#knuckles always knocks it out of the park

[kxsagi]

How about bllk boys who have a huge crush on childhood bestfriend!reader but when they are walking around, they see reader kissing with a girl?

Basically fem!reader is a lesbian who has a gf and is oblivious to the boys liking her?

If you'd like doing this ask, it'd be from the boys pov, with angst. You can choose anyone to do this with!

“𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞”

a/n: THIS HURT TO WRITE

title is an august by taylor swift reference, that song is kinda sad, but so good 😔

ft. isagi yoichi, mikage reo, itoshi rin, karasu tabito, nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, kaiser michael

isagi yoichi

he was the golden retriever childhood friend. you two shared popsicles, bike rides, and dreams under the stars. isagi always thought that someday, you'd be his first kiss. 

he's walking home from training one day, sweaty and exhausted, but he perks up when he sees you on the corner, laughing. instantly, he's ready to jog over and scare you from behind like always. 

until he sees her. her hands cupping your face so gently. your lips moving toward hers like a scene in slow motion. 

he freezes mid-step. mouth slightly open. he blinks once, twice, but you're still kissing her. 

“... oh.” 

his heart doesn’t just sink, it sinks and shatters. he's never felt jealous in a way that hurt like this. not angry. not bitter. just... aching. 

“so that’s why she never saw me like that,” he thinks. “i was looking at her like a movie, and she was living a whole life i wasn’t cast in.” 

he still walks you home that night. still jokes with you like normal. but something in him changes – quietly. permanently. 

mikage reo

you were his soft spot since the sandbox days, when you called him “richie rich” and stole his juice box. 

reo grew up thinking he could have anything, and deep down, he thought that included you. 

so when he spots you across the shopping district one evening, he runs over with that heart-thumping excitement, waving like an idiot– 

until he sees your girlfriend pull you in by the waist and kiss your cheek. your nose scrunches up, you laugh, and then you kiss her back. 

it knocks the air out of him. 

he just stands there, halfway across the street, frozen with a shopping bag in one hand and his dumb little heart in the other. 

“i’m... not even in the running, am i?” 

he doesn’t even feel sad at first. he just feels stupid. like he missed a whole chapter in your life. 

the next time you text him, he answers like nothing happened. but behind the screen, he’s wondering if he was ever even close. 

itoshi rin

rin never told you how he felt. he always figured it was better to wait until he was better. until he was someone worth confessing to. 

because he’s always loved you silently. through quiet glances. through dumb little excuses to hang out. through a million almosts he never dared to reach for. 

so when he sees you after practice, leaning against a wall, holding hands with a girl so confidently, and then you kiss her like it’s the easiest thing in the world– 

rin just turns around. doesn’t even look twice. doesn’t even let himself blink, because if he does, he might cry. 

he walks back to the field. kicks a ball until his knuckles bleed from clenching. 

“of course. of course she doesn’t like guys. of course i never stood a chance. what the hell was i waiting for?” 

he ghosts you for two days. then shows up like nothing happened. because he’d rather be your friend than nothing at all, even if every word from you hurts now. 

karasu tabito

he used to flirt with you for fun, just to get a rise out of you. but somewhere along the line, the teasing turned into something real. 

he liked how you rolled your eyes at him. how you called him annoying and still never stopped hanging around. 

he always thought maybe you liked him back, you just didn’t know it yet. 

so when he catches you at a park, snuggled up next to a girl on the swings, your fingers intertwined and lips locked under the sunset– 

he feels like someone punched him in the gut. 

“shit.” he mumbles. “so that’s her type.” 

he laughs. like it’s funny. like it’s not burning his chest from the inside out. 

he leaves before you can spot him. goes to a café. orders the sweetest drink on the menu because it’s the only thing that might mask the taste of rejection. 

when you text him later, he sends back a dumb meme like nothing happened. 

because what’s a little heartbreak between best friends, right? 

nagi seishiro

nagi never made a move. never felt like he needed to. you were always there, always close. why ruin it? 

he didn’t think he was in love with you. until he sees you at an arcade one night – laughing, glowing, eyes locked with some girl who kisses you when you win a game. 

his stomach drops. his controller slips from his hands. 

“oh... huh.” 

and that’s it. that’s the moment he realizes it. he loved you. like, actually loved you. and you were never his. 

he drags himself out of the arcade, doesn’t even finish his game. goes home and lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

“guess i slept on that too long,” he mutters. “should’ve made a move when i had the chance.” 

he never tells you what he saw. but you notice how quiet he is after that. how he texts a little slower. laughs a little softer. 

and you never realize why. 

itoshi sae

sae wasn’t good with emotions. he left you behind when he went to spain, thinking you'd just… be there when he came back. like always. 

but when he did come back – more distant, more polished, more unreadable – you welcomed him like nothing changed. 

except something had changed. he sees it one random afternoon, walking through the station when he spots you in a crowd. 

you don’t see him. you're with a girl. your hands are in her pockets, your head on her shoulder, and you kiss her like you're in your own little world. 

and sae… stops. just stops. 

time moves, the world spins, but he doesn’t. 

“so that’s why… that’s why she never looked at me that way.” 

he turns around before you see him. later, you’ll text him, asking if he wants to hang out. he’ll say he’s busy. 

he tells himself it’s fine. you’re happy. that should be enough. 

but he still can’t shake the weight in his chest. like he lost a game he never even got to play. 

shidou ryusei

shidou always played the wild card. loud, aggressive, inappropriate – you were the one who kept him grounded. 

he’d always say gross stuff around you, sure, but he never actually meant it. not with you. because what he felt for you wasn’t like what he felt for anyone else. 

but he didn’t know how to say “i love you” without scaring you off. 

so when he catches you outside a ramen shop, mid-kiss with a girl who’s got her arms wrapped around your waist, he actually... goes silent. 

doesn’t throw a fit. doesn’t make a scene. 

he just watches. something unfamiliar churning in his stomach. envy, maybe. or regret. 

“... damn,” he mutters. “guess i never stood a chance, huh?” 

later that night, he jokes with you like always, roughhousing and teasing, but something in his voice is off. 

he doesn’t flirt anymore. not with you. 

you ask why. he just shrugs and says, “eh, figured you were taken.” 

you laugh and say “wait, how’d you know?” 

he doesn’t answer. just walks away before you can see his face. 

kaiser michael

you were the only one who treated him like a person, not a superstar. from the time you were kids, you called him “annoying” instead of “amazing,” and he liked that. 

he always thought of you as his. not officially, not out loud, but in his mind, you’d end up together. obviously. how could you not? 

so when he sees you after a match, by the gate, arms linked with some girl who plants a kiss right on your lips– 

kaiser forgets how to breathe. 

the smirk on his face falters. his ego deflates so fast it hurts. 

“... no fucking way.” 

he laughs to himself. bitterly. “you had a girlfriend this whole time? what a joke. and here i was–” 

he stops himself before he finishes that thought. before he admits just how deep he’d let his delusion run. 

when you wave at him and run over, asking how the game went, he gives you the cockiest smile he can muster. 

“easy win,” he lies. 

but that night, he doesn’t sleep. just stares at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he lost you before he even got to try. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[luceleste]

The Devil You Chase

preview

mentions of blood and violence

monsterhunter!toji x vampire!reader

Toji knew he’d fucked up.

He should’ve killed you the first time he had the chance — when your throat was right there, bare and vulnerable beneath his blade.

But he hesitated. For a fucking split second. Something he’d never done before. Something he’d laughed at other hunters for — letting their instincts fail when it mattered most. But with you? Fast, wicked, smiling like a devil dressed in silk and red — you took that moment and ran.

You walked away with his blood on your fangs and a smirk carved across your face like you’d just won some cruel little game.

Toji didn’t give a shit about politics or vampire hierarchy, but something about this hunt had started to rot. The price, the silence, the way names kept changing without reason. And your face — always your fucking face — grinning like you knew something he didn’t.

So he started carving answers out of anyone who might’ve brushed shoulders with you. Biters. Leech nobles. Black-market blood traders.

Tonight, he’d gotten lucky.

The city never really slept, but this part of it had long been forgotten.

Four levels beneath a crumbling shopping complex, the air in the old parking garage was thick with oil, mildew, and blood. Fluorescent lights overhead flickered in broken intervals, humming like dying insects. Water dripped from a cracked pipe in the ceiling, echoing off concrete like a metronome for violence.

Graffiti stretched across the walls — gang tags, occult symbols, angry smears of red that might’ve been paint. Or not.

Broken glass crunched beneath Toji’s boots as he moved. The whole structure felt like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t care. He’d dragged the leech down here to bleed in private.

The vampire was slumped against the stained concrete, wheezing through broken ribs, arms twisted wrong, one fang missing — knocked out when Toji’s knuckles shattered his jaw.

Toji crouched in front of him. Bloody hands resting on his thigh, knife spinning lazy between his own fingers.

“You get one chance.” He said flatly. “You give me something useful, you walk outta here with your spine still inside your body.”

The leech spat blood, trembling. “You’re not gonna let me walk.”

Toji smiled, slow and humorless. “No. But you might crawl.”

He pressed the blade just under the vampire’s chin, lifting his face. “Now talk. You’ve seen her. You’ve heard things. I want everything.”

The vampire coughed, tried to laugh — but it came out cracked and wet. “I don’t know much… just rumors. The pretty one — they say she’s connected to Sukuna.”

Toji froze.

That name didn’t belong in this timeline.

It was myth. Legend. A warning scrawled in dead languages and sealed temples.

A simple bloodsucker like you? Connected to that?

His voice dropped, sharp and dangerous. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I don’t know how.” The vampire choked, flinching as the blade nicked his skin. “But they say she’s… tied to the seal. Not sure what that means, I swear—I’m just repeating what I heard.”

Sukuna had been sealed away for centuries. No one knew where. No one knew how. And no one dared ask.

Because the only reason the world still turned — the only reason people still breathed, loved, fucked, and feared in peace — was because that monster stayed buried.

Toji grinned.

So that’s why your name was worth a fortune. That’s why this job smelled like blood and secrets.

But still… not enough answers.

“Is that all you know, leech?” His free hand fisted in the vampire’s blond hair and yanked his head back.

The leech’s breath hitched. His voice cracked with panic. “That’s all I know—I swear! Please, man, I told you everything. I don’t know anything else. Don’t kill me, please!”

Toji didn’t blink.

He looked down at the trembling wreck of a body in front of him — bones shattered, face caved in, blood pooling like a slow tide—and felt nothing.

Begging never moved him. Especially not from a bloodsucker.

“Yeah.” He said, almost thoughtful. “You did good.”

The vampire’s eyes flickered — hope sparking in them just for a second. But he didn’t even get the chance to hold it.

Toji drove the knife up under his chin, straight through soft palate and skull.

The body jerked once, then slumped forward in silence.

He wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt and stood. No ceremony, no pause. Just business. Almost boring, honestly — he didn’t even know how to fight back. Probably too young to have any real power.

Now things made sense.

A mission this big — tied to something as massive as Sukuna — deserved more than half a million. Hell, it deserved a few extra zeros.

Toji pulled out his phone, blood still drying on his knuckles, and scrolled to the encrypted number in his contacts.

If his client wanted to play games, they’d have to pay more. And start giving real answers.

You weren’t just a mark now — you were a fucking threat.

So now he knew what had to be done. You had to die.

This was a fucking catastrophe in the making.

And he was going to end it before it started.

This is just a small preview, babes! But still, I hope you guys liked it! This one is going to be an oneshot and it’ll be +18! I might change somethings in this scene later

[vicvillon]

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!! tradition states you must listen to this

[chronicowboy]

Eddie isn't sure what he's expecting when Buck meets him at the airport. Red-rimmed eyes, splotchy face, hunched shoulders probably. Not this. Distant eyes, blank face, straight-backed. He'd been braced to catch Buck as soon as he landed, had spent his whole flight locking every bit of his own grief away to be thought about at a later date, let the guilt pool in his chest instead.

I should've been there, I could've -

He'd been ready to catch Buck, but it's Eddie who falls into Buck's waiting arms. Eddie who tears up. Eddie who clutches at the back of Buck's shirt like a scared child. And it's Buck sweeping his hands up and down Eddie's back, holding him together, murmuring:

"It's okay. I've got you. It's not your fault."

Eddie doesn't cry in LAX. His grief is a private thing. Always has been. He locks it into his bedroom and lets it out behind closed doors. But Buck is the safest space he's ever had, so he lets himself break a little. Lets himself shake apart under Buck's hands until he can ground himself with a deep breath at the junction of Buck's neck and shoulder. Until he can stand on his own.

Buck looks at him, eyes searching, deepest of furrows between his brows, so devastatingly gentle. And Eddie kind of wants to fucking scream at him for being okay. He'd needed to take care of Buck. He'd needed to have something to do. But now Buck is looking at him like he can fix him, and Eddie wants him to. So badly. But Buck knows Eddie's grief is for South Bedford Street, not LAX, so all he does is lead Eddie out to the parking lot.

It's a silent drive. Buck tells him the details of the funeral. Clinical. Sparing. And Eddie watches Buck's knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. Listens to the creak of leather under an unyielding grip. And he sees it then. The countdown over Buck's head, ticking away steadily. He's grateful in a way.

They pull up to the house silently. The engine falls quiet. And they stare at the door. The door Bobby had appeared on the other side of just a few months ago for a goodbye dinner. At the house. The house Bobby made coffee in when Eddie couldn't stomach being alone. At the home. The home Bobby helped him build in every way.

Buck gets out of the car. Eddie follows. Buck unlocks the door. Eddie locks it behind them. Buck disappears into the kitchen. Eddie pauses.

Can't quite separate Bobby from kitchens in his mind. And it's not like Bobby ever cooked anything in Eddie's kitchen, but there's some stupid grief-crazed part of his brain that thinks he'll find Bobby at the stove for a last supper. A parting gift to Eddie. Because Bobby was always too good. Too generous. Too understanding. When it came to Eddie.

When he finally makes it in there, Buck is stood staring into the fridge. Vacant. Eddie joins him, presses their shoulders together as hard as he can without knocking Buck away, and looks at Buck's fingers curled loosely around two beer bottles. Eddie knows it's not the early hour staying his hand.

It feels wrong. To find comfort in alcohol at Bobby's expense.

Carefully, Eddie unpicks Buck's fingers from the bottles and watches as Buck's arm falls limp to his side with such weight it bounces off his hip. Swings once, twice, stops suddenly. Eddie grabs the water filter. Closes the fridge.

"Sit down," he whispers. Sure, steady.

Buck sits down.

Eddie grabs two glasses. Fills them with water. Leaves the filter on the side. Who cares? Who fucking cares? Takes the glasses over to the table in shaking hands. Spills only a little. Sits opposite Buck. Stares into his cup.

"I didn't say it back," Buck rasps eventually.

Eddie picks his head up with great effort. Ony manages it because he wants to see what hurt he's caused. Their missing medic. Absent in their hour of need.

"What?"

"B-he-he told me he loved me." Buck's eyes go wide. Horrified. Haunted. Hollow. "He t-told me he l-loved me, and I could-couldn't say it back be-because that would mean..." Buck chokes a sob into his hand. "I thought we'd fix it. I-I-I thought we'd find a way. We-we always do. I couldn't say it-it. I didn't want t-to let him go. And now, he's..." Buck's face crumples first. Then, the rest of his body follows, folding in on itself in the chair until he looks almost as small as Christopher had the first time he'd ever sat at this table. "He's d-gone, and he doesn't know I love him."

"He knows, Buck." Eddie's hand curls into a fist on the tabletop. Doesn't know what to do. For all he'd been ready to hold Buck together, he's not sure how. "He knows you love him, Buck. You told him every single day."

"But I never said the words!" he snaps. Pure rage. Pure guilt. He looks up at Eddie. Blue eyes wet and red and wild. The rage and the guilt seeps away, leaves only pure grief. "I never said the words."

He sobs then. Doesn't choke it down. Lets it out. Eddie reacts like it's instinct even though he's never done this before. Just somehow knows in his bones what to do when it comes to Buck.

He stands, rounds the table, slides a hand into Buck's hair, one on his shoulder, pulls Buck's face into his stomach and holds him there, holds him together. Buck's fingers tangle themselves in Eddie's belt loops. A lifeline. And Eddie holds him tight as he can.

"All the times you cooked for him. All the times he cooked for you. The two of you cooking together. You had your own language, Buck. He knows you love him."

And all Eddie hears is: you're gonna stand there with a hundred-something bodies on you and tell me I'm not fit for duty. Did Bobby know Eddie loved him too?

Squeezing his eyes shut tight, Eddie drops his cheek to the top of Buck's head. Stops holding Buck together and starts holding on. Buck's hands grasp at his hips, twist into the back of his shirt just like Eddie's had at the airport.

And all Eddie hears is: I just want to make sure you don't think you have to lose everything before you can allow yourself to feel anything.

[heartthrobin]

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

-

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

-

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

-

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

-

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle. 

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports. 

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge. 

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner. 

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers. 

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor. 

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed. 

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish. 

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster. 

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge. 

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you. 

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone. 

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move. 

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face. 

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches. 

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.” 

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again. 

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“ 

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.” 

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor. 

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick. 

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.” 

He’s brushing past you. 

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“ 

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded. 

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable. 

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?” 

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked. 

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone. 

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him. 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration. 

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him. 

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.” 

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle. 

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own. 

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.” 

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness. 

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms. 

It’s quiet. 

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks. 

“Why’re you out here alone?” 

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him. 

Why do you care? 

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters. 

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.” 

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t. 

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches. 

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something. 

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent. 

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room. 

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.” 

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

-

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours. 

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!” 

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch. 

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow. 

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction. 

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way. 

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it. 

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets. 

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

-

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

-

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

-

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

-

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[daryltwdixon]

summary: You didn’t expect to spend your birthday catching your boyfriend cheating in your own bed. You definitely didn’t expect to end the night on your knees for someone else while on the path for revenge. || nsfw (?) MDNI 18+, m!receiving oral, blowjobs, Joel smokes cigs, cheating (not w Joel/reader), annoying ex bf, age gap (15yr gap mentioned but not specified), no outbreak, reader is drinking age, revenge, based off a song but not gonna mention cause singer is a trumper boooooo || a/n: good morning I woke up with the need to blow joel miller like his life depended on it. had this in my docs for a few weeks and decided to finish it up with some goooood ol' smut. enjoy!

Tyler was easy on the eyes. He came from a rich family, always looked put together and had a job at his daddy’s company, but truly… that was about it. He wasn’t clever, or thoughtful, or even remotely romantic or slick. If he had tried to cheat, he didn’t have the brain cells to pull it off. But you weren’t stupid. The scrunchie under your pillow wasn’t yours and the way he started turning his phone screen down whenever you were together wasn’t subtle. You saw it coming.

But you held your tongue, waiting. You gave him rope, a chance to prove that you were wrong.

And then, on your birthday—your fucking birthday!—you walked into your apartment after a long shift, already picturing the glass of wine and that nice dinner he promised he'd made a reservation for. You were halfway to slipping off your shoes when you heard the moaning.

High-pitched, theatric as hell, and coming from your bedroom.

Oh, Tyler!

Yes, Tyler!

It was like nails on a chalkboard.

You stood frozen for a second, your hand on the wall. It felt like something inside you cracked. And then the heat came boiling with rage filling your chest, crawling down your arms.

You crossed the room, your steps marching and purposeful, heart hammering behind your ribs. You didn’t even knock as you slammed open the door.

There she was: naked and sitting square in your bed, bouncing on your boyfriend’s dick like it was a trampoline. She turned at the sound, and her face went pale. Tyler’s too. Like a couple of deer in headlights.

You didn’t flinch. There were no tears.

You looked her dead in the eye and said, calm and flat, “His dick’s not even that good.”

They scrambled, tripping over each other like some half-assed comedy sketch. You just watched, arms crossed, unmoved. Tyler, once she was gone, spent the next hour groveling. Begging, bargaining, spinning his bullshit into excuses—something about how he thought you didn’t care, how you didn’t love him enough, how it was your fault. You let him talk himself in circles until he started getting angry, like his pathetic little tantrum might undo what you’d seen with your own two eyes.

You waited until he shut up, then threw his duffel bag at his chest and said, loud and clear, “Get the fuck out.”

Which brings you to now.

You knew exactly where he’d be on a Friday night. It was with the same group of knuckle-dragging football bros, drinking cheap beer and hollering at whatever game was on. You pulled into the gravel lot and spotted his car instantly. That brand-new black Jetta gleamed under the parking lights like it was proud of itself. Rims all shiny and new, fresh wax job and leather interior. 

You parked a few spaces down and killed the engine. For a second, you just sat there, breathing, fingers curled tight around your steering wheel. Your pulse thudded hot behind your ears.

Then you looked around. The sidewalk was empty, the lot full of cars but no one to be seen. And the nice thing about dive bars was they didn’t give a damn about security, so no cameras that you could see.

Good.

You stepped out, walked up to the Jetta, and just stood there for a moment. The night was quiet, but all you could hear was the roar of your blood in your ears.

 What a stupid fucking idiot. 

You weren’t sure if it was meant for him or you were talking to yourself. Tyler was a dumbass, no question, but you knew what he was before all this. You’d seen the signs, but you ignored them, made excuses for his sorry ass. So what did that make you? 

Still, you shook your head. No. That wasn’t on you.

Any decent person wouldn’t cheat on the girl who stuck by him for five damn years. The one who pulled him through college, helped him look for internships, edited every shitty cover letter he ever wrote before he'd given up and begged his own dad for a job. And not to mention, the girl who gave the best head he’d probably ever get in his sad little life.

Your grip tightened.

You flipped your keys in your palm, pressed one between your fingers, and brought it to the shiny sleek passenger door. You dug it into the steel, and began dragging it nice and slow and deep, carving a line into the shiny paint.

The screech of metal on metal made your jaw clench, but you didn’t stop. Because it was so fucking satisfying too. You moved to the driver’s side, dragging it around to the front, then the other side. One long, continuous line until his car looked like it had been attacked by a wild animal with a grudge.

Maybe that’s what you were, afterall.

You stepped back and admired your work before turning back to your car for the next step.

Next came the knife—his pocket knife. The one he gave you last Christmas because he "forgot to buy a real present in time." You took it from your bag and knelt beside the driver’s side tire and made a clean slash, the hiss of air escaping was music to your ears.

You did all four, each one a little more satisfying than the last. By the time you were done, the car sat sagging on those dumb, overpriced rims, looking completely defeated.

And then you reached for the bat.

A Louisville Slugger. Wood, not aluminum. Shiny and classic. You’d kept it waxed and clean since high school softball. You gripped it with both hands and stepped up to the front of the car, lining up your swing.

Your body tensed, knees bent, and you drew it back.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Your heart kicked up in panic as you spun, bat raised and ready, in case one of Tyler’s meathead friends had stumbled outside to play hero.

But it wasn’t any of them. It wasn’t anyone you recognized at all.

A man stood just beyond the glow of the bar’s neon sign, a cigarette balanced between his fingers as he exhaled smoke into the night. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with messy dark hair and a beard to match. The light above him flickered, buzzing with moths, casting a yellow wash over his face.

You didn’t lower the bat completely, but your grip relaxed just a little.

“Can I help you?” you asked.

He shook his head slowly, taking another drag. “Nope. I’m good.” He tipped the cigarette with two fingers and gave you a look. “Can’t say the same for you, though.”

You rolled your eyes and turned your back on him, raising the bat again. “Mind your own goddamn business.”

He let out a low whistle. “Now you’re just makin’ me feel bad for the guy.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “He had another girl in our bed just hours ago, wouldn’t feel too sorry for him.”

That shut him up for half a beat. Then he gave a soft laugh behind you. “Shit. Sorry about that. Sounds like a real winner.”

“He’s a piece of shit.”

“I believe you.” He nodded toward the car. “Still wouldn’t do that.”

You swallowed, throat dry, peering back at him, eyes dragging from his dirty boots up to the dark glint in his eye, “You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours.

“You could explain away the scratches. The slashed tires, maybe. But bashed in headlights?” He shook his head. “Harder to blame that on a wild animal.”

He dropped the cigarette, pinched it out beneath his boot.

“And for the record,” he added, blowing out the last plume of smoke, “I’ve never cheated. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I wasn’t,” you said, a little too fast.

Silence stretched between you as you felt all the adrenaline, anger, and fire draining from your blood. Your shoulders dropped, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in your chest. Your fingers loosened, the bat slipping from your grip and hitting the ground with a dull thud. You covered your face with your hands, trying to hold back the sting in your throat.

The crunch of footsteps moved toward you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but close. He didn’t touch you, just stood nearby, hovering. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”

You shook your head, swiped your eyes with the heel of your hand. “I’m fine, I’m good. I just… I shouldn’t have come here.”

He was quiet for a beat, then said, “Come inside.”

You blinked at him, confused. “He’s in there with his idiot friends.”

“Yeah,” he said. Then he looked at you again, steadier this time. “All the more reason.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying I should…?”

He didn’t finish the thought for you, he didn’t grin or wink or push it. All he did was give a small shrug.

And now that he was closer, you noticed just how big he was. Broad in the shoulders, tall enough to cast a shadow over you even in the low light. He smelled like pine and something woodsy, warm and clean even with the leftover tang of cigarette smell. The scent clung to the cool night air as the breeze passed between you.

You looked up at him, and he met your eyes without flinching. Even in the low light, they held a thousand colors—green and gold and deep, earthy brown, all muddled together in a warm, unreadable hazel.

“I’ll buy your first round,” he said, voice softer now. “If you change your mind.”

Then he turned and walked back toward the bar with that same calm, heavy gait.

The inside of the bar was dim and loud, but not packed. Neon lights flickered above the bar shelves, a pool table clacked somewhere in the back, and country music played just low enough not to drown out conversation. You sat on a high stool, elbows on the bartop, a fresh drink in hand. Joel, you’d learned his name, was next to you, close enough that you couldn’t move an inch without brushing up against him. His legs were spread wide, thighs solid beneath his worn jeans, your knees between his, both turned toward each other in a natural way of things.

There were enough people that you at least were well hidden from Tyler and his friends who packed into a booth at the far end by the jukebox.

And you were two drinks in, starting your third, warm enough to finally feel loose.

“He wore loafers with no socks,” you said, scoffing into your drink. “Like, on purpose. He said it made him ‘look sophisticated’. I told him he looked like a youth pastor.”

Joel gave a low chuckle, eyes fixed on the beer bottle in his hand, but his smile curved deeper when you kept going.

“He couldn’t cook, couldn’t fix anything, couldn’t win an argument without quoting Andrew Tate. I swear to God, if I had to hear about ‘high-value men’ one more time—”

“Jesus,” Joel muttered as his lips met the rim of his drink, shaking his head.

“Yeah, real winner.” You echo his earlier quip, tipping your drink back, then nudged his inner thigh with your knee. “But the real tragedy is he’s never gonna find another girl who gives head like I do.”

Joel choked. Like, spluttering his sip of beer kind of choking.

You watched with satisfaction as he coughed mid sip, nearly slamming his beer down on the bar as he wiped his mouth, eyes wide.

“Jesus Christ, woman,” he rasped, clearing his throat hard, still catching his breath. “Warn a guy first.”

You tried not to grin, but it was impossible. “What? I’m just telling the truth.”

“You can’t just…say shit like that outta nowhere,” he said, still recovering, voice lower now, rougher. He looked over at you, eyes flicking to your mouth, then down to your legs before dragging back up again. “Damn near killed me.”

You smirked into your glass. “You walked up on me with a bat in my hand, remember? I’m not exactly the ‘ease into it’ type.”

