#it's better if it's less of a straight line

[sapphicscholar]

Hacks Episode 4.05 Thoughts

Okay sorry for the deluge of posting tonight, but I wanted to be all caught up so that I can just go episode by episode moving forward! So on to yesterday’s episode! Everything under the cut to hide spoilers! (Also this got loooong! Turns out I have a lot of thoughts!)

As with last episode, I found this episode better on rewatch (esp. on rewatch going straight through from ep. 1 to 5), though it’s still not my fave. But I do find this to be true of a lot of post-s1 Hacks where the middle episodes, which often feel comparatively weaker on first view (bc that’s almost always when we’re viewing them in isolation as stand-alone episodes), end up standing up better on a season-long rewatch because they’re not always made with the pacing, stakes, and/or plot and character development that feel appropriate to a single episode, but instead with an eye to the season-long narrative. And I don’t think Hacks is alone in this! It’s symptomatic of a lot of modern TV shows, even the ones that get released on a weekly basis instead of in a single, bingeable go. Anyway, onward to the specifics!

On my first watch, this felt like we were stepping back from where we left off at the end of the last episode in ways that didn’t exactly feel right. The hospital scene, while not a fix-all bandaid, felt like an important crack in the armor, a move toward a truce and eventual reconciliation. And by the end of this episode, we feel wrenched so much further back (more on that later). But on second watch, knowing where the episode was heading and therefore not perhaps having my post-ep reactions focused on the end as the most recent thing in my head and therefore the most important, I was able to better see the ways that their interactions in the earlier moments of the episode are a little more cordial (not friendly! But less overtly hostile) than they have been. And the ways the data would have thrown Deborah for a loop do feel realistic and true to who she is, especially the version of her that knows damn well they “need a hit.”

But now that knowledge is also where the episode loses me. Because here’s the thing: this is (at least per the end of season 3) the dream for Deborah and Ava alike. No matter what Ava’s suddenly saying or feeling, in the very recent past, JPL had her telling the woman doing her headshots that this was her dream job. And we know damn well Deborah has been fighting for this her whole career. Now, don’t get me wrong! It may be that the dream is crumbling in live time, that the fantasy is revealing itself to be hollow. But it’s still a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity, and I simply do not believe that they’d be this unprofessional and this willing to risk it all at this stage, especially post episode 4.2. This isn’t to say I think they’d be roses and butterflies and rainbows—absolutely fucking not—but screaming at each other in front of a live studio audience? Deborah calling another woman a conniving bitch essentially on camera? And all this after she’d been so quick to realize they were being surveilled at Winnie’s? I’m just not buying it, man. Deborah’s not good with hecklers, no. But she knows how to perform even under duress. Think about the hug on camera. Think about her letting them smear that soot on her face and fuck up her hair in the pizza parlor. For better or worse, she knows how to push it down when the camera’s rolling, and that was just a fucking pizza shop opening; this is Late Night on a top network at the do-or-die moment with her own name, career, and future on the line.

The content of their dispute…sure? It feels like we could be getting a little more incisive about Deborah’s relationship to womanhood, feminism, and politics at this point, rather than retracing old ground about Panera people vs. intellectual no punchline jokes (which we *literally* return to with the reliance on the implicit punchline of a photo of Sweden), but imo the show doesn’t actually want to go there. Which is fine, but it’s just an interesting thing how the show continuously dances around the question of Deborah’s relationship to other women, but always stops just short of true critique by side-stepping the consequences. Like in 1.69 Million we get this question of ladder pulling that gets resolved by a one-off stunt. In the cruise episode Deborah announces she doesn’t hate lesbians specifically; she hates women, and don’t we all, she asks. But we breeze on by it with no narrative impact. We get Deborah making it part of her new act (how many women do you actually have to care about to be a feminist?), which gets played as a joke in such a way that it insulates her from immediate pushback. The college student arc gets played through quickly without our ever having to return to it. We have Deborah disavowing her womanhood in the opening press event, and now we’ve got women who (shocker!) don’t like her! And I get the jokes of “well did they ask lesbians??” but I think we can adore her the way we do only because she’s a character, not a real person, and the show’s polls exist in-universe where you know what? Deborah Vance does have a women problem. Now, I don’t need (and I really so, so don’t want!) the show to go didactic fiction on me. I’m not looking for Hannah Gadsby here! But I do think they had the door propped open for this to be a clash that takes Ava and Deborah’s differences and pushes them further, rather than falling back on well-trodden ground, this time simply paved with market demo research. Because as is, it feels like…well, we know Ava and Deborah can come to a compromise on the terrain of “funny enough to appeal to a big crowd without going for the hacky shit.” And yeah, it was for a differently scaled audience, but reaching this true impasse feels like it calls for more as narrative justification, and imo, some of this unaddressed baggage feels like a pretty easy inroad because you could reasonably believe that Ava’s been hanging on to a frustration about some of these past moments that she’s convinced herself are fine or something in the past, only to have this newest thing (Deb going “mommy makeovers” as this condescending attempt at appealing to women ages 25-40) be the spark that ignites it into a big thing—especially when she’s comparing it to the writing room she was just in (bc right now it feels like Ava’s sitting there comparing apples and oranges when she knows goddam well they’re two different fruits, so she just looks petulant af).

Okay, I’ve rambled for a looooong ass time here, so a few final quicker things:

Let Ava own her throuple! She can be thrown by Deborah’s presence, but I don’t buy that the woman who confidently told Deborah literally just days into knowing her that sometimes she needs a dick to come but the sexual experiences are deeper with women is gonna stutter and stammer her way through saying she’s a third. Especially not in the queer LA scene in the year of our lord 2025.

Also, I felt two different ways on first, then second watch of this ep re Ava’s two restaurant scene lines about the not knowing Deborah very well / telling Dev and Emily to wait for the show to get good to watch it. On first watch, they felt almost breathtakingly cruel—especially piling on the show comment after we’ve already seen the hurt on Deborah’s face after the first line lands. But on rewatch, especially, like I said, rewatch from the start, the first line in particular feels more like a protective barrier—Ava learning to put up her own walls to keep from getting hurt. She held out her heart for Deborah at the end of season 3, crying and pleading with Deborah to treat her better than the world (which they both know is cruel), only to have Deborah tell her that she was willing to lose her. And even throughout this season, we’ve had several moments where we’ve seen Ava at least try—even when it’s meant caring about Deborah as a person, not the show (e.g., rushing backstage during the panic attack and then showing up to the hospital and staying to make sure Deborah didn’t miss the premier even when she found out Deborah didn’t ask the hospital to call her). And, largely, Ava’s been rebuffed. (Which isn’t to say we can’t feel for Deborah, too! But simply to suggest that there’s a point at which you have to put on armor if you want to survive—a lesson Deborah knows far better than Ava.)

Also, Stacey’s final snap was well deserved lmao

Of course Dance Mom is dancing to Katy Perry’s heinous AI album ripppp

And Dance Mom, much like Deborah’s dancing, does feel very, very daytime, big Ellen energy (right down to berating the staff!). But I think it’ll be really fucking hard for Deborah to move on from the high of the crowd’s enthusiastic energy and response. Which is gonna drive Ava up a fucking wall. Speaking of…that final expression from Ava? I wish we had known what exactly Deborah was scrapping for Dance Mom because it feels like, if it were something Ava wrote and felt good about (vs more of the vaguely hacky pandering shit), that response would have felt a little more justified? As is, it feels like Ava’s hitting a breaking point that we don’t 100% buy. Because I’m sorry, but they did need a victory after the audience witnessed that screaming match and faceplant! You need a strong (and, more importantly, distracting) finishing act to come back from that, and jokes about Sweden just aren’t gonna cut it!

[robo-dino-puppy]

hfw: burning shores | aloy 17/?

[atopvisenyashill]

i'm intrigued in what ways do you think hotd can massively change the ending of the war? (without it being the obvious rhaenyra lives)

mind you this is complete tinfoil hatery here!!! it’s like a combo of “i’m too online” and “i’m too paranoid” and “i know condal & hess have their own opinions on the books and they are as dedicated as they are weird” SO these are the ones i kinda get squinty eyed suspicious over and i have noticed others being suspicious as well-

driftmark inheritance - like i said this COULD be them twisting the knife a little more re: corlys’ bastards but i have wondered if rhaenys pushing for rhaena and baela is hinting towards one of them, likely baela, inheriting out and out.

battle of the gullet - i’ve wondered if they’re going to push it so jace stays alive longer, like as far as rhaenyra’s rule in king’s landing

jace has a baby - i’ve seen both that he & baela will have a kid and THAT kid will take over driftmark, OR be aegon iii’s wife instead of jaehaera/daenaera. i’ve also seen sara snow shows up, her & jace get hitched, and cregan legitimizes the kid to be his own heir? i think all three of these are a stretch but it also feels like the weird shit they’d do?

with that said i do also wonder if they don’t cut daenaera or kill jaehaera during the war to give aegon iii just one wife

rhaenyra doesn’t die - okay listen. i know i’m like basically tb and you’re all thinking “this bitch is just huffing copium” but i have wondered if they’d soften it by having rhaenyra like, live in self imposed exile/fake her death/some sort of abdication in favor of her sons, and justify it as being closer to what happened to matilda. tbc i don’t want this to happen bc i think condal & hess would do a terrible job with it lol

i actually had the thought that rhaenicent might run off together. you know that scene in versailles where that recurring secret protestant girl ran off with her noble friend and the musketeer let them? i was picturing something like that. tbf i was high when i started feeling this one was likely.

these are the ones i’ve seen people yelling about that i just feel are too far fetched-

streets are saying jace & corlys are basically gonna attempt an overthrow of rhaenyra, i don’t think this is likely, i think this is people being dramatic over the scenes where the three of them are fighting after rook’s rest

i’ve actually seen a theory that hotd is meant to be a soft reboot for the entire series and it’s a jump off into a REDO of the main series and once again, feels like cope, but!!! they reboot spiderman & x-men every 3-5 business days!!!

the sara snow thing is specifically about the catspaw dagger btw

daemon survives the fight with aemond and lives in hiding forever

rhaenyra straight up lives, is crowned, wins, and rules with aegon the younger as her heir.

one of the velaryon boys will live altho everyone kinda hems and haws about WHICH one

if you’re like “these seem insane” a) yeah b) they’ve done not one but TWO groucho marx esque disguises this season and i KNOW the cargylls are canon but come on i feel they’re getting silly. and again, respect for condal, but he was the one who defended the sansa bolton story arc!!

[famewolf]

my brain has been really out of whack recently (I think it's the time change among other things) so I'm going to try out some things to see if they help

I might not be on social media a whole lot in the next week or two, but if you're mutuals and want my discord, send me a message

[orcelito]

Results of today's bowling practice

My last game was my lowest bc I was getting tired lol, but I've been improving my speed!!! Games 2 and 3 I was experimenting a little with trying to hook the ball, but I didn't really get it. Instead, I'm feeling like my technique should be based more in precision and speed, bc those are the things I'm good at. That's why I'm generally pretty good at spares!!

But to be able to Strike without hooks, you have to be very good at hitting an exact point between the 1 and 3 pins (if you're right-handed)(that's the head pin and the one directly to the right of it), & you have to do it at an angle. Which means standing to the side & then throwing it towards that center spot. If you do that, you're more likely to get a strike. But it's also easier to get a strike with Momentum, since that will cause the pins to bounce around more and take each other out. And for That, ball weight is a component (I've been trying to increase my ball weight, but I need to not overload myself & hurt my hand/wrist. I've managed to increase from an 8 pound to a 10 pound ball over the past few months, and it'll hopefully increase from there) BUT ALSO!!! Speed. Speed is more important, even. Bc for kinetic energy, it's 0.5 * mass * velocity^2 aka velocity increases the energy of motion exponentially faster than mass does.

AND SO...... yes I want to increase the weight of my ball, but since my hands are so small & I'm using house balls, I have to stay within what I can reasonably hold with my current grip strength (if you have ones better fitted to your finger size, it'll stay on your fingers better when you swing back, so grip is less of a component. Not relevant for me here, unfortunately). So that's increasing a lot more slowly. But *speed*... I can do speed. When I was starting out, I was averaging 10-12mph per throw, but Now I'm able to consistently get above 14 mph. If I can increase it over 15 mph for my first throws, I think that will help my game a lot... 2nd ball throws are averaging at a lower speed bc that's where I'm putting more effort into precision to try to hit those spares. Speed is important for knocking down as many pins as possible, not so much for trying to hit that liiiiiittle corner pin over there. That's where u gotta dial it back and just focus on Hitting it. All it needs is one little tap....

So, I'm not a hook bowler, but that's okay. I've mostly fixed my prior problem of my shoulders turning as I threw, which would send the ball to the left gutter. My precision has gotten a LOT better. I'm Good At Spares. If I keep working on improving my precision & work on increasing my speed for the first ball throws, I think I can do it. My goal is still to get over a 200 by the end of the semester. I'm Determined to do it.

Precision bowler that approaches with ferocity and speed, then dials it back to increase precision with spares... that's me ❤️

[spamton]

i accidentally napped and had a dream (nightmare?) where a new update for stardew valley released where everything was the same except on a random day in year 3 Evelyn would just straight up die. There was a whole cutscene that started in her house where she collapsed, and then transitioned over to the hospital where Harvey gave George and Alex the worst news of their lives. However, they got to speak to her where she said something along the lines of "Yoba will protect me, and I am sure he will let me watch over you."

Alex and George would not talk to the player for more than a few words for a full season after this event. George would spend most of his time in the bedroom, so if you had less than 2 hearts with him, you could barely ever speak to him.

And Alex... oh my god, poor Alex. If you were married to him during this event, he just stayed in bed all day. Otherwise, if single, he would just stand on the beach most of the time, staring off into the ocean. If you tried to interact with him, it would just say "Alex is grieving... Better leave him be."

There was also other NPC dialogue like mayor Lewis saying "I haven't seen the community in this state of mourning since your grandfather passed..."

there was also a glitch where you could make Evelyn live forever and there were entire guides for the "immortal Evelyn glitch" that got patched out in the next update. If you tried to perform the glitch after the patch, mr. Qi would tell you that "hey, it happens to all of us. We can't prevent it, and neither can you, no matter how hard you try."

[percreates]

Some sketches of an OC I made for a friend's minecraft smp- Benni, it/they, it comes with Lore (so so much lore)

There's SO many things I want to draw from the server and adventures that have been had, but I'm still figuring out how I plan to draw certain mobs and also fighting executive dysfunction so. Incoming eventually

Some earlier sketches before I actually had the idea to create Benni and just wanted to fuck around with armor concepts (hence the little notes), and then my detail list to refer to when actually drawing it

My first actual drawing of Benni, still my favorite even though the design in my head has changed a little

First (and only so far) attempt at finding a color scheme, definitely not sticking with this lol, I don't like the pants even though this is the closest I could get to my actual minecraft skin. I also just don't like how the pants look even though they look like the reference 🤣

Basically everything in this image gets changed afsfdgdggd

Another sketch figuring out an armor design, based on a moment in game

And then my most recent sketches, trying to figure out exactly how buggy to make them, because it's enderman-adjacent (it's a lengthy explanation. Like I said, Lore), and this is my concept for the endermen. Based vaguely on bullet ants, because I'll also use those as inspiration for my endermite and enderdragon designs

For some reason, despite being a very capable warrior and colonizer adventurer, Benni is perpetually confused in my sketches. I'm still getting the hang of drawing mandibles, and I thought that last enderman looked judgmental so I gave it a thought bubble afsfsgdg

Bug-like creature warning below the readmore

[thetangibleghost]

It's kinda like before anti-psycotics I experienced my innerworld, my subconscious, the observable world, and other people innerworlds all on top of each other. They mixed together and when information was missing it was hard to tell as it was all so messy.

