscar,” he says before he even thinks about it. The words spill out, heavy with the weight of something he’s been carrying around without even knowing it. The confession hangs between them, unspoken, unasked for. But there it is.

She blinks at him, completely unfazed, and then her hand is on his face, feather-light, fingers brushing over his skin and tracing his moles. The touch is delicate. Her breath, tinged with peppermint, brushes his lips, and he feels like he’s drowning.

Is he even breathing? His chest tightens, and for a second, he swears his heart might stop. Or maybe it’s racing so fast that he’s having a heart attack. Either way, his body feels like it’s no longer his own.

Her eyes meet his, the silence between them is suddenly too loud. And then, with that perfect sweetness in her voice that always makes him feel like he’s being cradled by a cloud, she asks, “Do you want to kiss me too?”

Lando stops breathing. The question hangs there, soft and unexpected, curling around him like smoke. He blinks at her and his mind goes blank for a moment, and his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

But then, his head nods once. Just once. Small, almost imperceptible.

Elodie doesn’t move away. In fact, she steps closer, so close that he can feel the heat of her body against his. Her long, pretty fingernails linger at his jaw, the unreasonably soft pad of her thumb brushing the curve of his cheek.

Her smile softens.

Everything changes.

—

Glastonbury 2023

The sun had set, and the soft hum of evening wrapped itself around the quiet house. The three of them sat on the outdoor sofa, spread out in a comfortable, easy pile. Oscar’s legs were stretched out, his head resting on Elodie’s lap as she ran her fingers through his hair.

Lando leaned back against the armrest, one leg draped over Oscar’s, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of Oscar’s hand. Elodie glanced up at Lando and blinked, expression open and full of unfiltered adoration, before her fingers shifted to trace the curve of his jaw.

Lando let his eyes flutter close at the touch.

Oscar shifted slightly, pulling his head from Elodie’s lap to tilt his face up toward Lando. Without a word, he leaned in, just a little, and Lando met him halfway. It was slow, soft, a kiss that lingered without pressure. And then, just as easily, Lando pulled back, turning to Elodie. Her smile was bright, her eyes soft, and before she could say anything, he leaned in to kiss her too, a gentle brush of lips that held no rush, no need for anything but the quiet certainty of this.

When he pulled back, Oscar was already watching, his gaze warm, appreciative; so fucking fond. His hand rested on Lando’s knee, fingers lightly tapping in a rhythm that didn’t need to be explained. Lando’s heart gave a little jolt, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he needed to figure out. Not now, not when everything was so perfectly easy.

Elodie leaned over to kiss Oscar on the cheek, then pressed her forehead to his. “It’s good,” she murmured, almost to herself. “This.”

Oscar nodded, lips curling into a soft smile as he kissed her cheek in return. “Perfect, I think.”

Lando sat back, his arm casually wrapping around both of them, pulling them closer.

Because they were both his now—and he could have them as close as he wanted. All the time. Forever.

—

Oscar didn’t hate the number four anymore.

It meant something different now. Something far more tender.

But—he thinks, staring at the photograph he has set as his iPhone wallpaper—maybe he’ll always prefer the number three.

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moonsgemini · 5 months ago

Text

apple pie - cowboy!rafe

summary: Rafe Cameron would have a lot of things in his life differently if he knew he’d meet an angel like you. Befriending your brother in the small town was the best and worst thing that happened to the both of you.

warnings: cowboy!rafe, brothers best friend trope, fem reader, she/her, mentions of religion but reader isn’t very religious (yeah idk either), smoking, alcohol, mutual pining, kissing, also found family you could sayyyy

an: this is inspired by feathered indians by tyler childers & my ongoing need to find a cowboy whose obsessed with me. I didn’t include topper in this bc I do not see him as a cowboy LOL y’all let me know if you want a part two. Was really feeling it at the beginning but idk if I love it.

Megan Maroney blasting through your headphones wasn’t enough to muffle the sound of the slamming front door and numerous loud footsteps that followed. The familiar sound of rowdy boys filling the house, then came the familiar muffled voices. It only surprised you a little because it was still early into the night.