Joel laughed, a quiet sound that curled low in his chest. He leaned toward you more fully now, his thighs pressed warm against yours. His eyes twinkled in the dim bar light as his grin settled across his face. He was handsome. Not polished or pretty, but rugged and built like a man who worked with his hands. Masculine in a way that felt rare now, like he was made of dirt and calluses and something heavier. You couldn’t tell exactly how old he was, but he had to be at least fifteen years your senior. And somehow that didn’t bother you. Not one bit.

You were leaning in too, your fingers wrapped around your glass, the condensation slipping over your knuckles as your blood warmed beneath his gaze. The space between you buzzed.

But then, remembering yourself, you looked away and sat back a little more.

“Thank you, by the way,” you said, voice a little softer now.

Joel’s smile faded into something more curious. “For what?”

“For... this. For making it so my birthday didn’t totally suck.”

His brows furrowed, the smile wiping from his face entirely. He was just opening his mouth to say something when he was cut off by the sound of your name beside you.

You turned, and standing there, in all his fuckboy glory, was your ex. 

You rolled your eyes as you set your sight on him, turning away as soon as you could. Joel’s knees still bracketed yours, still facing you, his hand coming down to your thigh to steady you.

“The hell do you want, Tyler?” you asked, voice flat.

You didn’t look to see the expression on his face, and you wondered what the slow cogs in his brain were thinking as he looked between you and the man in the barstool across from you.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked, voice pinched and high with something that sounded suspiciously like jealousy.

You took a slow sip of your drink, thinking through how you wanted to go about this. 

You could feel Tyler standing there, stewing, his presence irritating as the whine of a mosquito. Joel didn’t move, didn’t even look his way. He just kept sipping his beer, calm as anything, one hand still resting on your leg.

Tyler finally broke.

“So what—what is this?” His voice was tight, defensive. “You cheating on me now?”

You turned, purposely slow, and looked at him like he’d just said the dumbest thing in the world. Then you laughed. Not a chuckle, a full, disbelieving bark that caught the attention of the bartender and a few people down the bar.

“Cheating on you?” you repeated, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? We’re broken up, you asshole.”

Tyler blinked, thrown off by your tone. “We didn’t break up.”

“Yes,” you said, voice clipped. “We did. You just weren’t listening when I kicked your ass out of the apartment and told you never to speak to me again. You remember? When I came home from work to the sound of you fucking some girl in our bed?”

His face twitched, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that,” you snapped. “You couldn’t even give me one night for my birthday.”

Tyler looked confused, like the words hadn’t registered.

“I was gonna take you somewhere nice,” he said, voice rising as he gestured between you and Joel. “I figured you just needed to cool off. We were gonna go out tomorrow.”

You stared at him open-mouthed. “Tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I had a whole thing planned.”

“Tyler,” you said, voice flat with exasperation, “my birthday is today.”

He blinked again. It took a second, but then he winced.

You gave a soft, bemused laugh, shaking your head like you couldn’t believe the universe had really let you waste five years of your life on this man.

And then, beside you, Joel started laughing.

Not a big, loud laugh like yours, but just a low, quiet one. A little huff that grew into a full chuckle, deep in his chest. He shook his head, sipping his drink casually.

Tyler’s head whipped toward him.

“The fuck’s so funny?”

Joel didn’t look at him right away. He tipped his beer toward his mouth again, finished the rest in a few slow gulps, then set the bottle down on the bar with a soft clink.

“Just amazed she lasted five years,” he said as if reading your mind and finally glancing over his shoulder. “You make dumb look like a full-time job.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. Joel didn’t so much as blink.

Tyler bristled, standing up straighter. “You don’t even know her.”

Joel shifted beside you, his legs brushing yours as he twisted on the stool, planting one boot firm on the floor. He didn’t look at Tyler, hardly even acknowledged him. Like the kid wasn’t worth the breath it would take to answer.

“Know enough,” he said easily.

Tyler scoffed, puffing his chest like he could make himself bigger. “She’s not some prize, you know. She’s a fucking slut.”

The word hung there for a second. Long enough to feel the floor shift under you.

Joel went still.

Completely still.

His hand left your knee.

He stood and looked down at your ex.

And for the first time, Tyler actually looked nervous.

Joel stepped forward, close enough that Tyler had to tilt his head back just slightly to look him in the eye. Joel didn’t yell, didn’t shove. He didn’t need to.

He just looked at him hard and cold and steady.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, kid.” he said, not blinking, not smiling. “You’re gonna turn around and walk back to your little friends, and you’re gonna keep walking and count yourself lucky, because if you stick around long enough to say one more word to her, you and I are gonna have a different kind of conversation. One that ends with you choking on your teeth.”

Tyler didn’t move at first. He just stood there like he thought he might still be able to win whatever stupid pissing contest was playing in his head.

But Joel didn’t look away. He barely blinked, barely even moved.

And something in Tyler finally folded.

He scoffed, muttered something under his breath, and backed away. His footsteps were loud against the sticky floor as he turned and stalked over to the other end of the room.

You let out a slow breath, heart pounding harder than you’d expected.

Joel turned back to you, his eyes softer now.

“You alright?”

You nodded. Your voice wasn’t quite ready yet.

He sat back down beside you, the warmth of his presence sliding back into place. His legs bracketed yours again, your knees brushing his upper thighs.

“Didn’t mean to make a scene,” he added, picking up his empty bottle and signaling the bartender for another.

You looked over at him, studying the curve of his jaw, the easy set of his shoulders, the slow breath he took like nothing had just happened.

“That was…oddly really hot.” you said, almost before you could stop yourself.

He raised an eyebrow, but his grin tugged wide.

“That right?”

You blushed crimson, feeling the warmth of blood rush to your cheeks, “Don’t let it get to your head.”

He chuckled, soft and pleased, and when the next drink landed in front of him, he slid it your way instead.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

Looking back, you couldn’t exactly say how it happened. 

You remembered following Joel outside for a smoke, the air cooling your flushed, feverish skin. You shared the little white stick between you, the cigarette passing hand to hand, his fingers rough and warm every time they brushed yours. That simple touch felt electric.

You knew it was you who leaned in first. You were the one who grabbed his shirt, pushed him back against the siding, your fingers going straight for the thick hair at the base of his neck.

He smelled so damn good. Beneath the cigarette smoke and cheap beer was something deeper—pine, woodsmoke, a trace of sweat and musk that made your stomach twist with heat. He seemed so masculine and wild and grounding all at once.

His arms wrapped around you fast. One slid down to your lower back, the other tossing the cigarette aside without a second thought before wrapping a fist through your hair. He kissed you back just as hard, tongue sweeping into your mouth, like he’d been waiting all night for you to get the courage.

From there, it all moved very quickly. 

Because now Joel was looking down at you on your knees, the shadows of the side alley carving deep lines across his face. His voice came low and rough, barely more than a breath.

“What was it you said before, huh?” he said as his hand touched your hair, fingers curling around your ear as he tucked some of it back, “About givin’ the best head that prick ever had?”

You looked up at him with a slow, wicked smile, your palms dragging up his legs. You squeezed the thick muscle of his thighs, fingers digging into denim. Your heart thudded with anticipation, your mouth already watering as he cupped your cheek in one hand, thumb brushing your skin.

The other hand went to his belt.

The sound of the buckle unfastening made your breath hitch. The sharp metal clink, the slow drag of the zipper felt like a dare.

Joel’s hand dropped, wrapping around yours. He pulled your fingers from his thigh and placed them right over the hard bulge in his jeans, pressing your palm down slowly.

“Go on then,” he murmured, voice like asphalt, steady despite the heat you could feel radiating off of him. “Show me.”

You lifted your hands to the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down along with the band of his briefs, just far enough to free him.

His cock sprang up in your face, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening for you. It slapped lightly against his stomach, curved upward with a heavy weight before falling back into your eye line—aching, proud, and impossibly hard.

You swallowed.

He was thick from base to tip, the head swollen and flushed a deeper shade of pink, a bead of slick gathering at the slit and catching the low light. His cock twitched once as you stared, greedy for touch, for heat, for your mouth.

You wet your lips with a slow sweep of your tongue, your hand lifting as if drawn there by instinct. Joel hissed softly when your fingers wrapped around him. He was warm, so warm, the weight of him heavy in your palm. The dark, coarse hair at his base tickled your skin as you pressed your hand flush to him, steadying him as your grip tightened.

You glanced up, eyes meeting his.

He was so beautiful like this. Pants half down, jaw tight, hair mussed from your hands, chest rising with a slow, shaky breath. 

And in that moment, you made a decision. You were going to ruin him.

You were going to make him come in your mouth.

His expression told you he already felt it coming. His brows drawn, lips parted, eyes so dark they barely looked human. There was pride in that stare, but something else too. Need, barely held together, a tension you were about to unravel. He knew you’d ruin him too.

Your mouth opened slowly. Your breath stopping as you leaned in, the scent of him thick and heady, musk and skin and arousal coiling low in your gut.

You leaned in and ran your tongue along the slit at the tip of his cock, catching the bead of precum as it touched your tongue. He moaned breathlessly, and the sound went straight to your head, turning your thoughts to static.

You flattened your tongue along the underside, dragging it along the ridge where head met shaft. Then you pressed slow, wet kisses to the bulbous head, your lips soft, your breath warm. You licked and suckled, easing into a rhythm, teasing until his hips gave the slightest jerk.

Joel groaned, his breath hissing through bared teeth as he looked down at you. His gaze was heavy, unblinking, fixed on the sight of you between his legs.

And then, casually, he reached into his jacket and pulled out another cigarette.

You blinked, pulling away slightly to look up at him. “Seriously?”

He just grinned, the cigarette resting between his lips as he cupped the lighter and struck the flame. His eyes never left you, even as he took the first drag, the orange tip flaring in the dark.

You rolled your eyes, but you weren’t laughing. Something about it made your blood run hotter.

You sank down and took him fully into your mouth, lips sealing around the thick heat of him, your tongue flattening to feel every vein and ridge as he slid deeper. He let out a quiet curse under his breath, and his head dropped back against the brick behind him as he exhaled smoke into the night air.

You hated to admit it, but there was something so hot—so unfairly, stupidly hot—about watching him smoke while you blew him.

"You got the prettiest lips, baby," he groaned, "Look so good around my cock."

You pulled back slowly, letting your lips glide over him with just enough pressure to make his stomach flex as you moaned at his praise. Your hand wrapped around the base, slick with your spit, and you stroked him, watching his abdomen tighten with each pass of your warm slick palm.

Then you took him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks as your tongue traced the underside, catching every pulse of blood in his veins. Your jaw ached almost immediately from the sheer stretch of him, but you didn’t stop. You wanted it to ache, to feel it for days after.

Joel groaned, quiet at first, like he was trying to keep it in. But the longer you worked him, the less restraint he seemed to have. His hips rolled slightly, not enough to choke you, just enough to meet your rhythm. You could hear the drag of his breath between his teeth, the low rumble in his throat as he let out a breathy curse. His free hand slid into your hair, just holding, his fingers curling loosely at your scalp.

His chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves. The glow of the cigarette tip pulsed with each drag, the smoke curling upward and disappearing into the night as he watched you again.

You moved your hand in sync with your mouth, stroking the base as you bobbed slowly, building a rhythm he could sink into. Every time you pulled back, your tongue dragged along his length, warm and wet and unforgiving. You twisted your wrist when your hand met your mouth, just like you knew drove a man insane.

You could feel the tension in his thighs now, in the way his muscles tensed beneath your hand, in the little shudders that ran through him each time you went a little deeper. His groans were getting rougher. Louder.

You pulled back for a second, just long enough to kiss along his shaft, your mouth slick and open, tongue dragging up the side before you sucked his head in again, swirling your tongue in slow, teasing circles.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word barely audible, his voice rough as gravel, "Gonna let me come in your mouth? That what you want?"

You looked up at him, nodding as best you could as you licked at his cock again with eyes wide and doe-like. His head tilted back, lips parted around the cigarette, brows drawn tight. His hand tightened slightly in your hair, and you took that as agreement.

You smiled, slow and smug, and ducked your head again.

This time, you didn’t stop. You let him hit the back of your throat again and again, worked your hand in tandem, made every pull of your mouth feel deliberate. The kind of rhythm that unraveled men. You moaned around him, lost in it too.

You felt him start to shake.

"Oh god, oh god," he chanted.

His thighs were trembling now, the muscles locked tight. His hand fisted in your hair, not to stop you or guide you, but to hold on for dear life.

And when he came, he swore. Loud, rough, his body curling forward over you like the force of it knocked the wind out of him, cigarette burning forgotten on the ground. You hadn’t even noticed when he dropped it.

His cock pulsed in your mouth as thick ropes of his come painted your throat, and you took it all, salty and thick but somehow not entirely unpleasant. You were surprised how easy it was to swallow every drop.

You didn’t move right away. Just rested there, mouth soft around him, lips still closed as he twitched once, twice, breath dragging heavy from his chest. When you finally pulled off, slow and careful, your chin was slick, your mouth swollen, your throat sore in the best way imaginable.

Joel stared down at you, completely undone. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, then looked up at him, breathless.

“Told ya,” you said with a sly smile, voice a little hoarse but playful.

He let out a laugh that cracked right down the middle, then leaned back against the wall, head tilted up toward the sky, needing a second to recover before remembering how to speak.

You stood slowly, wiping your hands on your thighs before reaching into your bag for your lip gloss. The little click of the cap echoed in the quiet alley as you twisted it open and ran the wand over your mouth, smoothing it back to its glossy sheen. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the nearby window: hair wild, lips swollen, eyes a little too bright, and gave a small, satisfied smirk.

Joel hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the wall, pants zipped back up, cigarette now completely gone, the filter crushed under the heel of his boot. His chest was still rising and falling like he hadn’t quite gotten a full breath back yet.

“Well,” you said as you tucked the gloss away and gave your jacket a tug into place, “thanks for the fun, Joel. I’ll see you around.”

You turned toward the mouth of the alley, but his voice stopped you before you could take more than two steps.

“Now where do you think you’re goin’?”

You glanced back over your shoulder, brow lifted. “You seem tired, old man. Didn’t think you’d make it to round two is all.”

Joel pushed off the wall with a slow roll of his shoulders, his mouth twitching into something between a grin and a challenge. He stepped toward you, his boots crunching quietly in the gravel.

“You live far from here?” he asked, voice low again, steady and curious like he already knew what answer he wanted.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, lips twitching. “Why?”

Joel stopped just to the side of you, looming close enough that you could smell the last trace of smoke on his breath, the salt of his skin. His hand reached up to push your hair behind your shoulder, and he dipped his head, speaking just beside your neck.

“Because I’d much rather fuck the birthday girl in a bed than in some dirty alley,” he murmured. “Somewhere I can really take my time.”

The goosebumps hit instantly, your lips parting as the space between your legs pulsed with fresh heat.

“Ten minutes,” you managed. “Give or take.”

Joel pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, but his hand moved to rest at your waist.

He looked down at you for a beat, then gave a small shake of his head. “You’ve been drinkin'.”

“So have you.”

“Neither of us should be drivin',” he said, voice still soft but firmer now, threading just enough authority through the warmth. “I’ll call a cab.”

You let out a slow breath, a half smile playing at your lips. “Being responsible is such a buzzkill.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his fingers skimming your side, tracing the curve of your hip, his hand up under your jacket, “but I’d rather make through the night so I can live to hear what you sound like with my cock in you, pretty girl.”

That shut you up.

[copyhanni]

୨୧　𝐽𝑈𝑆𝑇 𝐴 𝑇𝐴𝑆𝑇𝐸 ─ 니키

　　── ❛ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗇 , 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝗂𝗄𝗂 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 ❜

꒰ 𝗇𝗂-𝗄𝗂 ⨾ 𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ꒱ ⸝⸝ 𝑤𝑐. 1OOO ⋆ 𝑐𝑤. 𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 ⋆ 𝑔. 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 ⋆ 𝑎𝑛. 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 (𝗂 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍) :𝗉 　—　𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿

You were walking through the school parking lot, finally able to head home after a long day of exams and challenging courses. As you walked, you could see a crowd forming, students pulling out their phones and pushing through each other. You grew curious, following the crowd as you heard yelling.

As you tried to push your way through the circle of students, a somewhat raspy but familiar voice struck your ears, swear words being most of his vocabulary. You couldn’t quite hear him however due to the amount of yelling from surrounding pupils.

You watched as the two guys threw punches at each other, one knocking the other heavily in the face. You had never actually watched a school fight, only occasionally hearing about a couple as it was an extremely rare occurrence. So, seeing the scene in real-time was more dramatic than you expected.

One of the guys was cursing out the other who was now on the floor, face painted with shimmering, red blood. His voice was coarse and threatening as he spoke, walking closer to the opponent, who was now almost directly in front of you. As he walked you noticed his bloodied face, it was Riki.

You had never expected something like this from him as he’s always been so gentle and his voice so soothing. His eyes were filled with the essence of hatred and anger that reflected in the actions he had taken against this now helpless guy.

“It was just a joke,” the other yelled, scrambling to get to his feet. Riki knelt down, grabbing him by his collar and landing another brutal blow to his jaw. A mixture of blood and saliva splattered the concrete as other students gasped, surprised at how far the fight was taken.

“Nobody laughed,” Riki said, another vigorous impact bore the other guy’s face, strong enough to knock him into a daze before Riki threw his head toward the ground. You, as many others, had been frozen in place, unable to comprehend everything that had happened. It was all too quick and all too much. You stood, feet rooted in the floor, your eyes darting from Riki to the other, unnamed guy, and back. You were scared, yet intrigued.

People began to disperse, the principal’s voice growing closer and the sound of sirens singing just moments away. You watched some students pick up their injured classmate as Riki turned his back to the scene. His form bending over as he retched up blood, spitting out the remaining mixture from his mouth. Then you realised the reality of the situation, and Riki was hurt.

You rushed toward him, your heart rapidly beating through your chest. “Riki,” you called out, though your voice felt small and thin against the chaos of the incident. His head turned to you, surprise momentarily subduing the adrenaline that raced through him.

“Yn?” His voice was hoarse, but his eyes were soft. You noticed the blood that etched his face from place to place, and blood dripping from his knuckles. You grabbed his arm gently, tugging him away from the incident and entering the old school art building as sirens approached closer.

“What are we doing here?” He asked, looking around the dark room, small beams of sunlight seeping through the windows as you walked toward the first-aid station. His eyes reached you, a flicker of yearning crossing them as you grabbed ointment from the shelves.

“Come sit,” you said, patting the seat next to yours before dabbing medicine on a cloth.

“I’m fine, yn,” he protested weakly, but you could see the pain in his face and the way his hands shook.

“Sit down Riki,” you replied firmly. Riki sat, his bravado fading as you dabbed the cloth against his wounded hands, wincing at the sharp intake of breath he took. “This is gonna sting,” you warned softly, your eyes light as you looked up at him.

“Yeah, i noticed,” he replied softly, a trace of a smile lingering on his face that eased the tension of the air. Your eyes were focused on his hands, the blood transferring to the no longer white cloth as Riki withheld his pain, closing his eyes tight and biting his lip shut.

“What.. even happened?” You asked as you turned away, grabbing the bag of cotton swabs.

“He was making jokes.. about you,” his voice persisted before you turned back to him.

“I don’t want you getting hurt over stupid jokes, Riki,” You murmured, his gaze averting yours.

“Neither do I,” his voice lowered. “But he shouldn’t have made them in the first place.” You set the bag down and swirled a cotton swab in water. Your eyes locked onto Riki’s tumid and bloodied lip as you patted the cotton swab on the gash. You could feel his stare drilling into you as you attempted to focus, but as usual, without fail, your gaze turned to his eyes.

Riki leaned closer, his breath warm and ragged against your cheek. “Yn…” he muttered, his voice a low, intoxicating drawl that made your pulse quicken.

Before you could respond, his arms pulled you by your waist into his lap before cupping your face gently against his hand. He leaned in, his lips softly brushing against yours in a gentle cadence. His lips were warm and rough against yours, deepening the kiss with some sense of urgency as you melted into his intoxication.

You felt a sharp nip on your lower lip, the metallic taste of blood seeping into both of your mouths as you dug your nails into his skin.

“That… hurts babe,” he mumbled against your hot mouth. You smirked against his blood covered lips as he pulled you in deeper, fingers tightening on your waist and his other hand pressing the nape of your neck into him. You moved your hand into his hair, tangling within it and twirling it between your fingers.

You placed gentle kisses along his face, his cheek, his jaw, leading a trail of blood all the way to the side of his neck. You looked back at him, his gaze dark but filled with endearment as he kissed your lips once more.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

　　𖥔 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 : @wonsdoll @flwrstqr @mmygnolia @nshmuras @myungsua @kairoot

[mrsbarnesblog]

i’ve got you

part 1

masterlist

summary: after leaving you with Sarah, Rafe decides to deal with your ex and make sure that he would never have the power to hurt you again

words count: 2k

warnings: mentions of SA and being filmed without permission, violence, blood, threats with a gun, protective Rafe

a/n: for those who asked to write the continuation of the first part. also i’m accepting request for Rafe, so if you have anything interesting to share, feel free to send it to me🪼

Rafe didn’t say much when he left you in the living room of Tanneyhill, only threw a blanket over your body and left a soft kiss on your forehead, as you both knew exactly where he was going. Only Sarah stood speechless in the doorway, looking from her brother to you and being absolutely lost about what was going on. 

A few hours ago you came in normal, greeting Rafe the way you usually did—shy, hesitant. The way that made Sarah always tease you about it. She didn’t notice anything weird. And after you disappeared in the bathroom for an hour, coming out of there with her brother, shaken and clearly after crying there the whole time, Sarah didn’t know what to think. 

She had never seen Rafe like that before. Sure, his temper had always been over the top, but an absolutely cold and murderous look on his face when he brushed past her and ordered her to look after you? Well, that was new.

“What happened? Is there… anything going on between the two of you?” She asked softly, sitting at the edge of the sofa near you. You shook your head, not trusting your voice to speak and knowing damn well that if you open your mouth, you will burst into tears again. She let out a sigh, for a moment debating calling Kie or Cleo to ask for advice, but eventually she let go, settling near you while you slowly drifted to sleep. 

Rafe’s knuckles twitched against the leather wheel as he drove with one hand. He knew where Ethan lived, remembering that busted apartment off Madsen Street, the third floor, the one with the shitty balcony and peeling green door. He parked crookedly and didn’t even bother locking the car, knowing that it wouldn't take him long. 

He didn’t knock, he slammed his hand against the door a few times. Ethan opened it with the usual, sleazy grin on his face, holding a phone in his hand, as if he was waiting for something. His eyes widened for a split second before he puffed his chest to make himself look bigger and taller than Rafe was, looking him up and down dismissively. 

“The fuck do you—“ Rafe didn’t let him finish, shoving him back into the apartment and slamming the door behind him so hard it felt like the whole building shook. 

Ethan stumbled back, barely not tripping over the sofa, trying to look tough and cool, but Rafe saw that fear in his eyes. The one he always had around him, as if knowing that Rafe could snap him in half if he really wanted to, and Rafe definitely thrived on that feeling. 

“Get the fuck away, Cameron!” Ethan mumbled, backing away with every step Rafe took, fidgeting with his phone and helplessly looking around. 

“You know why I'm here. Though you could scare her into crawling back to you, huh?” Rafe’s voice came out low and dangerous, the feelings about you being hurt finally getting a release. Ethan’s grip on the phone tightened, the screen lighting up, making Rafe’s eyes zero in on it and jaw clench. 

“I didn’t—man, it wasn’t like that, I swear—” Rafe didn’t let him finish, throwing a punch right into his jaw. Ethan fell on the floor, crying from pain, as blood trickled down his lip, trying to get up, face red and twisted in a mix of pain and fake bravado. 

“You don’t know what she’s like, man—she—she wanted it, alright? She was moaning my name—”

That earned him another blow. This one knocked a tooth loose. Blood bloomed across his lips.

“Say that again.” Rafe snarled, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him upright like he weighed nothing. “Fucking say that shit again. Tell me she asked for it. Tell me she wanted you to touch her, to drug her, to film her like she was just something for you to use and toss away.”

“I didn’t drug her!” Ethan spat, his face bleeding now, splotches blooming on the floor and light wall behind him. “She drank too much, okay? It wasn’t my fault! What do you want me to say?”

“That you're worthless.” Punch. “Pathetic sack of shit.” Punch. “Who’s about to lose everything.” Punch. Rafe threw him back down like garbage, breathing heavily, before connecting his boot with Ethan’s ribs with so much power that it was enough to break them. 

Rafe finally was satisfied enough, seeing that piece of shit hunched on the floor and covered in his own blood. He reached behind him, pulling a gun from the back of his waistband, and held it steady, cold metal glinting in the hallway light. Rafe wasn’t shaking. His hand was terrifyingly still, aimed right at the forehead.

Ethan coughed, whining on the floor, trying to lift himself on shaking hands, still oblivious to what could happen at any moment. When something metal clicked near his ear, Ethan’s eyes went wide, head snapping towards the sound. He scrambled backward, palms scraping against the floor. “What the fuck, man… What the fuck?!” 

Rafe thrived off the look in Ethan’s eyes. That pure and pathetic fear, the moment he understood that he was absolutely alone and unable to protect himself. And Rafe would’ve pulled the trigger. Oh, he really wanted to. But he knew how much it would hurt you to know that he got blood on his hands, he could imagine you blaming yourself for it.

“Phone. Laptop. Drive. Whatever shit you have, you’re gonna delete everything. Every video. Every picture. Every fuckin’ copy on every drive, every cloud backup. All of it. And you’re gonna do it with a gun to your head so you don’t get any bright ideas. You better pray I believe your ass, or otherwise I’m gonna blow a hole in your fucking head just like you deserve.” His voice was cold and steady. Ethan started nodding, fidgeting with his phone and unlocking it only on the third try. 

Rafe stood there and watched everything. He watched Ethan open the files, show the videos, show the backups, and delete every last one. And then, with the gun still trained on his face, Rafe made him reset everything to factory settings. Wipe. Everything.

“And the drive.” Rafe said again, voice flat.

“It’s gone, I swear—”

“Drive. Now.” The barrel of the gun touched Ethan’s temple, and he slid down the wall, on which he was leaning while sitting, to the floor, crawling towards the desk and pulling it from a drawer. One last backup. Rafe smashed it with his boot, again and again, until it was nothing but plastic and wire guts. 

“You show your face again, you text her again, or you look at her again, and I swear to God I’ll bury you alive after breaking every bone in your body. Do you hear me?!”

Ethan was choking on his own sobs now, snot mixing with the blood, face pale and eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. He nodded frantically, hands raised like a white flag, but Rafe didn’t move. He crouched down, slow and measured, keeping the barrel grazing Ethan’s forehead, his eyes full of rage but clear and sharp.

“If I hear one rumor, one whisper, one goddamn trace of her name tied to what you did…” His eyes locked with Ethan’s, voice stone cold. “You’re dead.”

He turned, leaving Ethan curled on the floor, the door hanging crooked on its hinges behind him. 

Out in the car, Rafe gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went bone-white. He didn’t start the engine right away. He just sat there, breathing hard, his shirt clinging to him, his heart almost jumping out of his ribcage.

Rafe returned back to Tanneyhill an hour later, feeling that he had to calm down before seeing you. He took the longest road to clean his mind, to think about what happened and about what it meant for the two of you. 

His feelings for you were clear and sincere, they always had been, since the moment he finally accepted that there was a reason he felt different whenever you were around. So now, when all the cards were on the table, he had to be careful. He could never forgive himself if he fucked it up. Not this time. Not with you. 

He moved through the house slowly and quietly, going through the big rooms to the one where he had left you. 

Sarah was in front of him the same second she heard the soft steps. Her eyes got wide at the sight of the blood, his and clearly someone else’s, on his split knuckles. Hair messy and eyes still slightly distant and cold—clear indicator that something had happened that disturbed Rafe deeply. 