All those realities still exist, and they still exist all at the same time. Now, they are all the same world, instead of layered realities. Delusions no longer exist in bubbles that I get stuck in but as a part of the world that contradicts or doesn't contradict other parts.

The world is like nothing else. I'm still depressed, suicidal, and delusional. But now I can like sorta feed my self and keep my body clean. I had all the tools before to do so, but my entire life I couldn't keep up and I never knew why. I thought maybe trauma and autism, those still play a part but like literally my life is just. Exactly the same but I shower and pick up things I don't want to step on off the floor.

My self awareness too. It's always been a struggle for me to understand how I'm perceived. I'm constantly, as I think most people do, reflecting, making changes, and grieving. But now progress is more satisfying. I can make plans that have more moving parts and understand situations without that sliding reality feeling. Even if my actual follow through is the same.

I dissociate a lot still

I tend to react well to medications and antipsychotics are nothing to mess around with. But I but a lot of thought (I was lucky to be able to) into starting them and the results just. They weren't what I was expecting. Like, I expected them to work, but like. like look at this I wrote this long silly post that stays on topic and moves between subtopics. I didn't even plan that. My thoughts are just. Literally organized. And I was able to write in an organic way before my delusions got worse last year, but it still wasn't like this and I wasn't always able to.

[artcalledcinema]

Black Tape Project

Colours

Skin showing in

Vinyl

Atmospheric conditioned ladies

Plain i or !

Measure please

Add wear is needed

Fashion Taped from black vinyl

Sparkles are in the eyes

Pull backed hair

Hey pretty

The gamble is casino

Black tape

No sin

Fashion yourself for my bed

Can I strap you in

Wearing nothing less

Black Tape Project

[saatorus]

golden — s . gojo x reader

synopsis — satoru gojo is your bestfriend and you are his. but sometimes, lines between friendship and something more seem to blur.

pairing — bestfriend! satoru x reader

word count — 10.6 k

warnings — making out, somewhat heavy petting, they take off each other's shirts but that's about it LOL, angst (not a sad ending though), reader feels unwanted at times.

Satoru Gojo.

How long have you known him? Your whole life, probably.

Scratch that. Not your whole life, but definitely the majority of it.

It started in preschool.

You were the quiet kid—the one who clung to the edges of the classroom, never quite fitting into the messy, chaotic whirlwind of children who seemed to make friends like it was the easiest thing in the world. You didn’t know how they did it—how they found each other in the noise, how they paired up so effortlessly, how they just knew where they belonged.

You, on the other hand, spent most of your time alone, stacking blocks in the corner, drawing quietly, or waiting for the teacher to tell you what to do next.

And then there was him.

Satoru Gojo, the loudest, brightest, most obnoxiously happy kid you’d ever met. He was the kind of child who ran instead of walked, who laughed at things no one else found funny, who always had a scrape on his knee but never seemed to care. He was larger than life, in a way that made your stomach twist—not quite jealousy, not quite admiration, just… confusion.

So when he plopped down next to you one day, completely uninvited, you weren’t sure what to do.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, peering at the tiny house you were building out of wooden blocks.

You shrugged. “Building.”

“Cool,” he said, grinning. “Can I help?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want help. But before you could answer, he was already reaching for the blocks, stacking them in ways that made no sense.

“You’re ruining it,” you mumbled, frowning.

He blinked at you, then back at the house. “Oh.” And then, without missing a beat, he knocked it over entirely.

You gasped, horrified.

He just laughed. “Now we can build it again!”

You decided, in that exact moment, that you hated him.

But Satoru Gojo was persistent.

He started following you around—not in a creepy way, just in an annoying way. Every time you thought you’d shaken him off, he’d pop up again like a bad penny, grinning that ridiculous grin of his.

Eventually, you just… let him.

It was easier than trying to get rid of him.

And somewhere along the way, he became your first real friend.

Your moms met not long after.

It happened at pickup time, when Satoru ran straight past his usual waiting spot to grab your hand instead. “Can I go to their house?” he asked his mom, all wide eyes and uncontainable energy. “Please, please, please?”

Your mom looked vaguely alarmed, having not expected to suddenly be responsible for another child, but Satoru’s mom just laughed.

And that was that.

Your friendship expanded beyond the preschool walls, spilling into weekends and playdates. Satoru’s house became as familiar as your own, with its too-big windows and fancy furniture that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to jump on (but did anyway). In return, he practically lived at your place, showing up unannounced, eating snacks straight from your pantry, making himself at home in a way that should have been irritating but never really was.

By the time middle school rolled around, he was less of a friend and more of a permanent fixture in your life.

“Okay, but listen,” Satoru said one afternoon, sprawled across your bedroom floor, Switch in hand. “If you had to pick one Digimon partner, like one to be stuck with for the rest of your life, who would it be?”

You barely looked up from your homework. “I don’t know. Agumon?”

“Agumon?” he repeated, scandalized. “That’s so basic. It’s like saying your favorite Pokémon is Pikachu.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally the main character’s Digimon.”

“Exactly!” He threw his hands up. “No originality. None. Zero. I expected better from you.”

“You asked me,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah, but I thought you’d at least think about it.” He sighed, dramatically flopping onto his back. “I should’ve known. I’m best friends with a casual fan.”

“You should be grateful you have a best friend at all,” you shot back.

Satoru grinned, tilting his head toward you. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

At some point, he started wearing glasses. Not for fashion, not because he wanted to, but because years of staring at screens in the dark, playing Digimon and Pokémon and whatever else he was obsessed with at the time, had officially caught up to him.

“I’m blind,” he announced the day he got them, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely, totally blind.”

You snorted. “You’re, like, mildly nearsighted.”

“Same thing,” he said, already taking them off to examine them. “Do I look smarter with them?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Not really.”

“Rude.” He huffed, sliding them back on. “What about cooler?”

You threw a pillow at his face.

He laughed, catching it easily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

—

Then came high school.

At first, nothing changed.

Satoru was still Satoru—loud, annoying, always in your space. He still showed up at your house unannounced, still texted you at odd hours about random nonsense, still sat next to you at lunch like it was a law of the universe. He was your best friend. Your person.

And for the first two years, you were inseparable.

There wasn’t a single moment where people saw one of you without the other. Satoru Gojo and you. You and Satoru Gojo. Always a pair. Whether it was cramming for exams together, getting kicked out of the arcade because he got too competitive, or spending Friday nights playing whatever old game he got obsessed with that month, he was your constant.

Until junior year.

It started small.

A casual comment in gym class about how fast he was. A joke from a teacher about how he should try out for the football team. A half-dare from some of the guys he barely knew.

And somehow, against all odds, Satoru Gojo became an athlete.

You didn’t think much of it at first. It was just another one of his phases, right? Like that time he swore he’d master speedrunning or decided he was going to learn five languages at once. But he was good—annoyingly good. Tall, fast, with ridiculous reflexes that made him impossible to catch on the field.

And people noticed.

By mid-season, he wasn’t just some new player—he was the star. The guy everyone knew, the guy who had a crowd around him in the hallways, the guy who got called out over the school speakers for game-winning plays.

The guy who no longer just belonged to you.

The first time you really felt it was when he showed up at your house one evening. That part was normal. He still did that, still made himself at home on your couch, still stole whatever snacks he wanted.

But something was different.

You were sprawled out on your bed, flipping through a book, when you glanced up and noticed.

“Where are your glasses?” you asked.

Satoru blinked, as if he had to think about it. “Oh. Right.” He shrugged, plopping down next to you. “They’re kind of a hazard in football, so I switched to contacts. Figured I’d just stick with them.”

You sat up, frowning. “But you hate contacts.”

He grinned, stretching lazily. “Not anymore.”

And just like that, something in your chest twisted.

It wasn’t just the glasses.

It was the way he stopped rambling about Digimon, the way he never asked if you wanted to rewatch old anime together anymore. It was the way his schedule started filling up with team hangouts and parties you weren’t invited to. It was the way people started looking at you differently when you were with him.

Because Satoru Gojo wasn’t just Satoru Gojo anymore.

He was Gojo.

Senior year was when it really started to hurt.

He still sat with you at lunch, still texted you silly memes at night, still acted like nothing had changed. But everything had.

He would often cancel on your invitations, his responses still typed in that absurd, unmistakable way of his—yet his excuses always seemed to follow a familiar pattern. It was always something urgent, something unavoidable: he had to rush off to practice, or there was a party he couldn’t miss, or someone needed his help and he simply couldn’t bring himself to say no. Each time, it felt like a rehearsed script, as though his priorities were perpetually elsewhere, leaving you to wonder if you’d ever truly make the cut.

Every time he plopped down next to you, people stared. Whispered.

“Why’s he sitting with her?”

“Shouldn't he sit with the rest of the team?”

“Is she, like, his childhood obligation or something?”

You weren’t an idiot. You heard it. You felt it.

And it made you snap.

“You don’t have to sit here, you know,” you muttered one day, keeping your eyes on your tray.

Satoru frowned. “What?”

“I said, you don’t have to sit here,” you repeated, sharper this time. “If you’d rather be with your actual friends—”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

You clenched your jaw, hating how defensive he sounded. “Nothing. Forget it.”

He didn’t forget it.

You fought about it. About how he didn’t get it, about how easy everything was for him, about how he could walk into any room and belong while you felt like you had to justify existing.

“You act like I abandoned you,” he snapped, voice low and frustrated. “But I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”

And you hated that he was somewhat right. 

So you patched things up. Not because you fully understood each other, but because you both wanted to. And by the time graduation rolled around, you could almost pretend things had gone back to the way they were.

But then came college.

And somehow, Satoru Gojo managed to be even more himself than ever.

Bigger. Louder. More impossible to ignore.

If high school had turned him into a star, then college made him a supernova.

He was everywhere—at parties, in clubs, on the field. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to be around him.

And somehow, despite it all, he still tried to keep you close.

“Come with me tonight,” he’d say, sending you an invite to some massive party. “It’ll be fun.”

You always said no.

At first, he laughed it off. But after a while, he started looking at you differently—like he noticed the way you avoided him now, the way you barely answered his texts, the way you pulled away whenever he tried to meet your eyes.

And one night, when he showed up outside your dorm after another party, half-drunk and grinning, you saw the exact moment that grin faltered.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Why would I be mad at you?” you replied, your tone lighter than you felt, as if you could brush the question aside with a casual shrug.

Satoru studied you intently, his glasses nowhere to be found, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times. His gaze was sharp, unrelenting. “Because you’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe, or hurt.

You forced a laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Not you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your throat tightened. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s just—” you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to piece together the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for weeks. “You don’t need me anymore, Satoru. You have them. All your cool—I don’t know, jock and cheerleader friends, everyone else who likes you. You don’t have time for me now.”

He blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice rising slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His hands gestured vaguely, as though trying to grasp the words you’d just thrown at him. “You think I’d just—replace you? Like it’s that easy? No, like seriously fucking explain to me what the absolute hell you mean?” He mutters out angrily, words slightly slurred.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with emotions neither of you had fully acknowledged until now. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, leaving only silence hanging in the space between you.

You let out a bitter laugh. “It means I’m tired, Satoru. Tired of feeling like a ghost when I’m with you. Tired of pretending I’m okay with being the weird friend you keep around out of habit.”

Satoru opened his mouth, then closed it.

And for the first time in your life, you saw it—hurt. Real, genuine hurt in his stupidly bright eyes.

“You think that’s what this is?” he said, voice quieter now. “Habit?”

You didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you might have to admit that you missed him. That you missed the late-night anime marathons, the dumb inside jokes, the way he used to act like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

But you weren’t sure if that version of him still existed.

And you definitely weren’t sure if you had the courage to find out.

Satoru stared at you for a long time, the weight of your words settling between you like a stone. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, couldn’t decipher the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for something—but wasn’t sure if he should.

Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admitted, voice lower now, quieter, like he was afraid too many words would push you further away. “You’re acting like I left you behind, but I’m right here.”

You bit your lip. “You don’t see it.”

“Then make me see it,” he shot back, suddenly frustrated. “Because all I know is that one day we were fine, and the next, you started treating me like a stranger.”

That stung.

Because wasn’t that what he did first?

He wasn’t the one being looked at differently in high school when he sat next to you at lunch. He wasn’t the one feeling like a burden when you tagged along with him to something you thought was just going to be the two of you. He wasn’t the one realizing, little by little, that your best friend was outgrowing you.

But how could you even say that? How could you explain it in a way he’d understand?

“It’s not just one thing, Satoru,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… everything.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “That’s real specific.”

You rolled your eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

You hesitated. He looked serious, standing there under the dim glow of the dorm hallway lights, arms crossed, gaze steady. But what would it change? Telling him wouldn’t undo the years of growing distance, wouldn’t erase the fact that you felt like you didn’t fit in his world anymore.

Maybe it was better to let it go.

So you shook your head, stepping back toward your door. “It’s late. You should go.”

Satoru let out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine,” he said, jaw tightening. “Run away, then. You’re good at that.”

That hurt more than it should have.

But you didn’t argue. You just stepped inside, closed the door, and pretended the ache in your chest wasn’t real.

It got worse after that.

You thought maybe that argument would clear the air—that he’d finally see why you had been keeping your distance. But if anything, it only made things weirder.

Satoru still texted you, but not as much. He still invited you to things, but there was something almost hesitant in the way he asked, like he was bracing for rejection. And when you turned him down (because of course you did), his replies became shorter, more clipped.

Then, one night, he stopped asking altogether.

You didn’t realize how much you had come to expect it—his name popping up on your phone, his easy confidence that somehow, eventually, you’d say yes. But when Friday night came and went without a text, something inside you twisted.

Maybe this was what you wanted. Maybe it was easier this way.

So why did it feel so awful?

A week later, you ran into him by accident.

Literally.

You were coming out of the campus library, arms full of books, when someone rounded the corner too fast and nearly tackled you.

“Oh, shit—sorry—”

You looked up, heart dropping to your stomach.

Satoru.

Your hands clenched around the books, pulse stuttering. It had only been a week, but he already looked different—like he’d fully settled into his role as that guy. Loose hoodie, messy hair, the faint scent of cologne and something vaguely alcoholic clinging to him.

You swallowed hard. “Hey.”

His expression flickered—just for a second. “Hey.”

It was awkward. Awkward. When had things ever been awkward between you?

You shifted your grip on your books. “Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, no, my bad,” he cut in quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Silence stretched between you. Too long, too tense.

Then, suddenly, his eyes dropped to the stack in your arms. “Of course you’re carrying, like, ten books at once.”

It was such a Satoru thing to say that, for a second, you almost smiled.

Then his gaze flicked up to yours, something softer in his expression, and your breath hitched.

And then—

A voice called his name from across the quad. Some guy you didn’t know, waving him over. Satoru hesitated. Then, with a small exhale, he gave you a lopsided grin. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t wait for a response before turning away.

