#outside of st of course

[sleepanonymous]

You look at me so angry I look at you so anxiously What did you even come here for? I guess I owe you an apology

I swim beneath an emerald sea You violate the ground beneath my feet You've got a question asking me You've got question...

Oh, and my hands round your throat I'll be the devil you don't know Watch your face as you choke Just to make you talk slow With my hands round your throat I will never let you go

This violence burns within me Only you could understand I'm tired of you pretending It's always you, it's always...

And if you feel as if you're wasting your time Can you quantify an aspect of failure? Do you feel as if you're wasting your time? You're alone, you're not alone

With your hands round my throat You're the devil I don't know Kiss my face as I choke Just to make me talk slow (x2)

My smile, your face My blood, your veins (x3)

[bumblingbabooshka]

Hey. There's something here to me about how Tuvok had not one but two traumatic memories which were repressed for years [one is not technically a "real" memory but his reactions to it WERE real and his body/mind treated it as real and thus I'm counting it as two traumatic memories], we're told that Vulcans react incredibly poorly to repressed memories or in fact any discrepancies between the conscious vs unconscious mind, and then later Tuvok is revealed to have an emerging condition which causes neurological degeneration. + The fact that it's repeatedly stated that for Vulcans, contact with trusted people's minds are crucial, actually medically necessary, to deal with all manner of things from traumatic events to medical disorders and how Tuvok has no one he can go to for that kind of support or treatment except for Janeway and in the end not even she can help him with certain things since it has to be a Vulcan.

[bethhiraeth]

okay but can we talk the insane parallels between argyle and eddie?

lets recap. they both:

Are frequent drug users

Don't conform to society's expectations, particularly regarding masculinity, and are okay with that

A reflection of this being that they both have long hair

Are arguably queercoded

They both drive a van

Are an older sibling figure/friend to important characters in the show

They both watched someone die and freak out, and then are brought in on all the upside down stuff

I could go on.

what was the narrative point of this? why establish two new characters that are so similar in so many ways? i have so many questions

[immoral-stranger]

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 // 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

Summary: “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” – Or, the one where Oscar has to go to group counselling after a turbulent race incident and meets you, the quiet girl at the back of the hall.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader

Word count: 19k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ❀ Angst: they meet in therapy, it's all angst, lying, guilt, implied former drug addiction and fraudulent behaviour. Smut: penetrative sex, oral (f! receiving), Oscar is a boob guy, very soft and vanilla, maybe a size kink? Fluff: they cuddle? and the ending is happy-ish? Other: takes place during a fictional 2025 season, an atheistic conversation about religion, smoking cigarettes.

A/N: This might be the gloomiest thing I’ve ever written, but it also has 5k words of pure smut, so yeah, there's that. I’m weirdly proud of it. Please tell me what you think ♡

Abu Dhabi, 2024. Oscar could still smell the smoke sometimes, in nightmares or if he zoned out for too long. The scent clung to his mind—burning tires, scorched metal, and marshals running around in panic. In his dreams, he could hear the crackle of flames, feel the searing heat against his skin, as they carefully dragged him out and placed him in the medical car. He was sure that it was already in some compilation on youtube about the worst crashes of the season. Hell, maybe even in history. 

Verstappen had already claimed his title, but getting the last win of the season would be a dream for anyone. It was a matter of pride, ending the season on a high note. For Oscar, it ended with a crash instead, just as he was about to overtake for the win on the last stint of the race. 

And of course, it had to be with Charles. 

Everyone loved Charles. And everyone hated Oscar for being the reason their favourite driver lost out on a win. Hate was a strong word and he was used to people having varying opinions about him, but there was something about this that he couldn’t shake off. 

The worst part was the screaming—screaming that he had later been told never even happened. He'd made it up in his head. When he was being pulled from the wreckage, he could have sworn he’d heard Charles crying out in pain. He’d replayed it over and over, only to learn that Charles had gotten out first—before the fire even started to spread. Sore from the impact, but otherwise unharmed.

Oscar didn’t realise in the moment that the crash would affect him. It took months for it to catch up to him. It all cumulated into a breakdown during the pre-season testing for 2025, where he had locked himself in a room to drown out Charles’ screaming, getting the attention of his trainer and people on his team that something was wrong. 

He was supposed to be the calm one. This was the opposite of calm. 

He had Murphy’s Law on loop in his head. Everything that can go wrong will. It had never been like that for him before—analysing every possible mistake. It wasn’t even the mistakes he actually made, but the ones that never happened. It made him paralysed to get in the car every single time, but once he actually started driving, all those thoughts went away. 

It was the imaginative screaming that had led him to where he was today—the parking lot outside of St. Anne’s Church before a group therapy and support meeting. It wasn’t a grand building by any means. The stones of the church were worn, weathered with years of storms battering its exterior. It always seemed to rain in this fucking town. 

His therapist, trainer, and team had decided that this was best for him. Mandated meetings once a week until he could feel calm outside of the car and not just while driving it. This wasn’t about talking to some high-paid therapist; he already had one of those. No, this was about learning to cope with normal people, people who had been through real trauma, people who didn’t live their lives in the fast lane.

“You need support,” they’d said, as if these weekly gatherings at a worn-out church with other equally messed-up strangers would patch up whatever was broken inside him. 

He had talked on the phone with the man leading the group, explaining that it would most likely be best for Oscar to show up to his first meeting, take a seat, and just get a feel for how it worked. 

The meeting was held in a hall on the side of the church, an annex built sometime in the seventies while the church itself was centuries old. He was hit with the smell of old wood and damp air as soon as he entered. The group wasn’t small—maybe twenty people scattered around the room, sitting on mismatched chairs. It didn’t feel like one of those alcoholics anonymous meetings he’d seen in movies, which had been his first preconception. 

He found a spot on one of the middle rows, on the edge to not draw attention to him. The personalities he could see around the room were all different. There were the nervous ones, bouncing in their seats—maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was abstinence. The tired ones seemed to be the majority. He fitted into that group himself—tired of life. You also had the desperate ones, sitting in the front, almost leaning forward to better grasp whatever words of wisdom were being said. 

Guilt seemed to be a theme for everyone. 

One after one the facilitator let people go up and speak at a makeshift lectern. Some just gave little updates, giving Oscar the impression that they’d gone to meetings for a long time. Others were speaking up for the first time. One that stood out was a mother, maybe in her fifties, whose daughter had just passed away in a car accident. She cried as she spoke, searching for some way of dealing with the guilt she felt, having let her daughter borrow her car even though she knew it was old and unsafe. 

This was around the time when Oscar thought to himself that he should just take the money he had, find a way out of his contract, emigrate to Iceland, and change his name to Fabio. Never ever have to think about a race car again.

People were going on about their lives, their regrets, their struggles with addictions, or just their attempts to survive whatever the world had thrown at them. But none of it really resonated with him. Oscar didn’t feel like he belonged here. His problems felt different. And he wasn’t sure if that was because they actually were different or because he just couldn’t find the right words to describe them.

At some point, his gaze shifted toward the back of the room, and that was when he noticed you. 

A girl his own age. You were sitting there, apart from everyone else, half-hidden in the shadows near the exit. You looked like you didn’t want to be seen—shoulders hunched, sat far down in your seat. You stared at your hands, fidgeting with skin around your nails. Oscar could spot your chipped black nail polish from across the room. He had a hard time reading your face, mostly obscured by your hair and the collar of your jacket. 

He couldn’t help but wonder why you were here. He wondered it about everyone else too, but you stuck out since you were similar in age—young enough that people didn’t automatically assume that you’d gone through hardship. You looked… different. Troubled, maybe. Definitely out of place. 

Oscar forced himself to look away, trying to focus on the group facilitator, who was droning on about acceptance and healing. He felt restless, a creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Why had he even come? This place didn’t feel like it could fix anything. 

By the time the session ended, he hadn’t spoken a word.

As the last of the attendees dispersed, Oscar lingered under the arched entrance, watching the downpour. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, offering him some warmth from the cold rain. A faint glow from distant streetlights illuminated the soaked pavement, creating an eerie atmosphere that somehow felt fitting. 

That’s when he saw you again, as the heavy church doors closed behind him with a slight thud. You were the last one out of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw you light a cigarette. His eyes met yours briefly, but you were quick to look away. 

You exhaled smoke, sitting down on the stone steps leading up to the entrance, letting single raindrops fall onto your leather jacket, while still being mostly covered by the awning. 

For a second, Oscar thought about walking away. He didn’t know you—he didn’t know anyone here—but something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was because he knew he would need to talk to someone here, not easily getting away from the mandated meetings. Maybe it was because you looked so damned lost. 

Either way, he found himself speaking before he could stop himself.

“Uh,” he started awkwardly. “I like your stockings.” 

You blinked, glancing down at your legs. Through the rips in your jeans, a pair of sheer black stockings peeked out, the floral lace pattern barely visible. You didn’t say anything right away, just stared at him with a look that was half-surprised, half-annoyed. Then, you blew out smoke from between your lips. 

“Thanks,” you muttered. 

Oscar shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he should leave or try to salvage the moment. Why had he said that? He wasn’t good at small talk, never had been. He had no idea why he thought this was the time to start improving that skill.

You let out a low chuckle, almost like you were laughing at him. Wordlessly, you asked him if he wanted a cigarette, lifting the carton up in his direction. 

He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.” 

You took another drag, shrugging your shoulders, basically saying suit yourself to him. With your gaze turned back to the ground, the silence stretched on awkwardly, only broken by the sound of raindrops splattering against the asphalt.

“Aren’t white lighters supposed to be bad luck?” he asked suddenly, noticing the bright plastic you were flicking between your fingers. He’d heard that somewhere, an old superstition and coincidence—that a group of famous people who had died at a young age all had white lighters in their possession. It was a stupid thing to say, but it felt better than nothing.

You looked down at the lighter in your hand and then back at Oscar, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Maybe that’s the fucking point.” 

Oscar didn’t know what to say to that. He wondered if you actually meant it—that bad luck didn’t matter to you, like you almost welcomed it. He wasn’t sure he believed in luck in that sense anyway. To him, life felt more like a balance of choices and chances, not fortune’s favour. But sometimes, maybe when the stars aligned and all that palaver, he believed in luck and he believed in doing the right thing to experience that luck. 

Call it superstition, if you must. 

The both of you continued to stand there in silence. Well, technically, you were still sitting.  Two strangers, clinging to the building that was supposedly about to fix them, all while not really knowing if they even wanted to be fixed. 

After a few long moments, you stood up, stubbing out the cigarette on the wet stone. You stuffed your hands into your pockets, casting him one last glance before heading out into the rain. The water immediately soaked your hair, but you didn’t seem to care. You hopped into a car that had pulled up at the end of the parking lot, an older woman in the driver seat. 

You left him without a word and a strange feeling inside of him—like this situation wasn’t already odd enough. 

_______________________________

You put out your cigarette as you reached the entrance of the church, again. Just another Tuesday in your life. You’d lost count on how long you had been going to these meetings. Two hours every Tuesday and one hour every Sunday. 

It was a bit of a lie, that you didn’t know how long it had been. You just didn’t want to know how long it had been and therefore told yourself to not think about it until you’d all but forgotten about it. 

However, Oscar was a new addition to the meetings, for a month or so. Seeing him, seemingly waiting for you before going inside, was odd? But not uncommon by now. 

You didn’t say anything as you walked up beside him on the church steps, only giving him a slight nod as a way of saying hello. You looked out over the parking lot, glistening wet from the rain that seemed to haunt this small town. You were practically lucky that it wasn’t raining at the moment. 

Something about the parking lot was different today, though. It stood out like a diamond in a drawer of costume jewellery. 

There, parked conspicuously at the curb, was a sleek McLaren. The kind of car that didn't belong in this part of town, especially not parked outside a church where people came to unload their emotional baggage.

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar caught you staring with raised brows. “What nobhead takes their McLaren to counselling?” you muttered under your breath, clearly not expecting him to hear. But he was close enough, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile.

He chuckled, a low, surprised sound. “That would be me.” 

You blinked, not expecting it to be him, let alone be so direct about it. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, you’re not,” Oscar chortled, shaking his head, like he found your frankness refreshing, if not amusing, as though he wasn’t often spoken to like that. 

“Yeah, it’s a dickish thing to do,” you admitted, giving him a half shrug. You couldn’t help but smile a little, though. He had a way of taking the sting out of your sharp words, as if he didn’t mind your snark. 

You’d quite frankly been rude to him at a few of the former meetings, yet he still didn’t mind sitting in silence next to you for two hours every Tuesday. You were both here, after all—both stuck, both dealing with whatever mess had brought you to therapy. 

The last few sessions had been the same—catching each other’s eye as you sat in the back of the room, listening to people’s stories. Neither of you said much during the meetings, but you always seemed to find each other afterward, just outside the church, where the air felt a little less suffocating. You smoked, and Oscar just stood there, pretending not to be bothered by the cold weather. 

It had become something of a routine. You weren’t friends, exactly, but there was a strange sort of understanding between you. Tonight was no different as the meeting started. 

You slipped into your usual spot near the back, watching as Oscar settled in a seat nearby. The room was filled with voices, people exchanging quick pleasantries before it started, just like every week, with people telling their stories. 

You’d gone to meetings for such a long time that you knew the backstories of most people. It had been so long that some regulars had even stopped going, claiming they were fixed. Or at least fixed enough. You guessed that was the real goal—to not completely overcome trauma but to learn how to live with it. Then there were the people who were mandated to be there, by their workplace or by a court order. They were more hesitant than the people who went by their own free will, but their stories were always better when they finally got to talking, more interesting to listen to. 

“Have you ever gone up there?” Oscar whispered at one point, curious. 

“Nope,” you replied without hesitation, not looking at him. “They can force me to be here, but they can’t force me to talk.” 

He looked at you for a moment, head tilted slightly, like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it. You could practically feel the question hanging in the air—who the fuck were they?—but he didn’t press. Instead, he glanced around the room again. 

You liked that he didn’t push. That meant you didn’t have to lie to him. 

There was an unspoken rule in these circles. Speak, or don’t, but never fake it. It couldn’t be about pretending, and for now, silence was as close as either of you seemed willing to come to honesty. 

When the session ended, you found yourselves once again standing on the church steps, the night air brisk and cutting. You fumbled with a cigarette, attempting to light it against the persistent wind. Oscar lingered nearby, hands in his pockets, as he watched your futile attempts, half amused. 

“Not getting picked up today?” he asked. 

You shook your head, giving up on the cigarette and putting the lighter and carton back into the pocket of your jacket. 

Oscar hesitated for a second, unsure whether to say anything. He was starting to feel that familiar awkwardness creep back in, the same feeling he’d had the first time he spoke to you. But before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I could give you a lift.” 

You shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not sleeping with you, Oscar,” you said flatly. 

Oscar’s eyes widened, and he spluttered, “W-what? No! That’s not—” He stumbled over his words, horrified.

You raised a brow, watching as he struggled to find his words. He was blushing, his ears practically glowing red under the streetlight. “You offered to drive me home without ulterior motives?” you asked, sceptical. 