“Rafe… What the hell happened?” She hissed as loud as she could, looking back for a second to look at your sleeping form. “Tell me you didn’t kill anyone…” Her voice dropped lower, an unsettling feeling creeping into her. 

“I didn’t.” Rafe mumbled, not even looking at his sister. His eyes were on you, slightly softer now. 

“I don’t— I don’t fucking understand. Why was she crying? Where have you been? Why the hell are you looking at her like a lovesick puppy?” Sarah got desperate, her hands flying to her head, running them through her blond hair, and groaning when Rafe still didn’t pay any attention to her. 

“If she wants to, she’ll tell you.” That was everything he said before brushing past Sarah, moving towards the sofa, and dropping to his knees in front of you.

You were asleep, but it was clear that it wasn’t peaceful. Your hands were gripping the blanket and keeping it close to your chest. Blow slightly furrowed and lashes fluttering against your cheeks. 

Rafe brought his clear left hand to your face, sliding his knuckles down your jaw. 

The gentleness of his touch made your eyes open slowly, a quiet and tired sigh escaping from your lips. Everything was blurry at first, until your eyes focused in the dim room and saw Rafe’s face in front of you. 

“Rafe.” You whispered his name softly, lifting your hand to touch his. 

“I’m here now.” His thumb brushed your cheek, slow and grounding. “I handled it. It’s all gone. I promise.” You stared at him, stunned, trying to process everything, to understand that it all was not a sick nightmare. Your lips slightly trembled, but you were too tired to cry again. “You don’t have to worry. He won’t come near you ever again.” 

You nodded slightly, and something inside you unclenched, just enough to let the exhaustion come crashing in all over again. When you shifted and, instinctively, reached for him, Rafe caught you before you could even sit up fully.

“C’mon.” He said, rising with ease, one arm sliding beneath your legs, the other behind your back. “You’re sleeping in my room tonight.”

You didn’t protest. Just curled closer against him, eyes falling shut again as the motion of his footsteps rocked you softly, lulling you back to sleep. 

“Are you serious right now?” Sarah’s voice echoed faintly behind you. “She’s staying with you?”

But Rafe didn’t answer her. He didn’t even turn around. He just carried you upstairs like you were the most precious thing, and it was his work to protect you. And for him it was. From now on he promised himself to keep you close and safe. 

When the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, Rafe laid you down gently on his bed, tucking the covers around your body. 

You were half-asleep, but when you sensed him moving away from you, your hand caught his wrist as if on instinct.

“Stay.” You whispered, barely audible.

Rafe stilled, unsure if it was really what you wanted to. Then nodded, slow and reverent.

He climbed in beside you, not caring about changing his clothes or about the dried blood that caused him discomfort. If you wanted him, he couldn’t say no. The moment the mattress dipped under his weight, you rolled toward him instinctively, curling into the curve of his chest. His arms came around you without hesitation, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. 

Rafe didn’t fall asleep right away.

He laid there in the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breath and the quiet thrum of his own heart. Every now and then, he’d press the lightest kiss to your temple, not to wake you, just to remind himself you were real. That you were safe. That you were his.

[cherrychilli]

18+ Eddie Munson x f! reader, neighbor! reader, friends to lovers, use of sex toy, chastity belt, mentions of virginity, sexual scenarios, implied PIV, implied loss of virginity WC:2.5K

Summary: What happens when you head over next door to seek your neighbor's help with a very intimate and unusual problem? a whole lot of repressed feelings are finally shared. And there's sex stuff too, duh.

Extended ending

It's the kind of decision that you didn't arrive at easily. Quite frankly, you feel you'd much rather down a cup of iron nails and let them shred your body from the inside on the way down, but that wouldn't fix your problem.

No, you were utterly fucked and you desperately needed help.

So, with one shaky step after the other, you approach your neighbor's trailer, stepping up to the door and realizing this is the closest you've been to it in a long time.

The temperature's perfectly balmy outside. Most folks have their laundry hung out, gently flapping in the wind but everything inside you is frigid cold. It takes you a couple of minutes to thaw your frozen limbs on his doorstep, raising your hand and rolling your fingers into a loose fist before tapping your knuckles against the door thrice.

Seconds pass and before you can attempt to knock again you hear some kind of commotion deeper inside the trailer, a bunch of dull thuds sounding out before you pick up on the sound of footsteps approaching.

You take a quick step back, pulling your ear away from the door and you weave your fingers together, holding them tightly down the front of your skirt.

No going back now.

When Eddie Munson pulls open the door in his sweats and a wrinkled band tee he's obviously pulled on in a hurry, everything starts to feel way too real for your liking.

You figure he must have been lounging in his underwear again. You know this because his curtains don't close all the way, leading to you catching glimpses of his bare chest and stomach from your own bedroom. Not that you ever meant to look. No, not at all.

"Uh hi, Eddie", you manage to string a few words together, your tongue feeling like you've barely got any control over it at all with the way it feels so limp and cotton dry in your mouth.

He doesn't answer, looking at you curiously and you worry if it's because he doesn't recall you despite the both of you having grown up in the trailer park and attending the same school. You ran in different circles sure, but you always made sure to say hi and wave politely at your neighbor whenever you saw him, even after you began to see less of him when you made it into College and he is yet to be awarded the high school diploma that keeps evading him.

"Oh I'm-"

"I know", he cuts you off. Abrupt but not rude.

"Right, so I came by because...well, I need your help."

He squints his eyes at you this time, almost like he's trying to solve a puzzle in his head.

"Didn't take you for the reefer type", his lips slant into a half smile, the dimple on his right cheek drawing your attention.

"What? Oh no, that's not why I came over" you quickly correct him though you can't blame him for thinking so. Everyone knows the grass is greenest at the Munson trailer, so to speak, and with the two of you not exactly being the closest of friends, you can't fault him for making the assumption.

"So, how can I help you then?"

"Actually it's kind of a delicate topic. Can I come in? I promise I can explain."

Come in?

And for reasons other than to score some drugs?

Eddie would never admit it out loud but no other girl has ever asked this of him before and he hopes it doesn't show because he's absolutely stumped, not really knowing how to react.

It's when he can't help but crumble under the weight of your doe eyes that he pulls the door open enough for you to squeeze by him with the sweetest smile on your lips. Turning you away, not that he'd want to, but the thought of turning you away felt much too akin to kicking a baby bunny.

You see the couch and you step over to it, your eyes wandering all over the trailer on your way. It's a little chaotic sure but you spy some order here and there, intrigued by the row of hats and mugs displayed neatly on the wall, wondering how long it must have taken them to amass the whole collection.

"So, you were saying that you need my help?"

You turn around, nearly colliding with the little Garfield mug he holds out to you. "Oh, thank you", you take it, looking inside to see a fizzy circle of grape soda inside bubbling back at you.

"Seen you having it at school a few times", he let's you know before you have a chance to ask him how he knew about your favorite drink.

Guess you weren't the only one occasionally sneaking a peek from a distance.

"Wow, that's so thoughtful", you smile at him again, noticing the way his cheeks pink up when he averts his eyes with a grunt to clear his throat.

"Yeah, don't worry about it."

You have a few sips as you sit down on the couch, sinking into the cushion. Now that you're inside, that sickening feeling slithers inside your body again and you start to go cold like before, placing the mug down on the table carefully, looking Eddie in the eye while he stands opposite you.

You gulp hard. "The reason I came over is because I did something...I did something really stupid and I need someone to help me who'll also be discreet about it. Please, Eddie. You have to promise me you won't tell."

Seeing you practically begging, seeing the way you look up at him like he's the only one who can help, like he's the only one you want to help you hits him right in the chest. And a little below the waistband of his sweats too but he files that thought away for later.

As much as he wants to say yes he needs to know more.

"Listen if you're in some kind of trouble or if you're-"

"No no it's nothing like that!"

"Okay, but I need to know what it is that I'm saying yes to."

That's reasonable. Entirely reasonable but your face falls into your open palms. You wish you could scream into them than have to bear the embarrassment you're about to cause yourself.

"Okay okay", you spring up onto your feet before you lose your nerve, standing right in front of him with your forehead nearly brushing his chin. "I need your help getting this off."

Quickly, you pull up your skirt to let him see what's underneath, his wide, terrified eyes flicking to and away from between your legs, not sure if he should actually be looking there despite you voluntarily baring yourself to him.

It's not everyday that a pretty girl comes by to flash him in the comfort of his own home.

When Eddie does manage to settle down somewhat he looks closer, taking in the thick black leather straps wrapped around you, studded with silver accents and your white cotton panties underneath which show through a cut out in the shape of a heart right above your mound.

"Please. I lost the key and I can't get the damn thing off. I've seen you working on your van with your tools. There must be something in there that you can use, right?"

Eddie's head is spinning, unable to stop focusing on your crotch and what he recognizes as a chastity belt from one of those BDSM magazines hidden under his bed wrapped around you.

"Why did you-"

You sigh. "I was checking to see if it fit because I wanted to wear it for someone I was dating", you admit with some disdain.

Eddie knows exactly who, sharing in your disdain.

"Danny Vaugh", Eddie says with a clear note of contempt, his tongue turning sour at the mention of his name. Skeezy little fucker who liked to test his luck by getting behind the wheel after a couple of beers and making out with a different girl at every party whether he had a girlfriend of his own waiting for him or not.

Eddie doesn't know what you ever saw in him, if at all.

"Right", you sigh, the regret clouding your whole face and with it, whatever feelings of embarrassment or shame are forced out, no longer afraid to just tell Eddie the truth.

"Yeah, well he dumped me. I wasn't ready to have sex and he was sick of dating a virgin." Watching the hurt register on your face made Eddie want nothing more than to introduce Danny to his ring clad fist. Repeatedly.

"So I saw this thing online and I don't know... a part of me thought he'd be into it? give him the key and let him finally have me or whatever. But a little while ago I heard that he's already moved on. With some girl in the same class as me too...that's so like him. And I've been locked in this fucking thing for the last three and a half hours. Please, I really need it off."

"That's... wow", he blinks, stunned. Not usually one to be at a loss for words but this was wild even for him.

"Yeah, so can you help me or not?"

--

You never would have thought you'd be in this position. Your skirt off while you sit down on the edge of Eddie Munson's bed, your legs spread for him as he kneels between them, trying his best to figure out which angle to tackle this problem from.

He's got a tool box to his left, all manner and sorts stored inside. Some of them you recognize and most of them you don't.

"Alright, so I think the best way would be to get this padlock off", he taps the heart shaped cut out and you feel it right on your mound. It's worse for him because this close it's hard for Eddie to remain professional when he can see your pussy clenching underneath the thin cotton barrier of your panties.

"So, what are you gonna use?" you ask him, throat scratchy and nervous when you eye a hammer and the sharp teeth of a saw laying among the tools.

"Don't worry. Got just the thing."

His hand dips into the tool box, sorting through it for nearly a minute.

"Got it", he smiles, pulling out something you hadn't anticipated.

"A safety pin?", you ask, confused.

Eddie chuckles at your reaction, his hands already on the padlock on your hip.

"Gonna pick it. Don't worry, I've done this a thousand times", he assures you. He bends the pin out of it's usual shape, twisting and pulling until he seems satisfied with the end result. Carefully, he inserts the sharp end of the pin inside the keyhole on the lock, fiddling with it this way and that.

"Pretty cool you know how to do this stuff", you tell him sincerely, relieved he didn't opt to cut or hammer you out of the belt.

The praise goes straight to his blushing cheeks. He's so used to people passing judgement on him for knowing these kinds of things, thinking of him as some kind of irredeemable good for nothing with the skillset of a petty thief. Just like his father.

You don't think that of him though. He knows it by the way you treat him but with how nice you're being it's almost hard for Eddie to keep focus.

This whole situation reminds him of the kinds of things that only happened in the pages of his graphic novels. Blood drenched Knights slaying vicious dragons to save beautiful princesses who've been locked away. Princesses who liked to show their appreciation in a certain kind of way. Princesses who've never lain with anyone before, though that was about to change now that they've found someone honorable and worthy, eagerly offering themselves to their knights.

And here's one just perched on his bed, looking so captivated by the way he's trying to save you. Not that you were offering yourself to him, he reminded himself bleakly.

But the fantasy still lingered in his mind because that's all he ever had.

A little more of turning the pin this way and that and there's a click that gets the lock to pop open at last, earning a deep sigh of relief out of you.

Setting the pin aside, Eddie helps to take the chastity belt off of you, pulling the leather down and off over your feet, taking in the marks left behind on your skin in the shape of the dark leather.

He goes to return your skirt too but you take it from him and place it aside, in no hurry to dress yourself.

"I've spent an hour with you and you've already treated me better than Danny ever did."

A 'told you so' sits on the tip of his tongue but he doesn't let it go past his teeth. So he doesn't quite know what to say to that instead, blinking back at you with a little smile.

"You know, I regret not getting to know you better", you tell him and he can hear the sadness gripping your throat like phantom fingers bearing down on your windpipe.

"You didn't miss anything", he chuckles just to be nice. Anything to keep you from looking sad again.

You shake your head. "I mean it. If I knew you better I would have never bothered with people like Danny...'only let him take me out because I was lonely. Thought I couldn't do better than him and I settled", you admit it out loud for the very first time.

It feels wonderfully cathartic to let these thoughts spill out like you're purging all the poison that filled your belly. Every little lie you swallowed down, all the times you tried to convince yourself that you were happy with Danny now being forced out of your system, no longer clogging your mind and veins.

The admission makes Eddie gawk at you in pure disbelief. "I'm sorry, you thought you weren't good enough? please tell me you're joking."

It's your turn to chuckle this time.

"I don't know, I just never hit it off with any one before."

'Until now', you wanted to add as you bite your lip.

"Yeah well it's their loss", he mutters, closing up his tool box and shoving it aside.

"Hey, Eddie?"

He looks up at you again. "Yeah?"

Slowly, you spread your legs wider, drawing him closer until your knees frame his shoulders.

"You missed one", you lower your hand down to your underwear, pinching the waistband between your fingers and letting it snap back in place against your skin.

He nearly keels over when he notices the soft cushion of your bush peaking through.

"You want me to take it off?", he croaks like a helpless toad, fingers all twitchy with excitement.

"Could you?", you tip your head to the side and ask sweetly, a picture of innocence though you both know that's not entirely the case.

"Yeah, I can do that."

You lift your lower body off the bed to help him, watching carefully as he drags your panties down your thighs, over the curve of your calves and off your feet so he can pocket them for later.

"Fucking Christ you're beautiful", he lets out in awe.

"Bet you say that to all the girls", you giggle back.

"Nope. Not like this."

He's quite serious. You can feel it in the way he looks at you. Unlike the devil worshipper that they all claim he is, he kneels between your feet like he might at an altar.

Praying to you. Praying for you.

"Go on. Touch me", you grant him permission.

Eddie gladly but carefully pulls your pussy folds apart, one thumb pressing against your quivering hole which he watches clenching open and closed open and closed. It's so small, the opening. How was he going to fit anything inside you let alone his cock? He supposed he'd have to take his time and work you open, the thought making his skin buzz excitedly like static.

And his other thumb gently pulls up the hood to reveal your clit, this glossy little bead that makes his mouth water at the thought of sucking on it till he makes you gush all over his tongue. He can't help but get the impression that the poor thing's been neglected until now. That clown Danny definitely hadn't found it. And he never would have, not even with both hands and a map.

"Want you to show me how good it feels", you tell him, working your right foot between his legs to gently rub it along the ridge of his clothed erection.

An hour ago you were neighbors reacquainting with each other. Now, he's helped you through one of your worst moments, and you stayed, not only wanting to reward him for it but also because despite how spontaneous this all was, you finally feel ready.

Eddie notices the shift in you too, a sly smile pulling at his lips but his eyes remain gentle, "Oh, I'll show you so much more than that, I promise."

Extended ending

[thirteenheavens]

okay but like boxer hubby cheol with his pretty little wifey and them getting freaky after he won cuz he’s a champ 😵‍💫

My Champion|| Choi Seungcheol

Notes: stop I actually love this concept it’s so hot

Seungcheol steps into the ring, his muscles rippling under his skin as he squares off against his opponent. You watch from the sidelines, your heart pounding with excitement and pride. He moves with deadly precision, dodging and weaving as he lands blow after blow. His boxing skills are impressive, and you can see the crowd is captivated by his performance.

As the match goes on, Seungcheol gains the upper hand, finally knocking his opponent out in the final round. The referee raises his hand in victory, and the arena erupts in cheers. Seungcheol grins at you as he's presented with the championship belt, his eyes dark with desire. "Come here," he calls out, gesturing for you to join him in the ring.

You climb up to meet him, your heart racing as he pulls you into a passionate kiss in front of everyone. The crowd goes wild, but all you can focus on is the feeling of his strong arms around you and the heat of his body pressed against yours. Seungcheol smiles at you through the blood and bruises, his expression fierce and possessive. The cut on his nose and split lip only add to his dangerous appeal.

"I did it for you," he says, his voice rough as he holds you close. "Won the championship so I can provide for our family." You run your fingers over his bruised knuckles, your heart swelling with love and admiration. "You're incredible," you whisper, leaning in to kiss him gently despite his injuries.

The crowd continues to cheer and chant his name, but Seungcheol only has eyes for you. "Let's get out of here," he says, his hands roaming over your body possessively. "I need to celebrate with my wife." Seungcheol walks out of the arena with you by his side, answering questions from the press as he shows off his championship belt. His arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, a constant reminder of who he did all this for.

"I have to thank my wife for being my biggest supporter," he says, smiling at you. "She's been my rock through everything." The reporters clamor for more, but Seungcheol only has eyes for you. "We're going to celebrate now," he tells them, pulling you closer as he guides you towards his car. The paparazzi snap pictures of the two of you, capturing the moment of his triumph and your loving support. As you get into the car, Seungcheol turns to you with a hungry look in his eyes. "Time for my real prize," he says, his voice dripping with desire.

"You should really get those cuts looked at," you say softly, reaching out to touch his face gently. "They look painful." Seungcheol chuckles, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. "It's nothing I can't handle," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll get checked out when we get home." You nod, relieved that he's being reasonable. The adrenaline from the fight is starting to wear off, and you can see him wincing slightly as he shifts in his seat.

"You were amazing out there," you say, intertwining your fingers with his. "The way you moved... it was like watching art in motion." Seungcheol smiles at your praise, his grip on your hand tightening. "All for you," he repeats, his voice filled with affection. "Always for you." Seungcheol parks the car in the driveway and turns to you, his eyes dark with desire despite his injuries. "Let's get inside," he says huskily. "I need to show you how much I want you right now."

You can see the tension in his body as he struggles to contain himself, his hands flexing restlessly on the steering wheel. The sight of him so wound up is making you ache with need. As soon as you're inside the house, Seungcheol pushes you against the wall, his mouth claiming yours in a desperate kiss. "I need to be inside you," he growls, his hands roaming over your body as he presses his hardness against you.

"You're mine," he says between kisses. "My champion's prize." Seungcheol's movements are rough and urgent, his adrenaline still pumping from the fight. His hands are possessive and demanding as he strips you out of your clothes, not caring about the buttons that pop off in his haste.

"You drive me crazy," he mutters, lifting you up against the wall and grinding his cock against your wetness. "Watching you in the crowd, knowing you're mine... it makes me want to take you right there." You wrap your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he bites and sucks at your neck. "Take me now," you whisper, digging your nails into his shoulders. "I'm yours to claim."

He thrusts into you in one swift motion, groaning at the tightness of your pussy. "Always so wet for me," he grunts, setting a punishing pace as he pounds into you against the wall. Seungcheol's strength and stamina are evident in his rough lovemaking, his powerful body slamming into yours with every thrust. He's strong enough to hold you up against the wall with one arm, the other hand moving to rub your clit as he fucks you.

"You feel so good," he growls, his voice rough with exertion. "Like a dream come true." You can feel the power in his muscles as he holds you, his body rippling with tension as he approaches his climax. The cut on his lip has started to bleed again, the metallic taste of blood mingling with the salt of his sweat as he kisses you hungrily.

"Cum for me," he commands, his fingers working faster on your clit. "Let me feel you squeeze my cock." You gently stroke Seungcheol's face, mindful of his injuries despite the intensity of the moment. Your touch is tender and soothing, a contrast to the rough passion that's consuming both of you.

"Beautiful," you murmur, tracing the lines of his face with your fingertips. "My champion." The tenderness in your voice makes Seungcheol's eyes soften for a moment, his expression vulnerable beneath the layers of masculinity and strength. He leans into your touch, his movements becoming more gentle as he pushes you closer to your orgasm.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly as he fights to hold back his own climax. "More than anything." Seungcheol buries his face in your neck as he struggles to maintain control, his breath hot against your skin. "You're too good to me," he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. You can feel his body trembling with the effort of holding back, his muscles taut as he tries to prolong your pleasure. "Let go for me," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. "I want to feel you lose control."

He growls low in his throat, his hips stuttering as he finally lets go. "I'm going to fill you up," he groans, his cock twitching inside you as he fills you with his cum. You follow him over the edge, your body convulsing around him as you come hard. The two of you stay connected for a moment, breathing heavily as you come down from your high.

Seungcheol slowly pulls out of you and carries you to the bedroom, laying you down gently on the bed. He curls up beside you, his body still trembling slightly as he holds you close. You cuddle up to Seungcheol, your bodies fitting together perfectly as he holds you close. He nuzzles your neck, inhaling deeply as he breathes in your scent.

"I'm sorry if I was too rough," he murmurs, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "I just... I needed you so badly after the fight." You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You were perfect," you assure him. "Always are."

Seungcheol smiles softly, his eyes closing as he relaxes against you. "I'm lucky to have you," he says quietly. "You keep me grounded when I feel like I'm on top of the world." You run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp soothingly. "And I'm lucky to have a champion like you," you reply, your heart full of love and pride. "To call my own."

[clarii]

Title: Just Chilling

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie Munson wasn’t your boyfriend- at least, that’s what he told people. But after one careless moment at a gig shatters everything, he realizes too late that losing you is the last thing he ever wanted. Now, he has one chance to fix it, and he’s willing to put his heart on the line to do it.

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, mild language, fluffy ending

Eddie Munson wasn’t your boyfriend.

At least, that’s what he told people.

But if you asked anyone else, they’d swear otherwise. The way he held your hand absentmindedly, thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. The way he always pulled you onto his lap instead of letting you sit anywhere else. The way he kissed your forehead before dropping you off at home, murmuring a soft “ Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

If he wasn’t your boyfriend, then what was he?

It was a question that lingered in the back of your mind more than you wanted to admit. But you never asked, because Eddie-loud, dramatic, full-of-himself Eddie- shut down when things got too real. You weren’t stupid. You saw the way he stiffened whenever the word relationship was mentioned. You heard the way he brushed off questions about love like they were ridiculous.

Still, he acted like he was yours. So you let yourself believe maybe, someday, he’d say it out loud.

Then came the night that shattered everything.

Eddie’s band, Corroded Coffin, had landed a gig at The Hideout- a bigger crowd than usual, packed with regulars and newcomers alike. You were there, of course, front and center like always. His biggest fan.

He caught your eye as they set up, flashing that boyish grin that made your stomach flip. You winked at him, and he tilted his head, mouthing, For me?

You rolled your eyes but nodded. He knew you hated being in crowded, sweaty places like this, yet here you were. For him.

The show was electric. Eddie was in his element- head-banging, fingers flying over his guitar, voice rough and wild as he screamed into the mic. And you? You were completely lost in him.

Then, during a break between songs, someone from the crowd called out, “Hey, Munson! That your girl?”

Eddie looked up, confused.

The guy gestured toward you, smirking. “The one you’ve been making heart eyes at all night.”

The crowd laughed. Your cheeks burned.

Eddie hesitated, glancing at you for half a second. You felt it then- that flicker of uncertainty, the moment where he could choose to claim you.

Then he shrugged.

“Nah, man. We’re just chilling.”

Just. Chilling.

The words hit harder than any guitar riff.

You barely heard the crowds reaction, barely noticed Gareth giving Eddie a What the hell, dude? kind of look. Because the only thing you could focus on was the way your stomach twisted, the way your heart squeezed so tight it physically hurt.

Eddie turned back to his guitar, ready to jump into the next song- until he saw you.

Or rather, saw your back.

You were already walking away.

His fingers froze on the strings. Panic surged through him like a bolt of electricity.

You weren’t staying to watch the rest of the show.

You weren’t waiting for him after.

You were leaving.

And that’s when he knew.

He fucked up.

—

Eddie barely made it through the rest of the set. His head wasn’t in it anymore, and he knew the guys could tell. The moment they finished, he shoved his guitar into its case and bolted out the back door, scanning the parking lot for you.

Nothing.

His heart pounded. You always waited for him after his shows, always teased him about the way he got lost in the music, always let him wrap his arms around you and press a sweaty, breathless kiss to your temple.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he was alone.

—

You ignored his calls. His knocks at your window. His voice outside your house at midnight, begging you to just talk to him.

Each day that passed without you felt like a slow, agonizing punishment.

For the first time in his life, Eddie Munson was terrified.

Because he realized something.

You weren’t his.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

—

The next Corroded Coffin gig rolled around a week later. Eddie couldn’t bring himself to care. Playing didn’t feel the same without knowing you were there, watching, cheering, rolling your eyes at how much of a show-off he was.

But he had an idea. A desperate, last-ditch effort.

And he needed help.

So, he did something he rarely ever did.

He asked his friends for it.

It was Robin and Dustin who came to your house that night.

“Look,” Robin started, hands on her hips. “ you know you don’t want to see him, and honestly, he’s been a colossal dumbass, but-”

“He’s miserable”, Dustin interrupted. “Like, really miserable. And he wants to fix it.”

You crossed your arms, unmoved. “Then he can come here and say that himself.”

Robin sighed. “He wants you to come to The Hideout. Just for a few minutes. No pressure to stay. No tricks. Just…hear him out.”

You hesitated.

Going back to the place where it all fell apart? Where you felt humiliated? Where Eddie made you feel like you were nothing to him?

Yeah, no thanks.

But…if he really wanted to fix things, why would he bring you there?

Unless-

“Did he say what he’s gonna do?” you asked suspiciously.

Dustin grinned. “Nope. But I do know he’s been pacing like a lunatic and mumbling to himself all day.”

Robin smirked. “That means he’s planning something big.”

You chewed on your lip.

And against your better judgment….you caved.

—

When you walked into The Hideout that night, the first thing you noticed was how Eddie was already on stage, gripping the mic with white-knuckled hands.

The second thing you noticed?

The way his eyes locked onto you the second you stepped inside.

Everyone else faded. The noise, the crowd, the band. It was just you and him.

He took a deep breath. Then, with everyone watching, he said-

“ I lied.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, confused.

Eddie’s gaze didn’t waver from yours. “Last time we were here, someone asked me if you were my girl. And I said, ‘We’re just chilling’.

A beat of silence.

“That was the biggest lie I’ve ever told.”

The entire bar went still.

Eddie licked his lips, voice raw. “You are my girl. You always were. And I was a fucking coward for not saying it.”

Your throat tightened.

Eddie shook his head, almost laughing at himself. “ I was scared. Scared that if I made it real, you’d realize I wasn’t good enough for you. That you’d leave.” His voice dropped. “But I lost you anyway.”

You swallowed hard, feeling every eye on you.

Eddie took a shaky breath. “So, I’m saying it now, in the place where I ruined it. In front of everyone.” His voice was steady now, sure. “You’re my girl. And I love you.”

Your heart stopped.

He loved you.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes.

Eddie’s expression softened. “ I know I don’t deserve it, but… if you’ll have me, I want to be yours. Officially.”

The silence stretched.

Then, finally-

You stepped forward.

Eddie barely had time to react before you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down into a desperate, breathless kiss.

The crowd exploded, but all you could hear was the pounding of his heart against yours.

Eddie Munson was yours.

And this time, he wasn’t afraid to say it.