And you stood there, watching him go, feeling like something important had just slipped through your fingers.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

And for the first time in years, Satoru Gojo wasn’t part of your life anymore.

No more texts. No more unannounced visits. No more standing at your dorm door at 2 AM, grinning like he belonged there.

You had wanted this, hadn’t you? You had wanted the space, the distance, the freedom to not be caught in his orbit.

But now, without him, everything just felt… quiet. You hated it.

You missed him.

—

It was months before you and Satoru spoke again.

At first, you kept waiting for him to text you, to pop up at your door with some stupid excuse, to send you a meme like nothing had happened. But days passed. Then weeks. Then months. And Satoru Gojo—your best friend since childhood—became just another person you saw in passing.

Sometimes, you spotted him across the quad, surrounded by his usual crowd. Sometimes, you caught glimpses of him at the library, laughing too loudly with friends who barely even acknowledged your existence.

And it hurt.

More than you wanted to admit, it hurt.

But you told yourself this was how things were meant to be. That he had moved on, and you needed to do the same. That whatever had existed between you belonged to another lifetime, one where you weren’t the quiet girl who spent her nights buried in books, and he wasn’t the golden boy who belonged to the whole damn world.

You thought you were doing fine. You thought you were getting used to it.

Until the professor announced lab partners.

The moment your name was called, a small, high-pitched voice cut through the classroom.

“Uh… who?”

Laughter rippled through the room. You felt your face go hot, every muscle in your body locking up as the girl—some blonde from Satoru’s usual group—looked around in exaggerated confusion.

It was humiliating.

Because she wasn’t just some random classmate. She was someone who had spent actual time with Satoru. Who had probably been to his dorm, who had probably sat next to him at parties, who had probably heard him talk about people in his life.

And she had no idea who you were.

You didn’t even dare look at Satoru. Didn’t want to see his reaction. Didn’t want to see whether he’d step in, whether he’d say anything—

But he didn’t.

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t correct her either.

Didn’t turn to acknowledge you. Didn’t make some joke to brush past it. Didn’t do anything at all.

Just stared at the table like he was somewhere else entirely.

And that, somehow, was worse than anything.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral as you scribbled down the details of the assignment. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

—

Working with Satoru again was… weird.

Not just because of everything that had happened between you, but because neither of you seemed to know how to be around each other anymore.

Gone were the days of effortless conversation, of teasing remarks and stolen fries and arguments about Digimon evolutions. Now, everything felt stilted, careful, like you were two strangers trying to relearn the language of each other.

Sometimes, it almost felt normal.

Like when you sat across from each other in the library, bent over research notes, and he’d randomly hum the Sailor Moon theme song under his breath. Or when he muttered something stupid under his breath about the professor’s handwriting, and you nearly choked on your water holding back a laugh.

But then, inevitably, the moment would pass.

Because girls from his usual group would come over, acting like you weren’t even there, their voices too sweet as they draped themselves over the back of his chair.

“Satoru, are you coming to the party on Friday?”

“Satoru, when are you free? We should all hang out.”

And he’d always answer them. Always give some noncommittal shrug or a lazy smirk. But you could tell—even if no one else seemed to notice—that he wasn’t really there. That when he looked at them, he wasn’t listening.

And yet, he never told them to leave. Never told them that you were working. Never acknowledged you at all when they were around. So, after a while, you just stopped expecting him to.

And then, one day, you got sick.

Not just a little sick. Not just a sore throat or a cough you could push through. No, you were the kind of sick that made your whole body ache, that sent shivers down your spine no matter how many blankets you curled under.

But it was a project day. And despite everything, you still had responsibilities. So, begrudgingly, you shot Satoru a text.

Come to my dorm. I can’t go out today.

He didn’t reply right away. But twenty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You barely managed to drag yourself over, your vision swimming slightly as you opened it.

And there he was.

Looking the same as always—messy white hair, sharp blue eyes, hoodie slung over his frame like he’d just rolled out of bed.

The only difference? The way his expression immediately dropped the second he saw you.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You look awful.”

You groaned, stepping aside to let him in. “Thanks for the confidence boost.” He kicked off his shoes, setting his bag down before eyeing you carefully. “Have you been drinking water? Eating enough? D’you eat somethin’ you weren’t meant to eat?”

You rolled your eyes. “How am I supposed to know, I just woke up sick as hell.”

Instead of a snarky remark, Satoru just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, before you could protest, he was guiding you toward the bed, nudging you to sit.

“You’re not working like this,” he said firmly. “Lie down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Lie down.”

You hesitated.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the version of Satoru you had gotten used to in the past year. The one who was always a little distant, a little out of reach. This was… him.

The Satoru you had known since childhood. The one who always knew when you were exhausted, even when you swore you weren’t. The one who used to push his fries onto your plate when you were too stressed to eat.

The one who, for the first time in months, was looking at you like you were still his best friend. So, slowly, you lay back down.

Satoru exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get you some tea or something. You have any?” You nodded weakly. He moved toward your desk, rummaging through your stash of instant tea packets like he had done it a million times before.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was familiar.

Safe.

And even though you felt like death warmed over, for the first time in months, you didn’t feel so alone.

—

From that day on, something shifted.

It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t dramatic, but it was there—a quiet, almost imperceptible change in the way things were between you and Satoru. The library, once the default meeting spot for your project sessions, was suddenly off the table. He stopped suggesting it altogether, and at first, you didn’t think much of it. But then, one afternoon, he showed up at your dorm unannounced, arms loaded with snacks and a careless shrug when you stared at him, bewildered.

“Library’s too loud,” he said, brushing past you and stepping inside like he owned the place. “Figured we’d get more done here.”

You didn’t question it. Not then, and not a week later when you found yourself in his dorm instead, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he scrolled through research notes on his laptop. 

“Library’s too crowded,” he explained that time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

After that, it just became… routine. Your project meetings moved from the library to your dorms, back and forth, as if by some unspoken agreement. The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible, but it was there. You still weren’t quite friends again—not the way you used to be, back when everything was easy and uncomplicated. There was still a careful distance between you, an unspoken awareness of all the time that had been lost, all the moments that had slipped through your fingers. But things weren’t cold anymore. They weren’t distant.

Satoru filled the quiet moments with mindless chatter, the way he always had. He teased you about your typos, stole your pens when you weren’t looking, and groaned dramatically whenever you made him do too much reading. Slowly, bit by bit, the pieces of your friendship started falling back into place. Not completely. Not yet. But enough that sometimes, when the two of you were laughing over something stupid, it almost felt like the past year had never happened.

Then, one day, everything cracked open.

It was late—much later than usual—and the two of you were sitting in his dorm, textbooks and notebooks sprawled across his desk. You were both exhausted, the kind of tired that made your eyes burn and your thoughts sluggish. Satoru was absentmindedly flipping through one of your old notebooks when he suddenly snorted.

“Oh my God.”

You blinked up at him, too tired to muster more than a mumbled, “What?”

He turned the notebook toward you, pointing at a messy doodle in the margin. It was a Digimon—a rough, scribbled outline that barely resembled anything recognizable. But something about it made him grin, leaning back in his chair like he’d just uncovered a hidden treasure.

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Feels like a whole different lifetime ago.”

And then, in a voice so casual, so familiar, he added—

“Remember when we made a whole ass PowerPoint ranking every Digimon evolution?”

That was it.

That was what broke you.

It was so stupid—just a random memory, an offhand remark. But the second he said it, something in your chest twisted violently. You clenched your jaw, swallowing hard, telling yourself not to be dramatic. But then your vision blurred, and suddenly, you were crying.

“Oh—oh shit.”

Satoru’s chair scraped against the floor as he shot up, eyes wide with panic. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

You barely managed to shake your head, your hands gripping your knees as you tried to steady yourself. But the tears kept coming, and then—through the hiccups, through the pathetic, trembling gasps—you broke.

You clenched your jaw, trying to hold it together, but the tears spilled over anyway. Your chest heaved as you choked out the words, “I miss you. I—God, Satoru, I miss you.”

His face went slack, his usual confidence faltering as he stared at you, stunned. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, like he was trying to process what you’d just said. Then his voice came out quiet, almost fragile. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping your knees so tightly your knuckles turned white. “No, you’re not. Not really. You’ve been… gone. For so long. And I—” Your voice broke, and you hated how weak you sounded, how raw and exposed you felt. “I don’t want to be without you anymore. I don’t—I don’t want you to hate me.”

Satoru’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw his composure crack. His eyes glistened, and he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to fight it, but a single tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, his voice trembling as he muttered, “You’re so fucking stupid. How could I ever hate you?”

You let out a shaky laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “I don’t know. You just—you stopped talking to me. You stopped needing me. And I thought… I thought you didn’t care anymore.”

He shook his head, his hands reaching out like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. “I care. I care so much it’s stupid. I just—” He paused, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to come back after everything. It felt like you were pushing me away.”

“You could’ve just— I don’t even know what to say,” you hiccuped, your voice barely audible. “You could’ve just… stayed. I don’t know— like yell at me, tell me that you care for me or something. I wish I wasn’t so stubborn about not speaking to you either, but god, maybe I just wanted you to like— tell me how much you needed me. Because it never felt like you did anymore.”

Satoru’s face crumpled, and he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping like the weight of everything had finally caught up to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’d already ruined everything.”

You looked up at him, your vision blurred by tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just… I needed you. And you weren’t there. And really, it was my fault too, for not communicating—”

He cuts you off, his own tears falling freely now, though he didn’t seem to care. “I know. But I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to fix it. I— I should’ve been there for you more often because God, life without you is just so horrible, and I’ve been so horrible— ”

“You’re fixing it now,” you said, your voice trembling. “Just… don’t leave me again. Please.”

He let out a choked laugh, his hands finally reaching for you, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I won’t,” he murmured into your hair. “I won’t. I promise.”

You buried your face in his shirt, your hands clutching the fabric as you cried. His body shook against yours, and you realized he was crying too—quietly, almost like he was trying to hide it, but you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hands trembled as they held you.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Every fucking day. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, because the weight of everything—the months of silence, the distance, the ache of missing him—was finally crashing down on you. But for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t a bad kind of crash. It was relief. It was the feeling of something broken finally starting to heal.

Satoru’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice firm despite the tears. “Not again. Not ever.”

You nodded against his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

It took a long time for the tears to stop, for the sobs to quiet into shaky breaths. But even when they did, neither of you moved. Satoru kept holding you, his arms tight around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. You felt like you were home.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and puffy, but he was smiling—a small, tentative smile that made your chest ache in the best way. “You’re stuck with me now, like y’know, the annoying kid who’d follow you around as kids,” he said, his voice soft. “Just so you know.”

You laughed, the sound watery but genuine. “Good. Because I miss that Satoru, and I’m not letting you go again either.”

He grinned, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Deal.”

And just like that, something shifted. The distance between you closed, the cracks in your friendship slowly mending. It wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was a start. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything was going to be okay.

—

After that night, Satoru made it a point to talk to you during class.

It was weird at first—uncomfortable, even. Because now, whenever he sat beside you, people stared. People whispered. But Satoru didn’t care. And after a while, neither did you.

Then, one day, it happened.

You were in the middle of a conversation when one of the girls from his usual group strolled up, her friends lingering just behind her.

“Dude,” she drawled, arms crossed. “We’re waiting for you.”

Satoru didn’t acknowledge her.

She huffed, looking at you for the first time.

“Who even are you?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Silence.

Then—calmly, lazily—Satoru turned to her.

“Fuck off.”

Her expression twisted. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, resting his chin in his hand. “We’re talking.”

You swore you saw steam coming out of her ears.

She spun on her heel, storming off in a flurry of designer fabric, and Satoru just turned back to you like nothing had happened.

You blinked at him, stunned. “That was… aggressive.”

He shrugged. “Don’t like her.”

You snorted. “You used to hang out with her all the time.”

“Yeah, well.” He gave you a pointed look. “I was an idiot.”

And maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the certainty in his voice, the way he leaned in just a little closer like this—this—was what mattered.

But for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Something warm. Something steady. Something that told you, without a doubt—

Satoru Gojo wasn’t leaving you behind again.

—

It happened slowly.

At first, it was just the way things had been before. You and Satoru were best friends again—finally, properly—and you were making up for lost time.

You sat together in lectures. You ate together between classes. You spent hours holed up in each other’s dorms, either working in silence or complaining about whatever god-awful assignment was due next.

And it was good. It was easy.

But then—then—things started to shift.

It was subtle at first.

A hand brushing against yours for just a little too long. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in a too-crowded study session, his breath fanning over your ear as he leaned in, muttering something you could barely focus on.

The way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

The way yours lingered, too.

—

It was a Friday night, and you were at Satoru’s dorm, lying on his bed while he sat at his desk, spinning lazily in his chair.

“I don’t wanna study,” he whined, stretching his arms over his head. “Let’s do something fun.”

You turned a page in your book, unimpressed. “And what exactly do you define as ‘fun’?”

“Dunno,” he mused. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You sighed. “Satoru, it’s almost midnight.”

“And?” He grinned, kicking his feet up onto his desk. “C’mon, live a little.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “You just don’t want to do your readings.”

“Obviously.” He snorted. “But also, I feel like getting snacks.”

You hesitated, torn.

Then, finally—

“Fine.”

His eyes lit up. “Knew you’d cave.”

You rolled your eyes, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

—

It was raining by the time you got to the convenience store.

Not heavily—just a light drizzle, enough to make the streets shimmer under the streetlights.

Satoru grabbed half the store’s supply of junk food while you rolled your eyes, paying for your single bottle of tea. Outside, the air was cool, the pavement slick beneath your feet.

“I’m driving,” you said as he dug through his bag of snacks.

“Nah.” He grinned, tossing a chip into his mouth. “I got this.”

You gave him a look. “You almost crashed last time.”

He scoffed. “That was a red light, not a crash.”

“You ran the red light.”

“Meow.”

You cringe, snatching the keys from his pocket. “Oh my god. Absolutely not.”

Satoru laughed but let you.

And for some reason, that made your stomach flip.

—

Back at your dorm, Satoru made himself at home—because of course he did.

He sprawled across your bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other mindlessly tossing a snack in the air and catching it with his mouth.

“You should be paying me rent at this point,” you muttered, shutting the door behind you.

“I would,” he said, grinning, “but I’m broke.”

You huffed, settling onto the bed beside him. “What, your trust fund isn’t enough?”

He smirked. “Nah, gotta save that for important things.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right. Like overpriced sunglasses.”

“Exactly.”

You shook your head, reaching for the remote.

And then—a shift.

Satoru turned his head to look at you, and when you met his gaze, something in his expression softened.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath hitched.

His fingers lingered at your temple, just for a moment. His touch was warm, featherlight.

You exhaled, heartbeat stuttering.

And then—just as quickly—he pulled back, flopping onto his back with a dramatic groan.

“What should we watch?” he asked, stretching like nothing had happened.

You exhaled.

Your chest felt tight.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat. “Dunno.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

—

But the tension didn’t. If anything, it only got worse.

It was in the way his hand brushed your waist when he reached past you.

The way he sat just a little too close, his knee knocking against yours under the desk.

The way his fingers trailed across your wrist when he grabbed something from you, his touch slow, deliberate.

And—God—it was in the way he looked at you.

Like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out.