“Yes, I was just trying to be nice,” he said firmly, but flustered. “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” 

You let out a dry laugh, almost feeling guilty for your wrong assumption about him. “You’d be surprised at how many men find head-cases attractive.” 

He only became more embarrassed, his mind flashing back to the first thing he’d ever said to you—a compliment on your stockings, of all things.

There was a vulnerability to him you hadn’t expected—something behind the stubborn façade and expensive car. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who was used to rejection. Or awkwardness. Or therapy, for that matter. But his loser personality made all of those things very possible. 

“Well… I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” he said, shifting awkwardly.

You studied him for a moment, weighing his words. Then, with a sigh, you jerked your head toward the McLaren. “Fine. Start the fucking car.” 

Inside the car, the quiet was different, somehow more suffocating than outside on the church steps. Maybe it was the notion of having to actually talk to each other now that hadn’t felt as forced outside of the car. 

 “So, where to?” Oscar asked, his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary.

You glanced out the window, your fingers tapping idly on the door handle, almost scared to touch the absurdly shiny car. “Do you know the council houses behind the post office?” 

“By that one pub? With the—” 

“The Swan, yes that’s the one,” you interrupted. “My aunt lives right there.”

Oscar nodded, pulling away from the curb and heading in the direction you’d indicated. You kept your gaze fixated out the window as the car began to move. The streets passed by in a blur, the rain-slicked asphalt reflecting the dim glow of the town’s yellow lights.

“Aunt?” he asked after a beat of silence. “Parents not around?” 

You didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, Oscar thought he’d overstepped, thought you were going to turn to a rudeness that he couldn’t joke his way out of.  

Then, quietly, you muttered, “I think I am the one who’s not around.” 

He heard you clearly, but he didn’t press further. He didn’t try to fill the space with meaningless chatter, and for that, you were both grateful. For a moment, it was peaceful, almost as if you were just two people out for a casual drive instead of a pair of strangers bound by a not-so-positive common denominator. 

As the car approached the run-down council houses, you unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t immediately move to get out. Instead, you turned to him, studying his profile in the low light, something unreadable in your expression. 

“Thanks,” you said after a moment. 

“For the ride?” he asked. 

“For not being a complete dick,” you replied as you pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold. You didn’t look back, but you knew that he was smiling behind you. 

_______________________________

The following week, you were late. Not late enough for it to actually be a problem, but late enough that Oscar felt the awkward tension of deciding whether to wait for you outside like he usually did or go inside. He definitely could have waited, but he was particular about time, so he went in. 

Oscar glanced around the room, sitting somewhere in the middle now that you hadn’t decided seats for the two of you. He noticed the faces that had become a strange sort of fixture in his life over the past months. 

The season had started and it was going fairly well. He had thoughts of disaster almost every weekend, but he didn’t hear Charles’ screaming as often. It was usually worst during qualifying, when the short amount of time made the anxiety build up quicker. But he was stable. Even his therapist had said that. He wasn’t a danger in any way, but he still just wished to get an answer as to why this crash had affected him in the way that it did. 

Your heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, your Doc Martens making a thumping sound against the old hardwood flooring. You looked like a drenched, unhappy cat, caught in one of the town’s relentless downpours. For a moment, Oscar smiled; he hadn’t thought he’d ever see you sit anywhere but the back row, yet here you were, sliding into the empty seat next to him with a huff.

You took off your wet leather jacket and threw your bag on the floor, almost curling into your seat on the uncomfortable chair, a paper cup of hot water warming your hands. There was a station outside of the room with tea and coffee and you would grab a cup of tea for yourself before every meeting. Oscar had learnt that by now—also knowing that you brought your own tea bags since they only offered black tea and you drank rooibos. Oscar had lived in England for a long time, but the science behind drinking tea was still something that confused him.

You rubbed your face dry with the sleeves of your oversized sweater, not caring that your mascara smudged around your eyes. Oscar thought about offering his own hoodie, or at least a tissue, but you didn’t seem the type to want help with something so small. Instead, he kept quiet, simply watching as you tried to shake off the rain.

A beat of silence passed between you both. Then, you spoke first.

“You never come to the Sunday meetings.”

You tried to sound casual, but the question was deliberate; it was thought through. He glanced at you, surprised. It wasn’t often that you were the one to initiate a conversation, and when you did, they were short and edged with sarcasm.

“Didn’t even know they had meetings during the weekend,” Oscar replied with a shrug. “I work most Sundays.”

“So do I, but I manage to show up here anyway.”

He noticed the way your eyes held his gaze, challenging but curious. You weren’t shy to look him straight in the eye, unlike himself. The light from the nearby windows cast a muted glow over you, softening the lines of your face, your smudged makeup giving you a look of tiredness that felt familiar to him.

It was like you were waiting, expecting him to talk again, and he felt that familiar twist of unease, a reminder that vulnerability wasn’t something he navigated easily. A hint of a smile crossed Oscar’s face as he looked away, not sure how much to say.

Today’s meeting wasn’t much different from all the others. There was the mother who dealt with guilt after losing her daughter in a car crash. There was Anthony, a local restaurant owner, who was there as part of his probation plan after an assault charge. There was Jenny, a girl in her thirties who was mandated by her therapist to be there as exposure for her agoraphobia. It was definitely ironic that the girl with a social anxiety disorder did more talking than you and Oscar combined.

During a brief five-minute break, Oscar looked over at you again, seemingly lost in your thoughts.

“You think you’ll ever get up there?” he asked, nodding toward the lectern.

Oscar knew he had asked similar questions before, but this one was more to ask if you thought this group counselling thing would ever lead to you opening up—if you saw an end to these countless meetings by actually letting them help you, letting them make you feel better.

“No,” you answered flatly. “Opening up to strangers is weird.”

He smiled at that. “I think this is supposed to have the opposite effect,” he said, crossing his arms. “That it’s easier with strangers because we won’t feel judged in the same way.”

You looked up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Keep talking Oscar, and we won’t be strangers by the end of this.”

He laughed, shaking his head. There was a subtle humour to your banter, like you both enjoyed pushing boundaries without really crossing them. Oscar settled on the idea that he didn’t want you two to be strangers after all.

As the meeting came to a close, people began to shuffle out, some lingering to chat with one another, others heading straight for the door. You, as usual, made your way outside without a word. Oscar followed, as he always did, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

He never knew why he lingered. He wasn’t even sure if you wanted him to. But the silence you shared after group therapy felt easier than the forced vulnerability inside.

Outside, the air was crisp, the rain from earlier having tapered off, leaving the ground damp and slick, the sun breaking through the clouds. You leant against the stone wall of the church, lighting another cigarette with the same white lighter he’d seen you use before.

Oscar frowned slightly, feeling a strange sense of unease creep into his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but before he could stop himself, he spoke up. “Can you stop buying white lighters, please?”

You raised your brows, almost mocking him. “Why? Are you superstitious?”

“No,” Oscar replied, shaking his head. “It just feels like a weird thing to jeopardise.”

“What do you know about the 27 club anyway?” you asked, taking another drag. You were mindful enough to turn your head in the opposite direction as you blew out the smoke.

The 27 Club—a bunch of musicians, mostly rockstars, who had died at the age of 27 due to rough lifestyles. Rumour had it that they all used white lighters for their cigarettes and other smokeable substances. Oscar didn’t know anything about their music or the club they were in. He just knew of the rumour.

“Literally nothing except that they died carrying white lighters,” Oscar admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And that you deserve to live way past the age of 27.”

You blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, the armour you wore around yourself seemed to crack. You stared at him, cigarette halfway to your lips, processing what he’d just said.

“Who knew you could be so sweet?” you teased, trying to be your usual sarcastic self, but there was a warmth in your voice that hadn’t been there before. That tiny hint of warmth made his chest feel strangely tight.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence before you broke it; your voice quieter now. “Why do you keep coming here anyway? You don’t talk much either. So why show up?”

Oscar hesitated, unsure how much to say. He wasn’t a stranger to lying about his job to people, often times just because he couldn’t be arsed to explain or have people ask if he was rich and famous. It wasn’t like that with you, but he still decided to lie—or opt out of telling the entire truth. He wanted you to think he was normal.

“I’m mandated to be here by my workplace,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I caused a car accident with a colleague of mine, and I kind of need to be able to drive to keep my job.”

You frowned in confusion. “But you drove me home? Are you scared of driving?”

“It’s… different,” he admitted. “Driving long distances for work or just around in this little hellhole.”

You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, in a surprisingly gentle tone, you asked, “Do you like… get flashbacks of the crash and blame yourself all over again?”

Oscar nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah, I guess it’s like that. I keep replaying it, even though my colleague was fine. It’s like this… loop in my head, where I keep imagining every possible way it could have gone worse. Murphy’s Law, you know? Like, I can’t help but think of every possible mistake I could make.”

“Murphy’s Law is about engineering, though,” you pointed out. “You can’t just apply that to your everyday life. It’ll turn you into an impossible perfectionist, constantly waiting for everything to fall apart.”

Oscar smiled, appreciating the unexpected insight. It reminded him of how little you knew about him, since, y’know, he hadn’t told you the truth—that engineering actually was involved in his everyday life. And yet, somehow, you still seemed to understand. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and he found himself wondering what other surprises you might be hiding.

You stubbed out your cigarette, bending down and reaching into your bag for a piece of chewing gum. He watched as you unwrapped it, slipping it into your mouth, the familiar scent of artificial strawberry filling the air. It was a ritual he’d seen before, almost like you were trying to erase the smell of smoke as quickly as you’d created it. The action was so practiced, and he found himself charmed by the small, sort of endearing quirk.

“You’re not gonna ask me why I keep on showing up here?” you asked, looking wondering up at Oscar, mumbling slightly as you chewed to get the gum soft.

He glanced at you with a faint smile. “You’ll tell me when you feel comfortable enough. I know that.”

A soft, almost approving nod was your only response.

“There’s my ride,” you murmured as a car drove into the parking lot—the same car he’d seen many times before, the same old woman driving. He could now assume it was your aunt. “I guess I’ll see you next week, then.”

Oscar stumbled on his words as he tried to say goodbye to you, caught off guard by how you almost skipped down the church stairs, looking happier than ever. It was a weird juxtaposition, because you obviously weren’t—happier than ever, that is. You actually dared to look back at him, smiling as you walked over the parking lot. The mascara still sat heavy under your eyes as light shone down on you from the clouds breaking above, and in that moment, you looked like the saddest thing under the sun.

After the car had driven away, Oscar stood still with his thoughts outside the church for a second. He had to look into the weekend meetings. Even if he could never attend them himself, he needed to know why they were important enough for you to mention them to him.

With a last glance toward the parking lot, he went back inside, his eyes drifting toward the bulletin board in the hallway. Various flyers covered its surface. The community really tried its hardest, offering support groups for just about anything—newly becoming parents, cancer survival, dealing with grief and death.

Oscar looked at the schedules, most of them being on weekdays. However, anonymous groups for recovering alcoholics and narcotics were on Saturdays, respectively, Sundays.

It didn’t take long for Oscar to understand.

He also understood why you had asked him. You wanted to know if you had another thing in common other than the group meetings. You hadn’t known he was there because of a car crash, so in your mind he might as well have been there for other issues, like drugs or alcohol.

Oscar didn’t know your full story. He didn’t know why you were here, why you kept showing up week after week, or what had led you to seek out meetings. But he did know one thing: you weren’t as unreachable as you pretended to be, and he was willing to wait until you felt ready to show him the parts of yourself you’d kept hidden.

_______________________________

The soft clink of glasses and low murmur of voices filled the pub as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your hands moving out of habit, eyes scanning the sparse crowd. Picking up an afternoon shift instead of the night shift wasn’t something you normally did, just for that reason. It was the same amount of hours, but it felt a lot longer since the customers were fewer. Thankfully, the evening crowd was starting to build up. 

A woman sat at the counter, maybe ten years older than you, her fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass, her gaze flitting between the door and her phone. She had a nervous look and was dressed too nicely for the pub. You knew the type—the first daters—planning nights to the last detail, hoping for it to go well but preparing for disaster.

“Waiting for someone?” you asked, offering to take her glass. 

“Yeah, a first date. I needed some liquid courage in advance,” she replied with a tight smile. 

“Well, you look gorgeous,” you assured, showing her a genuine smile. “If they turn out to be a wanker, just come up and order an angel shot and I’ll help you out of here.”

Her smile widened, a bit more relaxed now, as she thanked you. 

You made a point to watch over her as your shift went on. Her date arrived shortly after. You let yourself relax; at least he wasn’t a no-show, and he didn’t look like the type to catfish someone. In fact, he looked almost as nervous as she did, and you found yourself rooting for them.

Working in a gritty pub had never been your dream, but it was what your CV got you at this point in life. You had tried living in London, making ends meet by working at a cocktail bar, but you had crash-landed back in your hometown, like big time crashing.

Thankfully, the owner of The Swan hadn’t looked too closely into your past, or he at least didn’t care. You knew how to pour a pint, you knew how to clean up, and you knew how to deal with rowdy drunk people. That made you a top employee. 

You moved on autopilot around the familiar bar with its familiar patrons. Some old, who frequented the bar even on weekdays, and some young, who you mostly saw on weekends. 

You had learnt to listen to some and to eavesdrop on others. Like, you knew all about Denny’s divorce and custody battle because he sat by the bar and went on and on about it as he downed London Prides. But you had to eavesdrop to know that the group of girls who came in after work on Fridays had finally staged an intervention for their friend who put up with too much shit from her boyfriend. 

Little things like that made bartending enjoyable. 

Other things—like loud groups of lads your own age—almost always made it less enjoyable. That was why you felt a tiredness fall over you like an anvil in a slapstick comedy when you, even with your back turned to the door, could hear them enter. You let out a resigned sigh, knowing that the evening was about to take a livelier turn, and maybe not for the better. 

However, they weren’t the usual group that gave you and your colleagues trouble. This were customers you’d never seen before. Strange for being such a small town with only The Swan and two other pubs. Sure, the boys were loud as they came to the bar to order from your colleague, but they were patient and not overly rude. 

You froze in surprise. 

You felt your grip slip from the glass you were holding, almost dropping it. While his friends filed up to the bar with an eagerness for drinks, Oscar lingered, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. The shocked look on his face was almost priceless. He looked as startled as you felt, his eyes widening briefly as they locked onto yours.

He seemed out of place in the gritty atmosphere of the pub—too put-together, too polished. You knew he wasn’t British from his strong accent, and you knew he wasn’t the most outgoing type from his well… personality. He didn’t belong in here, but for some reason his friends had waltzed right in to The Swan, never having done so before. 

You were scared to think about why, but deep down you knew. 

Before your colleague could ask him for his order, you stepped forward. You wiped your hands on a towel and raised an eyebrow. “You lost?” you teased lightly, leaning against the bar.

Oscar’s friends were still gathering their drinks, a couple of them glancing your way with open curiosity. Your colleague doing the same, knowing full well that you would have to explain this to them afterwards. 

Oscar smiled back, a bit shyly. “No, just… here with some friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him, looking mildly uncomfortable.

“So,” you said, folding your arms. “What can I get you?”

Oscar chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not drinking tonight. Just…moral support, I guess.”