[ruesol]

ex-convict!Sukuna drops whatever he’s doing (killing a man) and runs to you after you text him for some much needed comfort.

(part of my ex-convict!Sukuna x academically burnt out reader series.)

cw: fem/afab reader, explicit sexual content, stiff sex talk, slight dom behavior on Sukuna’s part, and of course, attempted murder

——

Sukuna’s knuckles ache because of the force he just put on them.

The man in front of Sukuna looks haggard, blood dripping out his mouth and pooling on the cool, wet tar. Sukuna’s jeep is still parked out back, and in it was the money he had brought for the exchange of a particular package.

“Fucking hell,” the man groaned as he used his elbows to to lift his torso off the ground. “Still didn’t think you had it in you, Ryomen.”

Pathetic. Even with an almost broken nose and bruised eye, his opponent found some repulsive thrill in mocking Sukuna.

“You said you’d give me what I needed if I had the money. Why’d you try to pick a fight instead?” Sukuna walked over to the man, gun in hand as he clicked it. “I thought I told you I didn’t want any funny business. Got locked up once already and I’m not afraid to do it again.”

The man’s elbows trembled as he tried his best to summon up whatever pride he had left after getting beaten up by his former accomplice. “Shoot me. You know shit won’t end well for you even when you’re locked up. I’ve got people everywhere,” he chuckled, spraying blood on Sukuna’s boots that were now face to face with him.

Sukuna kneels down on one knee and cocks the gun in the middle of the man’s forehead. “You have some nerve to be talking up a storm right now.”

“Just get it over with, Ryomen,” the man barked.

Sukuna pushes the barrel onto the man’s forehead, making him hiss when the gunpowder makes contact with his skin. “Fine,”

His finger presses against the trigger and—

Vibrations. His phone vibrates in the loose pocket of his jacket. His victim looks confused. “Chickening out alread—“

Sukuna hits the man’s temple with the gun. That’ll knock him out for a while. He fishes his phone out and his heart lurches when he sees that it’s a couple texts from you.

come over. Right now

Please

His heart and mind conflict again. On one hand, he has to finish his pathetic job and on the other hand, you’re waiting for him at your apartment.

All soft, and probably teary like you usually are.

And forget the word ‘please,’ you never texted more than two words to him. Ever. It was always either “your place” or “not today.”

Sukuna stares at the passed out man on the road and debates on whether he should throw him into the woods or just leave him be.

In the end, he decided that he’d just leave the man be. They were in the middle of nowhere anyway and cops didn’t patrol the area as often. And even if they do find him, it’s not like they’ll get involved anyway—the giant tattoo on his arm was enough to prove that his condition was a product of gang violence.

Well, that, and you were a little impatient (as much as you never admitted to it.)

His friend called him smart—using a young and insecure college girl for ‘pussy’ (as he put it.)

But deep down inside, he knew it was more than that. His vehement heart gushed when he’d see you cling to him with tears in your eyes, body soft and warm for the taking and heart broken beyond compare.

The fact that you needed him to stabilize your mind spoke volumes to him. It reminds him that you wanted him in your life as much as he did you.

Though his desperation wasn’t as veiled as yours. You were quick to push him away after you’d get what you needed.

His truck juxtaposed with the other much smaller cars at the guest lot at your apartment complex; just like in reality, where he starkly stood out wherever he went. Shoulders too broad, height too towering, and face too rugged with scars and tattoos. The universe’s spotlight shines on him every time he makes a move.

Sukuna takes a gulp of water from the crinkly plastic bottle in his cup holder and swishes it around in his mouth so he could clean up the taste of blood. He walks over to a nearby bush and spits it out. Viscous carmine smears the myrtle leaves, weighing them down as each drop of blood drips into sod.

After getting into your apartment building’s elevator and pressing the button for your floor, he wipes his mouth one last time while staring at his blurred reflection on the dirty mirror wall to get rid of the wetness left behind.

He lives life in segments. There was before you—jail, during you—the arrangement you both have now, and maybe, if he fucks up or goes back to jail—after you.

He didn’t want to imagine what that would be like. In his mind, your existence was hauntingly infinite, reaching into his brain’s every crevice and immersing it in your scent.

Maybe it’s because he’s had to rely on his senses to navigate difficult situations for a long time, but he feels like he can smell traces of you as soon as he reaches your door. His cock aches against his jeans when he’s reminded that your shampoo still lingers on his pillow.

And how he touches himself to it at night.

He doesn’t knock and only sends you a text that he’s standing right outside.

You open the door a moment later, with your hair a mess and your T-shirt a size too big for you.

The picture of Sailor Moon on it rids him of vestigial jealousy because now he knows that it doesn’t belong to another man.

Your eyes are glassy and your face is swollen. If you didn’t shut him out as often he would’ve asked you what happened. But all he can reckon is that something or someone must’ve hurt you badly enough to call him to your apartment for the first time.

You wear your heart on your sleeve but you never speak out the words to Sukuna. But that’s enough for him. A temporary salve for the perpetual ache in the core of his chest.

He digs his blunt fingers into his palm to rid himself of the itch to comfort you by holding your waist and stroking your hair.

Your gaze falls onto his mouth, making your shoulders tense up and your lips press into a line. Silent judgement. “Is that blood?”

“Uhh..” He wipes whatever remnants of dried blood he had on his mouth and dusts his hands on his thighs. “Do you care?”

“Not really.”

“Good.” He doesn’t want your thoughts to linger on its cause so he grabs the back of your neck and slots his mouth against yours.

His teeth ache at your sweetness even when he can taste the strong mint left behind by your toothpaste. ‘Cute,’ he thinks. You were preparing for him.

His tongue prods open your lips, running it along your tongue and the hollow of your mouth. Saliva drips down both your chins as he pushes you into your apartment and slams the door shut with a kick from his steel-toed boot.

His sloppy kisses swallow your groan as you fist his faded denim jacket and press your chest against his, only the thin barrier of your T-shirt standing between your bare breasts and his warm body.

He’s quick to slam your back to a wall, and when he finally pulls away to catch his breath, you see the ravenous look in his eyes, black void replacing red irises.

His hand trails down to the hem of your T-shirt, and rucks it up to your collar.

And for a moment, he simply stares at your semi-bare body. Tits flushed and nipples hardening with every passing second, panties dampened and inviting, and your scent—

So saccharine and musky.

“Up,” he orders. You gulp and diligently raise your hands, and he pulls your T-shirt off in one swift movement, discarding it in some random corner of your studio apartment.

He doesn’t even hear the ruffle of the fabric landing because the roaring of blood in his ears renders him selectively deaf—the only sounds he can hear are the slick movements of your tongue nervously stroking your bottom lip and your heavy breathing. His dick is painfully hard, and the sight of you only makes his patience edge closer to splintering.

His heady gaze moves from your breasts to your eyes and you immediately look away. Almost like you’re afraid he’ll see past the lust and know why you called him out of nowhere. Especially since your meetups were usually calculated.

A day after a bad exam.

Right after a study session with your judgemental friends.

Or right before an important quiz.

But this was out of the ordinary. He’d mull over it later. His dick was starting to take over his brain.

His large, calloused hand grasped your neck and lightly applied pressure to the column of your throat as he kissed you once again. This time, dragging his tongue along the outline of your bottom lip before pulling away.

He drags a single hand down your neck, to your sternum and at last, rests it on top of your clothed mons. The hand that was choking you groped your breast, thumb brushing against your nipple as he buries his nose in your neck and takes a deep whiff.

Your underwear isn’t that special—it’s just a random white pair that had been sitting in your unkempt closet, but to him, it felt like an invitation to stain it with his spend. He made a mental note to secretly snag it on his way out. The smell of your shampoo on his pillow was dwindling into nothingness anyway.

Sukuna’s fingers inched down to the damp gusset, pressing on your covered clit, making you gasp and grind slowly against his thick fingers. “Let’s go to my bed,” you huffed out with a frown.

He moved away from your neck, resting his nose against yours. “Not yet. I wanna do something first.” The metallic notes in his breath make you scrunch your nose.

Syzygy. He blocks out the dim cloudy afternoon glow in your room with the vastness of his shoulders. A behemoth in presence and practice.

Sukuna kisses your lips and then begins to trail his mouth down your body, branding plum-colored stains onto your neck and breasts. His tongue finds your nipple and his incisors lightly nip it before he gives it a hard suck, making your hands immediately move from his shoulders into his hair.

He grunts when you tug his hair to get his attention. “What are you doing? Let’s just fuck and get it over with.”

Foreplay wasn’t a common practice between you two. And even if one of you did initiate it, it wasn’t anything more than a light make out session.

Your usual hookups would start with a few tongue kisses, followed by fingering so you could take his girthy cock in your sore pussy, and then a quick “I’ll text you later” from you before both of you went your own ways.

You never gave him head and neither did he you. You weren’t there to enjoy, just get your fill and go. The painful stretch of his cock opening up your pussy was enough to make you temporarily forget about your perpetual worries.

You mewl when he slaps your clothed pussy. “I’ll give you what you want if you let me take what I need.”

It’s a demand. More predatory than imperative.

He hisses when you lightly tug his hair before answering, “fine.”

Without breaking eye contact, he gets down on his knees and tightly grasps your thigh in his large mit, fingers digging into the muscle and fat. He slots his mouth against the soft flesh of your inner thigh and you bite your lip.

The tip of his tongue darts out to lick all the way to the crux of your pelvis and rests it against your clothed cunt before situating your thigh on his shoulder, sodden pussy basically pushed to his mouth because of the force.

His eyes roll to the back of his head when the scent of your arousal engulfs him. He sucks the fabric of your panties, priming his tongue with your juices as his fingers undulate your ass.

“At least take them off first—fuck,” you groaned out. He doesn’t listen, though. Instead, he only sucks harder, tongue directly prodding at where your swollen clit is.

Sukuna was never a vocal man but the sounds escaping him sounded like they came from the depths of his carnal desire for your pussy. His groans reverberate through you as your head leans back against the wall, trying to find some stability as he takes you to the edge and brings you back over and and over again.

After what seems like forever (to you), Sukuna slots two fingers down the front of your panties and yanks the flimsy fabric down. And without much warning, he splits your pussy lips with thick fingers and licks up a stripe from your slick hole to your glistening clit. His tongue circled around your hole, licking away whatever arousal dripped out.

His fingers soon replaced his tongue, prepping you to take his cock soon. You could never get used to the feeling of his hefty middle and ring fingers inside your cunt. They were always too rough and long, reaching into the parts of your body that your smaller and daintier fingers couldn’t.

His tongue laps at your sensitive nub, kissing it at unexpected intervals before harshly sucking it again like he did with your nipple. His fingers curl when he finds the spot that makes you sing, and your teeth let go of your lips as your body tenses when the wave of an onset orgasm washes over you.

The knot in your core, snaps and you cry out your release as you roughly pull at his disheveled pink locks.

Your limbs shiver, making Sukuna only hold you tighter so you wouldn’t collapse. “I’ve come, that’s enough,” you rasp out through deep breaths.

But his obstinate self did not listen to you. At your cries, he pulls out his fingers, but continues licking and making out with your pussy, eating you out more for his pleasure than yours.

“Please, I’m really sensitive. Just—just fuck me already,” you groan.

He knows you want him gone. He knows that he’s made you feel good enough to the point where now you need him to come.

Something grotesque in him grins at the thought of ruining any man that comes after him in your life.

Not that it’ll ever happen, though. He’ll make sure of it no matter what.

You didn’t know it, but you were always going to be his girl. Even before you two had met. Life had been pushing you around for this very moment—where he’d take you and keep you for himself forever.

Everything about the situation is so perfect. You’re bare, limp and needy, and he’s clothed, has all the power and is the only man you’ll ever need.

When he stands up, you realize how much he holds over you with his figure. Strength in one of his hands alone renders you weak against him. With his eyes trained on yours, he drags his hands from your ass to the back of your thighs and hoists you up, resting your spine against the cold cemented wall once again.

He unzips his pants and pulls down his boxers, precome already staining them. He’s painfully hard and hisses when he pushes his stiff cock against your hole, notching his leaking head at your entrance.

Alarmed, you gaze up at him with furrowed brows and swollen lips. “What about the bed?”

“Too impatient. I’ll fuck you there later.”

Later.

Later never happened with you two. It was always strictly whatever you wanted. You dictated how many times you wanted to go. You always had all the control, and now, he was slowly pulling it out of your timid grasp.

Before you can ask him about his implication, he pushes himself into your quim completely, hissing at the tight muscle contracting around his length. You yowl as your hands wrap around his shoulders and the back of your head tips against the wall.

“Shit,” he mumbles into your neck.

“Just move and finish up,” you whisper, still breathing hard.

“No,” he’s quick to interject.

“No?” The stretch of your hole around his cock makes each second feel like agony. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“Look me in the eye when I fuck you,” he dictates against your lips.

“Will you go after that?”

“Do you want my cock or not?”

When he pulls away, he waits for your eyes to meet his.

And when they do, he slowly pushes himself into you, your chest coming close enough for your breasts to press flat against his pecs.

You try not to think about why he suggested so in the first place.

It’s almost as if he feels rejuvenated after looking into your eyes, even when your breasts deliciously bounce as his hips pick up speed as his balls slap against your skin. Your walls clench tighter and tighter as he bullies his cock into you over and over again, precome priming you for his final spend.

Fat droplets of tears roll down your cheeks and he kisses them away before they can reach your jaw and roll down your neck. He licks a lone tear and savors the saltiness. You’re everywhere: on his mouth, skin, cock, and mind.

Infinite; red hot iron branding the imprint of your face in his brain so whenever he closes his eyes, you’re all he can see.

His thrusts get sloppier as he finishes, excess come dripping down your thighs, and his own. He groans into your mouth, kissing your tongue to sooth his semi-soft and sensitive cock as he pulls out of you.

The feeling of cool air against your thighs reminds you of the rivulet of combined juices dripping down your legs.

Before you can wobble your way to your bed to final rest your legs, Sukuna picks you up in one swift motion, uncaring that the fluid between your legs is dripping on his arm, and walks over to your bed and lays you down.

—

Turns out later, meant going three rounds in two hours.

After Sukuna had eaten you out and fucked you against the wall, he was insatiable. Only wanting more, going as far as to making you warm his cock in your pussy till he got hard again.

Spent and sweaty, you now slept soundly in his arms. Uncaring that he had pushed you to break every rule you had set up. That too, in your own home.

He clicked his teeth as he remembered your surprised face when he casually said that he wanted to fuck some more. As usual, you were wary of him at first, but when his fingers stroked your clit the way you liked, you were pliant and malleable for his bidding.

He glances around around, finally getting a good look at your abode.

It’s not what he imagined it to be. It’s a mess: takeout containers stuffed to the brim in tightly tied plastic bags, cans of energy drinks huddled around your computer on the desk in the far corner of the room. Polaroids of your friends lay haphazardly on your coffee table, seemingly untouched with the film of dust gathering on them.

For a college student, the decoration is bleak and the lack of a living room makes him feel like there’s no space for him in your apartment. Much like your heart.

But that’s okay, he will take whatever he can get. Even if he can’t quell the curiosity has about your life away from him.

So he decides to put an end to it (only for this instance.) With only his boxers on, he walks to your computer, which, surprisingly, does not have a password.

He browses around, only finding assignments for classes that seem too complicated for him to understand. Maybe even for you too, with the way you’ve been sleeping with him more often than before.

And then he finds it—the reason why you called him to your sanctuary, the one place he was never allowed to step foot in.

An internship rejection email.

——

If you’re seeing this, thank you for reading!!

[velmalav]

Northern Downpour - Frank Langdon

Northern Downpour – f.l.

masterlist - open to requests!

synopsis: You start having an affair with Dr. Langdon, something purely need driven, or at least that’s what you tell yourselves.

warnings: SMUT 18+, cheating!frank, swearing, 3400+ words

It started on a rainy Tuesday evening.

You’d been in a shitty mood all day. You and your husband, Jake, had had a massive blow-up first thing in the morning. The words exchanged had been rushed and hurtful and in the midst of you hurrying to get ready for your shift in the ER. Words that echoed, rattled you even during the busiest hours of your workday.

There had been a lot of tension in your marriage for months, always stemming from the same issue. Your work. It took a toll, the long hours, and the constant tragedies you absorbed daily didn’t exactly help your mood when you were home. But you’d been trying, really trying, so it was like a punch in the gut when he brought it up again in a way that diminished all of the hard work you were doing. Not only that, but Jake wasn’t exactly the most perceptive guy, especially when it came to your feelings. In the throes of all of your conjoined problems, he’d never once noticed how unhappy you were with him.

You’d never been one to dwell on your own needs and wants; you simply accepted the hard truth that asking for what you want doesn’t make it so. Especially with him. A fact you learned in the early stages of your relationship, and now looking back, wished you’d advocated for yourself more. Because it’s always his needs and what he wants, never a lingering consideration for you. The resentment you harbored for him always took a backseat because deep down, you felt it was silly. Pathetic.

You and Jake hadn’t had consistent sex, or good sex, since the work issues really started kicking off. What started as a simple turn away in bed during a fight escalated into fragility, hesitancy to touch even when you weren’t arguing. You were always the one to try and start something in the bedroom, and as the months progressed, the more he pulled away. Almost like a punishment. And when he did accept your advances, he put nothing into it. No foreplay, no talking, just fifteen minutes in the dark that left you unsatisfied.

The weight of it all hit you in the parking garage after your shift with the realization that you’d have to return to it. Jake hadn’t sent a single text all day, a sign that he had no intention of speaking to you when you arrived home. You sat there, the engine on, staring at the concrete wall through the windshield wondering how many bones you could break if you hit it hard enough.

You’d been contemplating a strong seven or eight when a knuckle tapped on your window. You looked up to see Langdon, your fellow senior resident, standing there with his hand still up in the knocking motion. You rolled down your window.

“Didn’t get enough of me for the day?” you said, the twinge of banter you usually have in your tone defeated to an exhausted, strained one.

He huffed a laugh, resting his arm on the window ledge. “No comment on that,” he quipped back, also sounding just as tired. And tense. “My, uh, car won’t start. Think you could give me a ride home?”

You nodded immediately. The idea of having a little extra time before you had to face Jake is exactly what you need. Langdon threw his bag in the backseat before jogging around to the passenger side. He settled in, leaned back with a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

“Thanks.”

“Trust me, it’s not a problem,” you replied, turning around to back out of the spot. “Just put your address into my phone.”

“Can you open it for me?” Langdon held the phone towards you.

You waved him off, “It’s 0707, maps is in the top right corner.”

He put the code in quickly. Turned his head, eyes full of curiosity. “Any reason you picked that one?”

You gripped the steering wheel and bit down the urge to roll your eyes at his question. “It’s me and Jake’s anniversary.”

In your peripheral vision, you caught Langdon’s expression. Confused, even more curious. Clearly, you weren’t doing a good job at hiding your bubbling aggravation towards your husband. But thankfully, he didn’t say anything, just finished typing the address in and put your phone back on the dash.

Both of you sat in silence for most of the drive, the only sounds the muffled radio and the rain as it pattered on the windows. You’ve never been close at work, but in that moment you were really hoping he’d start talking. Just to keep your mind off of it all. The longer you stayed in your own thoughts, the more the anxiety grew.

“How’re your kids?” you blurted out when the anxiety got to be too much. Knuckles flushed at the insane grip you had on the wheel.

Langdon whipped his head toward you, whatever reverie he was in seeming hard to shake off. You could’ve sworn he seemed just as volatile in the way he fidgeted with the bracelet on his wrist and the tightness in his jaw.

“Great,” he replied, blank and unassuming. “Tanner made the baseball team, so that’s good.”

“That is good. Good for him.”

A lot of ‘good’ being used by two people who seemed much of the opposite. You side-eyed him when he turned back to the passenger window. There was definitely something off about him, and your question appeared to have made it worse.

“How’s Jake, by the way?” he suddenly asked, voice distant and faraway in his thoughts.

“Fine,” you said all-too-quickly. Holy shit am I bad at pretending tonight. Get it together.

When you didn’t elaborate, Langdon turned back to you with the same curious look he had before. “That’s it?”

“Yep.”

Still facing you, he leaned towards the passenger window, as if sizing you up. Raised eyebrows, parted lips. “Okay,” he finally said. “If you say so.”

“As if you’d care anyway,” you muttered under your breath, not as a dig, but a rogue thought that popped out of your mouth subconsciously. Langdon’s brows reached new heights, shocked by your sudden aggression. “No offense, we just don’t talk about that kind of stuff with each other.”

He nodded in understanding, face neutral again. “True. None taken.” Again, he turned away, resumed fiddling with the bracelet. “But if you wanted to talk about it, I’d listen.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s whatever. Better if I don’t right now anyway.”

It’s your turn to be confused when you arrived at his destination. It’s a ballpark, stocked with two sets of bleachers and dugouts and a small baseball diamond. It must be where his son plays.

“Why did you want to be dropped off here?”

Langdon faced in front of him and stared out into the field, eyes hollow, drained. He sighed in the way you do after an especially rough night with Jake.

“I don’t live far from here,” he stated plainly in the dark, eyes transfixed on the rain now coming down in sheets.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t want to go home, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

You couldn’t help but stare at him. His eyebags were more pronounced, veins protruding from his neck like he was holding a mountain of baggage back. Is this what I look like?

“That’s okay,” you murmured softly, flickering your stare to the rain, too. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’d listen.”

Langdon snorted; an empty smile appeared on his face. You smiled, too, but you didn’t need a mirror to know it didn’t reach your eyes either. Hypnotized now by the worsening weather, you both stayed like that for a long time. Just staring forward, trying to let your afflictions wash away with the rain. It was refreshing to have someone next to you, just being there, not feeling like they have to say anything to comfort or make you feel like you have to do the same.

“What’re you gonna to do about your car?” you suddenly asked. Breaking the barrier between you and the rest of the world.

He shrugged, stifling a laugh at your random question. “Don’t know. Thought maybe I’d set up camp in the parking garage for a while or something.”

“Can I join?”

You both laughed, genuine ones at that. Spent the next hour dreaming up intangible scenarios to avoid the shitty parts of your life. Planning how you’d both fit in a small four-door Toyota Camry, how efficient it would be to get to work, how you’d hold a big barbeque after a rough shift with the new grill Langdon’s brother-in-law got him for his birthday. For the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe. And you could tell he felt the same.

It didn’t last as long as you’d hoped. Once the laughs had died down, they were replaced with the inevitably of your responsibilities. Your respective families would be wondering where you were soon. The realization was like a knife, quick and fast, jumpstarting your anxiety again. You glanced over at Langdon to see he was already staring at you, eyes scouring, as if trying to read your thoughts.

“My husband hates my job,” you uttered abruptly. Your gaze flickered to your lap. “And I think he hates me, too.”

“Doubt that. Well, the second part at least,” Langdon said, hard eyes softening. There was a vulnerability in him after he said that. Shoulders slumped, eyebrows sloping downward. “Do you hate him?”

His tone was nonchalant, but the question was a boulder. “I-…I don’t know.”

You’d considered how you were feeling about him, but not nearly enough to have really fleshed it out. All of your focus had been on Jake, and how we was feeling, and how you needed to fix things.

“If it’s any consolation, my marriage isn’t doing any better,” Langdon muttered, tone now filled to the brim with bitterness.

“It isn’t,” you whispered, gnawing at your cheek.

“It feels pathetic sometimes,” he continued on as if you’d not said anything at all. “She’s supportive, she’s there, but I just—”

His sentence ends strangled, unable to fully emerge. You couldn’t tell if it was because he thought he’d said too much or because it was just too difficult to admit out loud. Probably both. Something about the rigidity in his words, in his body language, feels familiar. You’d had the same tautness anytime you thought about the conversation you wanted to have with Jake about your intimacies.

“Feel like you’re asking for too much?” you finished for him, posing it as more of a guess.

Langdon snapped his eyes to yours, a quiet understanding between you. He slowly nodded, as if he was processing something. Then he spoke words that went straight to your chest, an undirected stab.

“I feel like I shouldn’t have to ask her to just…want me.”

Your face fell, again unable to hide the obvious emotion etched on your face. The car felt like a cage all of a sudden, almost as if you’d said the words yourself. Not sure how to respond, you just nodded, hoping your eyes showed the cognizance you failed to vocalize.

Langdon took a beat to digest your acknowledgement before he pushed the car door open and fled out into the rain. You watched him, pitiful tears clinging to your lashes as you felt sorry for yourself. And him.

He stood with his hands in his jacket pockets in the glow of the headlights, his back to you. You could see how slick his hair already was from the storm, strands blowing in the harsh winds. This was the opposite of how you’d known him; he’d never seemed the angsty type, just a normal resident with a bad mouth and an attention-deficient disorder. And seeing him like this, it changed the way you saw him. Less shallow, and pitifully, more attractive.

Which is part of the reason you also stepped out of the car, slammed the door, and approached him with absolutely no hesitation. He turned at your presence seconds before you lassoed a hand to the back of his neck and jerked his mouth onto yours.

It was rash, dangerous, ethically just fucking wrong. You weren’t thinking about anything but what it would feel like to have someone crave you. You weren’t asking for someone to want you; you were demanding it.

Langdon was surprised, body stuttering, but he didn’t miss a beat. His wet hands grasped your back like a lifeline, lips parting to take a single breath only to slam back onto yours. Your other hand trickled its way into his hair, balling up a section to yank towards you. You hadn’t felt this turned on in a long time, unable to stop yourself from moaning directly into his mouth as his teeth ground into your bottom lip.

“Backseat,” he fumbled out breathlessly. He kept his hands on you wherever he could as you both booked it to the car, haphazardly discarding your soaked jackets behind the seats.

You fell into the back seat first, back against the opposite door, legs stretched out as he climbed in between them. The undressing was vicious, carnal, fingers tearing at the fabric of your clothes. Once you were both just in your underwear, Langdon gripped your hair, yanking down so your head thudded against the seat before reconnecting your lips. His other hand roamed down the column of your throat as if to feel your unsteady breaths.

You parted your lips to bring his tongue to yours, devouring every inch of his mouth like you’d never taste it again. And maybe you wouldn’t. Then you felt something spongy slide onto your tongue, eyes flashing open at the spearmint flavor.

“Didn’t have time to spit it out,” Langdon said, hovering just above you, rain droplets bleeding onto your cheeks. You responded by pulling him in again, tongue exchanging the gum back to him, causing him to let out an aroused groan.

Your hands scoured his back, fighting the urge to scratch into the skin. He lifted your leg to wrap around his back, the other following suit. He pulled back to start licking at the column of your throat, sucking softly to garner a moan from you.

“Can’t leave marks,” you rasped out, but your head fell back against the seat anyway. Langdon hummed in agreement then kissed lower until his lips enveloped your left nipple. The silver nipple ring you had on danced between his tongue, causing you to indent your nails into his shoulder blade and release a loud moan.

“Fuck, sorry,” you gasped out at the realization you’d left crescent moons in his skin.

“If I could have you the way I want, I’d let you,” he responded in the midst of sucking, and as fucked up as it is, it only made you wetter.

As his teeth gnashed at your nipple, one of his hands travelled lower until it found your panties, finger stalled above the fabric, right where you need him. He drew circles on your clit, and though it wasn’t direct contact, your hips jutted forward for him without thought. You could feel his growing smile on your nipple at your reaction.

“Frank, I need you. Now.” you demanded, despite the brittleness of your voice. Langdon sprang into action, ripped open a condom he found in the center console, and shimmied out of his boxers. You helped him put it on when you noticed how shaky his hands were and pushed your damp panties to the side.

Then he’s lined himself up, towering over you with beads of rain or sweat dripping onto your heated skin. You wrapped your hands around the base of him, wanting to feel him bottom out inside you.