Usually your brother and his friends came back around three in the morning from the bars, but that’s if they didn’t have work the next day. You knew they didn’t have work because your brother, Mason, had promised to take you shopping in town. You could only assume that they got into some sort of trouble. It’s the only reason why they’d be back early.

Slipping your headphones off you got up from your desk where you had been working on assignments for your summer class. Climbing down the stairs in nothing but your cut oversized tee shirt that exposed your collar bone and soft sleep shorts.

Your brother spotted you immediately, “Hey! She’s awake!” Mason exclaimed with a mouthful of the apple pie you had baked earlier. The slur in his speech giving away his intoxication.

You scoffed with a smile, “It’s only ten Mase,” you turned to the three other boys that were gathered around the kitchen table, “hi fellas.”

They greeted you with mouths full of pie. Except him. He was leaning back in his chair with a dopey grin and bloodshot eyes, his plate clean and pie long gone. You figure the other three were on their second slice.

Your gaze lingered on him like it always did. That warm feeling in your chest returned, it always did when Rafe was around. It made you feel fidgety and nervous. Like a school girl with a crush. So typical it’s on your brother’s best friend. That thought brought you out of your Rafe induced haze. You walked over to where Mason stood as he ate the last crumbs from the pie tin.

You grabbed it from him with an eye roll, “Well I’m glad you boys enjoyed that. Lucky I made two more. They’re for church tomorrow.”

“You always make the good stuff for church,” Kelce mumbled with his eyes closed blissfully savoring the dessert.

You laughed, “Maybe if y’all went you’d get a slice.”

Mason shook his head at the boys, “Why do you think I go.”

Rafe snorted, “To stare at Thea Foster actually.”

Your brother rolled his eyes and muttered, “She has a boyfriend.”

You smirked placing a hand on his shoulder, “Well I heard there’s trouble in paradise.”

He turned quickly to you bewildered, “From who? When? Why?”

Rafe, Kelce, and Jake burst out laughing. Your poor brother was so in love with a woman he couldn’t have. Rafe understood his pain, but he couldn’t let Mason know that. When the boys quieted down you answered his question, “From Sarah Ann at the nail salon yesterday. She said Thea found fake lashes in his car and then a couple weeks later she followed him because he said he had a work emergency and sure enough he was meeting some girl from the city.”

“That fucker,” Your brother seethed, “I’ll thank him then kill him and then thank him for fucking up.”

You patted his chest as you past him to grab the boys dishes, “Relax big guy.”

“Let’s celebrate with a shot,” Jake said knocking on the table excitedly.

Kelce nodded, “My buzz is wearin off.”

Rafe shrugged watching as you placed the dishes in the sink, “Sure.”

He had smoked a whole joint by himself on the way here and he was still feeling the effects. Something that he had started to regret when you walked down the stairs. He thought you’d be asleep and you wouldn’t see him high and drunk. It’s not like you hadn’t seen him like that before, but he preferred to be sober around you.

Mason poured every one shots including you. Rafe looked up at you with a mischievous smile. The floaty feeling in his head making you look like an angel. Soft bare face and comfortable clothing. He imagines you waiting at home for him dressed like that. Waiting to have dinner together after a long day. That fantasy always made his heart clench.

Mason finished pouring the glasses and began handing them out. The amber liquid sloshed onto the table since he filled them all to the brim. You’d make him clean the kitchen tomorrow.

You looked up at Rafe and found him already looking at you. Your heart raced ou held up your shot glass with the guys. Mason went on about friendship and comradery. The two of you not looking away from each other. Feeling emboldened you didn’t look away not even when you felt your blush move down your cheeks to your neck and chest.

Everyone tipped back their glasses taking the shot. The liquid burning the pit of your stomach. You scrunched your nose in disgust, “ugh I hate whiskey.”

Rafe scratched the back of his head, “I need a cig.” He walked towards the stairs heading to the office. It was the best place to get onto the roof. A spot everyone liked to go to because it looked over the whole ranch.