Like he was waiting for something.

Like he wanted something.

And maybe—just maybe—so did you.

—

By the time second year rolled around, you weren’t sure what you and Satoru were anymore. Still best friends, technically. Still Satoru and you. But there was something else, too.

Something unspoken.

Something fragile and complicated and new. And neither of you dared to acknowledge it.

 —

The weather had started to change, the air cooler as autumn crept in. You could feel it in your bones—when the days shortened, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows. It made everything seem a little softer, like the world had gone quiet just to give you and Satoru a chance to breathe, to figure things out.

You were both sitting in the small, somewhat neglected corner of the university park, surrounded by towering trees with golden leaves fluttering to the ground. You were both on the grass, sitting close enough that your shoulders brushed whenever you shifted. It was the kind of quiet afternoon you could’ve stayed in forever, and maybe that was why you weren’t quite ready to let it end.

Satoru stretched, his arms reaching high above his head. “Ugh, my back’s killing me. Who knew studying could be so physically demanding?” He rolled his shoulders, groaning dramatically.

You shot him a sidelong glance, your lips curling into a smile despite yourself. “I think that’s just you, Satoru. You’re a professional at making everything harder than it is.”

He shot you a grin, a smug little thing, like he knew you couldn’t resist teasing him back. “Oh, please, I make things look easy. It's a gift.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the great Satoru Gojo.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, catching the teasing tone in your voice. “That’s right. You should be honored to sit next to greatness.” He nudged your shoulder with his, the warmth of his body spilling into yours. The touch was light but undeniable. Familiar.

You chuckled, nudging him back. “I don’t know if I’d call you ‘great’ when you still lose to me in Mario Kart every time.”

Satoru gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d just struck a mortal wound. “You—I’m just going easy on you because I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m a gentleman like that.”

You could hear the playful teasing in his voice, but the way he looked at you—his eyes crinkling at the corners with that boyish grin—felt like something deeper.

“I don’t need you to go easy on me,” you teased, leaning in just a bit too much, your voice soft. “I’m pretty good on my own, thanks.”

That was when you noticed it—the way his eyes flickered for a second, his lips curving down ever so slightly before he caught himself. His gaze held yours for a second longer than normal, and for the first time in a while, you both just stayed there. Not a word. No jokes or banter. Just the space between you thick with unspoken things.

Satoru was the first to look away, clearing his throat. “Anyway, want me to go grab us something from that little café over there? You could use some food if you’re gonna keep up with me.”

You hesitated. He’s back to that again. The Satoru who was always making sure you were fed, always thinking ahead for both of you, even when he had to act like nothing was different.

But you didn’t want to ruin the moment, not now. Not when everything felt right.

“No, I’m good,” you said softly, shaking your head. “But... thanks.”

Satoru studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, before he dropped his shoulders with a sigh. “I swear, you’re impossible.” But even as he said it, his hand reached out—just a quick pat of his large hand atop yours. The briefest of contact, and for a moment, the world paused around you.

The warmth of his hand lingered even after it was gone, and you could feel your chest tightening, your pulse picking up. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

And for the rest of the afternoon, you stayed like that. Silent. Comfortable in the space between you, letting the quiet be enough. But you both knew it wasn’t just the park that made the air heavy—it was everything unsaid that clung to it.

Eventually, the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the grass. You sighed, looking up at Satoru. “We should probably get back soon. It’s getting late.”

He glanced at his phone, then at you, and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.” He paused. “Hey, you want to walk with me to my dorm? I’m not ready to head back alone yet.”

It wasn’t even a question, not really. But you could feel his eyes on you, like he was waiting for your answer to matter just as much as the offer itself.

You nodded, and the tension between you both lifted just a little as you both stood, stretching out the stiffness in your legs. “Sure, let’s go.”

As you and Satoru walked side by side, the night air crisp and cool against your skin, the silence between you felt heavier than before. It wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite. It was charged, like something waiting to tip over the edge. Every step you took together seemed to draw you closer, and you could feel the warmth of his body beside you, even in the chill of the evening.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, his hand brushed against yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away. The tips of his fingers grazed your knuckles—light, tentative. Like he was testing the waters. Like he was waiting for you to stop him.

But you didn’t.

You swallowed, trying to focus on the rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath your feet rather than the way your skin tingled where he touched you. It was such a small thing, barely even a touch, but it sent your heart skittering against your ribs. And when you finally dared to glance up at him, Satoru was already looking at you, his lips curled into something between amusement and something softer, something unreadable.

“What?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Satoru tilted his head, his silver-white hair catching in the glow of the streetlights. “Nothing.”

A lie.

Because there was something—so much something—wrapped up in the way his eyes flickered over you, lingering for just a second too long on your lips before he looked ahead again.

The air between you felt tight, humming with something unsaid.

You were nearing his dorm now, the pathway growing quieter, fewer students passing by. It was just the two of you, footsteps slowing, the night pressing in close.

Satoru exhaled a slow breath, and then—without thinking, or maybe because he had been thinking about it too much—he reached out again. This time, his fingers laced through yours, not just a brush, not just an accident. A deliberate touch, a quiet declaration.

Your breath caught, and you felt him squeeze—just slightly, just enough.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure he should be asking.

You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. You?”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dunno,” he said, squeezing your fingers again. “You’re kind of distracting.”

Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your neck. “Oh, I’m distracting? That’s rich, coming from you.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound warm, teasing. “No, I mean it.” He stopped walking, tugging you gently by the hand so you turned to face him. “You ever notice how quiet things get when it’s just us?”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “Satoru—”

His free hand lifted, his fingertips barely skimming your jaw. He wasn’t quite touching, just there, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like he wasn’t sure if he should close the space between you.

And God, you wanted him to.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. It would be so easy. Just one step closer. Just one little push, and—

Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand falling away, his fingers untangling from yours. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Never mind,” he muttered, laughing under his breath like he was scolding himself. “Forget I said anything.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides, the absence of his touch making your skin feel cold.

“No,” you said, firmer than you expected. “I don’t want to.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, startled. “You don’t?”

You took a breath, steeling yourself. “No.”

Satoru stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a low chuckle, he shook his head. “You really are impossible.”

And then, before you could overthink it, before you could talk yourself out of it—you stepped forward, pressing your palm against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. His breath hitched, his body going still under your touch.

The silence stretched again, thick and unyielding.

“Say it,” you whispered.

His hands hovered at your sides, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “Say what?”

You looked up at him, unflinching. “Whatever it is you’re holding back.”

Satoru exhaled, a sharp, unsteady thing. His hands finally settled on your waist, hesitant at first—then firmer, more certain. His fingers pressed into your hips, grounding himself in the feel of you.

And then, his voice—low, raw, real.

“I don’t want to be just your best friend anymore.”

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The words hung between you, heavy and dangerous and everything.

Then, Satoru leaned in, his nose just barely brushing yours, his lips hovering so close. His breath was warm, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.

“I want more.”

And then, finally—finally—you closed the space between you.

The kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was hungry, desperate, like the both of you had been waiting too long to do this, like neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips crashed against yours, and you gasped against his mouth as he backed you up against the door of his dorm, hands gripping your waist tighter like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, feeling the heat of him seep into you. His body pressed against yours, and the air between you turned thick with something intoxicating, something impossible to stop now that it had started. The small, breathless noises you made against his mouth only seemed to push him further, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare skin, warm and firm and so much.

The door behind you dug into your back, and for a fleeting moment, a thought broke through the haze—what if someone sees us?

As if he could read your mind, Satoru groaned against your lips, impatient, and without breaking the kiss, he reached behind you, fumbling for the handle. The second the door swung open, he practically pulled you inside with him, kicking it shut before his lips were on yours again, urgent, demanding.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was guiding you backwards, hands never leaving your body, mouth never straying too far from yours. You stumbled together, his grip firm, his kisses growing deeper, hotter, more insistent as you moved through the dark room.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your pulse was a wild, unsteady thing, your skin burning under his touch.

His mouth was warm and soft against yours, kissing your lips like he was afraid you were gonna disappear. Using his strength to his advantage, he manhandled you into his lap on the bed, while he sat up against the headboard. His tongue prodded into your mouth experimentally, and when you obliged him entry, he swirled it around with yours before licking into the cavern of your mouth, tasting you as if you were one of those sickeningly sweet delicacies he enjoyed.

His hands roamed from your waist to your hips, to your thighs before stopping hesitantly over your ass, to which you dragged them down until he was squeezing and kneading the supple flesh with his hands, mouth slotted against yours.

You pulled back slightly, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. But Satoru didn’t let you go far. His hands were firm on your ass, keeping you anchored to him as his lips trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tilted your head to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair.

His mouth moved lower, pressing hot, lingering kisses along the column of your neck. Each touch of his lips against your skin felt like fire, and you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped your throat. His hands slid up your sides, his touch firm but gentle, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. One hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other cupped the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Satoru,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, but he didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he captured your lips again in a desperate, hungry kiss that left you dizzy. His tongue slid against yours, and you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance as the world around you seemed to fade away.

His hands roamed your body with a kind of urgency, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. One moment they were in your hair, the next sliding down your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, and you tugged at it impatiently, wanting—needing—to feel his skin against yours.

He broke the kiss long enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time. His hands found the hem of your top, and you lifted your arms without hesitation, letting him pull it off and discard it somewhere on the floor. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it did nothing to quell the heat building inside you.

Satoru’s hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over your ribs, brushing the underside of your breast under your bra. You arched into him, chasing the friction, desperate for more.

His mouth found yours again, urgent and unrelenting, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate stroke that left you breathless. He kissed you like he wanted to consume you, like he didn’t care about anything else but this—you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven. Every kiss, every touch, every press of his hands left you dizzy, lost in the haze of heat and want.

And when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his lips swollen from kissing, you swore you’d never seen him look at anything the way he was looking at you now.

Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Both of your chests were heaving, your own shirt flung on the bed somewhere and Satoru’s completely off and forgotten somewhere on the floor. His hands were still settled on your waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over your heated skin. His head lolled back against the couch, a lazy, satisfied grin stretching across his lips.

“Damn,” he exhaled, voice slightly hoarse. “I think I saw the pearly gates for a second there.”

You scoffed, giving his shoulder a weak shove, while reaching for your shirt. “Dramatic.”

He only laughed, the sound bright and breathless. “I mean it, nerd. Who knew you had it in you?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers curling against his shoulders. “Satoru.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

His grin widened, but he obeyed—for all of two seconds. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he waggled his brows. “You know, we should really make this a regular thing. Like, for health purposes. I feel like I just did an entire cardio session.”

You smacked his arm. “Oh my god.”

He gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his bare chest. “See? That was uncalled for. Here I am, trying to improve my well-being, and you’re—”

“Satoru.” You fixed him with a look, but the corners of your lips twitched. He was impossible.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating under your fingertips. “Okay, okay, I’ll be good.” His grip on your waist tightened slightly, as if to ground himself—or maybe to keep you exactly where you were. “But… just so we’re clear, this isn’t, like, a one-time thing, right?”

You blinked, his sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. His usual playfulness was still there, but there was something else beneath it—something genuine, something careful.

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

His gaze flickered over your face, searching. “I mean…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at you again. “I was serious, you know. About liking you. More than a friend.”

Your breath hitched. “You were?”

Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Obviously. You think I just let anyone straddle me and—”

You smacked his chest. “Can you not ruin the moment?”

He caught your wrist before you could pull away, lacing his fingers through yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter. “I was serious,” he repeated. “I am serious.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I like you, and I want to do this properly.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. “Properly?”

He nodded, suddenly looking almost shy. “Like… an actual date. Multiple dates. Boyfriend privileges. All that cute shit.” His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “So, what do you say?”

Your stomach flipped, warmth spreading through your chest. “You’re actually asking me out?”

Satoru huffed a laugh. “Well, yeah. What, you thought I’d just kiss you senseless and leave you hanging?”

You bit your lip, pretending to think. “I dunno. You are kind of a menace.”

His brows shot up. “A menace?”

You giggled, and he groaned, tightening his grip on your waist. “Okay, that’s it, you’re legally required to say yes now.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile stretching across your lips. “Yes, Satoru. I’ll go out with you.”

His face lit up, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, arms wrapping fully around your waist. He shifted, rolling you onto the bed so he was hovering over you, his weight pressed deliciously against yours.

“Guess that makes you my girlfriend now,” he murmured against your lips. “Which means—” His fingers trailed down your side, teasing. “—I get unlimited make-out privileges.”

You huffed a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“Would you like it if I said sex privileges too?”

“I’m gonna seriously hurt you—“

Satoru only smirked before cutting you off with another kiss.

—

A few months into dating Satoru, you realised three things.

One, he had absolutely no concept of personal space. If he was near you, he was touching you—whether it was throwing an arm over your shoulder, draping himself across your lap, or trapping you against a wall just to say hi like a complete menace.

Two, he was shamelessly, overwhelmingly, ridiculously obsessed with you. If he wasn’t texting you, he was calling. If he wasn’t calling, he was physically finding you. And if he couldn’t find you, he’d send a stupidly dramatic voice memo about how he was “perishing” without you.

And three, he was always teasing. Always testing his limits, pushing your buttons, flashing that damn smug grin whenever you got flustered.

Like right now.

“I think you should stay over.”

You blinked up at him from where you were curled up on his bed, wearing one of his hoodies that was way too big for you. “I am staying over.”

Satoru huffed, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. “No, I mean, like, actually stay over. Move in.”

You snorted. “Satoru.”

“What? I’m serious.” He nudged your knee with his own. “Just think about it. That trust fund has enough money— actually maybe more— for an apartment near college. We basically live together anyway.”

“Not even close.”

He scoffed. “Oh, please. You leave clothes here, you steal my hoodies—”

“They’re practically dresses on me.”

“—and you’re here more than you’re at your own place.”

“That’s a lie.”

Satoru gasped dramatically. “Oh, so I’m imagining you in my bed every night?”

Your face warmed, but you shot him a glare. “You’re exaggerating.”

He only grinned, scooting closer until your noses nearly brushed. “You love sleeping here,” he drawled. “You love my bed, you love my cuddles, you love this d—”

You smacked a hand over his mouth, but it barely muffled his muffled laughter.

“I swear to God, Satoru—”

Before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist and flipped you onto your back, caging you beneath him in one smooth motion. His weight was just enough to make your breath hitch, his silver lashes casting shadows over sharp blue eyes.

“You love me,” he finished, his voice dipping lower, teasing, smug.

Your stomach flipped.

“…Debatable,” you muttered.

Satoru barked out a laugh. “Debatable?” He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck as his hands slid under his hoodie, warm palms settling against your waist. “You’re literally in my bed wearing my clothes right now.”

Your breath stuttered as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just below your ear.

“Admit it,” he murmured. “You’re obsessed with me.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping his bare shoulders. “Satoru—”

“I mean, I don’t blame you.” He grinned against your skin, pressing another kiss, this one lower. “I am insanely hot.”

You groaned. “You ruin everything.”

Satoru laughed, bright and breathless, before rolling over, pulling you fully on top of him with ease. His hands never left your waist, fingertips dancing over your skin in slow, lazy patterns.

Then he suddenly reached behind him, grabbed something off the nightstand, and slid his glasses onto his face.

You blinked. “I thought you preferred contacts now?”