“Holy shit,” Frank stammered as his hips meet yours, the arm that held him up faltering. You exhaled at the feeling, all of the worries and frustration from earlier leaking out of your body like a balloon. It’s wrong – definitely wrong, but it feels so good. “God, you’re so wet.”

He started to thrust, hard, right out of the gate. You pushed yourself up on your elbows and gripped the back of his neck. Your foreheads were touching, but you both closed your eyes, chasing after the high and avoiding all of the guilt that comes with it.

Strings of curse words leapt between you, you rocked into him to quicken his pace and kneaded circles on your clit. Then you dared to open your eyes, feeling Langdon’s hot spearmint breath fanning your face. Eyes shut, his lips were parted in ecstasy, neck thrust up to expose his throat. There’s nothing else in the world but you two in that moment, just you, him, and the blissful feeling of him thrusting in and out. You dipped down, glistening lips meeting his throat, teeth grazing there.

Langdon moaned in response, and his eyes flashed open. You leaned back up to level yourself to him, and without words, opened your mouth.

His pace faltered at your ask and his eyes were swimming as if intoxicated by you. He wrapped his mouth around yours, tongue gliding out to pass the gum. You accepted it immediately, leave the kiss with a pop and stared right into his defenseless eyes.

It was completely accidental, or at least you convince yourself of it, that right in the moment after you pass the gum, Langdon reached his high, tumbling forward with a groan. All he managed to choke out was a slurred, “fuck, I’m—” before it happened. He had you pinned to the seat, faces inches apart, thrusting through his orgasm. The recognition of what you’d just done sent you tumbling over the edge, your hips jutted into his with an unholy string of moans.

Only a minute passed of you both regaining your composure before reality set in. Langdon pulled himself upright into the opposite seat, unable to meet your eyes as he pulled the condom off and tossed it out the window. You remained lying there, eyes transfixed at the ceiling.

What the fuck have we done?

The air was thick and heavy when you both redressed. The car being so small, it was difficult to do so without brushing against one another, every movement another shocking reminder of the betrayal. You silently passed him a brush from your work bag without looking at him. He took it and began to cover his tracks.

“We fucked up,” you state with a voice overflowing with dread.

Langdon was quiet for a long time. You finally looked over to see him gripping the brush with white knuckles.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We did.”

Silence returned, stifling the conversation but igniting all the worries you had been trying to escape. The worst part was even in the thoughts of regret and self-pity and excuses, deep down it felt like a façade. Like that’s what you were supposed to feel. Because as awful as what you’d done was, you’d felt wanted for just a few minutes. And given the option to take it back, you wouldn’t.

“I regret it, but I…I don’t,” you found yourself saying, not necessarily to him, but just to say it. To analyze if this was real, if you truly felt that way.

Langdon’s head turned; guilty eyes fastened to yours. He leaned towards you, a palm reaching to wipe off the rain splattered to the side of your face. A simple gesture, not something you’d usually dwell on, but at this moment, it’s an unspoken agreement. He wanted it, too, and in the dark parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else access, he still did.

You both found a way to curb the need you’d been too scared to ask for, and though it wasn’t a sensible way to get it, it was now out there as an option. And, as much as you hated to admit it, an easier one.

So with a newfound arrangement, a deep-seeded, unspoken one, you drove him home. And then you went back to your turbulent home, your turbulent husband, and went to bed alone.

Despite every fiber in your being screaming that it was all wrong, you went to sleep knowing you’d be giving Langdon rides home for as long as he needed them.

[arminsumi]

Hi❣️ may i request Suguru Geto with Honey + Pure Sugar + strawberry syrup?

... a bad boy!Suguru whisks you away on his thick Harley 'n wants to put a baby in you. He proposes marriage after only knowing you for two weeks, 'cause he's fucking crazy.

ㅤ★ promptlist

ㅤ★ cws; strictly no under 18s, smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare 🫶

Ah, fuck, why'd you always have to fall for the bad boys? Worse, why did you feel turned on when you watched their knuckles go white just before punching someone's lights out in a bar fight?

Thumb flicking off the excess blood on his cheek, Suguru Geto eyed you up and apologized in a sweet voice, "Sorry, I hate to do this in front of beautiful women." and then eyed you up for the second time before asking, "What's your name?"

That blood smudged off on your cheek 'cause immediately after introducing yourself through a horny stutter, his tongue was exploring your mouth and the two of you were indulging in the sloppiest, nastiest open-mouthed kiss right there at the bar, in the neon lights.

Lips wetted by his filthy kiss, you blinked at him like you've never been so lovestruck before and he focused in on you and only you — then he asked if you wanted to blow this joint. You batted your lashes at him and nodded with starry eyes, too turned on and starstruck to think that maybe you shouldn't abandon Girl's Night for a pierced up and tatted guy bearing a toothy grin and a biker gang emblem on his jacket.

And then you remember trotting outside to his parked motorcycle, giggling like a teenager as your friends yelled for you to come to your senses because you were hopping onto the back of a Harley with Suguru Geto. But it was no use, because you were turned on by the tattoos in his skin and the lingering smoke on his lips and the devilish look in his eyes and the greasy black hair that passed his shoulders and the way his cock made an outline in his leather pants and the way his gloved hands gripped the handles of his motorcycle and how erotic he made smoking seem.

A two week honeymoon with this bad boy, feeding on each other's lust and feasting on each other's bodies and fucking like animals against the walls of a hotel room and sometimes on the bed but nah, usually you got fucked off the bed and onto the floor.

He inhaled at your neck, getting high on your scent 'n starting to thrust harder into you 'cause of it.

"Mm, why do you smell so fucking good...? It's driving me insane." he purrs, rolling his hips 'n grinding his cockhead deep inside your weeping pussy 'till you start choking up because of the depth he reaches.

"I-I dunno, I'm probably ovulating." you innocently squeaked in reply.

"Oh, fuck... really?" he moaned at that, swallowing back his spit in a way that sounded like he started salivating at the thought of knocking you up. Then he slid his hands down and pried your pussy lips wide apart before thrusting into you, his cock frenzied for your ovulating pussy.

Practically glued together, lips locked and tongues fighting, Suguru nearly crushed you under all his muscle as he started fucking you like he was gonna breed your sweet little body.

You naturally leg-locked his slim waist, and he grunted out a "Stay still f'me, doll, 'm gonna fill you with my babies." to which you cried out a string of "Yesyesyesplease!"

Feeling your nails dig into his sides as he rocked his hips into you made his head spin and his cock explode. You rubbed frantically at your clit, came all over him, feeling the sensation of his warm cum filling you up.

Collapsing on you, a panting mess, moans still spilled from his lips as he felt the aftershocks of his orgasm. Next moment, you're giggling and he's rolling off of you and snuggling you in a sweaty afterglow.

Some surprisingly dorky joke comes out his mouth. He pinches at your cheeks. His bicep rests against your side as he holds you. Too tired to clean up yet, but that's fine because Suguru's enjoying the smell of you 'n he hopes all his clothes will smell like you for a while.

"Shit, let's get married... let's just get fucking married. What do you say?" he murmured in a daze, clutching your body tightly, a large hand coming to wipe the sweat off your cheek.

"You're crazy!" you giggled back to him, smilingly biting your thumb and kicking your feet with a ridiculous excitement. "We hardly know each other. And you're a bad boy."

"Aw, come on, I'm not that bad." he grins.

You kick your legs off the bed and sit at the edge, preparing to go to the bathroom. He checks you out; the curve of your back calling out to him to make it arch.

"Maybe you are, maybe you aren't." you teasingly shimmy your shoulders at him.

Suguru grabs at you, groaning and reluctantly letting you slip out his fingers and watching your ass intently as you trot over to the bathroom, 'till you're disappearing behind the door. He rolls over onto his back, looks up at the ceiling, and thinks about how he's gonna get you.

[abbotjack]

˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚ Haunted ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

insp by haunted by beyonce; my haunted lungs / ghost in the sheets

summary : A heavy summer night, a cracked window, a man who never knocks. Across the street, he watches—quiet, bruised, unmovable. Inside, you rearrange furniture like it might settle something in your chest. But some hauntings don’t knock, and some doors don’t open for just anyone.

word count : 4,430

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!! explicit sexual content (unprotected penetrative sex in the hallway, rough), intense sexual tension, emotionally charged smut, age gap (reader late 20s, Jack 40s), trauma references, smoking, alcohol use, haunted eroticism, power imbalance, intense longing, obsessive undertones, slow burn

South Side Flats, Pittsburgh – The Duplex Across From His – Sunday, 8:12 PM

The air is heavy. Not warm—heavy.

The kind of heat that doesn’t just sit on the skin but wraps around the lungs, thick and honey-slow, like you’re meant to choke on it. Somewhere a freight train moans against the spine of the city, low and dragging, and you wonder—not for the first time—what it would take to leave this place. To get in a car, a cab, a wrong bed, and keep moving until the heat lifted.

But then you remember him.

And you stay.

He’s there again tonight. Porch light off. Bottle half-drunk, label rubbed smooth beneath his thumb. Jack Abbot sits on the third step like it’s a habit, like the world tipped sideways one day and never bothered to set him right. He doesn’t move much. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even check his phone. You wonder sometimes if the whole man’s just a monument. Built to last. Built to rust.

You haven’t spoken in a while.

Not since the second time he helped you carry a dresser up your steps—solid cherry, mid-century, heavy enough to kill a man if you dropped it wrong. You remember how he handled it like it meant nothing. How his forearms looked with the sleeves pushed up. The way he didn’t ask questions, didn’t flirt, didn’t say much beyond, “Careful on the landing. Gets slick when it rains.”

He’d already been watching you before then.

Just like you’d been watching him.

Not openly. Not in a way that’d get talked about. But in the quiet ways—the ways that haunt. Your curtains pulled just enough to see the glow of his TV flickering blue across his living room walls. The way he always parked his truck on the opposite side of the street, like he didn’t want to look at his own house when he left. How he smoked sometimes, only when the sky turned violet, as if dusk gave him permission.

And how he wore grief like it was sewn into the lining of his clothes.

You don’t know what happened to him exactly, but you know the outline. You’ve read it on his body like a map—scar on his knuckle, phantom hitch in his step, that strange off-rhythm gait that says something got taken, and he had to learn to walk without it. Not just the leg. Something deeper. Something no one could put back.

Tonight, he’s got the bottle but not the smoke.

Tonight, you’ve got the window cracked just wide enough to listen. Not that he talks. He’s not the kind of man who talks unless something inside him breaks.

You lean against the sill, bare thighs sticking to the wood, wearing nothing but a washed-out t-shirt and old sleep shorts that don’t hide much. You hadn’t planned to watch him again. You tell yourself it’s the breeze you’re after. The city hum. The nothing.

But then he moves.

Not much. Just the tilt of his head. Just enough to glance toward your house—your window—and pause. He doesn't linger. Doesn’t wave or smirk or nod. Just stills. Looks. Breathes.

Like maybe he knew you’d be there.

Like maybe he always knows.

You can’t see his eyes from here, but you can feel them. Somewhere between the soft of the streetlamp and the shadow line under his jaw, you swear something shifts. Like your whole body is being clocked. Accounted for. Recognized.

It makes your stomach flip.

You know better than to romanticize men like Jack. Men who carry weight like a second skin. Who drink quiet. Who look like they haven’t been touched in a long time—but don’t trust the hands that try. You’ve dated all kinds. Soft ones. Loud ones. Clever ones. None of them looked at you the way Jack does from thirty feet away, saying nothing at all.

Your phone buzzes beside you. Hannah, your roommate, out somewhere she shouldn’t be, half-drunk and emotionally reckless, as usual.

“Did u see him again?? porch man?? that man wants to know what ur bones feel like under his hands lol”

You don’t respond. Not right away. You’re still watching.

Still feeling it—whatever this is. Not a crush. Not desire, exactly. Not something warm. No. This feels older than that. Feels like knowing someone you’ve never met. Like your skin already remembers what he tastes like. Like the kind of man who was meant to ruin you, and somewhere inside you, that seed already sprouted. You just haven’t watered it yet.

You finally text back:

“He’s out there.”

You don’t say you are too. You don’t have to.

Because a second later, the porch creaks.

Your breath stalls.

He stands.

For a moment, you can’t move. Can’t breathe. You grip the windowsill with both hands like it’s going to anchor you. His silhouette shifts. Stretches. He drinks the last of the beer, sets it down beside the step with care—so quiet, so deliberate—and steps inside.

The porch light stays off.

And your whole body feels like it just came down from something you never climbed.

You pull the window shut. Lock it. Turn off the fan.

But long after you crawl into bed, you can still taste the metal of the screen on your tongue. The burn behind your ribs like you’re holding your breath too long. The image of him there—still. Solid. Silent.

You already know—he’s in your blood now.

And blood calls to blood.

Same Street, Two Nights Later — Tuesday, 11:46 PM — Your Side of the Glass

You weren’t looking for him tonight. Not actively.

You were just rearranging the living room again—shoving an Eames knockoff two inches to the left like that’d fix the weight in your chest, like geometry could soothe longing. It’s something you do when the world is too quiet. When your thoughts start to echo. You move furniture the way other people smoke or pray.

But then you caught him. Again.

Jack. Leaning against the railing this time. Arm slung over the top post, eyes low, unreadable. He’s not drinking tonight. No beer. No cigarette. Just him. Raw and undistracted. The kind of stillness that makes everything else look frantic.

You keep your distance.

Not out of fear.

Out of respect. The man moves like a wolf would if it lived too long and started remembering the names of things it used to kill. You don’t poke at something like that unless you’re prepared to let it tear you open.

Still—something’s different tonight.

His gaze flicks up, deliberate. Eyes finding yours with precision. Not the way men look when they’ve caught you watching and want to feel superior about it—but the way someone does when they’ve been watching, too. Long before now. Long enough to know when you move behind glass.

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do you.

Instead, you push the window open—not wide, just a few inches. Enough to let the air in. Enough to let him know you’re listening.

And then, as if on cue, his voice—

“Your light’s been on since seven.”

You blink. The first thing he’s said to you in days. Maybe ever, depending on how you measure real speech. Carrying a dresser up the stairs doesn’t count. Not when this feels like an invocation.

You don’t raise your voice when you answer. You don’t need to.

“I don’t like the dark.”

Jack nods once, slow, like he understands. Not like he’s pitying you, but like he’s survived it himself. The dark. The nights that don’t end. The flickering shadows of a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

He shifts—just barely—a quiet redistribution of weight as he braces his good leg against the porch post, the kind of practiced movement that slips beneath most people’s notice. But you catch it. The way his body tilts, compensates, steadies. He’s facing you fully now, not hiding the way his eyes track the light spilling out of your front window.

He’s been watching. Clearly. Closely.

His gaze drags over the interior—the soft lamplight, the worn rug, the chair you’ve moved three times this week and still haven’t committed to. The one you told yourself you’d repaint. The one sitting right there in full view.

“You said you were gonna repaint that chair,” he says finally, voice cutting through the heat. “But you just keep moving it around like it means something. Like it belongs there. Like it’s not broken.” He pauses. “I can see it every night. Always in a new spot.”

You glance at the chair in question. Rust orange velvet, fraying at the arms. You found it on a curb three weeks ago and decided it deserved a second life. You don’t know why he remembers that.

“I like things with a little damage.”

Jack exhales—half-scoff, half-laugh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I figured.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s heavy, but not unbearable. Like the moment after thunder. That fragile space where nothing dares to move yet. You lean your forearms against the sill and feel the wood warm under your skin. He watches your arms, your wrists, your mouth when you speak.

“You always out here this late?” you ask.

“Not always,” he says. “Just when I can’t sleep.”

“And you can’t sleep a lot?”

His jaw shifts. A tic of tension, then release. “Enough.”

You don’t ask why. You already know. Maybe not the details. But you’ve seen the way he startles at backfiring engines. The way he stands when a siren passes—still, alert, waiting for it to name someone he knows. You’ve seen the ghost in him. Hell, you feel it like a twin flame—your haunted lungs to his haunted heart.

“Thought I saw you watching,” he says suddenly, eyes back on you.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The air tightens between you.

Not threatening. Not sweet.

Just charged. Like the street itself is holding its breath.

Jack pushes off the railing then. Steps down—once, twice. He doesn’t cross the road. Not yet. But the movement alone makes something inside you coil tight.

He stops at the bottom step, hands in the pockets of his zip-up, shoulders slouched like he’s spent. Like the day dragged him by the throat. And still, he says it:

“I don’t sleep. You don’t turn your lights off. We could pretend that means something.”

You tilt your head. “And if it doesn’t?”

He shrugs. “Still means I noticed.”

It’s then that the heat shifts. The porch light behind him flickers—burned out bulb, probably—and the whole block dims by a fraction. Enough to make the night feel close. Intimate.

And Jack?

Jack takes one step off the curb, like he might come closer. Like he’s thinking about it. Testing the weight of the choice in his chest. You see it in the way he rolls his jaw, the way he glances once at your window like he’s looking into something—not through.

But he doesn’t cross.

He lingers—still, certain, waiting. And you know, instinctively, he’s the kind of man who won’t take a single step until he’s sure it’s wanted. The kind who doesn’t chase. The kind who waits to be summoned.

So you leave the window.

Not because you’ve decided. Because you were always going to.

Because something in you already crossed the room hours ago—maybe days ago—and now your body is just following through.

You walk slow. Barefoot. The boards shift under you like they recognize your weight. Past the orange chair you keep repositioning, trying to make it mean something. Past the cracked tile at the edge of the hall. Past the wall that still smells faintly of old paint and regret.

You reach the door.

And you don’t open it right away.

You stand there for a second—fingertips grazing the deadbolt, your pulse tapping behind your ribs like it’s waiting to be let out. The porch light is already on, humming above you like a fever dream. The metal under your palm is warm. The silence outside is full. Watchful. Like the night’s holding its breath to see if you’ll go through with it.

And then you unlock it.

Not like you’re letting someone in.

Like you’re unlatching your own chest. Like you’re releasing the thing that’s been pacing the cage of your body all summer long.

You open the door just enough for heat to press in against your skin—thick, heady, electric. Then you step into the doorway. Not beyond it. Not inside either. Just there.

Barefoot. Bare-armed. Lit from behind. Your shadow spills out onto the porch, long and feminine and unavoidable. You don’t wave. Don’t beckon. You just stand still.

Like a flame someone dared to touch. Like you’ve been burning quietly all this time, waiting for him to notice the smoke.

That’s it. That’s your answer.

Not the porch light. Not the door unlocked. Not the silence. You. Standing in your own light, refusing to flinch. The porch light was never the invitation. You are.

You are the haunting now.

And Jack—still across the street, still standing on that same goddamn step—answers like a man who’s already lived here. Like his body knows this moment down to the bone. Like he’s spent weeks watching for this exact sliver of space to open, just wide enough to slip through.

He sees you. Full. Unhidden.

And he moves.

One step. Then another.

Measured. Steady. Not hesitant, but heavy. Like every inch closer to you costs him something. Like he’s felt this before. And lost it.

The fourth step lands him at the base of your porch, and he pauses. Just long enough for your breath to catch. Just long enough for you to realize he hasn’t blinked once.

Then he climbs.

Three steps.

And now he’s standing in front of you. Not across the street. Not on the porch. At the door. In your light.

His shoulders fill the frame. His chest rises slow. His eyes are darker than they were the last time he looked at you—hotter. His zip-up is still open, clinging to him like it’s afraid to fall. His hands stay loose at his sides, fingers flexing slightly like they don’t trust themselves. He smells like steel and skin. Like rain before it hits. Like whatever’s been following him for years finally let go.

He doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

He just looks at you, like he’s taking inventory of something sacred. Like he’s seeing you for the first time—not across the street, not through glass, not as an echo—but as a doorway.

His voice, when it comes, is low. Gravel rough. Pulled from somewhere deep and private.

“You opened it.”

Not a question. A statement. A confession.

You don’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, you take one step back. Slow. Deliberate. Leaving just enough space in front of you for a man to fit.

Your hand stays on the knob. Your breath stills.

It’s not a plea. Not an ask.

It’s a line drawn in light: Come in if you mean it.

And Jack steps over it like he’s done pretending he doesn’t.

He crosses the threshold slow—broad shoulders first, then the rest of him, heat and shadow and breath. The porch gives a small groan beneath his weight. The air shifts around him like the house is reacting to his presence.

And when the door swings shut behind him—quiet, certain—you don’t flinch. Because he’s already inside.

He’s close now. Closer than he’s ever been. The soft whir of the fan overhead does nothing to cool you down. His presence is a furnace, and your skin is already learning the shape of his.

Jack looks around once—slow, deliberate—then back at you. His eyes drop to your mouth. Linger.

“You always open the door like that?” he asks, voice rough with something that could be amusement but feels more like hunger barely restrained.

“Only for ghosts,” you say, soft.

Jack’s eyes narrow. Not suspicious—curious. Like he’s trying to read the rest of that sentence in the shape of your lips.

“I’m not good at haunting,” he murmurs. “I tend to stick.”

You take a step toward him.

“Then stick,” you say.

That’s what breaks it.

Jack moves fast. Not rough, not cruel—sure. Like he’s done waiting. Like he’s done pretending this hasn’t already happened in a thousand ways, in a thousand glances, over a hundred sleepless nights. His hands are on your waist in an instant—large, calloused, steady—and he backs you against the door so hard it rattles on its hinges.

His body presses full to yours. Not tentative. Not exploratory. Claiming.

You gasp—not in fear, but relief.

Jack’s mouth finds yours with unnerving precision—like he’s been studying it for weeks from across the street. Maybe he has. He kisses the way he works: like an ER attending in the middle of chaos—steady, practiced, deliberate. No wasted motion. Just pressure, breath, purpose. He’s not rushing. He’s not asking. He’s learning you.

The kiss is hot and unrelenting, all tongue and teeth and quiet surrender—like he’s pulling something from your chest that was always meant for him.

His lips break from yours just long enough to breathe against your cheek.

“You’re hot,” he murmurs, almost dazed.

You laugh, breath hitching. “So are you.”

“No—your skin,” he says, dragging his mouth down your throat, the words more breath than sound. “Jesus. Burning.”

You arch into him, gasping. “I told you—I don’t like the dark.”

His mouth pauses at your clavicle. You feel the smile there. Then:

“Then let me make it bright.”

Your fingers twist into the fabric at his chest and you pull him closer—harder—until his breath stutters against your skin. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him again, open and demanding. That sound shatters something inside you. You chase it, bite his bottom lip, taste the edge of him.

He breaks just enough to whisper, forehead pressed to yours.

“You want this?”

You nod, fast. Sure. “I wanted this the first time you said my name."

Jack’s hand splays wide at your hip, fingers curling like he’s claiming territory. His other arm braces beside your head, trapping you. He moves like he’s used to working around damage—his or yours.

“This isn’t gonna be clean,” he warns.

“I’m not asking for clean.”

He exhales like that answer undoes him. Then—“I haven’t done this in a while. Not like this.”

You reach up, palm cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the stubble there.

“Then let it be new,” you whisper. “We’ll haunt each other clean.”

Jack kisses you again—slower this time, deeper. His mouth explores yours like a reckoning. His hands find your thighs, lift you against the door like your weight belongs in his arms. And in that moment, you realize:

This isn’t just lust.

It’s ache. It’s need.

It’s a man trying to come home to something that doesn’t hurt.

He carries you down the hallway without a word, shoulder nudging the wall to guide his way. Your legs wrapped tight around him, hands buried in the hair at the base of his neck, mouth at his jaw, teeth grazing a scar you’ve noticed before but never let yourself linger on—until now. The kind of mark you don’t ask about, but suddenly ache to memorize.

He doesn’t take you to the bedroom.

He stops in the hallway—right there, two feet from the framed photograph of your parents, just shy of the corner table you thrifted last fall. He pins you to the wall with his body, one hand braced above your head, the other already sliding under your shirt.

“Here?” he asks, rough.

“Here,” you say, breath hot. “Start here.”

Because the hallway is narrow. Tight. Honest.

It’s not where people are meant to stay—but it’s exactly where they choose.

It's the place where people hang coats and leave shoes, where heat rises off hardwood and the walls are too close to lie about intention. The place where the weight of wanting becomes unbearable. Where proximity makes liars of you both.

Jack’s hands are on your waist. His mouth is still wet from kissing you. His body has you bracketed against the wall like you’re something he found and forgot how to let go of. You can feel the heat of him through his jeans, thick and hard where he presses against you, the slow grind of his hips making your breath go shallow.

You shift, slowly—deliberately—turning in his grip until your front meets the wall. The plaster is cool against your chest, grounding, unforgiving. Your palms flatten above your head, fingers splayed wide, bracing for what’s coming. The movement makes your shirt ride up slightly, exposing the soft curve of your lower back, and he’s there—right there—not touching yet, but close enough that you feel the heat of him bloom across your spine.

He follows, crowding in, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. One of his hands lifts—slow, deliberate—and drags up the hem of your shirt with the back of his knuckles. Not urgent. Not teasing. Just a study in restraint. Like he can’t decide whether to be gentle or ruinous. Whether to worship or devour. His knuckles brush bare skin, and you hear it then—that subtle, involuntary breath he pulls in, sharp like pain.

When he speaks, it’s low. Wrecked. The kind of voice that only exists in the dark, full of hunger he’s been trying—and failing—to quiet.

“Still want this?” he murmurs, like he needs to hear it again—just to be sure.

You don’t answer right away. You reach back, palm flattening over the swell of his cock through his jeans, a silent answer. He jerks in your hand, grits his teeth like it hurts to be touched.

“I’ll ruin you,” he breathes. “I’ll fuck you like I mean it.”

You push back against him, arch your spine, tilt your chin.

“Then mean it.”

That’s the end of his control.

His mouth is on your neck, teeth scraping, biting, sucking hard enough to mark. His hand slides between your thighs, drags your shorts down your legs so rough the elastic burns. You step out of them, bracing yourself against the wall as his fingers part you—wet, hot, already swollen from the friction of wanting.

“Christ,” he groans, middle finger gliding through slick. “You’re soaked.”

“For you,” you say, breathless, not out of performance, but truth.

Jack groans again—deep, from his chest. He rubs himself through his jeans, and then you hear it: the zipper. The metal rasp that makes your mouth go dry. He tugs his jeans down just enough, and then the weight of him is pressed against you—bare, flushed, throbbing against the back of your thigh.

You reach back again, desperate, wrapping your fingers around him—hot, heavy, thick. The kind of cock that feels like it was meant to split you open. Your breath stutters.

Jack’s hands slide over your hips, grounding you. He lines himself up—head of him slick, blunt, pressing into you—and he doesn’t ease in.

He shoves.

You gasp—loud, punched out of you like air, like prayer. The stretch is immediate, punishing. He’s thick, hard, so deep so fast you feel him in your gut. His hand clamps over your mouth, not cruel—cautious—but even that makes your thighs clench, makes your cunt flutter around him.

You swear he growls.

“God, you’re tight—like you’re trying to keep me out,” he grits, already pulling back and slamming back in. “But you won’t. You won’t, sweetheart. You fucking asked for this.”

And you did. You did, and you’d do it again. You push back into him, chasing it, loving the sting. The rhythm he sets is merciless—not fast, not sloppy—but deep. Purposeful. Like he’s rearranging you. Like your body is something he means to learn, inch by inch, ruin by ruin.

Every thrust lands hard. Precise.

His voice is in your ear now—low, fucked-out, reverent.

“You’re mine like this,” he says. “Like I could live inside you. Like I have. You feel that?”

You can’t speak.

All you can do is nod, moan, cry out with every sharp, devastating push. Your hands scramble for the wall, for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing. Just paint and breath and the echo of skin on skin. You brace your elbows, press your forehead to the plaster as he fucks you like a man possessed. Like he’s waited years. Like he’s afraid he’ll never get to again.