You pointed at the dishes in the sink, “Wash those before bed. I’m gonna finish studying then go to bed so don’t be too loud.”

“Yes ma’am,” Mason teased.

The two of you had moved to the small town a five years ago. Mason found his dream job on the ranch they live on and his boss the owner, Mr. George, let the two of you stay at one if the houses on the property. You were just grateful to leave your hometown and your parents. Your brother always felt like your only family and when he asked you to come with him you didn’t hesitate. You started community college at the next town over and got a job at the local diner. You two had built community here. Your brother befriending the other ranch hands Rafe and Jake and the local bartender Kelce who had all become more like brothers to him.

As you made it up the stairs you passed the office and peered in. The cool summer breeze blowing in through the open window. You stood in the doorway for a few seconds contemplating whether to go out there or not.

When you met Rafe you felt all that ooey gooey stuff you had read about in romance novels. You thought it wasn’t real because it what world would a man make you feel like that. Your faith in the male species to sweep you off your feet had completely disappeared. Until you met him. It was a weird feeling in the pit of your stomach.

It didn’t help that he looked at you the same way. Or when he would do sweet things like buy you trinkets when he went out of town. He’d give you rides if Mason couldn’t and if he was around you never had to carry anything yourself.

Rafe always wanting to be near you if you were around and making sure you’re safe. When your brother had gone out of town he texted and called all weekend making sure you were safe. He almost got in his truck and slept outside your house to make sure nothing happened but he talked himself out of that.

You were his best friend’s little sister. He loved Mason and didn’t want to do anything that would ruin that. It took Rafe so long to rebuild his life in the small town he didn’t want to ruin it by hurting you. He would lose you and your brother.

You climbed through the window to see Rafe sitting on the ledge probably on his second cigarette. You watched as he tilted his head back and exhaled.

“ain’t anyone ever told you that those things will kill you,” You said with a smirk as you walked over to sit beside him.

He shrugged with a smirk, “Never had a good reason to quit.”

You held two fingers out for him motioning for him to place one between your fingers. He shook his head with a laugh as he got one from his almost empty pack.

You brought it up to your lips as he pulled the lighter out. Rafe cupped the end of the cigarette as he lit it. Your eyes watching him the whole time. Rafe fought every fiber of his being to not look at you or else he’d throw out the damn cigarette and kiss you. You didn’t know the power you held over him. He’d cross rivers, oceans, and valleys for you without a second thought.

“I’ll come with ya to church tomorrow,” He said breaking the silence. He doesn’t even know why he just said that. Rafe has never been religious and the only times he’s thought about it were when you showed up in his life.

Now you weren’t devout or anything but when you moved here it felt like a good place to interweave yourself into the town. The move also had you feeling a little lost so you went to where people always say they find something. You’re still not sure how you feel about it but you still go when you can. Your brother started joining you after a couple weeks.

You snorted, “I’m sure you will.”

“I’m serious I’ll go,” He bumped your shoulder with his.

You smiled at him, “Okay Rafey. Then I’m gonna make sure you go because I already know that you’re stayin the night.”

He looked at her with a playful scowl, “Who said I’m stayin?”

“You’re still stoned and you’ve had more whiskey,” You shook your head, “You’re stayin.”

“Whatever you say boss,” He flicked his cigarette off the roof after finishing it.

You rolled your eyes, “I’ll get you up bright and early don’t worry.”

“As long as I get some more pie tomorrow.”

“I did make you something,” You flushed a bit at your next words, “I made you those peanut butter chocolate chip cookies you like. Hid them from the guys or they’d eat em all.”

“You’re so sweet,” He admitted, “those idiots wouldn’t savor them like me.”

You laughed softly trying not to look at him or you’d burst into flames, “So true. I’ll give em to you after church tomorrow.”

“S’that my reward?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded, “So you better behave.”

He was feeling bold now. After your shy confession he wanted to be bold. His fingers itched to touch you, “What happens if I don’t behave?”

Your eyes widened a bit not expecting him to say something like that. Did he mean it like that? You couldn’t over think this right now. The tension in the air thick and pushing the two of you closer together.