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.” 

For a moment, you both stood there, the noise around you fading into the background.

His friends soon called after him to join them at their table and you had a job to do. As you moved around the bar, greeting regulars, wiping down counters, and handing out drinks, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Oscar was still there, his presence lingering even when he was out of view.

Each time you glanced over at their table, you caught him glancing back. The first few times he seemed nervous to be caught, but when he realised how often you looked at him, he really had nothing to be ashamed of if he stared back at you. 

After a while, the place grew livelier, and you lost sight of him in the ebb and flow of customers, the noise picking up as more people filled the seats. The usual rowdiness of a Saturday night began to take hold. 

Eventually, you saw his friends begin to gather their things, settling their tabs, pulling on jackets, and nudging each other as they headed out. You felt yourself get stuck in your steps behind the bar as you watched Oscar stand up from his seat. He exchanged a few words with his friends as they left, but he stayed, earning what you assumed were amused laughs and some crude comments. 

Oscar waited a moment, watching them go, before he turned his gaze toward the bar. You tried to make yourself seem busy, cleaning a counter that wasn’t even dirty. You felt a flicker of nerves as he approached, unsure if you should be the first to talk. He sat down on an empty bar stool next to Denny. He didn’t have to dare to look at you because you already had all of his attention. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this long without a cigarette before, y’know,” he said, breaking the silence.  

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I only smoke when I’m stressed, which is less often than you’d think.”

Oscar’s smile lingered, a warm glint in his eyes that hinted that he understood that the only time he saw you was at the group meetings and that they were the thing that caused you stress to the point where you felt the need to smoke. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a nicotine addict. However, of all things, nicotine wouldn’t be the worst thing to admit that you were addicted to. 

Your conversation was briefly interrupted by your other patrons, like Denny, who flagged you down for another pint. You poured his drink wordlessly, and Oscar waited, his presence somehow calming amidst the usual chaos of the bar.

The couple you’d served earlier—the first-daters—approached to settle their tab.

“That looked successful,” you remarked with a friendly smile, referring to their date.  

“Yeah, honestly green flags all around,” she replied, throwing her date a soft smile as he took out his wallet. “Thanks for the angel shot advice, though.”

You smiled. “Glad you didn’t need to use it.”

The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she looked from you to Oscar, as if piecing something together. She tilted her head toward you. “Do… you need an angel shot yourself?” 

“For this bloke?” you asked in surprise, pointing at Oscar. “Nah, I can handle him myself.” 

The woman nodded, smiling in amusement as she gave Oscar another once-over before heading out with her date, holding hands. Oscar, who had been listening to the entire exchange with a bemused expression, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s an angel shot?” he asked.

“It’s a code we use for people on bad dates,” you explained with a shrug. “If they order one, it means they need help, and I step in. It’s a subtle way for someone to signal they’re uncomfortable without making a scene.”

Oscar’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he nodded. “That’s pretty smart.”

“Yeah, it can be useful. When I worked at a cocktail bar in London we had to use it almost every night. This place is a lot calmer.”

You knew it, Oscar knew it too—that rich people drinking Negronis at a rooftop bar in London were more troublesome once they got drunk than what people like Denny did once they were in on their seventh pint of the evening in a small town pub. 

There was a brief lull in the conversation, the uncomfortable kind where you just waited for someone to break the silence. Oscar’s fingers tapped lightly on the bar, and he seemed lost in thought for a moment before, as if summoning courage, he spoke again, his voice a bit hesitant. 

“So… when are you off?” 

“In…” you stopped to check the clock on the wall behind you. “Three minutes.” 

Oscar shifted, clearly nervous. “Do you want to maybe hang out? Get dinner or something?” 

You blinked, taken off guard. He looked so uncomfortable. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected. He was as unsure of himself as anyone else was. 

Oscar, meanwhile, felt as though he was the world’s worst at this. It was no wonder he never had casual things like Lando seemed to have every other weekend, one night stand after one night stand. Not that Oscar necessarily wanted that, but to even feel like he had the possibility to ask someone out would’ve been nice. 

“I mean, if you’re up for it,” he added quickly, tripping over his words. “Like, we don’t have to or anything. I just thought—”

You cut him off with an uncharacteristic giggle, the sound breaking through the tension. “Only if I can use your shower. I smell like cheap beer and fryer oil,” you said, lifting your t-shirt with the pub’s swan logo on it to your nose, grimacing at the smell. 

“Oh,” he breathed, his face lighting up in relief. “Absolutely.” 

You tossed the towel onto the counter, giving him a playful smile as you stepped around the bar to join him. “But I’ll let you know,” you said, lowering your voice, “you shouldn’t hang out with someone like me. I’ll defile you.”

“I’m not as innocent as I act,” he said teasingly, but he wasn’t even sure if he believed his own words, let alone did he fool you. 

_______________________________

Oscar sat like a sociopath on the sofa waiting for you to finish showering. He was not sure his posture had even been this good. You’d made your way to his flat after your shift had ended. He’d offered you his shower and clothes while he said he’d fix the rest. However, every film he could think of watching seemed pathetic. Every type of food he could think of ordering seemed disgusting. He hadn’t exactly thought this through when he asked you to hang out. He hadn’t expected it to be so… casual? Or maybe easy? Like you actually wanted to be here, in his flat, spending the evening with him.

He was probably overthinking this—no, he was overthinking this. But how could he not? He tried so hard to not think of the fact that you were wet and naked just a wall away, but he was pretty sure his brain broke in the process. Every detail was suddenly monumental, as though he was a teenager again.

The faint sound of the shower stopped, and he quickly sat up straighter, mentally scolding himself to look less… tense. He wasn’t sure he was pulling it off. He could hear the bathroom door open, and then you were padding down the hall, and he practically whipped his head around to see you. 

You were wearing one of his favourite shirts, the maroon fabric hanging over your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair was still damp, small droplets darkening the shirt where they fell. The sweatpants you’d borrowed were too long, so you’d tucked them into your socks—baby pink, fuzzy socks with little red hearts on them. The socks were definitely not Oscar’s. He couldn’t believe that was what you were hiding under your Doc Martens. 

Oscar blinked, trying to reconcile the idea that this—this ridiculously adorable version of you—was the same person who’d honestly scared him during your first conversation. 

“Cute socks,” he chuckled, unable to stop himself. 

“Shut up,” you muttered, hiding a smile, before flopping down on the sofa next to him, already more casual than Oscar could ever be. “What are we watching?” 

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was acutely aware of how close you were, your leg brushing against his as you made yourself comfortable. You didn’t hesitate to grab a blanket that was thrown over the back of the sofa, cuddling into it as you wrapped it around yourself. 

“We could watch… uh, anything you want,” Oscar finally managed. 

You rolled your eyes, sinking into the sofa cushions. “If you let me pick, it’s going to be something dumb.”

“I’m okay with dumb.”

Your lips curled into a smile, but you didn’t say anything as you leant forward to grab the remote. Oscar sat there, watching as you navigated through streaming options. You were on the hunt for something specific, he noticed. Right in on Disney+ and quickly you searched for…Brother Bear? 

Oscar’s brow lifted in surprise, but he didn’t question it. In a way, it felt perfectly fitting. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and settled into the cushions, letting himself ease into the film, into the quiet comfort of the moment.

You both ordered pizza that arrived sometime in the middle of the film. You liked pineapple on pizza, but he guessed he could overlook it. Especially if it meant you were here, sitting beside him, taking a bite with a content look on your face. 

You’d grown soft around the edges, for him. This was domestic, bordering on romantic. The girl he had first met—cigarette and white lighter in hand—would’ve never admitted to liking Disney films and to wearing pink fuzzy socks. 

When the pizza was finished and the movie neared its end, you laid down in the corner of his L-shaped sofa, blanket fully surrounding you. Oscar wanted to scoot over, closer to you, maybe put your feet in his lap, but he hesitated, scared to cross boundaries. He chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, hoping that his nerves would miraculously disappear. 

And then you made a sound—a soft, involuntary awe that escaped your lips during the scene where Koda, the little bear cub, was reunited with his deceased mother through some sort of glowing spirits in the sky. Oscar had to admit that even though he’d seen this film as a kid, the plot was now completely lost on him because of you. 

It was cute. Like, painfully cute, and Oscar felt that weird mix of cute aggression, where something is so adorable you just want to squeeze it. Instead, he let himself simply watch you, taking in the way your eyes glistened and your mouth parted slightly, as if you’d forgotten everything around you, wrapped up in this world of animated magic. He mentally cursed himself when you caught him looking. 

“Why are you staring at me?” you muttered. 

“You look like you’re about to cry,” Oscar teased and smiled boyishly.

“Shut up, I do not,” you shot back, rubbing your eyes with your fingers. You were sharp enough to draw blood, and he was somehow always left unscathed.

He couldn’t help but smile wider, watching as you tried to hide your embarrassment. In a brave moment, he moved closer, daring to take a hold of your wrist so that you couldn’t hide from him. Your eyes were shining and a couple of your eyelashes had clumped together from the moisture. 

“It’s okay to cry to movies,” he said, nudging you gently. “Especially one’s about animated animals.” 

“I am not crying. Not even close,” you insisted, laughing, sinking further into the sofa, pulling the blanket up to your chin. 

You moved to the side and somehow, Oscar felt himself fitting naturally into the space behind you. He felt something shift inside him, a strange warmth settling in his chest. This was soft, quiet, almost painfully domestic. Yet it was real. You were here, cuddled up on his sofa, wrapped in his blanket, wearing his clothes, and laughing at something he’d said. 

Neither of you said another word as you moved to lay together like you’d done it a million times before. He found his arm moving to wrap around you, pulling you in closer until your back was touching his chest. You lifted the blanket to cover him partly too. The movie rolled through its final scenes, and Oscar found himself paying even less attention now that you were literally touching him. 

“You’re gonna stay there?” you whispered as the end credits rolled. 

“Yeah, we’re watching the sequel.”

But neither of you moved to get the remote. 

After a still moment, with a deep breath you moved to lay on your back. You glanced up at him, your gaze holding his for a long moment. Oscar didn’t dare look away, even if his confidence told him to do it. At least it was easier to look you in the eye than to take in the rest of you. 

His heart picked up when you adjusted yourself, the blanket slipping from your shoulders and the maroon fabric of his shirt shifted slightly, revealing the outline of your body beneath. Your breasts moved gently, and he couldn’t help but notice the lack of anything underneath the soft cotton. His throat felt tight, and suddenly, every molecule of air around him seemed saturated with the scent of you.

Then, he realised that the scent of you was actually the scent of his laundry detergent and the soap he kept in his shower mixed with something that was uniquely you. And oh, how Oscar hated being a man. Was he really pathetic enough to pop a boner because you smelled good? 

His body reacted before his brain could process it, betraying him in ways that were anything but subtle—warm and spreading, settling quickly. He shifted uncomfortably, moving his legs in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence of just how much you affected him. 

“Oscar…” Your voice was soft, questioning.

He shook his head, looking anywhere but at you as he managed to respond. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, mortified. His face burned with embarrassment. He couldn’t believe this was happening—couldn’t believe he was that guy right now.

“You don’t have to apologise,” you whispered, and you still weren’t scared to look him in the eye. Oscar for once wished you were. 

“Yes, I do. It kind of ruins the mood,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your expression softened and then you shifted to give him a bit of space. In the process, you nearly tipped off the edge of the sofa, and instinctively, Oscar reached out, his hand steadying you by your arm. The warmth of your skin under his touch sent a spark up through his palm, grounding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt if he’d made you uncomfortable.

“Ugh… it’s just…you just smell good, and you’re wearing my shirt, and your skin is the softest thing ever, and I can’t think straight—” he stopped himself abruptly. 

A laugh escaped your lips, soft but warm, and Oscar froze, unsure if he’d actually said all that aloud or if his brain had finally imploded.

“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head as you watched Oscar suddenly move away from you, sitting up in an awkward half-way position with the limited space he had behind you. It probably looked like he was about to bolt out of the flat out of sheer embarrassment. 

“What am I doing?” He frowned. “I just—I don’t want you… I mean, you shouldn’t have to, y’know, feel it.”

At that, your smile deepened, and you moved your legs, spreading them just enough to make space for him to settle between them, throwing the blanket off the sofa. 

“Oscar, can you… just calm down for a second?” you said gently, meeting his gaze with a reassuring look. “I’m not appalled by it, y’know? But you’re acting like I should be.”

His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he looked at you, processing your words. You didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. It was in this moment that Oscar also realised the position you were in, with him between your legs, fighting with his arm propped up to not fall flatly over your body. You weren’t scared to brush his sides by shutting your thighs just the slightest. 

“You’re okay with this?” he felt the need to ask. 

“I am.” 

Oscar let his eyes linger for the first time, deciding for once to let the awkwardness melt away. And just like always, your eyes were on him, almost shamelessly scanning his broad shoulders and the way the fabric of his grey sweatpants stretched.

The shirt you’d borrowed had ridden up slightly, revealing your soft stomach and the hem of your underwear—a black cotton thong, the thin material peeking out. What was the frontal version of a whale-tail called? When the elastics sank into the soft parts of your hips and showed on either side above the waistband of your sweatpants. 

Yeah, Oscar’s brain was definitely broken. 

His mind spun, grasping for words, but all he managed was a shaky breath as he leaned in, like he couldn’t believe that he was seeing it, that he was this close. The air brushed against your skin. His mouth was as dry as a desert. You inhaled so sharply that he could hear it and see your stomach rising. He was eye level with your belly button and he decided upon… kissing it. Or right next to it, on the softest part of your stomach, the world narrowing down to just that patch of skin. 

He looked up for reassurance, and you just smiled. A perfectly content smile where light sparkled in your eyes. Oscar’s hands found your waist as he kissed you again, his lips trailing gently across your stomach. Your skin was impossibly soft, practically melting into his hands. 

Oscar’s next step was unplanned—like this entire thing—and maybe a bit silly, but when he was down there, kissing your stomach, he couldn’t help but want to venture higher up. So, like any other unreasonable person with hormones clouding their judgement, he stuck his head under your shirt, starting by kissing your ribs. 

You let out something between a gasp and a giggle as your breathing picked up the higher up Oscar’s mouth wandered. Where your ribs connected in the middle of your chest, right where the skin was the thinnest, was where he started to gently suck and he earned his first moan. You could feel him start to smile as it escaped you. 

When you looked down at him, all you could see was how his head stretched the fabric, and it was simply just humorous. 

“I could just take my shirt off, y’know?” you teased, though you were out of breath.  

”No,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin, an audible mwah leaving his mouth as he moved higher, planting a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts. “It’s warm under here.” 

You let out a small laugh, your fingers resting on top of his head, the shirt still acting as a barrier as you felt his hair through it. “Wouldn’t have taken you for such a boob guy.” 

Oscar closed his eyes as he felt your quiet laugher vibrate through your chest against his lips. Your breasts were practically lodged against his cheeks and he was definitely flushed red all over so it was actually convenient for him to be hidden under your shirt. 

“Shut up,” was all he could manage to mutter. 