He’s grunting, teeth gritted, sweat slick between your bodies. His prosthetic leg anchors him, and you feel the way his body compensates—shoulders shifting, balance tilting. He doesn’t apologize for it. Doesn’t slow.

“You feel like goddamn velvet,” he growls. “Gripping me like you want to keep me.”

“I do,” you pant. “I want to hold you—fuck—keep you.”

He groans into your shoulder. “You are. You are.”

He reaches between your thighs again, fingers sliding over your clit in tight, practiced circles. You jerk, whimper, body thrashing back into him.

“Come,” he murmurs. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

The orgasm takes you like violence.

You clamp around him, clenching hard, pulse strobing in every limb.

You cry out—loud, raw—and your knees nearly give, but he catches you, holds you up, one arm around your waist as he keeps fucking you through it.

His thrusts stutter.

His breath breaks.

And then he growls.

He buries himself as deep as you can take, cock twitching as he spills into you, hips jerking, voice low and guttural against your skin. He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, as he empties himself inside you, groaning like he’s come home.

You both stay there, still panting, pressed to the wall.

Sticky. Shaking. Stained with sweat and come.

Jack doesn’t pull out right away.

He keeps himself inside you, hand still firm on your stomach, his weight a shield. You feel him soften slowly, but he doesn’t step back.

He just breathes.

Like if he moves, it’ll end.

Like this is safer than anything else.

Eventually, he shifts—gently, carefully—and pulls out with a low hiss. You feel his release drip down your thigh, hot and slick. He groans at the sight of it.

Then his hands find your waist again.

He turns you.

He looks at you like a man standing in front of a fire he doesn’t want to put out. And then he kisses you. Not hungry. Not rough. Just real.

“I don’t want this to be once,” he says quietly. “Don’t let it be once.”

You reach for him, still wrecked, still pulsing.

“I opened the door,” you whisper. “You’re already inside.”

He’s not haunting you anymore.

He’s staying.

[cherrypickedchaos]

Grease and Ghosts

A lost love. A shared past. A garage full of memories. Can they race back to each other before it’s too late?

Genre: smut, slow-burn reunion romance, angsty vibes, small-town grit, forbidden-yet-inevitable love, erotic literature, yearning, established relationship, grief, mechanic! f x Oscar.

NSFW warning: 18+... Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink - if you squint.

Inspired by Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan

The garage was warm, but only just. The little space heater hummed somewhere by the desk, struggling against the December cold creeping through the warped garage door. Oil stained the concrete as metal clinked against metal. A faint scent of burnt rubber and coffee lingered in the air, the ghosts of a hundred late nights. In the corner, a battered radio whispered an old song she didn’t really hear, classic rock, just like her dad.

She was halfway under an old Citroën, turning bolts that didn’t want to turn. Her hair was full of dust and a smear of something dark on her cheek. She wiped it with the back of her sleeve and muttered to herself.

"Come on, you stubborn—"

The bell above the garage door jingled once.

She didn’t look up. Customers always came in cold and awkward, like they were afraid they’d catch grime just by standing too close.

"Be right with you," she called, voice muffled.

A beat of silence.

Then a voice.

"Heard a Citroën throwing a tantrum and figured this has to be Sparks’ garage."

Everything in her went still. Not just the voice. The name. No one had called her that in years. Not since…

She slid out from beneath the car slowly, one hand still gripping the wrench. Her heart knocked once against her ribs, then waited. The wrench in her hand suddenly felt too heavy, like it remembered him too.

He stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of a coat too clean for this place. Taller than she remembered. Older. His hair was shorter, but his mouth was still a straight line. Same boots. Same dark eyes.

"You’re back," she said. It came out quieter than she intended. Not quite a question, not quite a statement.

"It’s Christmas," Oscar replied, like that explained something.

She nodded. Calm on the surface. Only there.

"You’ve never come back for Christmas before."

He didn’t answer. His eyes wandered the space like he was trying to measure what had changed. Or maybe what hadn’t.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The sun sagged low behind the trees, throwing long shadows across the cracked old kart track. The air stank of petrol, burnt rubber, and over-fried chips from the greasy stand by the entrance. Her dad’s truck was parked nearby, dented and loyal, with tools spilling out the back like it always had something to fix.

She stood stiff in the middle of it all, fourteen, maybe fifteen, swimming in racing gear a size too big. The gloves didn’t fit. The helmet slipped when she moved. She could barely see over the wheel.

Oscar leaned on the fence with his usual smugness, arms crossed, helmet dangling from one hand. He’d already finished his lap, loud and fast, chewing up the track like he owned it.

“Sure you want to do this, Sparks? Not too late to back out and keep your dignity.”

She glared, even if her knees were shaking. “I want to try.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself. Just don’t cry when I lap you.”

Her dad called over, half-amused, half-warning. “Knock it off, Oscar. Let her drive.”

The kart hissed as she climbed in. The seat was cold and unwelcoming. The harness snapped shut with a sound too final. When the engine stuttered to life beneath her, it felt like being strapped to a jackhammer.

She nearly stalled pulling away.

The first lap was a disaster. Jerky acceleration. Clipped a cone. Took the corner like she was aiming to plow through it. She could hear him laughing somewhere behind her.

“You’re not supposed to be good at this!” he yelled as he zipped past.

Her cheeks burned. She tightened her grip on the wheel until her knuckles ached.

“I’m just getting started,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Second lap, smoother. Third, tighter. By the fourth, she wasn’t thinking. She was feeling it. The turn before the back straight. The way the engine kicked up just before it screamed. The little tremble in the left tire she hadn’t noticed before but now anticipated like a sixth sense.

On the fifth lap, she passed him.

She didn’t plan it. She just caught him easing off the gas too early on the final corner, and she surged past, tires screeching, heart thudding so loud she couldn’t hear the engine.

She hit the finish line a full second ahead.

Oscar rolled to a stop beside her, helmet under his arm, sweat in his hair and shock in his grin. He blinked. Then barked out a laugh, the short, sharp kind he did when something actually surprised him.

“Okay,” he said. “That was… not bad.”

She climbed out, helmet under one arm, eyes bright and confused. He was still staring at her.

“What?”

He didn’t answer, just kept smiling.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

That only made him smile wider.

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The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the damp clung to everything, to the air, to the walls, to the soft knock of Oscar’s boots against concrete. He was already there when she arrived the next morning, leaning against the garage door with two coffees and the look of someone pretending not to feel the cold.

She didn’t ask how long he’d been waiting.

“I got the one that isn’t sweet,” he said, holding one out like a peace offering.

She eyed it, then him, then took it without a word. It was the kind of thing you did when you still knew someone’s order. The kind of thing that shouldn’t still be true.

She set the cup down on the workbench without drinking. Then crouched by the rusted-out sedan she’d been fighting with since Tuesday. The front suspension was shot and the bolts refused to move, as if the car had grown roots overnight.

He watched her work, hands in his jacket pockets. She could feel his gaze, light and constant, like static.

“You’re still doing everything yourself?” he asked finally. “No apprentice, no kid from the high school shop class?”

“I don’t like people in my space.”

Oscar gave a small snort. “Yeah. That checks out.”

She didn’t look up. The wrench groaned as she forced it left.

“Jet lag,” he added after a beat. “Didn’t know if you’d be here this early.”

“I usually am.”

He smiled. “Some things really don’t change.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

There was a long pause. She tugged another bolt loose with a satisfying metal shriek. He didn’t flinch.

“Still staying with your mum?” she asked, casual but not careless.

“Yeah. Delaney Road.”

A pause. Then, lighter: “Festive as ever.”

She grunted. “Must be hell.”

“Close enough.”

He didn’t elaborate. She didn’t push.

The silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable, not hostile either. Like the aftermath of an argument neither of them ever actually had.

Oscar shifted his weight. His fingers tapped absently against his paper cup.

“Still smells the same,” he murmured. “Grease and instant coffee.”

She glanced up, only briefly. “Guess some things don’t change.”

He didn’t answer, his mouth smirking, drifting through the garage like he was walking through a dream. Slow, deliberate. Hands still in his pockets. His eyes moved from one thing to the next, pausing, like he expected each corner to remember him.

He stopped at the old pegboard above the tool bench, where every socket and spanner had its own chalk outline. A few spots were still labelled in her dad’s handwriting. The paint had faded, but the scrawl was unmistakable.

Oscar leaned closer, squinting at a note scribbled in the corner. “Still sorting by chaos theory, huh?”

She didn’t look up. “It’s efficient if you understand it.”

“Sure, it is,” he muttered. “Just a two-move puzzle. Where the first move is giving up.”

She snorted, quiet and unwilling.

He kept going, fingers brushing the top of the ancient radio, still held together with black electrical tape where the antenna had snapped. He turned the knob slightly, and the volume nudged up, a raspy old voice singing over sharp guitar and muffled drums. Something raw and old-school, all grit and growl.

He smiled faintly. “Still stuck on your dad’s rock station.”

“You’re the only one who ever minded it.”

He glanced over at her. “He never gave me hell for changing it.”

She kept her head down, tugging the hood lower. “That’s because he said it built character.”

Oscar gave a quiet laugh. Not much of one. Just enough.

The old coffee tin was still there too. Half full of washers and screws. He picked it up, shook it gently, then set it down again. Every corner of the place was like that. Alive but still. Like the garage had kept breathing after everyone else had left.

“You looking for something?” she asked finally.

He turned, caught off guard. “No. Just… remembering.”

She gestured toward the rolling cart. “If you want to be useful, sort those by size. The metric ones. Top tray.”

He blinked. Then gave a short, almost theatrical sigh. “You always did know how to delegate.”

But he moved toward the tray and started sorting, bare hands, slow and methodical. She watched him from under the hood, only briefly. He still knew what he was doing. Still worked in silence when it counted.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The music buzzed low. Tools shifted. Somewhere outside, a bird scratched against the sheet metal roof.

It was almost easy.

He was reaching for a socket when he saw it.

Top shelf. Behind a jar of miscellaneous bolts and a rusted tin of copper wire. The frame was angled slightly toward the wall, half-hidden, like it had been set down in a hurry and never moved again.

He froze.

The frame was still the same one. Silvered edges, slightly tarnished. Square and heavy in the hand. He remembered it well. He had seen it a hundred times on the wall near the back office, framed perfectly by light in the late afternoons. Back then, it held a photo of the three of them. Her dad in the middle, grinning under his ball cap. She was maybe thirteen, holding up a tiny trophy with both hands, cheeks red with sun and adrenaline. Oscar stood next to her, making a peace sign with motor oil on his sleeve.

Now it held nothing.

The glass was cracked in one corner. Not shattered, just a fine spiderweb fracture that reached toward the centre like it had been hit once by something small and sudden. The dust around the frame suggested it had been sitting there for a while. But the glass was clean. No smudges, no fingerprints. Like she still touched it sometimes. Like she still moved it. Just not enough.

He picked it up gently.

Behind him, the soft sound of a ratchet stopped.

He turned it slowly in his hands, thumb brushing the crack. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. Not hesitant. Just careful.

“That always been empty?”

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, it was flat. No weight behind it.

“No.”

He didn’t ask what happened to the photo. Didn’t ask why she had taken it out or what it had meant to her to leave the frame behind. She didn’t offer.

He set it back exactly where it had been. Angled toward the wall. Then turned back to the tray of bolts and kept sorting.

She didn’t move for a while after the sound of him setting the frame down. Just stayed crouched beside the car, her hand resting on the axle like she had forgotten what she was doing. The silence had stretched again, but this one felt different. Tighter. Denser. Like the kind you hold between your teeth.

Oscar glanced over but didn’t speak. His fingers worked slowly, sorting washers into neat lines on the tray. It wasn’t about helping anymore. He just needed something to do with his hands. He wanted to ask.

Why here? Why still this place, this building full of ghosts? Why had she taken the photo down but kept the frame like a shrine to something neither of them could name?

She hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little sharper around the eyes. Maybe quieter. But her hands still moved the same way when she worked. Her jaw still clenched when she focused. The way she held herself, stubborn, grounded, full of heat she refused to show, that hadn’t changed at all.

He wondered if she thought about it. About that photo. About the night he left. About what would have happened if she had come with him instead of staying. If they had left this garage together, would she still be reaching for busted bolts with scraped knuckles in the middle of winter?

Would he still be unravelling behind a smile in front of every camera in the paddock?

He looked at her again. Still no eye contact. She hadn’t looked at him properly since he arrived. He tried to say something. Cleared his throat. The words didn’t come.

So, he went back to sorting. One washer at a time. No hurry. When the tray was full, Oscar stood and stretched. His joints cracked louder than they used to.

She was still under the car, but her focus had slipped. The ratchet stayed in her hand. She wasn’t turning it.

He walked past her on the way to toss a rag into the bin. Didn’t stop. Didn’t linger. Just glanced once, on instinct, toward the shelf.

The frame was still there. Still empty. Still cracked.

He hesitated.

Then reached up and gently turned it face down.

The movement made her head lift, just barely. She saw it. She didn’t say anything at first.

Then: “You’re just visiting?”

He stood still for a moment. Like he wasn’t sure what to say. Then nodded once.

“Yeah.” He paused in the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets again. The same posture he’d had yesterday, but it felt different now. “Just visiting.”

The door creaked as he let it shut behind him.

She stayed where she was, eyes on the tray of tools he had left behind. Neatly sorted. Every piece in its place.

She flipped the frame back over a few minutes later.

Didn’t look at it.

Just set it upright, facing forward again.

And kept working.

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The sun spilled in through the open garage doors, slicing through the floating dust and laying gold across the concrete. The air smelled like grease, motor oil, and the lemon soap her dad always kept by the sink but never used. Music buzzed from the old radio on the shelf, the volume too high, the bass a little blown out. Something with twang and grit and an unapologetic guitar solo.

Her dad stood by the coffee pot, humming off-key and tapping a socket wrench against his palm like a conductor. His mug was chipped, stained darker on the inside than out. He looked happy.

Oscar was elbow-deep in the side of his kart, legs sprawled, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands stained with oil. The kart should’ve been a quick fix. He had come in early that morning for something simple, throttle lag, or maybe a stubborn plug. Now it was four hours later, and the engine was halfway out, and he hadn’t even tried to leave.

She stood across from him, holding the parts tray. Narrowing her eyes at the mess he was making.

“That’s the wrong socket,” she said.

“It is not,” Oscar shot back, already forcing it.

“It doesn’t even fit.”

“It fits enough.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to the drawer set. “No wonder you break everything.”

“I don’t break everything. I make bold choices.”

“You make poor ones.”

“Bold ones.”

Her dad chuckled without looking. “Same thing at your age.”

Oscar grinned like he had just been handed a medal. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

She passed him the correct socket. He took it, their fingers brushing just barely, and for half a second neither of them said anything. His smile faltered. She looked away too fast.

“Try not to strip the bolt this time,” she said, sharp again.

“Wow. Just when I thought we were bonding.”

“Keep thinking.”

Across the room, her dad shook his head, still smiling. He leaned over the coffee pot and muttered loud enough to be heard, “You two gonna fix the car or stay there long enough to get married under it?”

Oscar’s hands slipped. “What?”

Her head jerked up. “Dad.”

He was already sipping from his mug, totally unfazed. “Nothing. Just making conversation.”

Oscar cleared his throat and went back to work. The tips of his ears had turned pink. She was glaring at her dad like he had committed war crimes. Her dad only raised his eyebrows and wandered off to the back shelf, still humming along with the music. When the guitar solo kicked in, he whistled under it, off-key and enthusiastic.

Oscar swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear and bumped the tray. A wrench clattered to the floor.

“That’s strike three.”

Oscar blinked. “Three? What were the first two?”

“The socket you forced, the bolt you cross-threaded, and now the wrench.”

“That socket fit. Spiritually,” he retorted with a grin on his face.

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m unpaid emotional labour.”

She bent to pick up the wrench and flicked a rag at his face on the way back up.

He caught it. Barely.

“You’re assaulting a teammate,” he said, dramatic.

“You’re not my teammate.”

“Yet.”

She snorted, but there was a smile under it. Her dad caught the sound and shouted from the other end of the garage, “If you two are done flirting, I got brake pipes back here with your names on them.”

Oscar called back, “We are never done flirting.”

She smacked his arm with the rag again.

Her dad cackled, a big laugh, full of breath. The kind of laugh that shook the walls and stayed in the corners long after the noise was gone. The kind of laugh you don’t know you’ll miss until the day it’s not there.

Oscar leaned against the kart, wiping his hands. “So, Sparks, what’s the plan after this? Sandwiches? Cold drinks? A full parade in my honour?”

“You can have the last Tim Tam if you promise to stop talking.”

“I make no such promise.”

She tossed the rag at him again. It landed on his head. He left it there.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, with her dad whistling and the engine guts open like a story waiting to be finished, Oscar looked at her. Not for too long. Just enough.

Enough to know he’d be back next weekend. And the one after that. And probably the one after that too.

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The garage smelled the same. It always did. Like cold metal and worn rubber, with coffee grounds clinging to the corners. But today, something else hung in the air. Thicker than oil. Heavier than exhaust.

Oscar didn’t say anything when he walked in, comfortable now since he’d done it all week. Just raised a hand in greeting, slow and small, like he wasn’t sure if it counted.

She didn’t wave back.

She was working under the hood of a battered Subaru; the same one she’d been pulling apart the day before. Her posture was tight. Focused. More than usual. Like every bolt was an excuse to stay silent. The heater was on, but the place still felt freezing.

Oscar leaned against the wall near the bench, hands in his jacket pockets. He listened for a minute.

“You always let the sad stuff play this loud?”

She didn’t look up. “Didn’t notice.”

He nodded once, even though she couldn’t see him. The music hummed low, her dad’s kind of track. Guitar heavy. Gravel voice. It scraped the silence instead of filling it.

Oscar kicked lightly at a loose washer on the floor. It rolled into the dark under one of the shelves.

“You okay?”

She tightened something that didn’t need it. “Fine.”

“Right.”

Another beat passed. The longest one yet. He moved toward the tool cart and stopped halfway.

“You need help?”

“No.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You sure? I’ve gotten really good at following instructions. Some even said I was trainable.”

Nothing. Not even a breath of a smile. She turned a wrench slow and steady, like she was trying not to let her knuckles shake.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the bench. “Alright. No jokes today.”

Still no answer. He glanced around the garage. Nothing had changed, but it all felt different. Dimmer. He didn’t know why. Not yet. But he felt it. The air was thick with something unspoken. And he was standing in it, same as her. He stayed quiet after that. For a while.

She didn’t tell him to leave, but she didn’t talk either, and in the silence he found himself reaching for something to do.

The rolling cart was low on parts, so he crossed the garage and crouched by the lower drawers, pulling them open one by one. Most were packed with tangled cables, random fittings, a few tools long past their prime. The third drawer stuck halfway, then groaned open with a reluctant scrape.

He reached in for a socket set and paused.

Buried beneath a roll of old sandpaper and a cracked measuring tape was a sketchbook. The edges were warped, the cover smudged and oil streaked. No title, no decoration. Just plain black spiral binding and a corner folded over like it had been jammed back in a hurry.

He hesitated. Then slid it out. She was still under the hood.

Oscar flipped the cover open and felt his breath catch. Page after page of detailed mechanical sketches, clean lines, annotated margins, systems broken down into layered cross-sections. Suspension setups. Chassis tweaks. Engine configurations. Every line purposeful, confident. Sharp handwriting in the corners.

One page showed a kart body rendered from three angles, painted with a stripe of red across the nose and annotations for airflow and weight balance.

At the top, in pencil: “Race Concept: Build One Day”

He turned another page. Then another. Then something slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the ground.

A piece of paper, yellowed and creased, like it had been folded and refolded too many times. He picked it up.

An application form. A real one. Addressed to a junior race team: a mechanic development program. He recognized the team. Knew the name. Knew who drove for them now.

The form was filled out, every blank completed in neat pen. Dated two years ago, almost to the day.

His name was written in one of the fields as emergency contact. It had never been sent. He looked up from the paper, toward the car.

She hadn’t moved. But she was no longer working. She was just holding the wrench. Still. Like she already knew what he’d found.

He looks at her, eyes sharp, searching. “Why didn’t you go?”

She freezes for a heartbeat, then lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “Why didn’t I go? You really want to ask that? After all this time?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “I just don’t get it. I thought maybe you’d have left by now.”

Her smile twists, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course you don’t. You left. You ran.”

He shifts, suddenly uncertain. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No? Then how was it?” She folds her arms, voice low and sharp. “You want me to explain how it feels to stay put while everything you cared about falls apart?”

He swallows. “I’m not blaming you.”

She snorts quietly. “Funny. Feels like you’re blaming me for not packing up and walking out.”

He looks away for a moment, then meets her eyes again. “I guess I thought you might have wanted out.”

Her laugh is harsh, edged with sarcasm. “Wanted out? Maybe. Maybe not. You think it’s that simple? Just wanting something makes it happen?”

He steps closer. “Then why stay?”

She shrugs, but there’s steel beneath the motion. “Because sometimes you don’t get a say. Because life doesn’t pause while you figure your shit out.”

“I’m sorry,” he softens

She bites the inside of her cheek, jaw tight, voice barely above a whisper. “Save it.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and raw.

Finally, she looks back at him, eyes guarded but sharp. “I didn’t stay for you. Not for your memory, your guilt, or your leaving. I stayed because it was the only thing left.”

He nods slowly, swallowing the weight of that.

Her lips press together. “So don’t ask me why I didn’t go. It’s your question, not mine.”

She looks at him, voice low and steady. “Go.”

There’s no lightness this time. No teasing edge. Just the hard line she’s drawn and refuses to cross back over.

He takes a step forward, then stops. His eyes search hers, like he’s trying to find a crack, an opening, something to hold on to.

“I—” he starts, but the words catch somewhere between his throat and the silence.

She cuts him off with a shake of her head. “No. Not today.”

The weight of that is sudden and absolute. He swallows, hesitant, wanting to say sorry, wanting to fix what’s been left broken, but the moment has already passed. Her hand moves, subtle but deliberate, toward the door.

As he turns to leave, his eyes catch something pinned to the wall, a funeral program. Her dad’s name. The date. He had died the day after he left.

He lingers for a moment, the weight of that detail settling over him like a silent accusation.

She doesn’t look back.

Not yet.

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The night air was still. Not cold enough to bite, but damp. It clung to her sleeves and settled in her hair like dust. The kind of night that felt stuck between seasons. The kind that didn't know what it was supposed to be.

They were standing outside the garage, in the gravel lot between the back wall and her dad’s truck. The lights inside were off now, except for the lamp in the office window. Its glow leaked out just far enough to stretch across the concrete. Oscar was leaned against the side of the truck, arms crossed, head tilted down like he couldn’t look at her and say it at the same time.

She was hugging herself, not from the cold but because it helped. It helped to press her elbows into her ribs and keep her hands still and hold herself together, because no one else was going to do it. Not right now. She hadn’t spoken in a while. She didn’t need to. He was going to say something. She could feel it in her spine.

He cleared his throat like it hurt.

“I got a call,” he said.

She looked over at him. Not all the way. Just her eyes. “Okay.”

“It’s a development seat. One of the junior programs. They want me in Spain for winter testing. And some training stuff. Sim work. It’s a whole thing.”

There was a pause. She waited. He didn’t keep going.

Then, carefully: “It starts tomorrow.”

Now she turned to face him.

“Tomorrow.”

He nodded once.

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Another nod. Barely a movement. She let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “You weren’t even going to tell me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

Her voice stayed calm, but her arms tightened across her stomach. “I’ve been sleeping three hours a night. Helping my mum with the shop books. Packing up Dad’s tools. Keeping my brothers from falling apart. Trying to make it feel normal for them. I haven’t had five seconds to myself, and the second I turn around, you’re gone too?”

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said.

“But it is.”

He looked up. Finally. “I didn’t know if I should say anything. I didn’t want to make things harder.”

She laughed. Not because it was funny. “Congratulations. You did anyway.”

“I thought maybe you’d come.”

“You know I couldn’t.”

He flinched at that. Just a little.

“I know,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want to hear it.”

“So, you waited until the night before?”

“I didn’t know how to say it.”

“You could’ve just said it mattered.”

The air stilled between them.

She let her arms drop. For a second her hands dangled like they didn’t know what to do. She looked at the gravel, then at the dark shape of the garage behind him.

“My dad’s in the hospital. You know that, right? You know what they said today?”

Oscar stayed quiet.

“They said maybe one month. Maybe less.”

Her voice didn’t shake. But her eyes glinted, not from tears, not yet, just the pressure behind them.

“I’m not leaving my family. I’m not getting on a plane and pretending none of this is happening.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No, you just made sure I didn’t have time to think about it.”

His face fell. The guilt came through then. Not anger. Just the weight of knowing he’d done something too late.

He stepped forward, carefully. Like the space between them had turned fragile.

“If this were different-”

“It’s not.”

“I didn’t want to leave without you.”

“But you are.”

He looked at her, like that was the first time it had fully landed.

“I should’ve asked you,” he said.

“Yeah.” Her voice cracked then. Just a little. “I would’ve said no,” she added. “But it would’ve been nice to be asked.”

He stepped closer again. This time he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like he wanted to hold something that wasn’t his to keep.

Their hands almost touched. Almost.

The porch light from the garage flicked off behind them.

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

She stood there in the hoodie he’d left at the garage weeks ago, the sleeves too long, the hem smudged with grease and threadbare at the cuffs. It still smelled faintly like him. She hadn’t meant to keep it. But she had.

She wiped the corner of one eye with the sleeve and stepped back.

“You should go.”

Oscar didn’t. Not yet. He looked at her a moment longer, and something shifted in his face, something that knew this was a line they wouldn't uncross if he said it. But he said it anyway. Soft. Final.

“I love you.”

She didn’t cry. Not then. She just stepped forward, took his face in her hands, and pressed a kiss to his temple—firm, quiet, devastating. Then she pulled back.

Oscar stood there, rooted. Then he nodded once, and didn’t say goodbye.

He got in the car. The headlights flashed across her as he turned it around, and for a second, their eyes caught through the windshield.

He didn’t wave. She didn’t look away.

And then he was gone. She stayed in the gravel; arms crossed over the hoodie like it might hold her together. The quiet rolled back in like a tide.

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The kitchen smelled like toast and old bananas. A cereal box was tipped on its side, spilling onto the table in slow motion while Jackson, twelve now, watched a video on his phone with one elbow in a puddle of orange juice.

“Seriously?” she said.

He blinked up at her. “What?”

She pointed to the box. “That.”

“Oh.”

He righted it lazily, wiped his arm on his hoodie sleeve, and went back to watching. Eli was already half-dressed, hoodie on inside out, socks balled in his hand, standing at the fridge with the door wide open.

“There’s no milk,” he announced like it was a personal betrayal.

“There was yesterday,” their mum said from the hall.

“Well, it walked out, I guess.”

Jackson didn’t look up. “You drank it straight from the bottle again.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

Their mum shuffled in, hair still wet from the shower, coffee in a chipped mug she refused to throw out. She sat down at the table without looking.

“Is anyone wearing trousers?”

“I am,” Jackson said.

“I’m not,” Eli said, pulling one sock on and then immediately stepping in the juice puddle.

“Cool,” she muttered, standing to grab a paper towel. “We’re thriving.”

The morning noise bumped along in its usual rhythm, cabinet doors, toast popping, someone humming under their breath. She stood at the sink, staring out the window without really seeing it, arms folded. The dish rack was piled unevenly. One of the mugs had a crack spidering down the handle, but no one ever threw it out. Every part of the room was lived-in, a little worn. Familiar.

Jackson grabbed a granola bar and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Hey, can you tell school I might be late?”

“Nope,” she said. “Tell him yourself.”

Eli was still barefoot, still poking through drawers.

“You’ve had fifteen minutes,” she said.

“I was doing my English reading.”

“Since when is YouTube considered literature?”

“It’s a visual medium,” he said, too proudly.