Satoru hummed, adjusting them slightly as he gazed up at you. “Yeah, but I dunno…” His lips curled into a small, lopsided smile. “You always liked me better in these, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t wrong—there was something about the way his glasses framed his face, how they softened him just a little, made him look more like the Satoru you’d known before he became everyone else’s.

“…You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered.

His grin widened. “And yet, you’re still staring.”

You scoffed, reaching up to pluck them off his face, but he caught your wrist, tugging you down until your noses brushed.

“Admit it,” he murmured. “You like me better like this.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

“I like you anyway,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Something flickered in his eyes—something soft, something warm—before his grin turned teasing again. “Good,” he said, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. “Because I was gonna keep you here all night either way.”

You barely managed to mutter, “You’re so weird,” before he cut you off with another kiss.

i don't like this work at ALL lol but tbh i wrote this because i want to be wanted UGH hdhjsdh

[audarcy]

Me in the shower thinking about my wife: i think one of the big reasons why het culture "wifey/hubby" "his/hers" "tiaras/mustaches" matching sets other than the cis binarism of it all is that it reveals the thought process behind heteropatriarchy wherein ideal love is a product of inversion; two puzzle pieces that fit together but are separate and made functional solely by the utility of their differences. Heteropatriarchal love retroactively redefines a person as a half of a whole, their functions and idiosyncrasies only valuable when curtailed by another's. But more than that, heteropatriarchal love is so divided. My "hers" towel and your "his." Married on a friday because saturdays are for the boys. Your woodsmoke-scented deodorant and my lavender. We cant possibly hope to understand each other and that's what lends our partnership value, somehow. But the love i cherish--the love that nurtures me--is inextricability. Not the teeth of your personality spinning the cogs of mine but the blend and blur of our edges together. The further in the tide rolls the better. The love that nurtures me is accepting everything about you into my life even if i dont feel the same way about it that you do. Its a becoming. Becoming you, becoming myself, becoming us, again and again. There are no puzzle pieces to snap together, and im no more or less of anything with or without you. But no matter what happens i carry you with me now. Even in the small ways like how we wear each others jackets and deodorant and hats. I wear your mannerisms, and your jokes. I have your interests. You have my music taste. We subsume and consume one another. We explore each other by exploring ourselves and vice versa. The process of loving you is a mapping of a vast expanse and it is the creation itself of that expanse, ad infinitum. Loving you is a fluidity of the self. I try out new ways of living through you. I see through your eyes. My life doubles by virture of sharing it with you. We finish each others sentences and joke that were the same person but its truer than we have the language to describe. My selfhood blurs into yours; Im not half of a whole, but together we are a whole. You could draw a straight line from one end of me to the other end of you, no breaks. And why shouldnt we travel that line? Step inside my head and get comfy. Mi casa es su casa. Youre me and im you.

What comes out of my mouth when she walks into the room: id let you wear my skin if i could

[no-144444]

my girl- (o.piastri no.81)

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summary: fans made an edit of oscar and you being in love since your prema days.

pairing: oscar piastri (no.81) x fem! driver! reader (no.28)

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Oscar Piastri being in love with Y/n Y/l/n for 15 minutes straight, and vice versa  (F2 -> F1)

---------------------

Clip 1: Prema video 

Bahrain Airport, F2 season beginning, March. 

“And here we have the 3 year reigning champion of the Indycar Junior series, making her F2 pivot, Y/n Y/l/n!” Rob cheered as he woke you from your nap on the plane. 

“Shut up,” you groaned, pushing the camera away with a chuckle. “I'm tired, leave me be.”

“The plane is landing, idiot!”

“Hush!” you laughed. “That means ages until we get off, get your camera away Rob!”

Rob and you had gotten the same flight from London, and you’d become fast friends. He was eccentric and overtop, but a good laugh. You were sure you looked crazy. 6 hour flights do that to a person. You and Rob chatted to the camera about the weekend, and you introduced yourself to the Prema fans. Not many people gave a shit about Indycar, and even less cared about Indycar junior. 

As you disembarked the plane and got through security, people stopped you and Rob for photos and whatnot, then you finally got out of the airport. Angelina was standing there with a camera and a big ‘welcome’ sign, and another two very tired teenage boys beside her. 

“Y/n!” she cheered, pulling you both into a hug. “Rob!” 

Little did you know, Rob’s camera was pointed at Oscar, who turned to Fred with a shocked expression and whispered: “She’s gorgeous.” 

Beside him, Fred chuckled. “Go for her.”

“No way I have any chance with her, I-”

“I can hear you, y’know?” you cut in, coming over to introduce yourself. 

He went redder than a tomato, and you all just laughed. 

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Clip 2: Sky Sports channel

Bahrain International Circuit, 27th of March 

“And it’s No. 28 who sees the chequered flag first, the rookie, and the only girl on the grid, Y/n Y/l/n! Pole position in her first race!” 

“That’s P1 Y/n, congratulations,” your race engineer, Pedro, beamed as you crossed the finish line. 

“Motherfuck Guanyu is fast mate, we need to watch out for him- oh, and the other Alpine boy that was trying to flirt with me, what’s his name?” you answered. The Prema garage was full of laughter as you outed Oscar. 

“Oscar Piastri? No.2,” Pedro chuckled. “He failed to flirt with you?”

“Well, bless him, he tried to,” you chuckled as you parked the car. “He’s cute though.”

---------------------

“That’s P6 Oscar, and just to let you know, Y/n Y/l/n has outed you on the radio and on live television saying that you tried and failed to flirt with her,” his race engineer said. 

Oscar laughed, finding the situation funny. “My mum’s going to tweet about that.”

“She also called you ‘cute’, if that helps with any bruised ego?”

Oscar’s face lit up under his helmet. “It definitely does,” he chuckled. “Thanks mate.”

“I’d wingman you any time,” he chuckled. 

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Clip 3: Prema video

Prema Headquarters, Grisignano di Zocco, Italy, April.

“Hello everyone,” Robert smiled at the camera. “Today we will be going for a drive, I’d better call Oscar in.”

Oscar sat in the passenger seat and did his belt as they caught up and told the viewers what they’d be watching. 

“So, today, you will be joining us for a drive around the Italian countryside,” Rob smiled. “And we will be answering your questions.”

“Let the questions begin,” Oscar added. He pulled one out of the bowl and read it aloud. “Who’s your favourite Prema team member?”

Rob smiled. “That’s hard, I love the whole Prema team so much, but… yeah, that’s hard. Maybe my race engineer, Fred? I get along quite well with him,” Rob giggled as Oscar nodded.

“What?” Oscar laughed.

“I know your favourite,” Rob smirked. 

Oscar looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Who?”

“La tua ragazza,” Rob chuckled as Oscar rolled his eyes. “What? It is true! You love her!” (La tua ragazza = your girl in Italian)

“I’ve met her once, mate!” Oscar laughed. 

“So you don’t like her? I can ask her out?” Rob deadpanned. 

“Well, no, you can't-” Oscar was cut off by Rob’s laughter and he decided to stop trying to fight him about it. Everyone on the team knew that Oscar Piastri was infatuated with you. 

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Clip 4: Georgie O’Hara’s deleted youtube video. 

Haileybury and Imperial Service College, England. 

“Ok, that’s an awful idea!” Oscar yelled over his friends. “They already know you’re the ones doing it!”

“It’s fine! It’ll be fine!” Elijah, a good friend of his, smiled. They wanted to set off the fire alarms again, for the third time that week. Deodorant and stupid teenage boys did not mix, especially when they refused to put it on themselves and waste it on fire drills instead. 

Georgie turned to his phone, addressing the viewers "Oscar's a goody-two-shoes, if you couldn't tell."

Suddenly his phone rang from an unknown number, and before he could leave it ring, Anthony (another friend of his) answered. “Oscar Piastri, incoming F2 champion’s phone, how may I help you?”

Oscar laughed, but suddenly stopped when he heard you. 

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” you chuckled at his friend. “Anyways, can you just ask him to ask Elijah not to do the fire alarm thing between 11pm and 2am? The girls in my room and I are sneaking downstairs to watch a film and we don’t really want to get caught.”

Oscar covered his face and groaned, then took the phone off Georgie. “Hey-hi, Y/n. Yes, of course, we won’t do the fire alarm thing, ever again. Sorry.”

He turned his back as his friends made kissing noises and certain gestures at him. 

“All good, thanks Osc,” you smiled. “You and your friends are welcome to join us if you want.”

Oscar could’ve sworn his heart stopped beating. “I’ll ask them,” he smiled. He turned to his friends. “Y/n’s inviting us all to a movie, we’re sneaking out tonight,” he informed them. 

“I don’t want to-” Anthony started, but Georgie silenced him with a kick to the shin. 

“Mate, this is Oscar’s one fucking chance with his girl, shut up,” He scoffed.

“Is that a yes?” You asked over the phone.

“Yes!” they all answered. 

---------------------

As the night went on, you found yourself getting more and more tired. Oscar was beside you and you could tell how he was trying to play it cool, but failing miserably. You could practically see the way his heart leapt out of his chest when you held his hand. As ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ ended, you squeezed his hand before getting up and letting go. 

“Alright, I’ll clean up, everyone else go back upstairs before you get caught,” you whispered. The ‘movie room’ as the students called it (it was technically the staff room but no one really cared) was a mess. Blankets, cups, wrappers and pillows were everywhere. The group slowly shuffled out as you were left with only Oscar. Georgie had forgotten about his camera and it was still recording where he’d put it down to get some shots of everyone watching the film. 

“I can help,” Oscar whispered. 

You shook your head. “Seriously, you go ahead. They already hate me at this school anyways,” you chuckled. 

“Please let me help?” he asked again. You couldn’t exactly say ‘no’ to his puppy dog eyes, could you?

“Fine,” you smiled. 

You two chatted quietly as you cleaned up the room, and finally met at the door to leave. 

“I really enjoyed tonight-” You started, but you were cut off by Oscar kissing you. His arms wrapped around your waist and your arms wrapped around his neck once the initial shock wore off. You both pulled away after a few seconds. You stared up at him as his usually-blank face turned to one of panic.

“Sorry if that was forward, or-or weird- or-” He started, but now it was your turn to cut him off with a kiss. 

He pulled back smiling, and he didn’t move his hands, or try to move away from you. There was a moment of silence. “Can I take you on a date?”

You chuckled. “Yes.”

Oscar was elated. 

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Clip 5: Sky sports channel and Prema footage

Circuit de Monaco, Monaco, Monaco, May 22nd. 

You were excited as you stepped onto the podium, victorious. It had been a difficult few laps at the end, Guanyu overtaking, then you overtaking, and over and over, but you got the chequered flag first. You were breaking records, breaking barriers as a woman in motorsports. You’d won Monaco, your first time racing there. In the Sprint, and the feature race. You were on top of the world. As you raised your trophy, the crowd cheered and Oscar was cheering the loudest. 

You looked to your left, him standing on the podium for the first time this season, and you smiled. 

“Feels good, huh?” you smirked. 

“Feels great, but I’ll be coming for your step next,” he smirked.

“You wish Piastri,” you scoffed, then uncorked your champagne bottle and sprayed it on him and Zhou.

---------------------

Clip 6: Sky Sports channel, Prema footage

 Autodromo Nazionale di Monza, Monza, 17th of July, Sprint Race. 

“And it’s Y/n Y/l/n into the wall in a bad collision with Liam Lawson, only 2 laps till the end!” 

Everything was in slow motion, one second you were in control, the next you were flipping into the wall. 

“Red flag, red flag Oscar, huge crash in sector 3, come in, come in,” his race engineer said. 

“Who was it?” He asked, slowing his pace. 

“Y/l/n and Lawson, straight into the wall.”

“Is she ok? Is she out of the car?” he asked calmly. 

“Not yet,” he answered grimly. The Prema garage was eerily silent as they watched the stewards struggle to get you out of the car. 

As he came up on sector 3, he saw you. The car was upside down leaning against the barrier, they were putting out the fire. Shit. Shit. Shit.

You and Oscar had been dating for a few months now, and he really liked you. He passed by in horror as he saw that you weren’t out of the car yet. He was getting more and more nervous as the moments went on. He caught sight of Liam. He was out of the car. He beckoned Oscar over and he obliged, letting him hitch a ride back to the pitlane with him as he drove slowly. As they got back to the pitlane, they both jumped out as the race was finally deemed as cancelled, and the boys walked off, waiting for news. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

“It was a total mistake, my car had mad fucking oversteer and I just hit the throttle too hard, and then she was in the wall,” he answered. “She’s not even out yet.”

“She’ll be ok,” Oscar said, trying to convince himself as well as Liam. “She’s strong.”

Liam nodded, and went off to the RedBull garage with his head held low. Oscar walked into the Prema garage and his mom immediately pulled him in for a hug. Beside her was your parents, looking terrified. 

“You’re ok, thank god,” she whispered. She didn’t care about the multiple cameras pointing at them, her son was alright. 

“Is there any news yet?”

“They’ve pulled her out of the car,” your dad answered, eyes glued to the screen. 

“Is she responsive?” Nicole asked. 

“Yes!” You race engineer answered, happy that you were alive. There was a collective sigh of relief throughout the garage. “Complaining about lower back and leg pain, as well as a definite broken arm. She won’t be racing for a while,” he added, his tone becoming more and more sombre. Oscar watched as your mother broke down in your father’s arms, and he felt like throwing up. You wouldn’t be racing, you wouldn’t get to do the thing you loved. 

---------------------

Clip 6: Prema video

ASST Brianza - Vimercate Hospital, 18th of July.

You woke up in blinding pain a few hours earlier. Everyone had worked so hard to make everything ok, to make you comfortable, but all night all you did was sob. The pain was unbearable in the car, you thought you were going to die, you thought you weren’t getting out of the car. 5 fractured vertebrae, 3 broken ribs, a fractured hip bone, and a broken arm apparently wasn’t a joke. No racing for the rest of the year. Your life was over. 

“Fuck,” you whispered as you sat up and pain shot up your back. 

“Hey,” Oscar’s soft voice brought you out of your upset, and back into the room. He took your hand. You felt bad, he’d been there the entire time, and honestly, he should probably be at the track already, ahead of today’s race. You’d tried to shoo him but he wasn’t having it, much more in favour of being with you and cluing you in on how your parents reacted to him being your boyfriend. Awkward. “Take your time.”

You nodded, grateful that he was there, then turned your attention to the camera Angelina had brought with her and set up to take a ‘statement’ video. “Hi Prema fans, and my fans. Yesterday was pretty rough, and with a heavy heart I have to tell you that I won’t be able to continue this season in F2. My back was badly damaged yesterday in my collision with Liam, which was a complete accident and not anyone's fault, and I definitely don’t blame Liam. I love racing, and I’ll still be at the majority of the races to support my teammates, and my boyfriend. This is just a very unfortunate event that pulls me out of the game for a while, but I’ll be back. I hope you miss me on track, and just know that I’m alright. Thank you for the support, bye for now, Prema family.”

Oscar wrapped his arms around you and smiled. “I’m the boyfriend,” he added, making you laugh. 

---------------------

Clip 7: Prema footage

Jeddah Corniche Circuit, Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, 4th of December

“And Oscar Piastri sees the chequered flag first! Winning a sprint race and the feature race this weekend!” 