He couldn’t hide anymore when he felt you pull the shirt up by the hem, first over his head and then swiftly over your own, it landing somewhere on the floor. Oscar was left laying there, chin resting against your sternum, feeling totally exposed as your eyes met his again. He didn’t dare to take in the sight of you shirtless, even though he was literally on top of your breasts. 

And while he probably looked like a flustered mess, you looked totally unfazed. 

“You motorboated me,” you exclaimed, laughter in your voice, “and you haven’t even kissed me on the mouth! Feels a bit backwards, don’t you think?” 

Oscar chuckled, not having the time to think that he should be ashamed because of what you just insinuated. His hand moved to gently cup your cheek as he lifted himself to look at you.

“What I’m hearing is that you want to kiss me.”  

He hated to sound cocky. He promised he really did. But with your jaw slacked and disbelief plastered on your face, he felt like he had said the right thing. You weren’t pushing him away, weren’t closing off the moment like he half-expected.

Instead, you were pulling him in.

If he thought your chest had been soft, your lips were like fucking velvet. It was like he was scared to touch you with how delicate you felt; with how softly you met his own lips. The initial connection was quick before he pulled away an inch or two to gather your reaction. With pure lust in your eyes, you were back to kissing him again before he had the chance to overthink what had just happened. 

The kiss deepened slowly, a tender exploration of new territory, a silent acknowledgement that this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a one-off moment.

Oscar’s heart hammered in his chest as he shifted, his body now hovering over yours. His lips brushed against yours in a series of soft kisses. Then, before he knew it, your tongue was fighting his own. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in closer, and he let himself be totally absorbed by you. 

And oh my god, you were shirtless beneath him. He struggled with where to place his hands, feeling strange holding your face for too long but scared to grip your bare waist with his wandering hands. But when he felt you push up towards him—your nipples rubbing his shirt, the soft flesh of your breast squished against his chest—Oscar felt like he could indulge fully. 

With his forehead pressed against yours, Oscar pulled away and asked, “Do you want this to go further?” 

You nodded first, swallowing your breath, before verbally saying a low and desperate yes too. 

He wasn’t sure if he answered anything coherent or just let out a loud huff when he leant back down to kiss you. As his hands travelled up your body, you could feel goosebumps form under his fingertips. He stoked the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted, before fully cupping them in his palms. 

You tipped your head back between the sofa cushions as his lips moved down your jaw and neck, littering you with open-mouthed kisses. He towered over you, his lower body fitting perfectly with how your legs spread for him. 

Oscar smiled as he grazed his teeth against your nipple, hearing you gasp at how he purposely teased you. And while he hadn’t thought about it like that before, you were definitely right with calling him a boob guy. Because fuck, could he spend his time adoring and fondling your soft tits, malleable in his hands and stimulating on his tongue. The way they perked up and became more sensitive with his touch was about to make him delirious. 

And the sounds you were making—the gentle breathy groans—were better than any sound he’d ever heard before, practically deafening to his ears by how much he was concentrating on it. God, was he glad to have not turned on the sequel because having sex to Phil Collins wasn’t really on any bucket list. Especially not with how overwhelming he found your noises.  

He released your nipple with a smacking sound, gazing at the attacked skin of your chest and neck. It would leave bruises, which made him feel even more like a horny teenager. 

“Can you take your shirt off?” Your voice felt airy and small. 

While your hands had already crept under to rake down his back as you were kissing, Oscar hadn’t exactly thought about the imbalance. He’d do just about anything to make you comfortable, meaning that his t-shirt soon joined yours on the floor. 

He was an athlete, yet he hadn’t personally ever thought he looked like one. He’d never been one of those guys to confidently parade around without a shirt on in summer or post pictures of himself flexing in the gym. He just couldn’t do it.

But your eyes on him, the way you nestled your lower lip between your teeth, and how your hands immediately reached out to touch him… yeah, that was maybe the closest thing he’d felt to confidence in a long time.

“Do you feel okay?”

He wasn’t sure how his own voice would sound when he spoke again—dry and muffled, distracted by a million different things. 

“Mhm,” you sighed out. “You wanna take off the rest of my clothes or should I do it myself?” 

Oscar gulped at your forwardness, but he guessed he already knew that you wanted to take this further. So did he, like insanely. With fumbling fingers, he untied the drawstring on your sweatpants and worked them down your hips, until you laid there in front of him in just your thong and fuzzy socks. 

He had sat up to take off his shirt, but he now nestled down between your legs again. There was no way in hell that he would last long inside of you, so he would need to please you beforehand. A gentleman, after all. 

Oscar felt like he was about to die at the thought of going down on you, his blushing cheeks almost hurting from how warm they were. His hair was messy, his lips were kissed raw, and his pupils had dilated until all you could see in his eyes was darkness. 

“Y’know you don’t have to—” you tried to tell him. 

“What if I really want to?” he questioned, almost rhetorically. You didn’t fight him on it. 

He kissed down your stomach until he came to the hem of your panties, absentmindedly rubbing soft circles on your hips and then down your thighs. There, his thoughts were simply reduced to the need to have you, in whatever way you allowed him. 

You were impatient, while Oscar took his time to enjoy you. He tortuously dragged his lips across your thighs; the faint pattern of your skin looked like thin, pale lines spreading like lightning strikes. Once he dared to touch you over the fabric and feel the wetness that had soaked through, he could hear your breath hitch. 

Slowly, he hooked his fingers in the sides of your thong and dragged them down your legs, leaving them discarded on the floor with the other clothes. Fully naked, except the socks, but those were staying on, Oscar decided. 

“Have I told you that you’re gorgeous yet?” 

You were looking down at him with an expression akin to frustration—mouth slightly open and heavy breaths spilling out, almost scoffing at his cliché words. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as his own breaths hit your skin, blowing against your exposed heat. He pecked the stretched skin on your inner thigh to soothe you, stopping your writhing.

At a loss for what to do with your hands, they found their way down to his hair, weaving through his soft curls, tugging gently to get his attention. 

“Osc…” you said with a simple breath. 

That was really all Oscar needed—to hear you want him. That stupid little nickname was also something special. He hummed against you, feeling your reassurance as he kissed gently over your clit. And before you were able to complain for more, he latched his lips around it, suckling in a way that made your vision momentarily blank. His movements were tentative at first, unexperienced and lacking confidence. 

“Oh, you’re so good,” you exhaled, praising him. 

And there was something about the way you say it that just drove Oscar mad. It wasn’t that it felt good—it was that he was good. He got off on your reaction. It was as simple as that. It made him determined, building something with precise dramatics. 

You felt his left hand grasp at the skin of your thigh, slowly inching upwards before he carefully sank a finger into you. Your hips twitched and you moan out loud as he played with you. He worked you open before adding another finger, his mouth never leaving your clit in the process. Even when your thighs fought to stay open, caging him between them, he didn’t falter. And every once in a while, when his eyes looked up to meet yours, you only felt yourself falling apart quicker. 

His voice was low, the tone soft, when he mumbled something against your swollen cunt; something about how you tasted good. His free hand gently pressed down on your stomach to make you focus on the sensation—to feel his fingers ripping you apart from the inside out. 

“God, fuckfuckfuck—” You were barely making sense of your own words as you bucked up against his mouth, completely buried over you, nose bumping your clit with his repeated motions. 

Automatically, your hands grasped your breasts, fingers toying with your already sensitive nipples. Moving from your stomach, Oscar’s right hand was placed on your tits too, clasping his fingers over your own as he squeezed. 

When you inevitably fell apart, he didn’t stop—not until you were a complete mess beneath him. Arching, white-hot, and expanding with intensity before his very eyes as he continued to softly lick. The way he was making out with your soaked core and babying your clit with the tip of his tongue would make one believe that this was a man who had never been shy or embarrassed over a single thing in his life. 

And he wasn’t going to stop until you begged him.

With a pleasured and defeated “Oscar, please…” you were letting him know that he had done his job—that he had won you over in more ways than was necessary, that you were spent by him. 

“I know,” he cooed, kissing your stomach. “I know.” 

He moved to lay beside you, gently sliding his fingers out of you before tap, tap, tapping at your puffy clit, keeping his eyes steady at how you reacted. A slight hiss left your mouth before a hoarse laugher slipped out too. Your legs were still trembling from how intense your orgasm had been. 

“You’re a mess,” you chuckled, raising a hand to brush his hair back then wiping his mouth with the back of your hand to clean him. “And a menace.” 

“Well, so are you,” he smiled, kissing you on the mouth, neither of you caring about said mess. 

You took a moment to breathe, and Oscar took a moment to think. While he couldn’t think straight, he could still come to the conclusion that this was such a good feeling—an overwhelmingly good feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe never before. 

By now, his cock was painfully hard beneath his sweatpants, definitely having leaked pre-cum through his boxers. If it had been bad before, it was so many times worse now with you heaving next to him, naked and looking at him through your eyelashes. He was practically seeing stars, and you hadn’t even touched him where he ached the most.

It was almost unjustifiable the way he was feeling—someone should just tape a sign to his forehead that said practically a raging virgin and call it a day. He wasn’t one, just to clarify, but you made him feel like one.  

Your hand trailed gently down his chest, your nails painted black like always. Oscar wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He wished he could react normally to your touch, but instead it was like his skin raised like a mountain range wherever your hand wandered, his eyes following your movements with a pitiful desperation. 

And when your hand moved below the waistband of his sweatpants, resting gently over his boxers, and therefore his erection too, he wasn’t sure what exactly would happen to his body—something new, a biological error, or a supernatural phenomenon. 

You were so close to him, pulling his trousers down in such a fashion that your legs almost clashed together while it happened. Then he was naked, and you turned quiet. 

Abashedly, he tried to think about what he looked like from your perspective. He wondered if he was too thick or too thin, if he should’ve groomed better, or if his upper body was disproportionate to his legs, or if he smelled bad, if he was just plain weird, or—

“Holy shit,” you whispered. 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered. 

While Oscar was busy analysing himself, you were gawking. Maybe people on TikTok would call it a ’sleeper-build’, but there was nothing subtle about it. His pale skin looked pretty in a flushed pink tone, easily scratching under your sharp nails. Broad shoulders, toned stomach, thick thighs. Your eyes couldn’t help but look lower and lower. The pure size of him sank in a second later. 

“You’re… big,” you said like a matter of fact. “It’s been a while, so you’ll have to go slow.” 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered, again. 

His eyes widened to the point where it strained them. Of all the things you could’ve said, that was probably the one he expected the least. He tried to read your face, waiting for more of an explanation. 

With your brows furrowed, all you asked were, “You’re surprised that I haven’t had sex in a while?” 

“No!” he hurried to say, not thinking about other implications his reaction could’ve had. He’d curse himself for eternity if you thought he meant to slut-shame you. “I’m surprised about the other… thing. No one’s ever said that before,” he gesticulated with his hand, unsure what to call the thing that had just happened. 

You glanced up at his face to see that he was now sporting a smirk, letting you know that your words had gone completely to his ego. Motherfucker, was he pretty. 

“I’m not sure I believe that,” you mumbled, kissing him again. Laying side to side next to each other on the sofa, both of your hands had grown eager to touch. It was waists and chests, up bare backs to tangle fingers in hair.  

“I promise you that it’s the first time I hear that,” he mumbled back. 

Your hand sneaked down between your bodies, and any cockiness that Oscar gained from his newfound ’big dick energy’ was washed away in seconds. A whimper. A fucking whimper was ripped from his throat as soon as your fingers were wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop himself. Your movements were slow and languid, spreading the beads of pre-cum around his tip with your thumb. Oscar closed his eyes as he tried to not fall apart instantly. 

“How’s your pull-out game?” you asked between placing kisses on his neck and jaw. He had beautiful freckles and birthmarks all over his skin. 

And, fuck, how Oscar couldn’t think when dirty words left your mouth. 

“I—, Uhh… Not good?” 

He let out a moan mid-sentence. He felt both pathetic and tortured as your delicate fingers kept stroking him up and down. 

“I’m on birth control anyway.” 

“I could go and get a condom,” he fought himself to say. 

“Do you have one?” you questioned, and Oscar’s lack of an answer told you what you already knew. “I thought so.”  

And while Oscar knew that he came across loser-like, he didn’t also need it to be so transparent to you. Even though he sort of liked the dynamic built between you. He had always liked that you were quick-witted and a little mean. 

Oscar exhaled, concealing another moan with a breathy chuckle. “You need to stop making fun of me when I’m naked. It’s going to affect my self-esteem.” 

“Can’t help it, you’re an easy target.” You quickly pecked his lips, a little laugher slipping out. “You’re also a very pretty target.” 

He wasn’t used to being called pretty. His mum called him handsome. His instagram comments called him a polite cat. Pretty was entirely new territory. But he liked it, and impossibly, he blushed even harder. 

“Are we really doing this?” 

He just had to be sure, still in a bit of disbelief. 

“Please,” you said. “Fuck me.” 

Oscar propped himself on his elbow, placing it beside your head, caging you beneath him. He took himself in his hand, giving his cock a few slow stokes. He looked tortured, the tip pink and engorged as it curved up towards his stomach, a thatch of hair connecting to his faint happy trail. 

The head of his cock sat heavy against your entrance as he aligned himself, and you felt yourself desperately clenching around nothing. His free hand rubbed circles on your hip comfortingly. He was hesitant, and maybe that was your fault for asking him to take it slow, but the last thing he wanted was to cause you pain. With an eager nod, you gave him the green light. 

“God, you’re tight,” Oscar murmured, his voice breathless as he pushed forward. 

“No,” you gasped, gripping his bicep for something to hold onto. “You are massive.” 

A low, strained laugh escaped him. “You really wanna argue right now?” 

No, you didn’t. Not when you felt him slide inside you completely. 

“I’m okay,” you whispered, breathing heavily, unable to help the way you tightened around him. “F-fuck, you can move,” you told him, voice muffled against his neck. 

Oscar inhaled sharply, softening to the touch by your reassurance, as he pulled his hips from yours before slowly moving back, tentatively creating a steady rhythm, stretching your around him. 

It was intoxicating, and warm. While he knew that he liked you, he had never imagined it to feel like free falling. You still smelled like a mixture of him and yourself, and your soft skin was touching him in ways and places he couldn’t describe. It was gratifying that you were just as desperate as he was.  

He lifted your leg up by gripping under your knee, thrusting at a deeper angle. The sounds of your bodies crashing together filled the room as your moments only got quicker and needier. 

Looking down at you, he saw your eyes struggling to stay open and your jaw dropping loose with the whimpers and moans you were letting out. Your tits bounced in pace every time he came to the hilt inside you. 

“Holy f-fuck, you feel good,” he stuttered right in your ear. “You feel like you were fucking made for me.” 

He was being lewd and you giggled. God, you giggled—like Oscar didn’t have enough of a hard time keeping it together. You were teasing him, but it was gentle and honeyed, like a beautiful song to his ears. 

He forcefully dug his fingers into the soft fat of your thigh, spilling out between his fingers, doing just about anything to ground himself, but it was impossible. Admittedly, Oscar had never felt this good before in his life. 

His living room was ablaze with your movements—an incoherent mess between two bodies, all skin and bone, at each other’s disposal to use. 

“Fuck…” Oscar moaned, grinding his cock into you. “I’m already so fucking close.” 