Their mum finally spoke again, eyes still half-lidded behind her coffee. “Shoes, both of you. Doors. Let’s move.”

Jackson saluted. Eli grumbled. Then the screen door banged shut behind them, leaving the kitchen quieter, a little cooler.

She sat down across from her mum, stealing the other half of her toast without asking.

“They’re growing up fast,” her mum said, staring into her mug.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

She shrugged. “They didn’t match their socks.”

“They never do.”

“And Jackson might actually survive school.”

“Not betting on it.”

They shared a look. The kind built from years of not needing to explain everything. The toast was cold, but she ate it anyway.

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The hood was up. The sun wasn’t. Clouds hovered low outside the garage, grey and swollen, flattening the light that came through the open door. Inside, everything smelled like warm metal, damp concrete, and the lingering bite of brake cleaner.

She was half-under the front end of a Volvo, gritting her teeth at a bolt that refused to move. The ratchet clicked and slipped again, the angle too tight, the clearance unforgiving.

“Need a hand?” came a voice from behind her.

She didn’t bother looking. “No.”

Oscar’s boots crossed the floor behind her anyway. She could hear the lazy rhythm of his steps, the smugness practically radiating off them.

“You sure? That bolt sounds scared.”

She exhaled through her nose. “You want to be helpful, go bother the socket tray.”

“I already did. It’s organized. You’re welcome.”

She turned just enough to glare over her shoulder. “You organized it wrong.”

“I organized it alphabetically. It was beautiful.”

She straightened and wiped her hands on a rag, resisting the urge to throw it at him.

“No one organizes sockets alphabetically.”

“Well, now they do.” He was grinning like a man who hadn’t just committed workshop treason. Her arms were sore, her temper was fraying, and still, still, he looked at her like he was enjoying every second of this.

She narrowed her eyes at the bolt again, muttering under her breath. “It’s seized.”

Oscar leaned beside her, arms folded, head tilted toward the engine bay.

“You want the breaker bar?”

“I want it to cooperate.”

“That’s not usually how metal works, Sparks.” He said it easy. Like the nickname belonged to him. Like the years hadn’t scraped that ownership away.

She didn’t answer. He walked off without asking and came back with the bar. She took it without looking at him. Their fingers touched for a second longer than necessary.

He noticed. She pretended she didn’t.

She braced the bar, adjusted her stance, and pulled. The bolt groaned. Gave. She rocked backward a step, breath catching in her throat.

Oscar let out a low whistle. “That was kind of hot.”

She turned, deadpan. “Say that again and I’ll bury you under the parts cart.”

“Romance is dead.”

She handed him the bar. “It never lived.”

He held her gaze for a moment too long, the smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. There was something in his eyes, not just amusement. Something warmer. Something older.

She looked away first.

“Need anything else, boss?” he asked.

She bent back over the car. “Silence would be great.”

He chuckled, quiet and pleased with himself and stayed exactly where he was, just leaned beside her while she worked, offering nothing but presence. That used to be enough. Some weekends, that was all they did, pass tools back and forth and talk about engines like it was a language only they spoke. Now the silence wasn’t comfort. It was pressure.

She reached for a clamp. He passed it to her without asking. Their fingers touched again, briefly, and this time neither of them pretended it didn’t happen.

She cleared her throat. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re loitering with confidence.”

He smiled. “You used to like having me around.”

“You used to know when to back off, you’re breathing down my neck.”

He smiled. “Missed it?”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the engine. He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her shoulder.

“I remember a version of you that smiled more.”

“I remember a version of you that didn’t leave.”

The smile didn’t fade, but it faltered, just for a second. A small drop in the engine’s hum.

“Ouch,” he said, with mock offense.

She tightened the clamp. “Yeah, well. Some of us had shit to do.”

Another pause. She didn’t look at him. “You know. Like bury a parent. Keep a roof over people’s heads. That sort of thing.”

He blinked. Slow. Careful.

“Wow. Was that a joke?”

“Only if you’re laughing.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle, stepped closer again, not enough to touch, but enough that she could feel the air shift.

“Not bad, Sparks. You’re getting sharper in your old age.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’d know.”

He smiled at her then. Not wide. Just that tilt at the corner of his mouth that used to make her forget what she was holding. “I did.”

This time, she looked away first. She passed him the clamp back. “Hold this.”

He did, wordlessly, steady hands in the right place without being told. Muscle memory, maybe. Or something else. She adjusted the seal, her fingers brushing his as she worked, and there it was again, that flicker of heat under her skin. The way her breath caught just slightly off-rhythm.

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his eyes on her. She tightened the last bolt with a sharp click and stepped back fast, wiping her hands hard on her rag.

“Done.”

He stayed still, clamp still in place. Watching her. She met his eyes, just once.

“You want something to do, clean the threads on the rear plugs.”

He tilted his head, just enough. “You okay?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s not what I—”

She cut him off with a look.

“Rear plugs,” she repeated.

Oscar nodded, slow, the smile returning. But softer now. Like he understood. He turned away to grab a brush, and she let herself breathe again, only once he wasn’t looking.

Later, the engine gave a small hiss as she loosened the last bolt, warm air rising from the block and curling against the cold. Oscar was beside her again, leaning into the open hood, his arm brushing hers.

She didn’t move. Not right away.

“You sure you remember how to do this?” she asked, eyes on the housing.

He bumped her lightly with his shoulder. “I’ve done more tracksides rebuilds than you’ve had birthdays.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

He reached in to hold the part steady while she rethreaded a line. She leaned in at the same time, and suddenly they were sharing the narrow space under the hood, shoulders pressed, breath warming the metal between them.

She was aware of everything, the sharp scent of engine coolant, the oil under her nails, the sound of his breath when he concentrated.

His head dipped closer, just slightly, voice softer now. “You know what I missed?”

She didn’t answer.

“This. The way you go quiet when you work. The way you talk to engines like they owe you something.”

She kept her hands moving. “They do.”

He smiled. “They listen to you.”

“They behave for me.”

Oscar glanced at her, and she felt it.

“You ever think about what would’ve happened if you came with me?”

She stopped tightening the line. Just for a second.

“Don’t.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t back off.

“I think about it,” he said.

“That’s your problem.”

She leaned away, suddenly too warm, grabbing a rag from the cart to clean her hands. The air between them stretched thin, like something pulled tight and trembling.

He straightened, slower this time. “You always used to get like this when you were trying not to punch me.”

“Still do.”

She tossed the rag into the bin. Harder than necessary.

Oscar grinned behind her. “You missed me.”

She turned, looked him dead in the eye and didn’t say a word. He didn’t press. Just stayed there while she wiped down the engine block, her hands precise again, her face unreadable.

Oscar leaned against the edge of the workbench now, like he belonged there. Like this was just another Saturday in the garage. Like they hadn’t gone years without speaking. She felt his eyes on her again. That same kind of watching, patient, sharp, almost fond.

It used to make her feel invincible. Now it made her feel like her skin didn’t fit right.

“You still look at me like that,” she said without turning around.

“Like what?”

“Like nothing changed.” He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t give him long. “Things did,” she added.

“I know.”

She turned, finally. Not all the way, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye.

“You think flirting makes it easier to come back?”

Oscar shrugged, but it was too slow to be casual. “I think it makes it easier to stay.”

That landed between them, quiet but heavy. She didn’t reply. Instead, she picked up the torque wrench, checked the calibration like it mattered.

“Car’s done,” she said.

Oscar nodded, like that meant something else entirely.

Then, still watching her, softer now: “Thanks for letting me help.”

She didn’t look at him. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

He smiled anyway. And she kept her back turned until he walked out.

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The lights above the track buzzed, half the bulbs flickering like they were tired too. Everything else had gone still. The stands were empty, the engine noise long faded, and the air smelled like warm rubber and cooling metal.

He was still in his race suit, unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. She stood by the kart, tools in hand, grease smudged across her wrist, heart still beating out of rhythm from watching him take her build and push it to the edge.

Oscar pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, breathless.

“That was-” he stopped, grinning like an idiot, “-I don’t even know what that was.”

She walked toward him, still holding the torque wrench.

“You hit seventy-four on the back straight.”

His eyes went wide. “No way.”

“I checked the readout twice.”

He let out a breathless laugh and looked back at the kart like it was something holy. “You built that.”

She shrugged. “You drove it.”

“I barely had to. It knew what it was doing.”

She raised a brow. “Machines don’t drive themselves.”

Oscar turned back to her. Still smiling. “Maybe not. But that thing was humming. Every turn, every shift, clean. Like it wanted to win.”

She ducked her head. “It did.”

He stepped closer. She looked up, and that was the moment, quiet, too fast to stop. Oscar still smelled like engine heat and wind. His hand brushed her elbow when he leaned in just a little.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“What.”

“That kart moved like it had something to prove.” He paused. “So did I.”

Her voice was low. “And?”

“It did.”

She opened her mouth, probably to say something cutting or smart, but she didn’t. Instead, she just stood there, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, fingers still wrapped around the wrench like it could anchor her. Then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not slow. Just honest. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission because it already knew the answer. Her hands didn’t let go of the wrench. His stayed loose at his sides, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed more.

When they broke apart, she didn’t step back.

“Okay,” she said softly.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

She nodded, still close. “You earned it.”

He smiled, something brighter than his usual smugness, something softer. She finally let go of the wrench.

Oscar’s grin stretched a little wider. “You know, if you keep building karts like that, I might just have to race them all.”

“Oh, you think you can handle it?” She cocked a brow, stepping even closer, the heat between them suddenly sharper than the engine’s roar had been.

He laughed softly; eyes gleaming. “I’m not scared.”

“Good,” she said, voice low and teasing. “Because I’m not just building karts, Oscar. I’m building traps.”

He glanced down at the wrench still in her hands and then back up, his smile turning sly. “Traps, huh? Should I be worried?”

“Depends.” She tapped the wrench lightly against his chest. “How fast can you run?”

His breath hitched just a little. “Faster than you think.”

The silence settled again, but it was different now, charged, expectant. She let her fingers trail a little along the sleeve of his suit, teasing without touching fully.

“Careful,” she murmured, “or I might start thinking you like being caught.”

He leaned in closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I do.”

Their faces were inches apart, the heat from the track mingling with something else, something electric. She glanced down at the wrench again and then back to his eyes, suddenly feeling daring.

“Race me to the garage,” she challenged, stepping back with a playful smirk. “Loser has to wash the kart.”

Oscar’s grin was all challenge now. “You’re on.”

And just like that, the tension broke with a burst of laughter as they took off, feet pounding on the concrete, racing into the night.

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It was the afternoon on a Tuesday. Oscar had been gone all weekend for a race. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t jealous of the sport taking him away, though she wouldn’t tell him that. She certainly wouldn’t admit to quietly cheering him on while cooking Sunday lunch with her mum, or that her mum insisted on having every race playing in the background.

She thought she’d enjoy the quiet. Maybe even need it. But without him, the garage felt less like a sanctuary and more like a shell.

She wiped the grease off her hands and bent back over the hood of an old VW, trying to focus, when the familiar clang of boots echoed through the doors. It was the sound she’d missed more than she wanted to admit.

“Sparks,” he greeted, his voice cutting through the silence, casual but not quite.

She didn’t look up right away. Just kept her head buried under the hood, like she hadn’t been listening for that exact sound all afternoon. “Didn’t know they let losers back through customs.”

Oscar let out a low laugh and leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “Seventh isn’t losing.”

“Tell that to the guy who came sixth,” she muttered, finally straightening up. Her ponytail was a mess, a smear of grease across her cheek. “I had to turn the volume down. Your post-race interview was giving me second-hand embarrassment.”

He raised a brow. “You watched?”

“My mum did.”

He grinned. “So, you just happened to be in the room?”

She didn’t answer. Just grabbed a rag and wiped her hands, more force than necessary.

He looked around, the garage somehow smaller with both of them in it. “Miss me?”

She scoffed. “You leave for two days and come back with a god complex. Impressive.”

“You missed me.”

“In the way you miss a splinter.”

“Sharp. I like it.”

They danced around each other like usual. Tension in every breath, every glance. Neither willing to admit what was obvious to anyone else. She didn’t ask how the race went, and he didn’t offer. Some things they didn’t talk about.

Oscar wandered as she fiddled with a wrench she didn’t need. He stopped by the back corner, drawn by something under the tarp. He glanced at her.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t touch that.”

He looked at her. She didn’t sound playful anymore.

“Seriously. Leave it.”

But he was already lifting the edge. Not enough to see everything, but enough. Welded frame, stripped interior, half an engine. It wasn’t much yet. But it was something. Something important.

When she crossed the garage, she wasn’t stomping. She was silent. Cold.

“You don’t get to look at that.”

Oscar blinked. “I didn’t know it was…”

“You didn’t ask.” Her voice was quiet but sharp, like glass underfoot. “You just went ahead like you always do.”

He stepped back, hands up. “I wasn’t trying to-”

“It’s not about trying.” She was furious, but it wasn’t loud. It was contained, fragile. “That’s mine. You don’t get to touch it. You don’t get to act like you still know me.”

Something in her cracked then, but not in the way he expected. She wasn’t just mad about the car.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. When she didn’t reply he continued, “Don’t say I don’t know you. I do. Sparks I know you.”

She almost laughed, shaking her head. “No. No, Mr F1 hotshot. You don’t know me. You knew me. Me four years ago, before you left. News Flash. I’ve changed.”

He looked at her, jaw clenched like he had something to say but wasn’t sure if he should.

She didn’t give him time to find the words. “The girl you knew,” she said. “She thought the world was gonna wait. Thought people stuck around if they said they would.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but something cracked in it. “Turns out, people leave. Even the ones who promised not to.”

Oscar’s eyes dropped. “I didn’t promise-”

“Exactly,” she snapped, bitter smile flashing. “Smart move.”

He took a breath, slow and heavy. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“Well, congrats. You managed it anyway.”

A beat passed between them. The garage was too still; the weight of silence louder than any engine ever was.

“You act like I didn’t think about you every damn day,” he said finally, voice low. “Like I didn’t watch every message and think- ‘If I go back now, I’ll remember everything I lost, and it’ll be ten times harder to leave again.’ But I still almost did. A dozen times.”

She turned away from him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He took a cautious step forward. “You think I don’t regret it?”

She didn’t look at him. “I think you made the right call. That’s the worst part.”

He blinked. “What?”

She laughed once, no humour in it. “You made it. You left and made it. And you’re good. Really bloody good. I can’t even be mad at that without feeling petty.”

“That’s not-”

“I needed you,” she said, finally facing him. “After Dad, after everything, I needed you. And you weren’t here.”

Her voice cracked at the end of it, barely. Just a hairline fracture. But it was enough. Oscar looked like he wanted to reach for her, say something, fix it. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, like someone watching a fire burn too far to stop.

She shook her head. “You don’t get to come back and act like nothing changed. You don’t get to touch my car or talk like you still know me.”

He glanced toward the half-built machine under the tarp. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Not just a car.”

She didn’t answer.

“You built it without him,” Oscar said softly.

Her jaw tightened. “I built it for me.”

He looked at her, properly now. “You never showed anyone.”

“No,” she said. “Not everything has to be for display.”

Silence again, heavier this time.

“He would’ve been proud.”

Her laugh was sharp, cutting. “Don’t you dare.”

Oscar flinched.

“You don’t get to say that,” she said. “You didn’t even come back. Not once. Not even for the wake. Not for the funeral. Not for me.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he said, voice quiet.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” she snapped. “You just had to show up.”

The words hung there. Raw. Final.

Oscar looked like he wanted to argue. Or explain. Or at least try. But whatever words he had fell short. He swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.

And she didn’t look at him again.

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The sterile hum of the hospital waiting room was punctuated by the quiet murmur of a family trying to hold itself together. At nineteen, she’d always seen her father as her steadfast champion, invincible despite life’s many curves. That afternoon, however, the harsh fluorescent lights revealed the first cracks in that fortress.

She sat on a row of uncomfortable chairs, knees jiggling, the vinyl squeaking beneath every shift. Her mother sat to her right, posture too upright, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded tight in her lap. Her determined smile was brittle. Her eyes had gone glassy and faraway, as if she were staring straight past the walls.

To her left, Eli and Jackson slouched in oversized hoodies, their small limbs tucked in like they'd rather vanish into the fabric. Eli swung his legs restlessly, trainers tapping a dull rhythm against the tile. Jackson hugged a toy car in both hands, a battered Hot Wheels thing, bright blue, its wheels worn from years of races down garage ramps and hallway baseboards.

“Can I get a can of coke?” Jackson asked suddenly, not quite whispering.

“Not now,” she said, automatic.

“I’m thirsty.”

Her mum blinked like she was coming out of a fog. “There’s water in my bag.”

“I don’t like that water.”

Eli elbowed him. “It’s just water, idiot.”

“Don’t call him that,” their mum snapped.

“Sorry,” Eli muttered, quieter.

Oscar stood a few seats away, his hands in his coat pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked out of place in the sterile hallway, too tall, too real, like he’d been dropped into someone else’s tragedy. But he wasn’t a stranger. Not to them. He’d driven them here. He’d held her hand on the walk in, brief, not for show. Jackson had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the wait and Oscar hadn’t moved the whole time.

Now, though, Oscar’s usual fire had dulled to embers. His jaw was set, but his eyes were soft, full of something heavy. He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the boys. Watching their mum. Watching the whole room crack open.

The sound of footsteps drew them all upright. The doctor appeared in the hallway like a verdict, clipboard in hand, expression calm, prepared, devastating.

The words came in carefully measured doses. Aggressive. Treatment options. Time is uncertain. None of it landed cleanly. Her mother’s fingers tightened around the armrest. Jackson squirmed in his seat. Eli looked at her, wide-eyed, waiting for someone else to react first.

She felt Oscar step closer, just behind her now, his presence suddenly grounding against the sterile hum of the corridor. The harsh hospital lighting didn’t soften anything, not the ache in her chest, not the sting behind her eyes, but he did.

“This isn’t how we imagined today,” he murmured, his voice thick with something unspeakable.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, fingers digging into her sleeves like she could anchor herself to the moment. Still, she was grateful he was there. Grateful he hadn't filled the silence with apologies or promises he couldn't keep.

Then, slowly, she felt it, his hand brushing against hers. Not a grab, not even a touch, really. Just the barest graze of skin, tentative and uncertain. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t respond either. Not at first.

His hand stayed there, barely touching, like he was asking permission without words. Waiting. She exhaled, shakily. Let her fingers unfurl from the fist she hadn’t realised she’d made. And then she let him.

Their hands found each other with aching slowness, fingers threading together like it hurt. His thumb moved once, softly over her skin, a gesture that asked nothing but said everything. She still didn’t look at him. Just stared straight ahead, toward the blank white wall and the door they’d both been too afraid to open.

Her father was just down the hall, behind a closed door. She imagined him lying there, awake now, or not. Breathing easily, or not. She hadn’t seen him since the scan. She’d thought it would be hours still. She wasn’t ready.

Jackson tugged on her sleeve. “Is he gonna come home today?”

Eli gave him a look. “Don’t ask that.”

“I was just-”

“Enough,” she said gently, pulling her arm away. “We don’t know yet.”

Her mum stood, finally, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she needed to keep something inside. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded at the doctor and followed him down the corridor, her steps small, uneven.

The boys stayed on the bench, suddenly quiet. Jackson leaned his head on Eli’s shoulder, and Eli let him. Neither said a word. The toy car slipped from Jackson’s fingers and rolled in a lazy arc under the chairs. Oscar bent to catch it before it disappeared, handed it back without comment.

Jackson took it, nodded. Eli gave his brother’s shoulder the softest nudge. Not rough. Just something that said: I'm still here too. Oscar sat beside them, hands clasped between his knees, eyes forward. The silence pressed in again.

Her own hands were shaking. She shoved them into the pockets of her jacket. Her thoughts spiralled, unfocused. Words caught in her throat like gravel. She didn’t want to go in yet. She didn’t want to see her father like that. Smaller. Dimmer. She didn’t want to hear the quiet way he might say her name. Or not say it at all.

Oscar reached out, quietly, resting one hand on her knee. His thumb moved in a slow, absent motion. Not asking. Just anchoring. She didn’t cry. Not yet. But she let her head drop against his shoulder, just briefly.

Across from them, the hallway light flickered once. Then stayed on.

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The garage smelled like heat again. Not the good kind, not motor heat, not track heat, but the stale kind, the kind that came from a space that hadn’t been aired out in days. The kind that came from silence.

Oscar had been back every day since, but he’d kept his distance. Especially from the corner.

Now, he was sitting on the bench near the old toolbox, elbows on his knees, watching her work like he was waiting for a green light that might never come. She was under the hood of a hatchback she didn’t care about. Tinkering more than fixing. Avoiding.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean to step on anything. I just-” He hesitated. “It was stupid.”

Still, she kept her head down, arms elbow-deep in useless adjustment.

He added, “It’s a hell of a car.”

That earned him a glance. Quick. Neutral.

“You didn’t see all of it.”

“Didn’t need to.”

She tightened a bolt that didn’t need tightening.

“I overreacted,” she said, too casual to sound sincere, too flat to be nothing.

He looked up at that.

She added, “You were just being nosy. You’ve always been nosy.”

“True.”

“And smug.”

He grinned. “Deeply.”

A small beat passed.

Then: “But also right,” he added. “About the car. It’s something.”

She wiped her hands on a rag. “It’s mine.”

“I know.”

She looked at him again. Longer, this time. The light through the windows caught the dust in the air, made it move like smoke.

Then, quiet: “You really want to drive it?”

He blinked. Sat up straighter. “Yeah. If you’ll let me.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then tossed the rag onto the bench.

“You can drive it.”

He stood, surprised by how fast she said it.

“But,” she said, already walking toward the tarp, “I’m coming too.”

He smiled. “You don’t trust me?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Not with the car. And definitely not with the wheel.”

Oscar stepped forward, eyes on her. “Where are we taking it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just peeled back the edge of the tarp and looked at the machine beneath, her machine, like it was a secret she was almost ready to show.

Then, softly: “The old track.”

Oscar’s smile softened. “I remember.”

The tarp came off slowly. Like unveiling something holy. Oscar didn’t reach for it. He just watched.

The frame was welded clean, the lines sharp and purposeful. No paint yet, just raw metal and taped notes on the panel seams. The engine was only half assembled, but the wiring loom was already tucked tight, routed with care. It looked like something caught mid-transformation, feral and unfinished.

He let out a breath. “Damn.”

She didn’t smile, but her hands moved with less tension now. She crouched to unlock the jack stands, then handed him a socket without being asked.

“You built this from scratch?” he asked.

“Started with scraps,” she replied. “Salvaged parts. A few things from the old kart.”

Oscar blinked. “Our kart?”

“Some pieces still worked.”

He knelt beside her, checking the front suspension. “Steering feels stiff.”

“Needs adjustment. It's deliberate.”

He glanced up. “You always did like control.”

She gave him a flat look. “You always did need it.”

He laughed softly, then dropped it. The mood didn’t break, but it bent. They kept working. Wheels. Brake lines. Torque checks. They passed tools back and forth with an ease they hadn’t earned back yet. Each movement was a ghost of a hundred Saturdays before it.

“I kept meaning to ask,” he said after a while, his voice softer. “Why that track?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just twisted a wrench a half-turn too far and leaned back.

“I like the corners,” she said eventually.

Oscar gave her a look. “You hate those corners.”

She shrugged. “I like knowing what I’m up against.”

That made him pause. Something in the way she said it, something in the torque she used on that bolt, pulled at a memory. A night. A fight. A version of her standing at this exact distance, arms crossed, words sharp.

He reached for the next tool, but his hand hovered instead. She noticed. Her eyes flicked to his. Everything in the room stilled. Like a scene about to replay itself.

But not yet.

Not yet.

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The hospital room was dim. A small lamp glowed on the windowsill; the only real light left. Everything else had gone quiet. She sat on the edge of the vinyl chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her knees were pulled up, ankles crossed, eyes fixed on the bed.

Her father looked smaller under the sheets. The kind of small that came from pain and the slow fading of someone who used to fill every room with his laugh.

He stirred, eyes fluttering half-open. “Hey.”

She straightened. “Hey.”

“You’re still here.”

She gave a tired smile. “You think I’d go somewhere better than this?”

His mouth curved weakly. “Could be worse.”

They both knew it already was.

She reached over and adjusted the corner of the blanket, not because it needed fixing, but because she didn’t know what else to do with her hands.

He was quiet for a while. Then, softly: “Your mum’s gonna need help. And the boys.”

She nodded.

“But not forever,” he added. “Don’t let this place trap you.”

“I’m not trapped.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I know how it happens.”

She swallowed hard, blinked up at the ceiling.

“You were gonna go,” he said, eyes still half-lidded. “You and that boy.”

Her throat tightened. “Oscar left.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes clearer now. “What?”

“He got offered something. Overseas. He left yesterday.”

His chest rose slowly, then fell. “I see.”

“He didn’t know… how bad things were.”

“Did you tell him?”

She didn’t answer.

He watched her a long moment. “You should’ve told him.”

“I was tired of people leaving.”

He gave a quiet, painful breath of a chuckle. “Well. Some of us don’t get a choice.”

She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. Then, quieter: “He cared about you. Still does.”

“I liked that kid.”

“He left.”

Her dad reached out. His hand shook, but he managed to place it over hers. “He’s not the only one who’ll want you.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t-”

“Don’t close the door just because he couldn’t walk through it,” he murmured. “You’ve got a life waiting. Don’t be afraid to take it.”

She couldn’t speak. Just stared at their hands. A spasm passed through him, sharper this time. His fingers gripped tighter.

“Hey,” she said, sitting forward. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

He winced. Jaw tight. Trying to fight it.

“Dad-”

“I just want you to be okay,” he whispered, tear falling on his cheek.

“You’ve done that,” she said, voice shaking now. “You said everything. You said it all.”

Another flicker of pain crossed his face. She leaned closer, brushed his hair back like she used to do as a kid.

“If it hurts… you don’t have to stay. I’ll take care of them. I’ll take care of everything.”

His eyes fluttered.

“You can rest now,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

She kept her hand over his until his grip faded, even then, she didn’t move. The monitors didn’t beep. There was no drama to it. Just a quiet kind of ending. The room didn’t feel any different. But she did.

She sat there for a long time, still holding his hand, forehead resting against the edge of the bed. Her shoulders began to shake, no sound, just the sudden, overwhelming collapse of it all.

He was gone.

And she hadn’t cried until now.

The wrenching sobs came fast. She tried to cover her mouth with her sleeve, to stay quiet. But there was no stopping it. Her ribs felt too tight. Her throat raw. Her whole body folding in on itself as the truth landed hard, brutal, final.

It didn’t feel real.

It felt like something she’d say out loud and regret the second it left her mouth. Like if she kept her eyes closed, maybe he’d still be here, asleep and snoring like usual. Just tired.

But when she looked again, the shape of him didn’t move. She sat there until the weight of silence became unbearable.

Then she stood. Wiped her face with both sleeves.

Pulled his blanket back up to his chest. Smoothed the pillow.

Her hands were steady again by the time she stepped into the hallway. The light was harsher out here. More real.

She found her mum curled up on the waiting room couch, arms wrapped around both boys. One asleep, the other blinking groggily at a cartoon on the wall screen. Her mother looked up the second she walked in.

Didn’t speak. Just searched her face.

And her daughter nodded.

Once.

Enough.

Her mum's arms tightened around the boys. Her face collapsed quietly into their shoulders.

She walked over and sat on the floor beside them, legs folded, head leaning against her mother’s knee like she used to when she was little.

No one said anything for a long time. They just held on.

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The airport hotel smelled like disinfectant and overripe fruit. The kind of generic comfort that didn't comfort anything. Outside, a Spanish winter pressed cold against the windows, but inside the room it was all fake warmth, dim lighting, beige walls, and the quiet hum of nothing important.