You jumped up and down beside Chris, his father, as he came into the pitlane. He was the lead of the championship. He was going to win F2. No doubt about it. 

The past 5 months had been difficult. You’d been back at school for a while, only now cleared to travel again, but you were happy to be back at the tracks. It felt good to watch Oscar win in person. 

Chris wrapped his arms around you as you both celebrated. Oscar’s radio came on. 

“God guys, good drive. Looks like Y/n is my lucky charm,” he laughed over the radio. The last races hadn’t gone so well for him, but he was straight back to winning with you here.  

You were smiling the whole way to the barricade, but that ended when about 50 people were against your back, pushing violently. Chris and Mark were trying desperately to get them to back off, but they couldn’t stop them. You promised them you’d be ok, but the pain was getting unbearable, and Oscar hadn’t come over yet. 

“Guys, move back!” He shouted as he ran over, just finished taking off his helmet. “Make some space!” The team obliged, but he still decided to be dramatic and lift you over the barrier. “You alright?” he asked, but you just wrapped your arms around him.

“You’re incredible Osc,” you smiled. “I love you so much.”

And there it was, out in the open for the first time. Too bad you forgot you both had microphones on. 

He smiled wider than you ever thought possible for his face. “I love you too. So much baby,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “You should be up here with me,” he added and you nodded, it still being a sore subject. “And you will be. Next year.”

You nodded, grateful for the hope and support he offered you. “Go! Go to your team!” you laughed, pushing him on. Before he let you out of his grasp, he grabbed your waist and stole a sweet, quick kiss. 

---------------------

Clip 8: Prema footage

Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi, 12th of December 

He’d done it. He was the F2 champion. Sadly next year he would only get to be the Alpine F1 reserve driver, which meant no consistent racing, but that was still incredible. 

You waited by the barricade as he came in, and he went straight over to you. He pulled his helmet off, then his bandana, and pulled you in for a kiss. The rest of the team ‘ohh’ed and ‘aww’ed but neither of you cared at all. He’d won. 

“Congratulations F2 winner,” you smirked, pulling away. 

“Thanks baby,” he smiled. 

---------------------

Post-race interview

“So, how does this feel, Oscar?” she asked. 

“It feels amazing, y’know, we’ve all worked so hard at this for the whole year and it’s just really special to have everyone here, especially my girlfriend Y/n. I’m missing her on track, so it’s good to still at least have her in the paddock,” he smiled, and the camera cut to you, beaming up at him.

---------------------

Clip 9: Prema footage and Sky Sports channel 

Bahrain International Circuit, Sakhir, 19th of March, Sprint 1. 

“We’re in the Prema garage,” Oscar explained to the camera in front of him. He was in full Alpine gear, being a reserve driver meant being a marketing machine, but this wasn’t for Alpine, this was for you. “And my girlfriend is about to go and do her first race back since the accident last season. Let’s go interview her about it!” He walked through the garage, searching for you, and finally found you. “Y/n! Any time for an interview?”

You turned to him and smiled. “I always have time for you,” you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him close. His grip on you was tight but you didn’t mind. You pulled away and turned to the camera.

“So, how does it feel to be back?” He asked.

“Amazing. I thought my life was over when I was told I wasn’t allowed to race for half a year.”

“And who helped nurse you back to health?” He smirked, batting his eyelashes at you. 

“Your mom mostly,” you chuckled. You’d spent the entire off-season in Australia with Oscar and his family, and Nicole had been so considerate and careful about your healing injuries. 

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Yeah… that’s probably true,” he chuckled. “How do you feel being on Pole?”

“It feels good. We just have to stay quick this season. I didn’t rush my healing just to lose,” you smiled then pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ve to get in the car now, love you,” you smiled. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed his lips to yours with a ‘good luck’, then let you go. 

---------------------

“And can she do it? Yes she can! Y/n Y/l/n is coming in with a bang! A Sprint Pole and a Sprint win! That is a statement, ‘I never left’!” 

“That’s P1 Y/n, well done!” Pedro called over the radio as the Prema garage went crazy. 

“Thanks for everything guys, great car, great drive-”

“Great driver,” he added. 

You pulled into the pitlane and got out of the car, celebrating as they got the photo of you on the car. You ran over to Oscar at the barricade as you pulled off your helmet and balaclava.

“That’s my girl!” he cheered as you pulled him in for a hug. “See? Nothing's changed.”

You pressed your lips to his. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he smiled and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m loving this WAG lifestyle,” he chuckled. 

You laughed. “It suits you.”

He chuckled. “Alright, you’re being called for the interview. Love you,” he smiled as you walked off, giving your hand a squeeze. You blew him a kiss back. 

---------------------

Clip 10: Prema video 

Prema Headquarters, Grisignano di Zocco, Italy. 

You were laughing with Logan, doing a ‘Who knows who best’ challenge and both of you were failing miserably. 

You put the headphones on and the music started, making it impossible to hear him. You watched as the room erupted in laughter, then Logan nudged you to take the headphones off. 

“What is the most annoying thing about you?” He asked, holding back giggles. 

“I know what you’d say,” you chuckled. “Me and Oscar.”

The room erupted in laughter as he nodded. “Exactly!” 

“You’re just jealous,” you chuckled. 

“Why? ‘Cause I don’t have a girlfriend?”

“No, because I have Oscar and you don’t,” you shot back, and everyone started laughing again. 

---------------------

Clip 11: Sky Sports Channel

Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi, 20th of November 

“And after a season of domination from the woman in red, Y/n  Y/l/n sees the chequered flag first with a staggering 425 points! This F2 season will go down in history!”

You’d done it. You’d done it. You were an F2 champion, and next season you’d be in an F1 car fulltime, racing alongside Oscar, Logan, and Nick. You’d made it. 

You jumped out of the car, amazed at your season. It’d been win after win, fastest lap after fastest lap, pole position after pole position. You’d worked so hard. 

“You did it baby!” Oscar shouted as you ran over. You jumped into his arms, and let him hold you up. He looked at you like you held the sky up, like you were the greatest thing on the planet. “You’re incredible.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you smiled. “ I love you so much.”

“I love you so much more,” he pressed kisses to any inch of skin he could, more than proud to be yours. 

You chuckled as he tickled you with his kisses, before you realised that you needed to go fulfil your duties. He put you down, but before you could leave, he grabbed your waist again. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Osc.”

---------------------

Clip 12: Sky Sports channel, McLaren footage, and RedBull footage

Bahrain International Circuit, Sakhir, 2023. 

“A disappointing result for Oscar Piastri, but an incredible run for Y/n Y/l/n, P1 in her first race! I’m sure he’ll be pleased with that for his long-time girlfriend!” 

 Oscar was pissed off, but his mood was lifted by your result. You were incredible. He cheered in his own garage, happy for your win. You’d won your first race. Who else did that? The first woman to ever do so. 

He was in awe of you. 

He exited his garage, ready to see you after your win. He saw you getting out of the car and running straight into the arms of your team and he smiled. He finally caught your eye after some time, and you ran over, wrapping your arms around him. 

“I’m so sorry,” were the first words out of your mouth. “If I could trade our cars, I would Osc, I really would,” you sighed.

“Don’t even joke about that. Don’t make your first win about me. This is about you, my brilliant, incredible, winner,” he pressed his lips to yours in a short, victory kiss. “I love you, yeah?” “I love you too,” you smiled. 

“You were amazing out there,” he smiled. 

---------------------

Clip 13: McLaren video 

Jeddah Corniche Circuit, Jeddah, Saudi Arabia 

“Who is your teammate's favourite person?” Lando asked, then looked at the camera and rolled his eyes. “Oscar’s is Y/n because he’s a traitor.”

Oscar burst into laughter and looked at Lando. “That’s not fair! We started dating as teammates!”

“Oh sure Osc!” Lando sighed, playing up the drama. “That’s what they all say.”

“But it’s the truth!”

“Anyways, moving on from Oscar and his traitor girlfriend, who’s my favourite person Oscar?” 

“Max Fewtrell?” 

Lando thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Him or my parents or siblings.”

Oscar took another question out of the bowl and chuckled. “What’s the other person’s red flag?”

Little did he know, you’d come in to visit him and were actively sneaking up behind him. 

“Yours is your refusal to ever use a hairbrush,” you answered for Lando, and Oscar jumped, making everyone laugh, especially Lando, who fell off his chair. You chuckled and wrapped your arms around Oscar's neck from behind, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Came to say hi,” you smiled, kissing his cheek. 

“Came to air out my business online?” He questioned, laughing. He took your hands and led you around his chair, sitting you on his lap. “When did you get in?” he asked, resting his head on your shoulder as Lando tried to compose himself. 

“Just now, came straight from the airport,” you nodded, leaning back against him. 

“Bad flight?”

“Nah, I was on Max’s jet. He’s offered me to ask you two if you want to go back to Monaco after this weekend with him. I am,” you answered. He nodded, gently playing with your hands as he listened to you. 

“Sounds good to me,” he smiled. “Tell him ‘thanks’, yeah?” 

You nodded. “‘Course,” you got up to leave but he pulled you down by the arm and pressed your lips together quickly, then let you go. “Love you,” you called after yourself. 

“Love you too,” he called back, ready to get back to the interview. 

“Can we keep that in?” Ellie, their marketing manager asked. 

He shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

---------------------

Clip 14: Hattie Piastri’s tiktok vlog

Piastri residence, Melbourne, 2023 

“Y/n’s over there with Oscar, and Addie is with May and mum and dad are with Tim over there,” she explained to the camera pointing everything out. In the video you and Oscar were laying on the grass in the setting sun, utterly exhausted from your weekend of racing where you’d gotten p2 and Oscar had gotten p8. His arms were wrapped around you as you lay on top of him, smiling. 

---------------------

Clip 15: Sky Sports channel, RedBull footage and Nicole Piastri’s instagram

Circuit Zandvoort, Zandvoort, Holland

“And can she do it? Yes she can! Y/n Y/l/n beats teammate Max Verstappen to first place, and she sees the chequered flag first! What an incredible season this has been for the rookie!”

As you crossed the finish line, you almost felt sick. You’d beaten Max, giving you a lead in the Driver’s Championship. He’d been 10 points ahead. Now, you were 15 points ahead of him. 

“That’s P1, P1 Y/n congratulations,” Pedro smiled. 

“Thanks Pedro, and thanks everyone, really well done. Car is perfect, thank you all so much!” 

“And Oscar’s P9, if you're wondering.”

“When I get my fucking hands on Zak Brown I will rip his fake fucking toupée off for giving him such a shit car,” You groaned. “Great drive guys, thanks.”

---------------------

You walked into the paddock as they all cheered both you and Max on. Max had gotten P2, unhappy with not winning, but not mad that you’d won. He saw what you were doing for motorsports all around the world, how much pressure you were under as the first female driver in a long time, and how hard you were working. He wasn’t going to make your life harder by being an asshole off the track too. He gave you a celebratory hug and moved onto his driver’s room, as you stayed out with the engineers, chatting and celebrating with them. 

---------------------

Nicole Piatri’s instagram live 

“Hi everyone, Osc and I are right now, trying to sneak into the RedBull garage to see Y/n,” Nicole explained and behind her, Oscar smiled and put both thumbs up. 

“I’m going to be told off for this by Zak, so, sorry Zak. I want to see my girlfriend, my bad,” he chuckled, his apology only half-assed. 

Nicole and him continued faffing around the paddock for a while, until Nicole caught your eye through the window. You ran over to the door beside them and let them in, pulling Nicole in for a huge hug as Oscar waited behind her with a wide smile. 

He spoke to the live. “Apparently my girlfriend likes my mum better than me-" 

You cut him off with a kiss as you laughed at his antics. “Shut the fuck up,” you chuckled. “You’re such a baby.”

“I missed seeing you in the conference,” he shrugged, holding you close as his mum took the phone and documented this moment between the two of you. “I love you,” he smiled. 

“I love you too,” you chuckled, kissing his cheek. “P9? Not bad.”

He rolled his eyes and smiled. “P1? Not bad,” he lifted you into his arms making you squeal. 

“Osc! Put me down!” You squealed. 

“Let me win next time,” he chuckled. “Then I’ll put you down.”

“What do you want me to do? Switch our cars?”

“Ideally,” he chuckled, kissing your cheek and putting you down. “But I guess I’ll settle for watching you be gorgeous on the podium every week.”

“The fans are loving this!” Christian joked as he watched over Nicole’s shoulder, seeing how the chat was going crazy.

You both turned to Nicole with confused faces. 

“You’re still filming mum?!” 

This live has now been ended by the host. 

---------------------

Clip 16: Sky sports channel

​​Lusail International Circuit, Lusail, Qatar 

“Oscar Piastri has done the job brilliantly, the Australian driver will see the chequered flag first! Oscar Piastri wins the sprint to take McLaren to the top step once again!” 

“That’s P2 Y/n, Oscar P1,” Pedro announced. 

“WOOOOO!” You screamed, elated for him. “Fucking legend!” 

“I said P2 for you,” he reminded. 

“Shut up and be happy for him, just once,” you chuckled, pulling into the pit lane to park. You watched as Oscar got out of the car as you got out of your own car. Immediately, he ran over to you, wrapping you up in his arms as you celebrated together. 

“You did it!” You shouted, jumped around in each other's arms. “You’re fucking incredible.”

“You put up a good fucking fight,” he chuckled, smiling like a kid. 

“You’re going to look so sexy at the top of the podium,” you smirked and he blushed hard. 

“I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that in public,” he chuckled, then hid his face in your neck as you laughed. 

---------------------

Post-sprint conference 

“So, this is a question for Y/n and Oscar,” an interviewer started. Both of you looked up, exhausted from the late night race. “Does your relationship prohibit you from racing to your full potential? I believe Y/n, you could’ve caught up. Did you give him this win?”

You scoffed, appalled that anyone would have the audacity to ask such a thing. “For fuck’s sake,” you sighed. “No. I couldn’t have. You know how you know that? Because I would’ve if I could’ve. I love Oscar, and I’ve loved him since I was about 14 years old, but that doesn’t mean that I let him win. He’s a ridiculously talented driver, and a fucking genius with strategy. His car is great too. But out there today? That was pure talent. I can love him, and wholeheartedly race him too,” you answered, getting annoyed at the comments like these you two constantly got. “And another thing, I’m getting really fucking sick of the questions about our relationship. Do you really think we’d be together if we couldn’t race each other and not come back to each other and be proud of each other? Seriously? Where is your critical thinking?”

The room was full of whispered conversation as you dropped the last diss, and beside you Oscar was looking at you with huge heart eyes. Anyone could see it from a mile away, he loved you. He chuckled, wanting to add his two cents as well. “Yeah, exactly. The only thing she lets me win in is chess, right?” He looked at you with a smirk and you rolled your eyes. 

“You won once, asshole,” you chuckled, pushing his hand off your thigh. 

“Then we stopped playing,” he shrugged, a cocky smirk very-present on his face. 

“We ran out of time,” you shrugged, feigning innocence. 

He cocked an eyebrow. “Sure.”

The tension in the room had been dissolved in the comedic moment, and you were thankful for Oscar’s calm exterior. You moved closer to him on the couch, and he wrapped an arm around you, smiling wide as you pressed a kiss to his hand, the one closest to your face. 