“Me too,” you whined out, voice strangled. “Let it all go.” 

Oscar buried his face in your neck to try and hide his desperation, moaning and biting down into the soft skin. He was moving frantically, feeling it all approaching rapidly. 

With a soft cry, Oscar was cumming, stuttering and needy, groaning everything from your name to all the curse words he could think of. He twitched inside of you, coating your walls with his cum. You moved one of your hands to his cheek and you held his face, staring intensely into his eyes, as he rode out his high. 

Damn you and your damn eye contact. 

He continued to slowly thrust, doing whatever he could to get you off while being totally spent. The hand on your hip drifted to your pubic bone before delving between your folds, his pointer and ring finger running steady halos over your clit. Thankfully, you weren’t long after. He wasn’t sure he could take the embarrassment of not making you cum when it had been so easy for him. You arched your back as it hit you, throwing your head back in blind pleasure. 

And then it all slowed. The moans disappeared, and all that was left were heavy breaths in an eerily quiet living room. He felt warm air hit his neck as he laid down and you cuddled up against him. Mindlessly, you ran your fingertips along his skin, soothing the marks your nails had left. He’d gone soft inside you, his release mixed with your own leaking out the sides. 

“I’m gonna slide out, okay?” 

“Mhm, slowly,” you whimpered as he did it, going from feeling full to achingly empty. A single tear ran down your cheek out of exhaustion and pleasure, and Oscar stopped to kiss it away, tasting the saline on his lips. 

“Talk to me,” he whispered. 

You let out a deep breath, your body feeling heavy but sated. “I’m good,” you murmured, your cheek pressed against his chest. “Can feel you dripping down my thighs though.” 

“We should probably clean up.” 

He didn’t move, and neither did you. You were perfectly content with the mess if it meant that you would stay cradled in his arms. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, legs intertwining. His pec was soft against you, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I was going to let you wait annoyingly long before sleeping with you. I can’t believe I caved in so easily,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but teasing. The words hung in the air for a moment, light and playful, but you could feel the way his chest rumbled as he chuckled.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh, really?”

You nodded, hiding your face in his chest. “Yeah. Like, painfully long. Months, at least.”

“What changed?” 

You hesitated for a moment, your face still pressed against him. But then you tilted your head slightly, sneaking a glance up at him through heavy lashes. “Can’t help the fact that I’m insanely attracted to you,” you admitted shyly. 

Oscar took in your smile before embarrassment made you hide it into his chest again. You were so… soft, like he couldn’t actually believe it.  

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he exhaled, sinking down further into the sofa cushions. He ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to contain the pleased grin that spread across his face.

You kissed his chest gently, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a sense of peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, the comfortable silence stretching between you. You were glad this hadn’t turned awkward. 

Then, his voice broke the quiet, low and soft. “Are you staying the night?”

You didn’t look up at him, sort of scared to say a right-out yes to his question. 

“If you want me to.”

His arms tightened around you slightly, and you could feel the smile on his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “I’d love that.”

_______________________________

Oscar wasn’t sure how long he spent starring at himself in the bathroom mirror afterward. He moved through his routine on autopilot—brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth—only for his movements to slow as his reflection pulled him back in. His messy hair was still tousled. The love bites on his neck, faint but unmistakable, stood out against his pale skin. His fingertips grazed over the scratches on his shoulders, his cheeks warming as he recalled how they got there. He didn’t think he would ever stop blushing tonight. 

When he finally mustered the courage to step back into his bedroom, he found you there: bare feet on the hardwood floor, wearing only his maroon t-shirt. You stood in front of his dresser, looking intensely at something placed on it. 

The trophies.

You had fucked his brains out so good that he had forgotten about the intricate web of omissions and half-truths he had woven around you. And now, his lies were staring back at him, literally and metaphorically. 

This was about to be awful. 

“So, this is where you keep them?” Your voice was calm, deceptively so, as you turned to face him.

Oscar stood frozen in the doorway. He opened his mouth but no words left it, his body rigid as he grappled with the realisation: you already knew.  

He hadn’t wanted to keep these things out in the open. Unlike some drivers whose homes were practically shrines to their achievements, Oscar preferred subtlety. Most of his trophies were tucked away, gathering dust in storage. But these— mostly medals and pictures from his childhood, tokens of his early racing days—remained on his dresser. 

“I’ve known for a while,” you admitted, as if offering him a way out of the confession he hadn’t yet made. “Since I questioned you driving a McLaren to counselling.”

Oscar blinked, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with an awful, grinding clarity. It wasn’t like he had tried to be undercover or specifically careful about concealing his identity. 

“I thought you just worked for McLaren at first,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the trophies. “But then I googled your name and the brand… My brother used to be a big Hamilton fan, so I made the connection.”

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained out of him. “Why didn’t you say something?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound defeated, but it did. 

“Figured there was a reason as to why you didn’t tell me,” you shrugged, taking a seat on his bed. “I won’t force you to talk about things you don’t want to. We met in an unconventional way and I fully understand that you don’t want a stranger to know everything about you.” 

“Don’t say that,” Oscar interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He stepped further into the room, his hands flexing at his sides. “We’re not strangers, we know each other.” 

You tilted your head, your expression softening as you studied him. His sudden reaction surprised even himself, but he couldn’t let the word “strangers” hang in the air between you. Oscar guessed he was more emotionally involved than he had let himself believe, but that he now couldn’t deny it. He sat down beside you, the bed shifting under his weight, and your eyes searched his for something—an explanation, perhaps

“I know you,” he argued. “I know that you only smoke after counselling since it stresses you out and you think that because you smoke Marlboro Silvers, it won’t affect you as badly. know that immediately after, you chew strawberry gum to get rid of the taste, because you don’t actually like it.” 

He started at you intensely as he kept talking, finally not scared of your eye contact. But he could see that you were crumbling. 

“You only drink rooibos tea because it’s naturally sweeter than black tea. You carry white lighters to appear fearless, but in reality it’s because you’re sad and you don’t care if something bad happens to you.” 

“Oh, and you cry to Disney movies,” he lastly added, “because you are in fact not fearless. You’re scared shitless of the emotions you harbour inside and never tell anyone about. So, yeah, I know you. ” 

You blinked, his words hanging in the air between. “That doesn’t sound like you know me,” you said after a long pause. “That sounds like you’ve observed me.”

“We also quite literally just had sex,” he reminded you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “And I think we’re alike in that sense—that we don’t casually do that with random people.” 

“Fair point,” you conceded, unable to suppress your own smile. 

And there it was again—the strange, undeniable truth between you. There was truth in what you had shared with each other, always. Even if he had skipped the specifics, his feelings had never been false. 

You exhaled loudly, your back hitting the mattress. It was like a balloon had popped, the tension in the taut latex having exploded into nothing. You were so tired. You always were. 

Oscar knew not to push further. Not right now at least. He fell back on the mattress too, hiking further up to rest his head on his pillow. He lifted the covers to invite you underneath, cuddling you closer as your arms and legs were now slightly cold to the touch. 

He also came back to the realisation that you knew him too. That you knew why he went to the group meetings. That you knew what he did all those weekends he spent working. That the car crash he blamed himself for wasn’t exactly average. 

“Did you see the crash?” he asked quietly after a moment, his voice murmuring between the sheets. 

He felt you shake your head. “No, I haven’t seen a race since Hamilton last won the championship.” 

“Right, because of your brother,” Oscar remembered. “Is he no longer a fan?” 

“I don’t know if he is. Haven’t talked to him in over a year.” 

Oscar nodded slowly, taking in the weight of your words. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tracing the edge of the covers. “Do you want me to see the crash?” 

“No,” he answered quickly. “Not really.” 

“My first impression of you racing probably shouldn’t be a crash anyway.” 

The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile, and he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. The weight of that topic seemed to drift away, and you found yourself sinking into the comfort of his embrace again, your head resting on his bare chest. He could feel your warmth tucked against his side, your breathing steady like a rhythm. You traced little patterns along his palm and fingers. 

For a moment, it felt easy again. Soporific, even.

He could’ve easily fallen asleep, for once without thinking about nightmares. Oscar also didn’t want this to end, for the night to be over and for him to have to say goodbye to you in the morning. Not that he imagined it to be a dramatic goodbye, you’d see each other soon enough again, but still, he didn’t want to. 

“You should come with me to a race,” he said softly, breaking the peaceful silence, looking at you almost succumbing to slumber. 

“I can’t—” you began and Oscar could immediately sense your hesitation. 

“I’d pay for everything. I just want to have you there,” he added quickly, tilting his head to gaze down at you. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about showing off. He just needed you near him, in whatever way he could. 

Your body tensed up against him. “I can’t leave the country Oscar.” 

The words didn’t make sense at first. He frowned, confused. “I’m sure you can get time off from work,” he said, worrying that was the reason. 

You turned your gaze away, your cheek no longer resting against him, and the absence of your touch sent a quiet ache through him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and the pause that followed felt agonisingly long. The words felt stuck in your throat, your chest tightening. 

“I mean—,” you paused, swallowing hard. “I’m not allowed to leave the country.” 

The room fell silent, save for your faint whisper. 

“I’m on probation.” 

Oscar’s mind went blank. Probation. That was for criminal offences. You’d done something deserving of a court sentence. Silence stretched between you, and Oscar pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you more closely. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak.

“So, I’m sorry for calling us strangers,” you said finally, “but you don’t know the half of what I’ve done.” 

You sat up fully now, a cold weight settling in the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice steady, watching as you untangled yourself from the sheets, kicking the comforter off your legs.

“I’m leaving.” 

“No. You’re not.” 

His voice was firm, almost commanding, as he reached out and grasped your arm before you could move further. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was resolute. He wasn’t going to let you walk away—not like this.

“You’re going to stay and tell me about this. I feel like you owe me that after what we just did.” 

You froze, whole body going rigid, but Oscar didn’t let go. 

“I need to know if I’m falling for a serial killer or not,” he added with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood, “because then I’ll seriously need to reconsider my life choices.”

Your heart ached at his attempt to make you laugh, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. The humour didn’t land, not fully, and the weight of what you were about to confess pressed down on you like a heavy stone.

 You bit your lip, your voice trembling as you said, “I c-can’t tell you.” 

“Why?” 

Your body trembled beneath his touch and he loosed his grip, thumb rubbing soft circles on your arm. 

“Because you’re a good person,” you whispered. “You’re going to find me repulsive and never want to see me again.” 

Oscar could see it in your eyes—the battle raging within you, the fear that once the words left your lips, he would be gone. But he wasn’t going anywhere. You cared about seeing him again. That alone gave him something to hold on to.

“Unless you’ve actually murdered someone—I don’t think that’s possible.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing.

“I don’t think you get probation for murder. I promise no one got hurt physically.” 

And even in this state, you still kept that sarcastic edge that he’d grown to adore. 

“Okay,” Oscar said softly. “Then tell me.”

You sighed, your hands trembling as you ran your fingers through your hair. Your eyes squeezed shut, as though blocking out his gaze would somehow make it easier to speak.

“When I was 19 I got into a relationship with a guy who was a lot older than me,” you began, your voice uneven. “He had a very… destructive lifestyle that I became a part of. I let him use me.” 

Oscar’s stomach twisted, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. He could see how much it was costing you to admit this, and the last thing he wanted was to make it harder for you.

You slowly opened your eyes, not to look at him, but to look at the ceiling, blinking to fight tears from running down your cheeks. 

“The reason as to why I haven’t spoken to my brother in such a long time… ” Your voice broke, and you paused, taking a shaky breath. “…is because I committed fraud with his identity. I took out a loan using his name because I was desperate for money.” 

Oscar couldn’t hide his shock, but he didn’t pull away. You were laying it all out, raw and exposed, and he wasn’t going to judge you. He couldn’t. He stayed rooted in place, his hand still on your arm, grounding you.

“When he found out, he turned me in. I confessed to doing it and agreed on accepting help which is the only reason I’m not currently in prison.” 

“And the boyfriend?” Oscar managed to ask.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “He took the money and fled the country. Haven’t seen him since. But I paid my brother back. Every penny.”  

Oscar nodded slowly. “What did you need the money for?” 

Your lips trembled as you looked down at your hands. “Don’t make me say it. I feel like you already know.” 

And he did. He’d known since he realised what those Sunday meetings were for. 

“Are you clean now?” 

“14 months,” you quickly said. “Ever since he turned me in. I have a badge on my keys if you—” 

“I’m proud of you,” Oscar said, cutting you off gently.

Your breath hitched as he said it. It had surprised you. “See?” he whispered. “You didn’t scare me away.” Oscar gathered his courage to hold you in his embrace again, laying you gently down on the mattress, letting your body relax on top of his. 

“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “I’m in an industry where if you haven’t committed tax fraud, you’re probably the odd one out.”

You blinked in surprise, a startled laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. “What?” 

Oscar chuckled, the tension between you easing ever so slightly. “I know drivers who’ve had people go to prison on their behalf because of embezzlement,” he said, clearly exaggerating, but the humour in his voice was infectious. “You’re practically a saint compared to some of them.” 

“Fucking corrupt rich people,” you muttered. 

“Well,” Oscar said, his hand moving down to hold yours, “the point is… you can’t scare me away.”

He heard you exhale loudly. He even felt it against his shirtless skin. Your arms tightened around him, clutching both yours and his chest. It was adding pressure to stop you from panicking. 

And then you started crying. For real this time. It wasn’t you fighting the tears from falling or shyly getting watery eyes from Brother Bear. You were sobbing. He hadn’t thought he would ever see you cry. 

Oscar’s heart broke a little as he watched you finally let go, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. He immediately pulled you closer into his arms, holding you close, his hand gently stroking your hair as you cried against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar whispered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his skin, but he didn’t mind. You were essentially a stranger—even though he hated the word—crying in his arms, and he’d do anything in his power to never see you like this again. He had fallen for your softness, not the jagged edges you put up around yourself in protection. He’d accept you unconditionally if it meant you didn’t see him as something you needed to protect yourself from. 

As your sobs quieted and your breathing got steady, you remained tucked against Oscar’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. You could feel his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. He almost thought you had fallen asleep. 

“Thank you,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice hoarse from crying.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “For what?” 

“For making me stay.” 

_______________________________

A couple of weeks later, on a Tuesday at St. Anne’s Church, you did something you’d never expected yourself to do. You found yourself standing at the lectern in front of the room of strangers that you had spent the past year of your life with. And Oscar, but he had never really been a stranger. 

It felt stupid at first, when you walked up there and said your name, the people in the room saying it back to you like a choir. Some clichés from movies really were true. 

You started off by giving a brief background as to why you went to meetings. It was supposed to be a guilt-free environment, one where you wouldn’t be judged for anything. But opening up about betraying your own brother and getting probation because of it wasn’t guilt-free no matter how you twisted it. 

“Some of you might recognise me from NA meetings as well, but the drugs were never my main issue. I mean, I was— or am an addict, that’s how they want you to say it in NA at least. There is really no denying that, but the real problem was how it made me treat the people around me.” 

You didn’t like how your voice sounded in the echoing room, but it didn’t stop you from trying. You knew that the people listening had their own issues so present that yours wouldn’t bother them.