Oscar sat on the floor between the bed and the desk, knees drawn up, one arm hooked over them, still in his base layer from the sim test earlier that morning. His travel bag was unzipped beside him. His race gloves stuck out the top, half-dried, still tacky with sweat.

His phone was in his hand. Her name was on the screen. He hadn’t opened it yet.

He’d stared at it for the last twenty minutes, thumb hovering just over the play icon, heart doing that thing it used to do when she stood at the edge of the track with her arms folded, pretending not to watch his laps. Except now, it wasn’t adrenaline. It was fear. Guilt. That cold pressure behind his ribs that said if you listen to this, you can’t take it back.

He hit play.

"He’s gone."

That was it. Just her voice. Flat, drained, the edges of it frayed in a way he hadn’t heard before. No sobbing. No explanations. No details. Just two words and a pause at the end, like she didn’t know whether to hang up or break down.

Then silence. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. The ceiling above him had a water stain shaped like a continent he didn’t recognize. The laptop on the desk still glowed faint blue. The flight itinerary was open.

He could still make it. If he left now, grabbed his bag, told the team manager he had to go home for a few days, they’d understand. They wouldn’t like it, but they’d understand. He could be there by morning. Stand in the back of the service. Offer some half-version of comfort.

But then what? Walk in with nothing to say? Stand beside a grave he hadn’t helped dig? Try to tell her he was sorry in the same voice he’d used to say goodbye?

He stared at the screen until the gate info blinked up. The room buzzed around him like a distant track on warmup laps, close, but not immediate.

Oscar stood slowly. Walked to the window. Pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

The voicemail played again in his head. He’s gone.

Her dad. The man who handed him wrenches before he was tall enough to reach the pegboard. Who taught him to find torque by feel. Who called him out when he was being cocky and praised him when he shut up and listened. Who let him into that garage like it wasn’t borrowed space.

The man he should’ve come back for. If not for her, then at least for him. Oscar picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over her name.

He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t move.

Instead, he reached for the laptop, closed the lid, and slid the boarding pass into the bin beside the desk. He sat back down on the floor and stared at the blank carpet like it might offer absolution.

It didn’t.

That night, he didn’t sleep. He just lay there, arms crossed over his chest, listening to the hum of the hallway outside, trying to convince himself that leaving things broken was less painful than showing up too late to fix them.

He told himself it wasn’t cowardice. But he never listened to that voicemail again.

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The track hadn’t changed. The painted lines were faded, the curbs chipped at the corners, weeds feathering out through the cracks. The stands were empty, half-collapsed in places, and the flag post leaned a little more than it used to, but the smell was the same.

Petrol. Dirt. Rubber. Memory.

The sky was soft grey above them. The kind of morning that held back light like it wasn’t ready to commit. Oscar stood by the driver’s side, helmet tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on the roof of the car like he wasn’t sure he belonged touching it.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Just walked around to the passenger side, the soft scuff of her boots on gravel the only sound.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she said.

Oscar nodded; jaw tight. He slipped into the seat. She followed. The doors clicked shut. The windows fogged a little at the edges. And then the silence grew loud. She adjusted the harness. Tighter than she needed to.

He looked over at her, helmet already in place. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

She flexed her fingers on her lap. “Adrenaline.”

He didn’t push it.

The ignition clicked. The engine coughed once, then roared to life, raw and eager. She felt it all through her spine.

Oscar glanced at her one last time. She gave him the smallest nod. And they rolled out onto the track.

The car took the first corner like it was born for it. Tight. Clean. No drag. No protest.

She felt every inch of it, the way the rear tucked in just enough, the low hum under her boots, the rumble that wasn’t noise but language. Her hands braced against the dash like she could feel the pulse through the frame.

Oscar didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hands moved with the wheel like he was dancing with it. Confident, but careful. Like he knew she was watching every twitch.

They hit the first straight, and the engine opened up. The sound of it filled the cabin, low and rising, as if the car was proud of itself. She almost laughed. She hadn’t expected that. The thrill. The spark. The joy.

“You feel that?” Oscar shouted over the noise, grinning like a kid behind the visor.

She didn’t shout back. Just nodded. Wide-eyed. Because she did. She felt all of it. Every piece of metal, every wire, every stubborn bolt and long night and skinned knuckle, it all mattered. It all worked.

The car was hers. And it was alive. They hit the back curve faster than she would’ve taken it. Her breath caught, but the car held. So did Oscar.

He wasn’t cocky behind the wheel now. He was grateful. Driving like it meant something.

Mid-lap, she turned to him. No helmet. No mask. Just her.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” she said.

He glanced at her. “Not with this one.” And pushed.

The engine screamed into the next gear, the tires kissing the track edge as they clipped the apex. She leaned into the motion, and for the first time since her dad died, since Oscar left, since the world stopped asking what she wanted, she let herself feel it:

Pride. Freedom. Love.

She looked at the track unfolding ahead of them, the straight stretch, the air vibrating through the shell, and her eyes blurred. And then, Oscar said it.

Quiet. Like it didn’t need to be shouted.

“I thought about this,” he said. “All the time. You. Me. This car. I wanted to believe we’d still make it here.”

Her breath stilled.

“I thought if I saw you again, I’d forget what it felt like to leave.”

He downshifted. Took the next curve.

“But I didn’t forget,” he said. “I never forgot. Not a single day.”

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. She looked ahead, blinked hard, and let the tears fall anyway. Not loud. Not messy. Just there.

Because he was right and because she hadn’t let herself believe that anyone, especially him, remembered what she’d lost.

Oscar’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “I loved you back then.”

She looked away, fiddling with the edge of her jacket. “Yeah? I’m not sure you really knew what that meant.” Her tone was light, but the edge was there, sharper than she wanted.

He let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to find the words he didn’t have. “Maybe not. But I never stopped.”

She met his eyes, feeling that familiar mix of warmth and ache. “Me neither. Even if I wanted to.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty, it was full, thick with all the things they never said. The hum of the engine faded into the background, the car still resting beneath them like a quiet witness.

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, fingers tracing the worn leather. “I thought if I came back, everything would be easier. Like we could pick up where we left off.”

She bit her lip, staring out at the cracked asphalt stretching ahead. “I wanted that too. But sometimes, the past isn’t a place you can go back to.”

He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “I was scared. Scared I’d make it worse.”

“By coming back?” Her voice cracked, just for a moment. Then she masked it with a small, bitter laugh. “You walked away when I needed you the most. You weren’t just scared, you were gone.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “I thought it was what you wanted. What you needed.”

She looked down, hands tightening into fists on her lap. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It still does.”

For a long moment, they just sat there, two people tangled up in regrets and love, unsure how to bridge the distance time had made.

Oscar’s voice was quiet, steady. “We’re here now.”

She finally gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Stubborn enough to be here.”

He chuckled, a lightness returning to his tone. “So, what now?”

She shrugged, eyes sparkling despite herself. “I don’t know. But I’m glad you asked.”

And as the morning light finally spilled across the track, it felt like maybe, just maybe, they were ready to find out together.

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The garage smelled like oil, sweat, and something else, something electric, like the air itself was charged just for them.

She lay stretched out on the cold concrete floor, knees bent, arms propped behind her head, watching the underside of the car they’d just finished tweaking. Grease streaked across her collarbone, drying into her skin like a second language. The hum of the overhead fluorescent lights was steady, almost hypnotic, as she caught the faintest scent of Oscar’s aftershave mixed with the grime on his sleeves.

Oscar was crouched beside her, one arm hooked around a suspension spring, head tilted back to study the mechanics, but every so often his eyes flicked down, meeting hers through the shadows.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he said eventually, voice low, the kind that made her heart flip and her cheeks warm.

She rolled her eyes but smiled, elbow nudging his arm. “Says the guy who just tried to convince me the clutch was on backwards.”

He grinned, brushing a hand through his tangled hair. “Details, details. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Barely,” her eyebrow arched. “You nearly reversed us into the hydraulic lift.”

They fell quiet then, the only sounds the occasional drip of oil and their steady breathing. The air between them thickened, charged like a live wire. Without thinking, she shifted closer, her bare arm brushing his sleeve, skin sparking at the contact. He caught the movement, eyes locking with hers through the shadows.

The breath she took felt thick in her lungs.

“Careful,” she whispered. “You’re getting dangerous.”

Oscar’s smile softened, something real behind it now. “Only for you.”

Silence. The kind that knew what it wanted but waited anyway. His hand did not move yet. Hers stayed braced against the floor like it could keep her grounded.

The lights buzzed overhead. A tool dropped somewhere deeper in the garage, loud, then gone. Still, they didn’t speak Then his fingers curled gently around her wrist. Slow. Testing. Not claiming, just asking.

Her breath hitched, the heat in her chest spreading, making her skin tingle in a way the garage grease never could.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured, voice rough, as if the words themselves held a secret promise.

She swallowed, eyes wide and heart racing. “You remembered.”

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist now, rhythmic. Calming or trying to be.

“How could I forget?” He shifted closer, the warmth of his body pressing against hers, sending an electric pulse straight through her.

They were tangled in shadows, the world outside forgotten, the garage a cocoon of scent and whispered promises. His lips brushed her temple, soft but claiming, a contrast to the roughness of his hands as they moved to her waist, pulling her closer, deeper into the quiet heat of the moment.

She arched up against him, breath mingling with his, the sharp tang of motor oil and skin and something dangerously sweet filling her senses.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, voice trembling between a plea and a dare.

His laugh was low and dark, a sound that promised mischief and more. “Oh, I wasn’t planning to.”

Fingers traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his kiss, fierce and slow, a promise that this night was theirs alone, unspoken but understood.

The world narrowed to the press of skin and the rush of heat between them, tangled bodies and whispered names in the dark.

No need for words. Just the quiet, raw language of two people who had waited far too long to let go.

His lips crashed into hers, hungry and deliberate, the taste of him, spearmint and gasoline, flooding her senses. The concrete bit into her back, but she barely noticed, too lost in the way his fingers tangled in her hair, possessive and desperate.

A groan rumbled low in his throat as she nipped at his bottom lip, her hands sliding beneath the hem of his grease-streaked shirt, tracing the taut muscles of his stomach. A wrench clattered somewhere nearby, the sound sharp in the charged silence, but neither of them flinched.

Oscar’s mouth trailed down her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear, and she arched against him with a gasp. His breath was hot against her skin, lips leaving a searing trail down her collarbone as her fingers tightened in his hair.

The garage air clung to them, thick with the scent of sweat and motor oil, but all she could focus on was the rough drag of his calloused hands sliding under the small of her back, lifting her just enough to press her harder against the concrete.

Her top rode higher, the fabric catching on the edge of a bolt they’d dropped earlier, and she shivered as cool metal kissed her skin. His mouth followed the path his fingers had taken, tongue tracing the dark smudge of a grease streak along her hipbone, tasting salt and the sharp tang of engine work. She gasped when his teeth grazed the sensitive dip of her waist, her own fingers leaving prints on his shoulders as she dragged him closer.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of her work trousers, rough knuckles dragging against her overheated skin as he peeled the fabric down in one slow, deliberate motion. The air between them crackled, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the cool garage air hit her bare thighs.

His calloused palms skimmed the curve of her hips, pausing just long enough to catch the edge of her underwear with his thumb, the lace snapping taut before yielding. She lifted her hips in silent permission, the concrete rough beneath her, every scrape and grind of it only heightening the ache building low in her stomach.

The lace gave way with a whisper of fabric, his breath hot against her newly bared skin. She gasped as his mouth found the inside of her thigh, teeth scraping just enough to make her hips jerk off the concrete. His laugh was dark, vibrating against her skin as he pinned her down with one broad hand, the other tracing slow, maddening circles higher, always higher, until her fingers twisted in his hair, desperate. Fluorescent light flickered above them, casting jagged shadows across his shoulders as he dragged his tongue over her in one slow, filthy stroke.

Her back arched off the concrete as his tongue circled her clit, slow and teasing at first, then relentless, the same rhythm he used when polishing chrome, all focused pressure and knowing precision. The wrench lay forgotten nearby, its metal gleaming under the flickering lights, but all she could hear was the slick, filthy sound of his mouth working her, the groan vibrating through his chest when she rocked against him.

His fingers dug into her thighs, holding her open as he dragged his tongue lower, tasting her in slow, deliberate strokes, each one wringing a broken noise from her throat. The scent of motor oil clung to his skin, mingling with sweat and her arousal, thick enough to drown in. Her thighs trembled against his ears as his tongue pressed deeper, the flat of it dragging against her with the same slow precision he used to torque bolts, just shy of too much.

The garage air clung to them, thick with the scent of gasoline and her, the taste of her sharp on his tongue as he curled two fingers inside without warning. Her gasp fractured into a moan, her hips lifting off the concrete only for his free hand to shove her back down, the rough pad of his thumb circling where his tongue had just been.

"Good girl," he rumbled against her skin, the vibration sending another shockwave through her. His tongue slowed to torturous swirls, savouring the way her thighs trembled around him.

His thumb pressed harder, the rough edge of his callus dragging just where she needed it while his tongue flicked mercilessly. "Look at you," he growled, pulling back just enough to watch her clench around his fingers, glistening under the garage lights. "Pretty little thing falling apart on my tongue."

The garage air hummed with the sound of her panting as his tongue curled deeper, the wet heat of his mouth wringing another broken cry from her lips. His fingers twisted inside her, dragging against her walls with the same rough precision he used when threading stubborn bolts, just enough friction to make her toes curl against the concrete.

The scent of her clung to his face, smeared across his lips as he pulled back just long enough to watch her squirm.

"Close," she gasped, her thighs shaking where they framed his shoulders, the muscles in her stomach tightening like coiled wire.

His grin was all teeth, wicked in the flickering light. "Not yet."

His fingers withdrew with a slick sound, leaving her clenching around nothing as he shoved his own trousers down just enough to free himself, thick and flushed, his cock bobbing against her inner thigh.

 "Won't let you finish," he started, dragging the leaking head through her, "not till I’ve felt you." Her breath hitched as he notched himself against her entrance, the blunt pressure just shy of pushing in. The garage air clung to them, thick with oil and sweat and her, his calloused grip bruising her hips as he held her still.

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan that vibrated through her chest. The concrete bit into her shoulders as he pinned her down, every ridge and vein of him carving itself into her walls.

She gasped, half pain, half blinding pleasure, her nails scoring red lines down his sweat-slicked back as he began moving. No finesse now, just the brutal drag of him pulling out until just the head remained before slamming back in, the wet slap of skin drowning out the hum of the garage lights.

 He fucked her like he raced, relentless, precision-guided chaos. Every thrust was a victory lap, every moan a trophy ripped from her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel: the sting of concrete beneath her, the heat of his sweat dripping onto her skin, the way his hand slid between them to circle her clit again, fast and filthy.

"Fuck, you feel-" he bit off the end of the sentence with a groan, his forehead pressed to hers, lips brushing as he moved. "So fucking good, always-"

She tugged him closer, wrapping her legs high around his back, forcing him deeper. Her body arched to meet his every thrust, slick and shameless, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

“Say it,” he panted, voice rough with need. “Tell me this is mine. All of it.”

She sobbed out a “Yes-yours, always-” as he slammed into her, the drag of him too much and never enough. He kissed her then, wild and hungry, tongue tasting every desperate sound she made.

Her orgasm hit like a slammed door, violent, all-consuming, her whole body tightening beneath him as she shattered. She clenched around him, dragging a broken curse from his mouth as he lost rhythm, stuttered, and spilled into her with a low, feral groan.

The air between them hung heavy, buzzing like static. For a long moment, they didn’t move, just breathing hard, tangled in sweat and oil and heat.

Oscar finally let out a shaky laugh, forehead still pressed to hers. “Happy birthday.”

She laughed too, breathless and wrecked, hands still tangled in his hair. “Best gift I’ve ever had.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, lips brushing hers like a secret. Then he pulled back just far enough to look at her, really look at her, his voice rough around the edges. “I meant it, you know. I love you. And I’m yours, forever.”

She blinked, eyes wide, raw with something that had nothing to do with lust. “I know,” she whispered, pulling him close again. “Me too.”

And in the quiet aftermath, lying there on the cold garage floor, covered in grease and sweat and each other, it felt like the most honest place in the world.

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She was smiling when they rolled to a stop.

The engine ticked quietly as it cooled, metal softening in the hush. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that almost felt calm. Her fingers relaxed; her boots planted steady on the floor. Oscar had already unbuckled, helmet resting in his lap, breath fogging the glass.

And still, she smiled.

Because for a second, for just that heartbeat on the straight, it had felt like before. Like they were invincible again. Like grief had never burned a hole in her chest, like he hadn’t left, like maybe there was still something here worth saving.

Then the smile broke.

She didn’t mean for it to. It cracked, barely, and then her throat tightened. Her hands started to tremble. Not from adrenaline this time.

Oscar noticed. “Hey. You okay?”

She shook her head, wiped her face, and laughed, sharp and wet and wrong. “Why am I crying?”

He reached for her instinctively, but she flinched away, throwing the door open instead. The cold hit first. Then the rain. A slow drizzle that grew fast, soaking into her jacket, her hair, her skin like it was trying to wash something out of her.

Oscar followed, stepping into the gravel and rain, not bothering with a jacket. “Talk to me.”

She spun on him. “About what? About how I finally let myself feel something and it just made me fall apart?”

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

She scoffed. “I’ve been doing it alone for years. You don’t get to waltz in and fix it with a lap and a couple of words.”

His voice was low, but firm. “I meant it, you know. I love you. And I’m yours, forever.”

That stopped her. Not softened her, stopped her.

She blinked rain from her lashes, jaw tight. “Don’t say that like it’s a promise. You said you loved me back then, too. Right before you left.”

“I had to leave.”

“You didn’t have to leave me.”

The rain picked up, drumming on the roof of the car, filling the silence.

Oscar took a step forward. “I never forgot you.”

“You keep saying that. Like it’s supposed to undo everything.” Her voice rose, frayed and full of ache. “You don’t get to show up now and act like I’m still yours.”

“But you are,” he said, helpless. “You always have been.”

Her breath hitched, too fast. Too shallow. She tried to speak but her chest was collapsing inward, ribs locking up like a vice. Her hands went to her knees, the gravel swaying underfoot.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Oscar knelt beside her, water pooling at their feet. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

She couldn’t. Not properly. Not through the panic or the pressure or the weight of everything she hadn’t let herself feel until today.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t-”

He didn’t touch her, just sat close, voice steady. “In. Out. Match me, alright?”

It took time. Too much of it. But eventually, the air found her again. Rushed in like it had been waiting on the edge. She sat back, soaked and shaking, and didn’t resist when Oscar put his jacket over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she said, small. “I didn’t mean to fall apart.”

He looked at her with something tender and broken. “You don’t have to hold it all together for me.”

Silence again. Then the kiss.

Raw, desperate, teeth and breath and rain. A collision, not a comfort. It didn’t build; it broke.

His hands tangled in her hair like he didn’t know how to let go. Hers fisted in his collar, dragging him down, as if closing the space between them might fill the chasm time had carved open. Their mouths met like a question without an answer, too late, too much, too soon.

It tasted like rain and salt and memory. He kissed her like he was drowning. She kissed him like she was trying to forget. And for a second, just one stolen, selfish second, it felt like maybe that was enough. But it wasn’t.

It could’ve been more. Maybe it was more. But it wasn’t peace. It wasn’t healing. It was fire, not warmth. Burn, not balm.

When they finally tore apart, breathless and shivering, it was with bruised mouths and glassy eyes, and the unmistakable sense that something had broken open between them, something fragile and vital that couldn’t be put back the same way.

He kept his forehead pressed to hers. Their breaths synced. Rain ran between them like blood from a split lip.

“I never stopped,” he said, barely a whisper. “Not for a second.”

She pulled back enough to look at him, really look at him. He looked wrecked. Beautiful and broken in a way that made her ache.

“I know,” she said. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t enough. She looked down at her hands, still trembling. “But we can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. Final.

They stood there for a long moment. Rain washing everything. The air between them thick with what-ifs and never-agains.

Then, slowly, she shrugged off his jacket and held it out to him like a flag of surrender.

He took it. Didn’t speak.

She turned. Walked toward the garage with shoulders squared and spine straight, as if leaving him again didn’t hurt this time. As if it didn’t kill her. Rain slicked her face, cleaned her of everything she didn’t say.

“Don’t go,” he said, voice cracking like thunder in the downpour.

She froze. Just for a second. Just enough for him to catch up.

“I need you,” he said, chest heaving, soaked through. “I need you, and it’s killing me, watching you walk away like I didn’t fight hard enough to stay.”

She didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

“I know I broke something,” he went on. “I know I left you when you needed me most. But I’m here now. I came back. That has to count for something.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “It does,” she whispered. “But not enough.”

“I love you,” he said. “I mean it, you know. I love you, and I’m yours. Forever. Every race, every podium, every win it is all for you”

She turned then. Slowly. Eyes full of grief, not doubt. “I believe you. But I had to grieve you like I grieved him. My dad. You left, and I lost both of you, one after the other, like the world was trying to prove I could survive it.”

He flinched like she’d hit him. Because she had. Just not with her hands.

“I might be able to forgive you someday,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I’ll never forget that I had to learn how to live without you. And I did.”

“I never wanted you to-”

“But I had to.” Her tears ran hot even under the cold rain. “And now I don’t know how to need you without remembering what it cost me.”

They stood there, hearts unravelling in the storm. Then she stepped back. And this time, when she turned away, she didn’t freeze. She didn’t falter.

And even though it tore through her like wreckage, she kept walking.

And this time, he let her go.

🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂🏁🍂

The garage door groaned on its runners as she forced it open, the sound slicing through the morning stillness like it didn’t belong. Dust motes swirled in the streaks of light pouring through the slats, dancing in the quiet. The air was thick with the scent of oil, old rubber, stale sweat, and grief.

She stood at the threshold for a long time. Just… stood. Then she dropped to her knees like the ground had been ripped out from under her.

The first sob tore through her like a jagged knife, raw and ragged, cutting through the silence with brutal force. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a desperate, guttural cry that ripped from deep inside, shaking her whole body. Another burst followed, violent and uncontrollable, wracking her ribs and twisting her insides until she couldn’t catch her breath.

Her hands clawed at the concrete beneath her, scraping at the cold, unforgiving floor as if she could gouge away the pain. Fingers curled tight into the frayed fabric of her hoodie, nails biting into skin, desperate for something real to hold onto.

She convulsed, shoulders trembling violently, chest heaving with sobs that tore at her throat and left her raw, broken, ragged, like a storm tearing through the last shreds of her control.

Her world had shattered.

Her dad was gone. Oscar was gone. And the garage, their garage, was still here.

That felt like the cruellest part.

Eventually, when her body stopped shaking, she sat back on her heels. Wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket. The floor was cold. The silence, colder.

She looked around.

Tools still hung on the pegboard in his careful, labelled rows. Coffee mug, “#1 Race Dad,” still perched on the workbench, crusted with forgotten dregs. The old tarp still half-covered the kart she’d helped him build when she was eleven.

Her chest ached. But she stood.

Slowly, she started tidying. Not because it needed to be clean, but because he would’ve wanted it that way. Bolts sorted into jars. Rags thrown out. The rolling stool finally fixed so it didn’t squeak when you moved.

She moved like a ghost, hands remembering what her heart couldn’t bear to think about. Like how her dad used to whistle off-key while tuning engines. Or how Oscar used to pop in unannounced, grease on his jaw, some half-eaten protein bar in his hand, asking if he could borrow the torque wrench again.

He never returned it. She found it, later, in a box of his old things. She kept it.

After a while, she climbed up on the workbench and pulled the tiny chain that turned on the old boxy TV in the corner. It buzzed to life like it was waking from a coma. She fiddled with the aerial until the image came through. Static. Then a track. Then him.

Oscar. His first F1 race.

Her breath caught in her throat as the commentators rattled off stats and history, as the camera cut to his face in the cockpit. He looked calm. Sharp. So far away.

She remembered that helmet. Remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor while her dad adjusted the chin strap and told him not to let his elbows flare too wide on exit. She remembered Oscar rolling his eyes and doing it anyway and winning.

The lights went out. The engines screamed. The race began. And she… smiled.

Through everything, through the hollow ache in her chest, through the blister of abandonment, through the mess of mourning and oil and dust, she smiled. Because he made it. Because they all did. Once.

She watched in silence as the laps ticked by.

Then the camera cut to the pit wall. A sea of engineers and race staff. And there, in the middle of it, an empty space.

That’s where her dad would’ve stood. Arms crossed. Headset on. Watching his boy.

She reached for the coffee mug on the bench, still half-covered in grease. Held it in both hands.

“Hope you’re watching,” she said quietly. “Because I am.”

And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel quite so empty.

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The roar of engines and the bustle of the paddock were a world away from the cracked asphalt and peeling paint of that old garage. The smells had changed too, now a sharp blend of burnt rubber, high-octane fuel, and polished carbon fibre. It was a different kind of chaos, one polished and precise, but it still made her heartbeat faster.

She moved with a confident grace beneath the towering garages and sprawling hospitality tents, every bolt tightened, every engine checked, every system calibrated. She was no longer the girl who’d broken down on a cold concrete floor, drowning in loss and anger. Now, she was a high-level mechanic for one of the top F1 teams, sharp-eyed and relentless, earning respect in a world that demanded nothing less.

Oscar watched her from the edge of the paddock, the crowd and noise a blur around him. He saw the way she worked, the focused intensity, the flicker of fire in her eyes when the car was ready to roar back to life. She was in her element. Unstoppable.

He remembered the words her dad had once told her, the way they echoed through his own mind now:

“Don’t let this place trap you.” “You’ve got a life waiting. Don’t be afraid to take it.”

She had taken those words to heart. She had carved out her own path, far from the ghosts of their past and the silence left behind in that faded garage. It was both a relief and a sting to see her moving on.

Oscar let out a slow breath, the weight of years pressing down on him. He still held on to a sliver of hope, fragile but persistent, that maybe, someday, she’d come back. Not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. That maybe, after all the pain and distance, there might still be a place for him in her story.

But for now, he watched quietly, proud and aching, knowing that her future was hers alone to claim

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The late summer sun hung low above the track, casting long golden streaks over the tarmac and shimmering off the car’s metalwork. She was crouched by the front wing, grease smudged on her cheek, sleeves rolled to the elbows, completely focused. Her fingers moved confidently, coaxing bolts into place like she was born doing it.

Her dad stood on the overlook, arms crossed, a proud shadow cast behind him. He was pretending to be checking the line through Turn Three, but really, he was watching her.

Oscar came up beside him, hands in his pockets, pretending to watch the track too. They stood in silence for a moment, two generations of men who loved her, in different ways.

“She’s got your stubbornness, you know,” Oscar said, nudging her dad lightly.

Her dad huffed a short laugh. “Poor girl.”

Oscar hesitated. “I’m gonna marry her someday.”

Her dad raised a brow, but didn’t turn.

“You sure about that?” he asked.

Oscar looked down at her, her hair pulled back messily, singing quietly to herself as she worked, utterly in her element.

“Yeah,” he said, simple and firm. “I love her.”

A beat passed.

“She’ll make you work for it.”

Oscar smiled. “I know.”

Below them, she called up, “You two done brooding? Car’s not gonna fix itself.”

Her dad chuckled, then started down toward her. Oscar followed, jogging to catch up.

When they reached her, she stood and wiped her hands on a rag, one brow raised like she already knew they’d been talking about her. Her dad pulled her into a side hug, planting a kiss on the crown of her head, arm strong around her shoulders.

And as she leaned into the embrace, Oscar reached for her hand.

She didn’t hesitate. Their fingers twined together, warm and sure.

And in that moment, with her dad’s arm around her, Oscar’s hand in hers, and the sun dipping behind the track, it felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be

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