---------------------

Clip 17: Drive to Survive 

Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi

“How are you feeling?” Oscar asked, sitting in your driver’s room with you before the race. He knew how worried you were, how much you wanted this. You had to win. You and Max were neck and neck. You just had to get more points than him, starting from P2. 

You sighed, standing between his legs and messing with his hair, favouring trying not to think about it rather than talking about it. He grabbed ahold of your waist and pressed his face into your torso, pressing kisses to wherever he could reach, trying to make you laugh. 

You chuckled and pushed him away, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m alright, I promise. Just stressed.”

“You won’t be stressed in a week,” he smiled. “We’ll be in Melbourne.”

You smiled, and kissed him again. “We will. Waves and relaxing. Nothing else.”

“Well, and Logan,” he chuckled. “So… ‘Merica and all that,” he smiled as you laughed at his bad joke. He got you down to his lap and he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “You’ve got this, don’t worry.”

“Wow, anxiety cured,” you replied sarcastically, making him laugh. 

---------------------

Clip 18: Sky Sports Channel

Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi

“And it is an incredible season for the first female in modern F1, Y/n Y/l/n sees the chequered flag first, with a Driver’s Championship 1-2 with her teammate Max Verstappen! This makes her the first female ever to win the F1 Driver’s Championship title! What an inspiration!” 

You’d done it. You won your rookie season. You were World Champion. You were a legend. 

“WOOOOO!” You screamed as tears rolled down beneath your hemet. “We did it! We did it!”

“We did it!” Pedro screamed. You knew the entire RedBull garage was going crazy right now. “You did it Y/n!”

“Thank you, everyone! This would’ve been impossible without you all! Amazing year! Incredible work!” you beamed. 

---------------------

“That’s P6, P6 Oscar,” his race engineer announced. 

“Did Y/n get it? Did she win?” 

“Yes, your girl is a World Champion,” he smiled. 

“YES! YES! THAT’S MY FUCKING GIRL!” he screamed, elated at the news. He knew you could do it. He’d always known you could do it. 

He rushed to get to the pit lane, ready to celebrate with you. He jumped out of the car and pulled off his helmet as fast as he could, watching as you ran over to him. 

“You did it!” He cheered. “My fucking girl.”

“I did it!” You cried, over the moon. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” you smiled. 

His eyes filled with tears as his heart swelled with pride. “You’re amazing. I love you so much Y/n.”

Neither of you cared about the cameras around you as you went in for a kiss. You didn’t care about how sweaty and gross you both were, you didn’t care about the grief that the pr team would give you, you didn’t care. 

You were a World Champion. He was your everything. You were his everything.

---------------------

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[science-hoes]

Angel Kisses

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: graphic medical descriptions, needles

A/N: I thought this fic would be a little less fluffy and more spicy but I just can’t help it. Plus I love Noah Wyle’s barely there freckles. I feel like this isn’t my best work because I had severe writers block. Hope it’s good enough for yall tho 💕

My Ko-Fi :)

—

The Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center was rumored to be the 9th level of Hell. So when it was time for you to begin your schedule for trauma surgery, you prayed for a different hospital. Literally any other hospital.

But there you were, in the depths of the Pitt, working your fifth 12 hour shift of the rotation. Only 1pm, but you felt like someone had changed the clocks because there was no way that the day was only halfway done. You were reading a pediatric patient’s CBC results, getting ready to tell your senior attending for the day, Dr. Jack Abbott, that the child is anemic. But Dana’s voice distracted you:

“You can’t even stay away on your day off. Do you have a life besides the Pitt?” She said to someone out of your view.

“Trust me. This is a last resort.” You heard a man respond, the voice slightly familiar.

You turned around and saw Dr. Michael Robinavitch, the senior attending from your first four days of working here. He didn’t look too different out of his scrubs and navy hoodie that he wore at work. Black joggers and gray long sleeve athletic shirt that hugged his waist…really nicely.

“Last resort for what?” Dr. Frank Langdon called out from where he sat at his desk, charting his patient case.

“I fell of a ladder and tore up my back on the fence in my backyard.” Answered Dr. Robinav- Dr. Robby, you had to remind yourself. “I need stitches, but I can’t reach the cut.”

Langdon winced and leaned back in his chair. “Need me to stitch you up?” He asked.

Dr. Abbott walked up to the desk near Langdon and laughed. “No, he wants his friend to stitch him up. Right, Robby?” He joked, referring to himself.

Robby laughed and crossed his arms, biceps straining against the fabric of the athletic shirt. Damn. “Friend is a strong word. I don’t have friends.” He said with a smile.

Langdon scoffed. “We went fishing last weekend. What does that make me?” He asked.

“I prefer the term ‘coworker that I hang out with sometimes outside of work.’” Robby said, but you could see the teasing in the way his eyes crinkled.

Dana rolled her eyes. “You are all annoying me. Jack, go stitch him up so he can get out of here and rest.” She said before walking off to a patient room.

Robby shook his head. “No, no, just let a med student do it. Good learning opportunity.” He said.

“No med students today. Only interns.” Langdon mumbled as he continued typing on his computer.

Robby clasped his hands together and held them close to his chest. “Even better. I would love for my scar to be in a straight line.” He joked.

Abbott looked to you, who had been watching the group interact from a couple of desks over. Your face flushed slightly, realizing you probably look like an eavesdropper. He motioned with his head toward Robby. “Why don’t you take our patient to holding and fix him up? I’ll take the CBC results.” He said.

“Yes, sir.” You answered, almost a little too seriously. The Pitt was an intense environment, but these attendings did not have the same egos as the ones from your last several rotations.

Robby chuckled at your earnestness. “Hear that, Langdon? ‘Yes, sir.’ You should be taking notes.” He ordered facetiously, pointing his finger at the senior resident.

Langdon looked up from his desk as you began walking with Robby to the back of the Pitt where the holding rooms were. “You know, we tell all of our patients over 65 to be very careful when doing yard work.” He called out.

Robby shot him a bird without turning back around. You smiled at the banter, not used to the lax interactions between physicians of different ranks. Once you made it to the room, Robby sat on the bed, and you grabbed a standard suture kit.

“Is it on your back?” You asked, turned away from him.

“Yeah. I’d do it myself if I could reach it. I managed to cover it up though.” He said.

When you turned back around, his tight fitting shirt had been peeled off his upper body. Holy shit. In the last five days, you didn’t really give yourself time to fantasize about your attending. He was handsome for sure and charming when he wasn’t jumping down a resident’s throat (yet he still had the patience of a saint). His abdomen was well toned, and his chest was smooth. Not what you expected based off his hairy forearms and face.

You must have been staring too much because Robby’s shoulders hunched, as if trying to subtly cover his exposed body. “Let me just take a look at the cut.” You said, trying to come back to earth. You moved to the edge of the bed and removed the bandage that he had placed himself.

You could see the blood that had leaked through the dressing, but you were not prepared to see the extent of the cut stretch across the majority of his upper back. “Oh, shit.” You swore.

Robby chuckled. “That’s not a comforting thing to hear from your doctor.” He said, shifting uncomfortably as the cold air of the hospital struck the wound.

You shook your head in a panic. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t say that to a normal patient.” You covered for yourself.

Robby shook his head. “No, no. Listen. You’re taking everything a little too seriously. Just relax. Roll with the punches. That’s the only way you’ll survive down here.” He explained.

You nodded, taking in a stiff breath anyway. You disposed of the bandaging and picked up the lidocaine syringe. “Okay. I’m about to start injecting lidocaine around the cut. You’ll feel the burning more than the needle.” You said. You placed one gloved hand on his back, giving yourself a guide while you held the syringe in the other.

“90 degrees or 45?” He asked, making you freeze in place.

You paused for a moment, almost afraid to say your answer in fear of being incorrect. “90.” You answered.

“Why?”

At this point, the needle was hovering just an inch above your first injection site. “Recent studies show that patients report less pain with a 90 degree angle.” You said, confident in your sources.

Robby smiled, but you didn’t see it. “Very good.” Was all he said.

You injected the first round of lidocaine, and he hissed at the burning around the open wound. You kept moving around the cut, injecting small doses. “You’re doing great, Dr. Robby.” You praised, just as you would with any patient.

“Fuck, I say that to patients all the time. No wonder it makes no difference.” He grumbled.

You smiled slightly and injected the final dose. “All done.”

Robby let out a heavy breath, hanging his head as the skin slowly numbed where you worked. You began to open the suture kit and sort out its contents on the metal tray near the bed.

“What stitch?” He asked.

You grabbed some gauze and antiseptic from the drawer in the room before returning to his side. You cleaned the skin around the wound where the blood had dribbled down his back in a mix with sweat from working outside.

“Running stitch. The cut is long but not at risk of tension.” You answered. Robby nodded in approval. You carefully started on your first stitch, delicately inserting the curved needle into his skin. “So, you were on a ladder?” You asked.

Robby huffed in slight irritation. “Yeah. Trimming some branches that were reaching over the fence into the neighbors’ yard. I misstepped on the way down and lost my balance.” He explained.

You grimaced. “That sucks.” You said matter of factly.

“Yeah. Maybe Langdon is right. I’m getting too old for that kind of stuff.” He said with a chuckle.

Your hands carefully moved as they continued to sew. “You don’t look old.” You said.

Robby smiled to himself, not expecting you to respond at all. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” You said, glad he couldn’t see your involuntary blush. As you continued to stitch, you noticed all of the spots and marks that dusted his back and shoulders. “I like your freckles.” You noted.

Robby’s mind halted. It was a compliment he had never received. Your words went straight to his chest, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt flustered.

“My freckles?” He repeated.

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah. You got ‘em on your face too?” You asked.

Robby turned his head, not to present his face, but because he was still surprised and wanted to see if you were being genuine. And there they were. A light scattering of freckles across his cheeks and bridge of his nose.

“Yep. They’re precious.” You said after inspecting and returning back to your stitching. Robby’s face flushed, and you could especially see it in his ears as you worked. “You know, my mom used to tell me that freckles were angel kisses. Every time I got a new one, I thought an angel had kissed me. I went an embarrassingly long time into junior high before realizing it was just a tall tale.” You explained.

Robby smiled at the charming story, feeling an unusual feeling of comfort. “My grandmother used to say the same thing.” He said.

You grinned. “Looks like the angels couldn’t get enough of you then.” You teased.

Robby chuckled and ran a nervous hand across the back of his neck, careful not to pull against the skin as you worked. “How’s it looking back there?” He asked, trying to continue conversation.

“I need to run about five more stitches. Then you’ll be on your way.” You said.

He nodded and folded his hands in his lap. “Are you working tomorrow?” He asked.

You thought for a second, honestly not sure. “I don’t think so. My first off day since I started.” You replied. “Are you?”

“No. Seven on, seven off.” He said.

You pulled at the last suture and cut the remaining thread. “All right, Dr. Robby. You’re all cleaned up.” You announced.

“Great.” Robby hopped off the bed and stood up straight, popping a few kinks in his back from being hunched over. He towered above you, losing the intimacy that you temporarily had. “Take a picture and show me.” He said.

You pulled off your gloves slowly, unsure of how to respond. “Of the stitches?” You asked, afraid that he was going to grill you for sloppy suturing.

“Yeah, just to see the damage.” He responded.

You pulled your phone out and stood behind him. Fuck, even his back looked good. You snapped a picture and zoomed in to show him your work. Definitely saving that for later. “Does it look okay?” You asked timidly.

Robby nodded, impressed. “Actually yeah. Don’t think I could’ve done it better myself.” He complimented.

You laughed in relief. “Oh, good. I still need more practice on different suture patterns. I’m just lucky you were a simple case.” You said.

Robby looked down to you, letting his eyes linger as he watched you put your phone away. “If you aren’t busy tomorrow, maybe I can give you a masterclass. All ER docs have to know every suture.” He offered.

You looked up to him, suddenly very aware that he was still shirtless in front of you. You smirked and crossed your arms. “Sure. But only if you teach me just like this.” You said, looking him up and down. “You know, because you’ll need to let those stitches breathe.”

Robby grinned. “Wow. That was pretty smooth.” He admired.

You shrugged. “Just rolling with the punches.” You responded, repeating his quote from earlier. “Give me a call tomorrow.”

And you left. Robby stood there, smiling to himself. He pulled his shirt on and walked out to the desk hub. Langdon was still charting, but caught the attending before he snuck out. “What’s that goofy smile for?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

Robby shrugged, hands in his pockets, unable to shake the smile off his face. “I don’t know.” He said before walking away to leave.

Abbott leaned against a desk near Langdon. “His ears are red.” He noted. “That motherfucker is in love.”

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

SOMEONE TO STAY

rafe cameron x fem!reader

SUMMARY: when rafe’s girlfriend doesn’t show up to his safe house during a hurricane he fears the worst, and wonders if he’ll get to tell her that he loves her.

based on this ask !! i hope this is what you wanted anon :) i wasn’t sure if you meant pogue!reader or actually meant pogue!rafe so i kept this open as to not interpret it incorrectly !!

A/N: my drew starkey & characters masterlist is here !!

WARNINGS: cursing, hurricane, fear of loved ones dying, crying, panic attack, arguments, angsty love confession, angst to fluff !! (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 1.3k

SECOND PERSON +

The storm came fast and without mercy. What had started as a mild tropical storm rapidly intensified into a Category 4 hurricane barrelling toward the Outer Banks. Mandatory evacuation orders were issued for the Pogues and parts of the Cut, but for the Kooks in Figure Eight, the luxury of reinforced homes and private shelters meant hunkering down. The air felt thick with panic and pressure as everyone prepared for the worst.

Rafe had been at his father's old office on the more secure side of the island, trying to sort out some financial mess left behind by Ward, when the weather reports turned grim. His phone buzzed incessantly with texts and calls from people checking in or offering refuge. But Rafe didn't care about any of them.

He cared about one person.

"Y/N, just listen to me for once!" Rafe snapped, pacing the office as the storm began to howl outside. His voice was sharp, desperate even, as he tried to reason with his girlfriend. "Don't try to be a hero. Don't stop for anything. Just get in your car and come straight to the safe house. I'll meet you there."

"Rafe, I'll be fine," you said over the phone, your voice calm but firm. "I'm already on my way."

"You're sure? I can come get you. I should come get you," he pressed, running a hand through his hair. "This storm's getting worse by the second. I don't want you driving in this."

"I've got it under control," you reassured him, a smile in your tone even though he couldn't see it. "I'll see you soon."

But the second the line went dead, unease settled deep in Rafe's chest. He tried to tell himself you were capable, smart, and resourceful—qualities he loved about you. Still, that didn't stop the gnawing anxiety that clawed at him as he headed toward the safe house.

—

The drive was hellish. Rain lashed against your windshield, the wipers barely able to keep up. Floodwaters licked at the sides of the road as you maneuvered carefully toward Figure Eight. It wasn't long before you lost signal entirely, your phone cutting off mid-text to Rafe. You cursed under your breath but pressed on.

You'd been almost to the safe house when a thought struck you like lightning. Earlier that week, Rafe had been pouring over some old financial records and papers that he needed for his next move with the family business. He'd spent hours meticulously going through them, and you knew they were stored in his father's house.

Your chest tightened. If the storm destroyed everything, Rafe would lose all that work. Against better judgment, you turned onto the road leading to Tannyhill. You told yourself it wouldn't take long—just in and out.