“I understand that my brother never wants to speak to me again,” you continued, your gaze falling to your hands, a cuticle bleeding from unconsciously picking at it. “I think I almost feel the same way. But then… I’ll go to Sainsbury’s and buy green apples, even though I hate them, but he loves them, and I used to buy them for him.” 

It was true. You’d have vivid flashbacks about apples every time you saw them. You’d get them from the store as if you were moving on autopilot and hate yourself for it when you got home and unpacked the groceries. Your aunt would always question why you bought them but never ate them, and you couldn’t put that into words. 

“I’ll have a mental breakdown over some stupid apples and realise that… we are connected in a way that can never be erased. That’s my fault, my guilt to carry—that I ruined it, that I get to argue with apples instead of arguing with him,” you said with an almost laugher. 

You fixed your gaze on Oscar, whose eyes had never left yours for as long as you spoke. He held a tight smile, like understanding the humour in how trauma tended to materialise. 

The facilitator asked you a question, like he normally did when he saw people trying to find the right words but struggling to get them into actual sentences. He asked you how time had changed the guilt you felt and if your probation still felt fair to you. 

“It’s just so… fucked up that you can convince yourself that you’re evil and unfixable,” you answered, your voice growing steadier. “But it turns out you’re just young. And you’ll make mistakes because of it. I’m paying for those mistakes, but I can’t let them define me.” 

You decided that you were done there. You could say more, and you could’ve said less, but you’d done it now. That was the important part. And even though you’d never admit it, it really did feel better to have said it out loud. 

As you stepped down and walked back to your seat, a small wave of applause followed you. You felt Oscar’s hand slip into yours as you sat down, his fingers squeezing gently, a wordless assurance.

It took a bit longer for Oscar to finally walk up to the front of the room, a month or so. But he did it in the end. You understood that he felt like his problems weren’t like everybody else’s, because no normal person could really understand his job. And feeling guilt over a car crash where no one was hurt wasn’t easily explainable either. 

Oscar’s movements were deliberate, almost stiff, as though he was trying to keep himself together with every step. He stood at the lectern, his hands gripping the edges tightly, and you could see the tension in his knuckles.

He talked about the crash in broad terms, but most of his focus was on Charles, and Oscar’s messed-up idea about how he had hurt Charles. When the facilitator asked him to base his guilt around something real, something factual, you saw the struggle in his expression.

“It’s just… guilt,” he said finally, his voice low. He paused, searching for the right words, but they didn’t come. “I’m not sure I can explain it or give it a likeness. Not everything feels like something else.”

Not everything felt like something else. Issues were allowed to be unique and entangled. It wasn’t about understanding them as much as it was about accepting them. You watched him closely, and you raised your arm to ask him a question, waiting for him to acknowledge you with a silent nod. 

“If Charles felt like he never needed to forgive you because he knew all along that this was an accident and no one was actually hurt—why can’t you forgive yourself?” 

Oscar’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping slightly. He stood there for a long moment, the words sinking in. 

He realised then and there that his main issue wasn’t the crash or the possibility of it happening again. It was that he blamed himself for hurting someone else—a hurt that granted hadn’t even happened, Charles was fine—but his mind hadn’t cared about that. He had the lives of others at risk with the turn of a wheel, and the crash had made him mentally unprepared for that risk. He guessed he knew now what to bring up the next time he met up with his therapist.  

After that meeting, Oscar talked for a moment with the facilitator, before he walked out to find you standing by the big doorway into the actual church, looking down the isle to the altar. He stood quietly behind you, placing his arm around your waist. The quiet of the church was profound, almost unsettling. The rows of pews stretched out before you, bathed in a soft glow of candlelight. 

“I don’t think I ever understood religion,” you said, whispering in the stillness. “Or God, for that matter. It’s too quiet. Too much about self-reflection and not enough about the old men in the Bible for me to grasp it.”

Oscar didn’t respond right away, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he followed your gaze to the altar.

“I see it as a last ditch effort for when you have no one else to talk to, but all you end up doing is talking to yourself,” he explained. 

“Sounds a lot like self-reflection to me,” you huffed a little. 

Maybe that was the thing people needed most—to get to know themselves. Bad people don’t wonder if they’re bad people. A truly evil person wouldn’t feel guilty for something bad they’ve done. You were both paralysed by guilt, but standing there with Oscar, it felt just a little less heavy.

“Oscar…” you began again, turning to meet his gaze. “Please don’t tell my secrets to anyone else.��� 

“We literally had to sign an NDA to join the group, babe.” 

“You know what I mean,” you said, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small laugh.

“I promise.” 

When you left the church that evening, it was abnormally sunny. Early summer, colouring the nature around you green. You walked across the parking lot hand in hand, that silent show of affection a normal occurrence between you now. 

“Oh,” he said suddenly, stopping by his car. “I got you something.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter, its surface bright orange. He held it out to you, his expression almost shy. You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected anything like this, the small, unspoken care behind the gesture. No more conscious bad luck. 

“It’s a myth, y’know?” you said, taking the lighter and looking at him softly. “Most of the 27 club died before Bic started making the white version.” 

Did Oscar feel a little stupid for not thinking to google the superstition before buying you—granted, a very cheap gift—but also something so laced with thoughtfulness? Maybe. Did he also deeply want you to stop being reliant on nicotine to feel calm? Definitely. But that was too late to say right now when you already had the lighter in your hand and he was blushing from how exposed he felt. 

“Well, I think orange suits you better anyway.” 

_______________________________

Oscar had insisted, of course—gently but persistently—until you’d finally agreed to come to a race. Silverstone wasn’t out of the country, which meant it didn’t violate any of your probation rules. A technical loophole, but a loophole nonetheless. Your 18 months were nearly over, but Oscar hadn’t been able to wait.

Now, standing among the sea of spectators in the garage, the weight of his world began to settle. The sheer scale of it all was overwhelming. You couldn’t deny it was exhilarating, but it also made you feel small, like an intruder. It was fucking Silverstone, after all—on a Sunday afternoon just minutes before the lights would go out. 

You glanced down at your phone, trying to distract yourself from the growing tension in your stomach. That’s when a message appeared.

Eli: “Are you at Silverstone?? I swear I just saw you on TV.”

Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened around your phone. Eli. What happened to hello? What happened to how are you? You stared at the message for a long moment. Before you could even process how to respond, another message appeared.

Eli: “Are you with Piastri?? What the hell?” 

A startled laugh escaped your lips, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You glanced around, as if half-expecting Eli to appear out of thin air. Of course, he wasn’t here. He’d gone once to Silverstone with your father when he was young, but nowadays it was cheaper to try and go to Hungary or another European race. 

So, right now you knew exactly where your brother was—in the living room at your parents’ place because even though he’d moved out a long time ago, he still went home every Sunday to watch F1 because he leached off of their streaming services. 

You took a deep breath and typed back.

You: “Yeah, I’m here with Oscar.”

For a moment, you stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the send button. Then, with a rush of courage, you pressed it. The three dots indicating Eli was typing appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again.

Eli: “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re at an F1 race with a driver, and I have to find out on TV?” 

He definitely didn’t mean to guilt-trip you—you knew that. It was his way of breaking through the awkwardness. In a way, you supposed it was better to feel guilty about not telling him about Oscar than about the bigger things. The real things.

Before you could reply, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you saw Oscar in his race suit, his face flushed from the adrenaline of pre-race preparations. He looked out of breath, but his smile was unmistakable, the sight of you clearly easing some of the tension in his own chest.

“Hey,” he said, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My brother just texted me.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. You bit your lip, holding up your phone so he could see the messages. Oscar leant in, glancing at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“He recognised you on TV?”

“Apparently,” you said with a soft laugh. “He’s freaking out.”

Oscar’s expression softened, his hand squeezing yours reassuringly. “That has to be good, right? That he’s talking to you?” 

“I hope so,” you whispered. 

Before either of you could say more, someone called Oscar’s name from across the paddock. He sighed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I have to go. National anthem and all that.”

You nodded, your fingers reluctantly slipping from his grasp as he stepped back. “Good luck,” you called after him.

He grinned over his shoulder, his confidence infectious. “Thought you didn’t believe in luck.” 

And while in the past you hadn’t minded your own bad luck and superstitions, you definitely didn’t want to spread that mindset to Oscar. You would start carrying wishbones, four-leaf clovers, and horseshoes if it meant that just a smidge of luck would be transferred to his life. 

As he disappeared into the crowd, the nervous energy around you seemed to intensify. The minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like hours. Your phone buzzed again, pulling your attention back.

Eli: “I’ve missed you. We should talk whenever you can.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You read the message twice, three times, the words sinking in slowly. For so long, you’d been afraid that you’d lost him for good, that the damage you’d done was irreparable—that you were irreparable. But here he was, reaching out.

You: “I’ve missed you too. I’m back in town tomorrow.” 

You hit send just as the formation lap started. You were not sure for how long you held your breath after that. 

Oscar was good—so good—and as you watched him race, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He was in his element, completely focused, completely in control. You were glad to not have seen the crash that still haunted him at times, because this proved that it was just a fluke, a temporary stumble rather than a career-defining event. 

As the checkered flag waved, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing he had made it through safely. By the time the race was over, Oscar had finished in fourth place—a strong result considering weak qualifying. Most positions gained by anyone in the race. As the crowd erupted in cheers, you found yourself smiling, the tension in your chest finally easing.

Afterward, you found yourself standing in Oscar’s drivers room, waiting for him to return. Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see another message from your brother.

Eli: “That was an insane race. Piastri is a beast. Proud of you for being there.”

You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in months.

Moments later, Oscar appeared, his hair slightly damp from the helmet, his face flushed. He spotted you immediately, his eyes lighting up as he walked over, his smile wide despite exhaustion. 

“How’d I do?” he asked, his voice breathless. 

“You were amazing,” you grinned, stepping closer to him. “How are you so calm? That was nerve-wracking as hell.” 

“I’ve done this a couple of times before,” he teased. Oscar laughed, pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered into your ear. 

You buried your face in his shoulder, holding him close, and felt the last remnants of tension melt away. “Me too.”

Pulling back slightly, he looked down at you, his smile soft. “You haven’t been sarcastic with me all day, y’know? Is there something wrong?” 

You smirked, tilting your head. “I can always start—” 

Before you could finish, he leant down and kissed you, cutting off your words. Smack dab on the mouth, messy and rushed. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright and his grin was infectious. You guessed you didn’t need to resort to sarcasm and snarky comments when you were happy. Simply happy. 

I'd like to thank Strangers by Ethel Cain, Strangers by Sarah Klang, and Stranger by Blanks for all inspiring this fic. Apparently, I really like songs about being strangers.

╰ Join my taglist or check out my masterlist <3

Tags: @alexxavicry

[ct-hardcase]

actually going the fuck wild over the fact that swres wrapped up before we ever got an explanation about how the xionos mysteriously survived the destruction of hosnia

[hemlock-dreams]

What's Spidys relationship like with the other NY bound heros?

Got a bunch of other hero asks so it's time for Ye Olde Lore Dump!

Johnny and H!Spiderman have never gotten along- in either universe.

They don't even really have any real beef with each other, they're just two dudes who grate on each other's nerves for no particular reason- like two guys at a frat party who are just waiting for an excuse to duke it out.

There's just something about Johnny's playboy easy-come-and-go vibe that makes Spidey want to plant a fist in his face. And Johnny thinks Spiderman is a fucking buzzkill.

Black Widow and Spiderman have a good working relationship. He once helped her out of a tight spot in New York and he was fast, smart and discreet about it- so when she's got some ops she needs a second pair of hands for (under the table), she calls him.

Spiderman admires Nat's competence and single-minded focus in getting things done- they all appeal to the hunter in him. (And he's got a massive crush on her.)

They usually do one or two jobs every few months, and meet up for drinks at one of her safehouses. She's also knows his secret identity, because she's just that scary.

Logan and Peter are BFFs. For real. Logan was in town to help with some shit that ended up involving Deadpool and found himself at St. Margaret's.

He and Peter struck up a friendship that ends up with them going camping every couple of months for a week or so.

Logan likes Peter's no-bullshit sincerity and can tell he's had some shit(TM) go down in his life. Peter's easy to talk to and is good at reading the room. And Peter feels like Logan fills in that space Marko left as a friend/mentor/gruff bro figure.

Logan actually picks up when Peter calls. (most others he leaves on read).

Fun fact, he has no idea Peter is Spiderman.

And another fun fact, it's not Johnny Deadpool is jealous of, it's Logan.

Peter has a very complicated relationship with the Avengers.

On one hand, he knows what they do and what they stand for- on the other hand, he's got a real problem with authority figures. He's been invited to the Avengers multiple times, in both realities.

The answer is always blanket N.O. (And, depending on whether it's stark asking, accompanied by a giant middle finger). (Though he's reluctantly agreed to have an avenger's phone in case there are any massive threats they need help with).

As for the members:

Stark gets on his nerves like nothing else. He's not super easy to rile up, but Stark's playboy arrogance (real or not), way he talks down at people, the self-appointed authority, the entitlement, and, of course, the fucking hypocrisy- it makes Spidey go 0 to 'cashmeoutside' immediately.

He and the Captain sometimes get along, but mostly when the Captain isn't in one of his preachy, pontificating moments. They do work very well together in a combat capacity, but they don't have much to talk about.

Thor is fine, but completely outside of Spidey's sphere and also, difficult to work with given his powers.

Bruce and Spidey just don't have much to talk about, and once again, Hulk is way too loud and can't particularly coordinate when they have to team up.

In general, H!Spiderman gets along with the more 'loner' heroes like Murdock, Deadpool, Black Widow, Bucky, Logan, Clint and so on.

(Side note, imagine he said all these shots fired shit to the Avengers and they were like 'no? none of this happened?' because it's not the same reality and Spiderman has to go home and die from the cringe???) (no we'll let him be cool for this)

-----

Once again, thank you so much for the asks!! I really appreciate all the love this AU has gotten and I hope these answers satisfy!!!

[saphiccarma]

Heyyy, I've never requested anything before so hopefully this isnt too much 😭 but could u do agathario x reader, where reader dies maybe from like disease or she somehow gets caught in a scene where agatha is trying to steal a covens power, and like rio doing everything to fight against her duty and having to take one of her lovers, maybe reader doesn't die instantly but she's like dying in agathas arms and is trying to soothe her wives. Idk if that makes sense its ok if you can't 😭 i hope you have a great day💕💕

- It was not your fault, but mine.

Relationships - Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary - Being married to Agatha and Rio was perhaps your favorite thing ever, the best part of your life. You wanted to be with them forever, but that wish is threatened when you touch a mysterious object outside and fall ill.

Warnings: Major character death, angst

A/N: I love this so much and it was fun to write. Thank you for the request!

You had technically got married to Agatha and Rio for about a year now. Since your type of relationship wasn't excepted by the town you lived in, the three of you got quietly married in a little cottage in the middle of the woods. This was where you spent most of your time, sitting in the cottage and reading books, or picking flowers, or testing out new recipes you wanted to try. Agatha and Rio come and go as they please, always too busy to stay in one place, and you were fine with that. They were still good wives.