You shrugged, “I could show you right now.” You didn’t even know what you mean by that but before you could take your words back a voice behind you two broke whatever trance the two of you were in.

“Hey! Are you just gonna let the rest of us get wasted by ourselves or what!” Mason exclaimed as he stuck his head through the window.

Rafe snorted, “I’m comin jackass.”

“I better finish my assignments.” He climbed through the window and held his hand out for you as you stepped through.

“Can I ask a favor?” You asked him. The dim lighting in the office illuminating his face in a way that made him look like a Greek God.

“Anything,” He responded and Rafe truly meant anything.

You sighed, “So after church tomorrow I wanted to go to that book store in the city and Mason is gonna take me. But I don’t really want hungover grumpy Mason to take me,” Just then you heard a thud and loud laughs downstairs.

“Well you know ho-“

Before you could even continue he was nodding his head, “I’ll take you, don’t worry.”

You beamed up at him with bright eyes and a wide smile, “Thank you Rafey. I’ll be quick too.”

He shook his head and wrapped an arm around your shoulders starting to walk you both out of the room, “None of that you can spend the whole day lookin and I won’t care.”

You looked away as your smile grew timid and that damn blush was back. He stopped in front of your bedroom and you already missed his warmth.

“You know where to find us when you wanna have some fun scholar,” He teased lightly.

“Yeah yeah. You know where the blankets are and please make sure that if those idiots want to go home they’re good to drive.”

He mock saluted at you, “Yes ma’am.”

Rafe constantly teased you about your over protection of the group of men. Truthfully he found it endearing because no one has cared so much for him. Even if it’s lumped in with your brother. None of you had family here so it was nice that the five of you had created your own.

As you sat back at your desk you couldn’t stop thinking about Rafe. Honestly you never stopped but after seeing him it always amplified the thoughts. There’s nothing in this world that you wanted more than Rafe Cameron, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to act on it.

You didn’t want to ruin your relationship with your brother. He’s never been that overprotective but you had no idea how he’d be if you dated his best friend. So your fantasies of the tall cowboy remained as just that, fantasies.

If wrangling four six foot plus men to church would get that shocked look out of Mrs.Cramer you would have done it a long time ago. The old woman could hardly believe you got those ‘hooligans’ to come. The boys had a bit of a reputation. Not necessarily bad but they knew that if something was going on it was probably them.

Like when Jake drunkly rode a pony into the post office. Or when Mason accidentally left the pig pen open and there were thirty pigs loose in town.

The five of you were now back at your house. Rafe was waiting downstairs for you to finish changing. The other boys were drinking beer watching a baseball game. Mason was beyond grateful he didn’t have to take you anymore.

“I’m ready,” You announced while walking down the stairs. You had changed into your red boots, denim shorts, and a white tee shirt. Simple yet it had his mouth watering. Imagine what it’d be like to peel it all off. He needed to get it together.

“Be back later Mason,” You waved them goodbye before grabbing your purse. Rafe mumbled a bye as he followed after you like a puppy.

Not only did Rafe not complain about anything you did in the car but he also let you pick the music. He was having the time of his life. On the outside he looked concentrated on driving and completely unbothered.

“It’s right up there,” You pointed to the building coming up.

He pulled into the parking lot, “You been here before?”

“I have but it’s been a couple months.”

He parked and opened the door for you. The smile on your face making the forty five minute drive worth it.

Well forty five minutes later he was starting to get antsy. He swears he’s seen you make five circles around the fairly small book shop. He was sitting in a purple chair meant for reading. You had given him about six books and your purse to hold and you were still browsing. The only reason he was getting impatient was because he was hungry.

You walked over with two more books, “Okay now I need to narrow these down to just three.”

His brows furrowed, “Three?”

You nodded, “Tips were short this week and I had to use my savings to fix my laptop.”

He stood up holding the six books, “Come on lets go pay.”

You followed him trying to keep up with his long strides, “Uhhh did you not just hear me I can’t afford it Rafe.”

“That’s why I’m buying all of them for you,” He shrugged as if it were nothing.