By the time you made it to the safe house, it was well past dark, and the storm had intensified. The wind howled like a living thing, rattling the reinforced windows and slamming against the door as you stumbled in, soaked to the bone.

"Rafe?" you called, setting the plastic bag containing the saved papers down on a table. "I'm here."

It took less than ten seconds for him to appear. His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled from hours of pacing. The moment his eyes landed on you, relief flickered across his face—but it was quickly replaced by something far darker.

"Where the hell have you been?" he shouted, storming toward you. His voice was a mix of anger and panic, his chest heaving as he stopped in front of you. "I've been calling you for hours! Do you have any idea—" His voice broke, and he ran a hand down his face. "I thought something happened to you."

"Rafe, I'm fine," you said, trying to placate him. "I—"

"You're not fine!" he snapped, his voice rising again. "You think this is fine? Driving through a hurricane, ignoring my calls—what were you even doing?" His eyes darted to the bag on the table, and something clicked. "You stopped for papers?"

"Rafe, I know how important they are to you—"

"Papers?" he interrupted, his voice incredulous. "You risked your life for some stupid papers?"

"They're not stupid!" you fired back, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. "You've been working so hard on this, and I didn't want you to lose it all."

"I don't care about the damn papers!" he yelled, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "Don't you get it? I don't care about any of that fucking shit if it means losing you!"

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off, his breathing growing erratic. His hands trembled as he backed away, pressing his palms to his temples. "I can't—God, I can't do this," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you were dead, Y/N. I thought I lost you out there.”

"Rafe—"

"You're all I have," he said, his voice breaking completely as tears streamed down his face. "You're all I have, and I can't lose you. I won't survive it."

His words hit you like a tidal wave, the raw vulnerability in his voice leaving you momentarily stunned. You stepped toward him cautiously, reaching out to touch his arm. "Rafe, I'm here. I'm okay," you said softly. "I'm right here."

But he didn't seem to hear you, his breathing growing more rapid as he sank onto the couch. His chest heaved, and his hands gripped the edge of the cushion like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You knelt in front of him, your heart aching at the sight of him falling apart. "Rafe, look at me," you said firmly, taking his hands in yours. They were cold and clammy, shaking like leaves in the storm outside. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe."

He tried to match your breaths, but his body refused to cooperate. Desperation clawed at him, his gaze wild and unfocused. "I can't—I can't—"

"Yes, you can," you said, your voice steady despite the tears streaming down your face. You guided one of his hands to your chest, pressing his palm flat against your heartbeat. "Feel that? I'm still breathing. I'm still alive. I'm here, Rafe."

Something shifted in his eyes as he focused on the steady rhythm beneath his hand. He gripped your shirt like a lifeline, his breathing slowly evening out. "You're here," he repeated, his voice barely audible. "You're here."

"That's right," you said, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The storm raged on outside, but inside, the only sound was the quiet rise and fall of your breaths. Finally, Rafe pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair. "I'm sorry for yelling. I was just so scared."

"I know," you said, your voice muffled against his chest. "I'm sorry, too. I should've just come straight here."

He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his blue eyes searching yours. "I don't say this enough—or at all—but you mean everything to me, Y/N. I don't know what I'd do without you. You’re my whole world. Not work, not money, not anything; you. I love you, so fucking much.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, they were from something far warmer than fear. "I love you, too," you said, leaning into his touch.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms as the storm began to lose its fury. Whatever chaos the hurricane had brought, it couldn't touch the calm you found in each other.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

i hope this is what you wanted anon !! this was such a cute one to write and i love me some angst to fluff😫

pls request some more angst guys !! i absolutely LOVE writing it :) and as always, likes and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[ebodebo]

minors beware!

shameless smut w simon in... (age-gap shit also)

three…

two…

one…

“Too old for you,” Simon remarks as you approach him, mask hiked above his nose. He takes a swig of his bourbon, his disinterest evident.

"So you’ve said," you reply, rolling your eyes slightly before grinning and settling into the stool next to him at the empty bar.

He stares intently at the television in front of him, locked onto a local news channel.

But it’s clear he’s not watching to catch the latest on the new pizza place opening this Sunday or to hear the heartwarming story of the little boy who saved his dog from choking.

It was to avoid you.

"I know you're avoiding me, Simon," you simply say, eyes glazing over his hands that twitch slightly around his cold glass.

"What gave it away?" His tone is dry.

It would have made you run with your tail between your legs at his apparent disinterest if you didn’t know he was interested in you.

Even if he's pretending not to be.

You remember how hard he had gotten when you'd barely even touched him, manicured nails running across his shirt to get a piece of fuzz off, about had him bursting through his cargo pants.

Or when he practically whimpered your name to get him to come.

His issue lies more within himself.

More specifically, his age.

Thinks you should be with someone more your age and not some 'old brute' such as himself.

He basically lectured you all while he was on the verge of release while you were bouncing on his cock.

You laughed in his face.

He came hard.

After that, he left, leaving a note about how he thought it'd be best for you two to stop seeing each other so you could find someone more...what did he say?

"Age-appropriate."

You rolled your eyes at the note because you couldn't care less about how old he was.

You just wanted him.

And so, by God, you'll have him.

"Funny," you remark with a sarcastic tone, narrowing your eyes at his avoidance of eye contact.

He takes another swig of his drink, eyes still laser focused on the news station.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You ask, your frustration growing with each passing moment.

“Afraid you’ll claw my eyes out,” he says in a casual tone.

“I wouldn’t claw your eyes out,” you say matter-of-factly, resting your chin in your palm. “I’d do something more practical like…” You let your eyes scan the bar before lighting up as you spot a metal shaker.

Your eyes move to face him. “…hit the side of your head with that metal shaker,” you tip your head to the shaker behind the bar.

You’re sure you see his eyes crinkle from laughter.

"Ah, very practical," he says with a hint of humor.  

"I told you so," you reply with a smile, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of it all.  

Simon lets out a gravelly laugh, clearly amused by your delight.  

This entire situation is utterly ridiculous, and you both know it.  

Yet, instead of feeling uncomfortable, you find it all downright hilarious.  

"Simon," you manage to say between fits of laughter, your fingers reaching up to wipe a tear of joy from your cheek.  

"Mhm," he responds, briefly glancing at you before returning his attention to the television. 

"I want you to fuck me," you say earnestly, shifting from playful to serious in an instant.

Your expression remains straight-faced.

Simon's head snaps around to meet your gaze, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"What?" He replies, his tone straddling the line between astonishment and intrigue.

You narrow your eyes. "You heard me."

His eyes stay fixed on yours, his lip quipping a bit.

"You want me to fuck you?" His voice is low and grumbly, almost arrogant.

"Wouldn't be the first time," you remark, teeth coming out to chew on your bottom lip.

He carefully assesses you for a moment, eyes lazily moving to watch your teeth chew on your lip. "I'm old," he lazily says.

As if that was supposed to deter you.

"And?" You prompt, hand coming to skim his knee over his cargo pants.

He lets out a ragged breath, fingers tightening around his glass of bourbon. 

"Better be careful, sweetheart," he mutters through his tight throat.

Your hand moves up to brush against his thigh. "Why's that?"

"You're gonna start somethin' you can't finish," his eyes lock onto yours, dark and desperate.

You lean in closer, your tongue flicking out to moisten your lips, leaving a glistening sheen behind.

"Who says I can’t finish?" You tease, your hand inching nearer where Simon aches.

His breath is unsteady, and his pupils are dilated.

"You should know," you begin, wet lips hovering only inches away from his ear. "I always finish."

And that was it.

The straw that broke the camel's back.

Simon’s undoing, if you will.

His hands moved faster than you could speak as he grasped your wrist, throwing a twenty on the counter before leading you out of the bar and into the parking lot toward his truck waiting nearby.

He opened the passenger door, urging you to get in while he hurried to the driver’s side. With an impatient tug, he yanked the door open and slid into the seat.

“Take your pants off,” he mumbles as he throws the truck into gear to peel out of the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice brimming with excitement rather than nervousness, as you eagerly slide your pants down and let them drop to the mat on the floor.

“You want me to fuck you,” his voice is gruff as he white knuckles the steering wheel seeing you in your pretty lace panties, easing towards a nearby empty lot. “I’ll fuck you.”

Oh, shit.  

Your eyes widen at his straightforwardness, but it’s not from fear; it’s pure desire.  

A flutter spreads in your stomach, and heat washes over your body.  

“Come here,” he murmurs, shifting his seat back slightly to make room for you.  

Without a word, you swing your legs over the middle console to straddle him as your hands reach his shoulders.

"You wear these for me?" He mutters as he snaps the elastic band of your panties back onto your sensitive skin, lips coming to skim against your shoulder blade.

You release a small moan at the sensation, fingers gliding through his hair with ease, a sense of familiarity within the touch. "Yeah," your voice is breathy as your eyes bore into his, awaiting his approval.

"Still so good for me," he breathes against your skin, scooting himself impossibly closer to you.

You can feel him straining through his cargo pants.

Your fingers fumbled from his hair to delicately unzip his zipper, slipping his pants and boxers down to reveal his, as you expected, very erect cock, already leaking pre-come.

"So wet, sweetheart," he gruffs as his finger trails to gently push aside your soaked panties.

Your body jerks forward at the feeling of his rough, cold finger spreading you to accommodate his cock.

"Grab my shoulders," he advises, as he brushes the head against your aching clit before pushing himself into you, your cunt swallowing him whole.

You let out a deep moan at the feeling of him in you while he rips his mask off before leaning forward and capturing your lips in a rough, deep kiss.

His fingers find your waist, digging deep into the fat as he helps you find a good pace.

You're losing your mind, already feeling euphoric.

His grunts merge with your whines, slipping out of both your mouths, sloppily swapping spit and nips from your teeth.

You grip his shoulders tighter as you speed up your pace, grinding and bouncing on him with intention, trying to get the knot in your stomach to finally unravel. 

He can't even think straight; all his words are reduced to guttural grunts or quiet curses spilling for his tongue and into your mouth.

"I could be your father," he hisses, a hint of disgust creeping into his voice just as he's about to come.

You don't even focus on what he's saying as you feel yourself edging closer and closer to release, just a little more.

"Please, please," he chokes out, voice shaky.

He's begging, no pleading for you to squeeze him dry.

Drain him for every last drop he has to offer.

And so you do.

You wail as you come, as he throws his head back on the headrest, shaking with relief. 

You're still coming down from your highs before Simon mutters a strained, 'Should we go again?'

You let out a breathy laugh, hissing as his cock moves against you. "You sure do have a high libido for an old man," you tease, voice hoarse.

His eyes meet yours instantly, a lazy smirk growing on his lips. 

"You have no fuckin' idea."

author’s note: been having sm fun writing these little drabbles...i have SO many more thoughts. just you wait! also, feel free to send me cute little asks on more scenerios you would like to see hehe

wanna join my taglist?

divider by @/saradika-graphics

[palmerzy]

NSFW! - explicit sexual themes.

the team is returning from a late night case, the jet deadly silent, save for the sounds of soft snoring coming from morgan and hotch.

spencer reid, though, spencer is wide awake. so are you, sitting pretty against one of the cream leather chairs, a leg crossed over the other as you intently complete a crossword. you occasionally ask for his opinion on an answer, voice quiet and lips barely moving, eyes trained on the paper before you. the lack of looking up at him is the only reason you haven’t noticed the very prominent tent in the front of his slacks.

he can’t help it, not when you’re in his line of sight like that, and he hasn’t fucked you in days. his cock is aching by now, his stomach burning with need and he reaches a breaking point, muttering a small “i need to use the bathroom.” you still don’t look up at him, not until you notice the absence of him making any effort to move, and you raise your focus. “come too?” he whisperers when his gaze meets yours, brow creasing with a hint of longing, loosely gesturing to his predicament.

that’s how you end up in the cramped bathroom of the bau jet, spencer awkwardly lifting your leg up as you sit on the edge of the sink, watching him fumble with himself to get into a workable position.

“dragged me in here just to watch you struggle with where to put your dick, baby? seriously?” - “hey, i’m trying! but it’s cramped and you’re- just, give me a second, i’ll get it, i will,” he’d whisper shout back, his voice on the brink of a whine when he finally gets the both of you comfortable enough to slide in, his hips angled slightly awkwardly but it works. one hand is holding the back of your knee, keeping your leg up whilst the other presses against the wall behind you, slowly dragging his hips backwards before plunging back in, his puppy dog eyes rolling heavenward.

he hasn’t done this in days, been too busy with cases, being given separate hotel rooms because nobody knows yet. nobody knows how desperate this man is for you, and nobody knows how he’s fucking you in the bathroom because he couldn’t last another second watching your face as you did that puzzle, afraid he’d spill into his pants at the mere sight.

he’s burying his face in your shoulder to muffle his grunts as he fucks into you, his cock nudging almost where you need it to be, but you know he needs to be set straight, to be snapped out of his desperation. “need to make both of us feel good, spence, don’t be greedy.”

a whimper escapes him at the reminder, trailing one hand down to your hip instead so he can switch up the direction of his thrusts by just a few millimetres, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, a sparkle dancing within them as he silently questions his new method. you grin and bite your lip as his cock finally meets your cervix deliciously, your eyes fluttering at the new sensation.

now it’s perfect, his cock driving into you at a desperate pace whilst he sinks his teeth into the skin just above your collarbone. his slacks, once just below his waist, slowly slip to the floor with the force of his thrusts, his hands grasping at your flesh, feeling nothing other than you, the clench of your pussy, and the fire burning deep in his abdomen.

your own hands are clinging to him, one in his hair and the other down at his ass, scraping blunt nails against the cleft. your moans are breathless and quiet, better at controlling yourself than he is, acutely aware of your sleeping bau members on the tiny jet, just metres away, with only a door and four walls separating you.

spencer’s reaching a hand down between the two of you, letting the skin of your shoulder loose as he gazes down, drawing out a long moan at the sight of his cock sliding into your entrance, covered in your slick, and he’s never been more grateful for his eidetic memory. he presses his thumb against your clit, circling with nothing less than the intention to feel you implode around him.

‘need you to come’, ‘please, please, please, need to feel it around me,’ ‘i can’t come if you don’t, i can’t, i can’t,’ he whines quietly into your ear, a string of eager words to edge you on. it’s almost amusing how much he yearns to be exactly like this, to spend every waking minute inside of you, feeling you unravel at his doing. if he could quit the bau and survive simply by fucking you, he might just consider it.

he’s finally coming when you do, hips stuttering and faltering as he grips you, fingertips deep but touch somehow still gentle, pushing you against him as he unloads his desire deep into your belly. your legs tremble, skirt bunched up around your waist, head tilted back against the wall.

“god, oh my god, thank you…needed that so much,” he pants, pressing a tender kiss to the underside of your jaw, breath hitching as his hips slowly move against yours once more, just one last time to ensure he doesn’t forget the feeling before he can have you like this again.

when you’ve finally cleaned up, after spencer whispering to you something about making sure he smooths out his hair again because you tousled it, you’re both leaving the bathroom, trying to be stealthy.

though, stealth wouldn’t even save you. you creep out first, gaze landing on emily, her expression skeptical and her eyes narrowed as your partner in crime appears behind you, zipping up his fly. nobody is about to very quickly become everybody.

ty for the love on the last drabble lolll spencer fans are serious huh? love you guys though, feel free to send in drabble/blurb requests <3 mwah!