Absent mindedly you kicked a rock, the little stone flying across the leaf littered ground and crashing into a tree. They had both been gone for weeks and you had heard no sign of them, no magical raven that had a letter attached to its foot, no quick check in, nothing. While you trusted them and their abilities it had begun to worry you. You stumbled a bit, tripping across something that protruded out of the ground. Letting out a quiet curse, you looked back to see what it was.

A glowing rock, a faint pink hue emitting off of it, sat nestled in the red and orange leaves. You crouched down and grabbed a stick next to you, pointing at it. When it did nothing, you reached towards it, and against your better judgement, picked it up. Searing pain shot through you, fiery sparks crackling through you. You gasped, your eyes squeezing shut as you tried to drop the rock. It didn't fall from your hand as intended. Panic spread through you rapidly as your heart beat faster and faster. The thing was now a bright pink, sparkling so bright it hurt your eyes, and stuck to your hand.

Pain coursed your body, every inch of you filled with searing pain. In a brief moment of clarity, you grabbed a stick from the ground, and making a big effort, traced a circle in the dirt and drew an X through it. Words were whispered from your mouth slowly as you chanted the spell. The lines in the dirt began to glow a soft green color and it wasn't long before they flashed brightly before disappearing.

"I was in the middle of something darling," Rio began, her tone playful and light. Then she paused, her eyes catching on your hand. "What happened?"

You grunted, "I don't know."

She rolled her eyes at your lack of response, taking a step closer and trying to grab your hand. You yanked it away, afraid she would get hurt as well, and that was the last thing you wanted. Rio rolled her eyes once more, fixing you with a reprimanding look.

"Let me see." Rio took your wrist in her hand, not caring much to be gentle, and turned it over, examining the stone. A curious hum escaped her as she poked at it.

"Well?" you hissed, flinching as her nails dug into your skin. She dug her nails deeper, ignoring your whimper of pain, and drew blood. The red droplets spread down your wrist. "What the hell Rio?" You were not in the mood for her jokes right now.

Your wife smiled at you, her dashing and cheeky smile that you had grown to love. Slowly, eyes meeting yours the entire time, she brought your hand up to her mouth and licked strip across the crescent shaped marks. The second she did so, your hand loosened and the rock dropped from your grip, landing on the floor with a thunk. A sigh of relief escaped you as you fell to the ground, laying on your back with your arms spread out. The searing pain that had coated your body dispersed.

Rio chuckled above you, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "Better?"

You nodded, rubbing your wrist absent mindedly, still feeling her soft lips there.

"You know what would make it even better?" You raised both your brows, "A kiss."

Laughing softly, her eyes rolling once more, Rio crouched down. Her lips met yours in a harsh kiss, she was never gentle.

^___________^

It turns out, the three of you had found, that the rock carried a deadly curse. Agatha had kicked the thing, sending it flying before Rio reluctantly retrieved it. The two had been frantically trying to find a cure, despite their supposed casual appearance, you knew it was stressing them out. While they were plagued with the stress of finding a cure, you were plagued with constant pain.

A sharp pain that shot through you. Some days it was manageable, some days it left you crippled in bed, unable to move and barely able to talk. Those were the days that worried your wives the most. Today, thankfully, was one of the good days. You sat with Agatha on the porch, her arms wrapped around you.

"You know I wanted kids," you said suddenly, your fingers toying with her own as you twisted them together, "Or at least one."

You felt Agatha inhale sharply, "We'll have them," she said fiercely, "We can have kids." The sun was setting slowly in the distance, the sky a perfect hue of pink and red. You always had loved the sunsets, and the sunrises, but there was something special about sunsets.

In the distance you could see Rio, perched by the edge of the woods, green magic swirling around her as she did who knows what. She had asked to be alone during the time being. But still, you couldn't help but watch as her arms moved fluidly to cast the spells, her body moving as if in a dance. A soft smile crossed your face.

"Agatha," you whispered softly, "You know that's not going to happen." Looking up at her, you saw her jaw clenched and a dangerous glimmer in your eyes. You knew, that if you died Agatha would take it the hardest. She would blame Rio and that was the last thing you wanted. You gently tugged her fingers, intertwining yours with hers.

"I'd want a boy I would name him Nicholas, little Nicky for short. Ideally, he would have Rio's eyes and your hair, my face, he would be perfect," you smiled up at her, pleased to see a dreamy look in her eyes. It wasn't often that Agatha indulged in fantasies about the future, but she always tried with you. You could imagine a boy, brown eyes that were darker than the night sky, but could hold so much emotion like his mother. Brown hair that was just a little bit wavey, and you would let it grow out if he wanted it to. And lastly, your smile, your nose, all your facial features. He would be the perfect mix up of the three of you. Something that was created through a force of love, but no outside magic used.

Her features softened even further when you winced, a pain flaring up in your back. You waved away her concern, straightening out.

"Would we make him with a spell?" she asked, her voice lowered to match yours.

You shook your head, "No. We would make him from scratch. No incantaion, no spell, no magic."

A little laugh escaped Agatha. She pressed her lips down onto your head, burrowing herself in your hair.

"Whatever you say my love."

^_____________^

You sat in the fields, twisting flowers in your hands to form a crown. This one was made with dandelions, the stems intertwined as you threaded them through each other. Two other crowns sat next to you, one with azaleas and the other with black roses. You had plucked the thorns off of course, not that Rio would care.

One of the perks of being married to a green witch was that she could produce any flowers you wanted, and she did just that. Rio always grew flowers if you asked them, even if she rolled her eyes and said they were too colorful for her taste, she wanted to make you happy.

Your fingers twitched as pain flared through you, but you worked through the pain. The two had gone out that morning in search of other possible cures, but promised to be back in time to sleep with you. The sun was setting in the distance, the sky a beautiful gradient of orange and yellow.

Crows cawed above you, their black wings flapping as they soared in circles. A little smile flitted across your face. Both of your lovers adored crows, their passion for them always made you happy. Before you had more time to ponder if Rio was up in the crows, there was a hot breath in your ear.

“Boo.”

You jumped away, placing a hand over your heart as you glared at Rio. She was cackling, nearly falling back into Agatha who stood with an amused smile on her face. The purple witch shoved Rio away, moving forward and placing a tender kiss on your lips.

“I made you something,” you scooped up the azalea flower crown and stood, placing it one her head despite her pout, “Can’t you at least pretend to like it?”

Agatha rolled her eyes, “It’s amazing darling, I love it.”

Smiling happily, you rewarded her with a soft kiss before turning to Rio who was watching the scene quietly. You weren’t even sure when she had stopped laughing.

“Ooo,” she cooed, stepping closer, her finger curling as she took hold of her crown, “I love it, my love.”

You blushed at her words. While you loved Agatha’s pet names, Rio’s did something to you. The Green Witch placed it on her head with a broad smile.

“Do you have one?” Rio looked around, her eyes landing on the dandelions in the grass. She reached down, scooping it up before placing it on your head with a proud smile.

Agatha came up behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist, “You look beautiful darling.”

A deep blush crossed your face when her breath fanned against your neck. Rio took a step closer, her finger curling under your chin. A sinister smirk crossed her face.

“Good enough to eat.”

^_____________^

You coughed harshly as you curled into a ball, pain flaring up everywhere in your body. Everything hurt and it felt like you were on fire. Agatha's fingers clutched you tightly, one of her hands carding through your hair as she attempted to comfort you. Rio was no where to be seen.

"Agatha," you choked out.

The woman above you shook her head, "Don't say it. You're fine. It'll pass."

You wanted to smile at her stubbornness, it was always your favorite trait about her. These past few days the curse had been getting worse, and Rio was disappearing more and more often. You knew what that meant. You were fairly certain Agatha knew what it meant, she just didn't want to admit it. Trying to fight through the sparks that shot through you, you played with her fingers, bringing them to your lips.

Your words were soft against her skin, "I love you."

"No, you have more time," she said harshly.

You felt it when Rio entered and based on Agatha's sharp inhale, you knew what she was here for. Painfully, you turned your head to look at Rio, clad in her green dress that represented the part of her that was alive. A bitter smile crossed your face.

"Don't take her," Agatha spat, her grip tightening on you despite your wince, "You can't." Trying to force words out of your mouth, you wanted to tell Agatha it was okay, that it wasn't Rio's fault. "If you do this I will hate you."

Rio's features flinched, but she made no move to step closer, "I held it off as long as I could."

"It's not her time," Agatha snarled.

While it was painful, you reached up, your hand cupping Agatha's cheek to force her to look at you, "My love," you whispered softly, "I have to go."

"No." She shook her head, so much desperation conveyed into that one movement.

"Don't hate her. Please? It's not her fault."

“I don’t want to do it,” Rio added, her voice wavering, and it was the first time you had ever heard her sound so fragile, so vulnerable.

Agatha's lower lip wobbled, tears shimmering in her eyes as she clenched her jaw, fighting off the sorrow. She closed her eyes, a small tear slipping out at the action and you wanted nothing more than to give her a big hug.

Her voice was oh so quiet when she whispered, "Okay."

A small smile spread across your face. It was only then that Rio came closer, bending down so her lips were just above yours. So many emotions were conveyed through her eyes. Words asking for forgiveness, ones that expressed her sadness, and some angry. You wanted to give her a hug too. Instead, Rio leant down, her lips brushing against yours.

The kiss deepened and that's when you felt the pain stop.

[lives-in-midgard]

Giving it back to you

Pairing: Eddie Diaz x reader

Summary: After Eddie forgot something at your place you decide to drive to the 118 to bring it back to him even though his friends haven't met you yet.

Word Count: 880

A/N: Hey guys! This is my first Eddie Diaz fanfic, I hope you enjoy it.

Divider made by @firefly-graphics

911 Masterlist | Main Masterlist

It was early in the morning when you were woken up by Eddie giving you a kiss on the cheek. You and Eddie have been dating for a few weeks now and are really happy together. Yesterday Eddie came to your apartment after work and surprised you while Buck was taking care of Christopher. You haven’t met his friends or Chris yet, but Eddie told you that he plans for you to meet them soon.

You and Eddie stayed in bed cuddling for a few more minutes until his timer went off. You let out a groan and he chuckled.

“I’m sorry, mi amor, but I have to get up now.” Eddie said while gently drawing circles on your back.

“Just five more minutes, please.” You said, he smiled at you and pulled you closer to him. After five minutes you understood that he really had to go now, even though you were sad that he was leaving. When he stood at your apartment door, you hugged him one more time and Eddie pulled you into a soft kiss.

“Do we see us after your shift?” You asked while holding his hand.

“Of course.” He said with a smile.

“Be safe.” You told him before he left the apartment. When Eddie leaves or when you know he is at work you’re always so worried about him, even though he has told you that he will always take good care of himself.

There was still time before you had to go to work, so you took a shower, had breakfast and then you decided to watch something on the TV in your room. As you entered your room, you noticed something laying on the floor. It looked like one of your necklaces, but when you got closer you saw that it was Eddie’s St. Christopher medallion. You picked it up from the floor and held it in your hand, looking at it with a smile. When a thought suddenly popped into your mind. It means so much to Eddie and he's probably looking for it. You put your shoes on and decided to drive to the station and bring it back to Eddie.

After a short drive you parked your car outside of the 118. You were nervous because you have never been there before and never even met the others. Even though you already know a lot about them based on the stories Eddie told you. When you walked into the station you noticed that the fire truck is here which means Eddie should be here as well. You couldn’t see him, but when you walked further into the station you saw a young, friendly looking guy walking towards you.

“Hey, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Eddie Diaz.” You said nervously.

“He's upstairs, you can come with me.” He said and walked over to the stairs.

When you reached the top of the stairs you followed him into the kitchen where everyone was. You looked around and saw Eddie talking to someone. You noticed the guy he was talking to, it’s Buck.

“Eddie here is someone for you.” He said, Eddie turned around and was surprised when he saw you.

“Mi amor, you okay?” Eddie asked in a worried tone as he walked closer to you. You could see that the others were confused at first but then started to smile.

“Yeah, I’m okay, Eddie.” You said and Eddie reached for your hand.

“I found something in my apartment and because I know how much it means to you I thought I'd quickly bring it back to you before I go to work.” You explained, opened your bag and pulled out his St. Christopher medallion. You handed it to Eddie, who began to smile.

“Thank you. I was already looking for it.” He said and you smiled at him. He wanted to pull you into a kiss, but when you remembered that all his friends were here you started to blush.

“Oh, who do we have here.” one of Eddie's colleagues said as he entered the room.

“Chim, this is Y/N my girlfriend.” Eddie announced and then began introducing you to all of his colleagues and friends.

“And you must be Buck.” You said and he chuckled.

“Yeah that’s me.”

“It’s great to finally meet you, Eddie has told me a lot about you.”

“I hope only good things.” Buck said and everyone started to chuckle.

“Of course, don’t worry.” You giggled and then looked at the clock.

“It was really nice meeting you all, but I have to go to work now.” You told the others and then looked back at Eddie. They all understood and before saying goodbye you all agreed that you would meet again soon. Eddie walked downstairs with you and when you reached your car, he finally kissed you again.

“I know you didn't want me to meet your friends like this, but when I found your St. Christopher medallion I had to bring it to you.”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to worry. Actually, I’m really glad you came here today.” He said and pulled you into a hug. When you pulled away, you smiled at each other and said goodbye to each other.

[lqveharrington]

So American | D.M.

summary: You and Draco have a lazy day. However, you and Draco take your teas differently.

pairing: draco malfoy x american!reader

includes: MAJOR FLUFF, kissing, teasing, playful bantering

a/n: i was listening to olivia rodrigo.

When you first moved to the United Kingdom to further your studies on witchcraft and wizardry, you didn’t expect to fall head over heels. Especially when that person wasn’t know for their behavior back at Hogwarts; At least that’s what you heard from your co-workers. You didn’t believe that he — the sweetest nurse at St. Mungo’s — could be so cruel to the Harry Potter.

But when you found yourself getting closer to the Brit, you couldn’t help but ask him his reasoning. It wasn’t like you asked with malicious intent, and luckily he didn’t view it as such. He simply stated that he was young and stupid, making you stifle a laugh. From there, your friendship with the blonde deepened and blossomed into a steady relationship.

There were often days where you both worked on such a tight schedule at St Mungo’s, but on some occasions, you were both scheduled to have the same day off. These special days were entitled: Lazy Days. Quite original.

Lazy days were a familiar routine. The both of you would stay in bed as long as you could until you were starving and then lay on the couch reading a book until it was tea time. Something you had gotten accustomed to.

However, tea to you was different to people from England.

“Dray?” You yawn softly as he ran his fingers up and down your back. You finished reading a chapter a while ago and just wanted to be in the present until 4:30, which was when Draco would get up and prepare tea for the both of you.

Draco hummed in response to you calling out for him, gaze lifting from his book to your tired eyes. “My love?”

“I’m cold.” You pull on your blanket tighter and give him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, you can continue reading.”

“You’re cute, you know that?” He set his book down and pulled you into his arms so you were comfortably straddling him. He pulled the blanket around the both of you as you easily tucked your head in his neck.