“No no no,” You pulled his arm to stop him right before the counter, “You can’t do that, that’s too much.”

“You want them all right?”

“Well yeah but-“

“But nothing baby, I got you.” He turned to the counter where the cashier was waiting for the two of you to finish.

You stood behind a bit dumbfounded by not only his kindness but because of what he called you. Baby. That was new.

After a long day of book shopping, pizza eating, and laughing you were drained. On the way home you had fallen asleep, waking up once he turned onto the dirt road that led to your house.

You yawned, “We’re here already.”

“Yup and it looks like Mason’s not home.”

“Oh he texted me telling me he was going to a bonfire. We’re invited but I’d rather stay home.”

Rafe opened the door for you like he had been doing all day. He also held your heavy bag of books.

“Me either honestly.”

“You wanna watch a movie with me?” You asked hoping he’d say yes.

“I’d love to.”

You plopped yourself onto the couch to browse movies. Rafe set the books down on the kitchen table before joining you. Except he stood in front of you and grabbed your boot tugging it off each foot.

“Thank you Rafey,” You smiled at him.

You put on Twilight knowing he won’t care and secretly loves it. Today had been perfect. Rafe made you feel like the only person existing. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted him to be more than a friend and it was starting to pain you, but it was something you could live with for now.

A half hour later you had dozed off onto Rafe. Your leg draped over him and face tucked into his neck. His head leaning on yours and one hand in your hair the other around you. This was the best sleep Rafe had ever gotten. He could feel you all around him he didn’t want this to ever end.

Yet you both jolted awake when you heard the front creak open and voices following. Twilight had ended an hour ago and New Moon had started playing. You and Rafe broke a part trying to fix yourselves. A rosy tint to his cheeks as he peered over at you with a teasing smirk. You couldn’t help your blush either as you returned the mischievous smile.

“Hey you guys are back how’d it?” Mason asked as he walked into the living room with Kelce.

“It was good, got lots of new books,” You turned to Rafe with a knowing look.

“Hey is that,” Kelce pointed at something on your inner thigh. You had one leg bent so your inner thigh was facing up on display. An right on it was an impression of a long horn and some intricate designs. Everyone knew who had something that looked like that.

“How’d that get there?” Kelce asked with an amused smile as he pointed between your thigh and Rafe’s belt buckle. He burst into laughed as mason groaned.

“Guys I know y’all like have a thing for each other but I don’t wanna know that stuff,” Mason gagged.

“What Mase!” You groaned, “Nothing like that!”

Rafe laughed feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders, “Dude we fell asleep.”

“I sure hope so, not on my damn couch.”

You decided to mess with him, “Well if you insist.” You grabbed Rafe’s hand and laughed as you pulled him upstairs. He didn’t even hesitate following and also laughing.

You dragged him into your room turning so your back was to the door. Still holding your hand Rafe used the other to push the door closed. Walking you both back in the process so your back was against the closed door. One hand beside your head and the other moving from holding yours to holding your waist.

His head dipped down as your laughter died. Things suddenly felt serious and you realized how close he was and he was touching you. It felt really good.

“So uh sounds like Mason is okay with us,” Rafe murmured.

“Is that you confessing you like me?” You teased looking down at his lips.

He nodded causing your noses to brush, “Yeah I like you baby, can I make it anymore obvious.”

“Can you?”

He squeezed your waist with a smile before dipping down and finally molding his lips to yours. It was like being able to breathe for the first time. His mouth felt good against yours. He kissed you with desperation and need showing you just how long he’s wanted this. How he’s wanted it just as much as you.

Both his hands were now on your waist and traveling over your body feeling every dip and curve. The small whine you let out making him want to throw you onto your bed, but he promised himself if he ever had you he’d take his time. Savor every moment with you.

You pulled away breathless and drunk on him, “I like you too if you couldn’t tell.”

He pecked your lips, “I’ll buy you all the books you want just to hear that again.”

“I like you,” You leaned down up and kissed him again, “Now can we finish the twilight series?”

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron au #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fluff

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