“You feel warm.” You hum into his neck, hands finding his shirt and slipping underneath. “Super warm.”

He chuckled softly, pulling his head back to take a look at your tired face. His eyes did a full sweep of you. From the stray strands of hair sticking to your forehead to the curves of your face.

“D’you wanna come with me to make tea?”

You shiver when his hands slip under your top and around your waist, a contrast to his other body parts. You move your head back into his neck, nodding softly at the question.

“Of course.”

Draco kissed your cheek and removed the blanket covering the both of you with ease. He secured his hands underneath your thighs and made his way over to the kitchen, setting you on top of one of the counters.

“Counter’s cold.” You grumble as you tuck your hands into your arms in attempts to warm your body from the freezing granite.

“M’sorry.” Draco gave you sorry smile and brought his hands down to your thighs and gentle rubbed to warm you. “Better?”

You smile warmly at him and let him go back to his tasks as the kettle whistles at you. This was always one of your favorite sights. Just the domesticated life you and Draco led outside of witchcraft and wizardry, well, as much as you could.

“Can you add creamer to mine?” You murmur and wince when you hear him drop the tea spoon into the cup itself, causing a loud clunk to ring out. You knew this was going to happen, it happened every time.

He looked up and glanced at you from the corner of his eye before blinking. “No.”

“Dray.” You huff, watching him stir in the sugar for the both of you. “Please.”

“Creamer is for coffee. You can have honey with your tea.” He opened the refrigerator for the honey. “Here.”

In horrible attempts, you tried to grab the creamer from the fridge but get pulled away by Draco himself. Rolling your eyes, you squirm and try escaping but no avail.

“Draco, you can have it with honey or whatever you put in your tea. I want creamer in mine.” You cross your arms, tilting your head up the slightest bit to face him. You watched him look at you with absolutely no emotion, hands still keeping you in place.

You pouted jokingly, making yourself seem cuter than normal. Draco raised a brow at you and shook his head, making you pout even more.

“Please.” You rest your forehead on his chest and feel his arms encase your body. “Just this once.”

After a beat, you hear Draco sigh and you know you’ve won him over, even if it hurts his poor Brit heart.

“You’re so American, my love.” Draco kissed the top of your head and opened the fridge for the creamer, handing it to you. “I’ll get you to convert eventually. You are living here now.”

“I’ll make you move to the states with me.” You cheekily reply, kissing his cheek. “I love you, Dray.”

He rolled his eyes and squeezed your hip as you poured creamer into your tea, watching the transparent liquid change. “I love you too, you American.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[wwbhd]

If Billy had a job, he would be a model for Abercrombie & Fitch or Aeropostale.

[imtryingbuck]

Choices

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader. past Bucky x fem!Reader x Steve Rogers

Summary: Steve’s in a relationship with reader and Bucky and goes back to Peggy when he comes back he regrets it

Word count: 1,963

Warnings: angst. stupid Steve. pregnancy. fluff. swearing.

Masterlist

Walking into the wooden area that Bruce had the portal set up for Steve to take back the stones, hand in hand with both Bucky and Steve you noticed the brunette giving glances to the blonde to your left, when you gave him a questioning look he just smiled. A smile that looked forced and didn’t reach his eyes.

You should have realised something was wrong when Bucky whispered in your ear to go and talk to Sam whilst he spoke to Steve, you should have noticed the hushed argument between your two boyfriends but you were distracted by Bruce’s explanation of the portal and Sam’s million questions.

You should have realised something was wrong when Steve kissed you deeply or when Bucky only gave him a quick kiss before stepping back to be behind you instead.

Or that his last words before he disappeared back into the past was ‘I love you’ to you and your other boyfriend.

“Bruce where is he?” You asked nervously as he hadn’t returned.

“I-I‘m not sure”

Looking at Bucky who refused to look at you, finding the twig he was kicking lightly with his foot more interesting. “Buck? Bucky where is he?”

“I-Y/n/n-“

“Bucky”

At Sam’s voice you both turned to face where your closest friend was looking, on a stone bench sat an old man that was most definitely not there to begin with. Sam slowly walked over to the man leaving his friends behind.

“He’s gone back…back to Peggy”

“N-no-no he wouldn’t! James…he-he wouldn’t do that!”

“Baby he’s already done it, I’m so sorry” he hates the way your eyes filled with tears and the way you clutched at your chest.

“B-but why? Did I do something wrong? Was I not good enough for him? It’s my fault Buck, it’s my fault he went back to her and left you”

“God no baby! Baby he didn’t leave because of you I promise you that, I-I don’t know why he left us but we’re not alone we still have each other, right?”

“W-what? You still want to be with me now that St-he’s left”

“Of course I do, I love you just as much as I love him”

“I love you Bucky”

Though you meant every possible meaning of those words you couldn’t help but feel partially to blame for Steve abandoning the brunette in front of you, the same one he fought so hard to save, protect and defended. Steve cried in your arms when he confessed he had feelings not only for you but his longest friend, he was so confused and ashamed, not of his sexuality but at the fact that he was in love with two people at the same time. When you whispered to him that you had fallen for both super soldiers he blushed and gave you the most shyest smile you had ever seen. And unknown to the pair of you, the other missing piece of your hearts was standing outside of Steve’s office. Bucky’s heart soared when he heard his two loves saying that they loved him back.

It took a few weeks after the confessions before you three started dating, none of your friends-family was bothered as long as you were all happy. 

And yes even though Steve hadn’t left Bucky behind in a world where he was still learning how to operate in on his own because he had you and of course Sam but it still upset you, he left the pair of you for some woman who he kissed once, some woman who had moved on with her life - marriage and all, the same woman who had a niece that he kissed a few times. It made no sense to you.

“Baby…Y/n-“

“I need to talk to him, I need to understand why he left us for a woman who told him to move on and be happy, she told him that Buck! I was right there when she said it!”

“I know doll but-shit”

You were already out of his grasp and was walking over to Sam and the old version of your former boyfriend, your feet faltering when you saw Steve handing the shield over to Sam. Shaking your head you stood next to Sam, eyes slanting as you got a proper look at Steve.

“Y/n/n-“

“Are you happy?”

“What?”

“Did she make you happy? Did you have a great life? Did you even think about me and Bucky?”

“Of course I thought about you and Buck, doll you both mean the world to me”

“Did she make you happy?” You repeated the same question.

“Yes” he answered hesitantly with his eyes closed.

“Did you have a great life?”

“Doll-“

“Did you Steven, yes or no?”

He hesitated once again before answering “yes”.

“Good. Good. Well goodbye Steven” 

“Y/n-“ Steve tries to stop you from backing away by reaching out for your hand, with a shake of your head you move away and walk towards Bucky who took your hand in his as soon as you reached him.

Heading back to the home you three once shared not knowing how empty the place was going to feel now it was just the two of you.

The bed felt bigger and colder now that Steve wasn’t cuddled up on the right side of the bed - his side. Every night without fail you three would lay in bed all snuggled up and one by one you said ‘I love you’ Bucky always went first, then you and then Steve but now that he wasn’t lying next to you, you both waited with bated breath for his response which never came.

You found yourself calling out for Steve whenever you heard the front door open and close, only to find Bucky standing there with a frown etched on his face. He was the same though, one day he walked into the kitchen where you were, saying “Stevie, remind me to pick up milk. Steve-shit. Y/n I’m sorry”.

Of course neither one could blame each other, Steve had been a huge part of your day to day life. You both understood that this new life of yours would take time to get used to.

Since he had left you both for Peggy you both started questioning yourselves, wondering if the other was going to leave next. Not that you told each other your worries and doubts, terrified of coming across as needy, insecure. Beyond terrified of thinking that the other would only stay because you had mentioned it.

As the months went by and the seasons changed so had you and Bucky.

Three months after Steve had left, you had settled down in to bed waiting patiently for Bucky to finish his nightly routine, you frowned lightly when you didn’t hear any noise or movements coming from the joint bathroom.

“Buck? Have you fell asleep on the toilet…again? Bucky?” There wasn’t even a grumble of a response, not like last time when he had gone into the bathroom to do his nightly routine and Steve ended up going to check on him, the blonde bit his lip to stop himself from laughing he went back into the bed room to get Y/n, going back into the bathroom together they saw Bucky in his pjs sitting on the toilet fast asleep. It was lucky that Steve also had the serum because he was able to carry Bucky to bed.

Getting out of bed you went to check on him, frowning when you saw him standing in front of the mirror holding something in his hands. “Buck?”

“I-I found this” this being Steve’s razor. “I-he left us Y/n/n”

“I know bub, I know.” Your heart ached when he turned to face you with tears in his eyes. Seeing Bucky cry was something that always tugged painfully at your heart, he had gone through so much pain in his long life it wasn’t fair for him to be still going through it all because Steve decided he wanted a fantasy instead.

“I-it isn’t fair baby”

Finally getting Bucky to put the razor down after twenty minutes of trying, you managed to get him into bed, he clung to your body tightly whispering how much he loves you. He fell asleep hearing your voice softly telling him how much he means to you, how much love you have for him.

You decided it was time to move out of the apartment and find somewhere new to call home after that night. It wasn’t long until you both found a forever home. Plus you needed to find a bigger place as you had found out that you were pregnant two weeks prior.

For five years you and Bucky lived in the perfect haven, a four bedroom cottage with a few acres of land behind it that Bucky absolutely loved tending to. Bucky had built his own greenhouse with the help from Sam, he was so proud of everything he had grew in there ranging from cucumbers to tomatoes to potatoes and everything in between, the chillies however weren’t turning out like he wanted which made him a little defeated.

He loved his greenhouse. It became his happy place.

Whilst you and Bucky were getting your four year old twins sons and one year old daughter ready for a fun day of activities Sam was standing at his front door staring at someone who he thought he would never see again.

“What are you doing here?”

“Are Y/n and Bucky here?”

“No. Again what are you doing here?”

“W-where are they?”

“Steve, what are you doing back?”

Sighing, looking down whilst placing his hands on his hips “I made a mistake okay, I went to our apartment and someone else answered told me that they had been living there for four years, so I came here”

“Why? You can’t really expect to leave your partners whilst living a fantasy just to come back five years later.”

“It was a mistake, I miss them, it’s them I love”

“But you didn’t love them enough to stay, right?” Sam retorts, wanting to laugh at the man who didn’t just abandon his partners he claims to love but also him.

“I-I made a mistake okay Sam! Just tell me where they are so I can explain to them”

“I don’t think thats a good idea”

“Why not?” The blond snapped.

“Because they’ve moved on from you Steve, they moved on.”

“B-but I can make it right between us, please Sam”

“You can’t just show up and-“

“Please Sam!”

“Fine, but just remember that I did tell you that they’ve moved on.” Sam told him the address and slammed the door in the man’s face, rushing to grab his phone to ring his friends.

The car pulled to a slow stop outside the gate, checking the number on the mailbox he got out of the car he had “borrowed”. His heart twitched at hearing children’s laughter ringing out in the summer evening, walking up the driveway his heart dropped at the scene in front of him.

Due to both Bucky and your phones being inside neither one received the many miss calls or messages from Sam to warn you both about the man who broke both of your hearts was on his way to yours, you didn’t know that he was standing at the side of the house watching you and Bucky playing happily with your children.

Steve smiled sadly seeing what he had missed out on for a fantasy like Sam had said. Slowly walking back to the car a few stray tears fell from his eyes.

He only had himself to blame for his heart aching the way it did by making the worst choice of his life.

Tags: @imcinnamoons | @pigeonmama

[nerdy-novelist017]

Omg yay!! Ok obviously feel free to decline this since the subject matter could be rough for some people but, canon Benny’s reaction to what happened to Kathy was definitely my least fav part of the film and I need it to be rectified through fic🙏🏽. So could you write something about the aftermath of something like that happening to reader when her and Benny have been dating for a while? Im starved for caring and protective Benny unfortunately

Starve no more, anon ;) I have more protective Benny fics in the works! I made this one as a one shot to my Benny x Bunny series, hope that's okay! (This ISN'T the next part to Little Bunny! It's just a little one shot for after they're together ;) I'm working on getting the next part posted tonight!)

Word Count- 1.1k

Summary- Benny couldn't possibly want you after what almost happened, right?

TW- SA, 18+

*Please don't read if you are uncomfortable with the content!

Life Raft (Benny Cross x Shy!Reader)

Benny was going to be so upset with you.

Your hands shook from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. You blinked and the tears burning your eyes threatened to spill over. Kathy’s hand rubbed the spot between your shoulder blades soothingly as she sat on the edge of the bed with you. Downstairs, you could hear the party wrapping up, Johnny and Funny Sonny trying to get everybody to leave. The party was over, too many bad things had happened for everyone to just pretend they didn’t see it, pretend they didn’t hear it.

You swallowed roughly, the events of the last hour still looping in your mind. The way his cold eyes raked over your body, the way he smiled sinisterly as you backed away. The course palm of his hand that wrapped around your throat, pinning you against the wall. His hot breath fanning across your mouth as his tongue invaded. His other hand going up your skirt, grazing the line of your panties. 

You squeezed your eyes shut at that part. You had screamed, but Benny wasn’t there. Kathy wasn’t there. Zipco wasn’t there. Brucie wasn’t there. You were alone with this man, prey to this predator. And who even was this man? You hadn’t seen him before, even though he wore the colors you had been so used to seeing almost every day. More chapters were popping up everywhere and with it, came new faces to the parties, meetings and picnics. Strangers, dangerously prowling through the club now, waiting for opportunities of solitude to attack.

You had only left the bonfire for a moment, telling Benny that you were going inside to grab a soda from the fridge. They only ever had beer coolers outside by the fire. You would only be gone for a moment. But a moment was all this animal needed as he stalked into the kitchen after you.

You were alone and that realization sent ice through your veins. This animal could do whatever he wanted, and you were powerless to stop it.

And then suddenly Johnny was there, grabbing this man and throwing him away from you. You were stuck against the wall, frozen in fear as you watched Wahoo and Corky jump into the fight as well. The two dragged the man out of the room, heading for the back door.

“Hey, kid, you okay?” Johnny asked, trying to make eye contact with your frantic gaze. He reached out slowly and pulled the hem of your dress back down to cover your trembling legs. “C’mon, let Kathy get you upstairs.”

You hadn’t even realized Kathy was there too now. She wrapped her arms around you, guiding you to the stairs. 

“B—Benny?” You tried to ask and Johnny nodded. 

“I’ll get him for ya,” he said, eyes empathetic.

That seemed to be hours ago. Or maybe it was only a few minutes. You weren’t sure; everything felt a little hazy. However long it was, Kathy never left your side, having planted herself next to you. You tried to say something to her, to thank her, but your throat was too dry and your mind too incoherent. You felt dirty and scared and you just wanted to go home. 

Benny was going to be so upset with you. 

Footsteps climbed the stairs and you stiffened at the sound. Benny appeared in the doorway and you wanted to sob. The man you wanted to run to, the man you wanted to hold you tight and carry you back to safety stood there, a dark expression on his face. With one look at Kathy, he dismissed her. She squeezed your arm gently. 

“I’ll be right downstairs if ya need me,” she promised softly and then she was gone. Benny closed the door behind her and a heavy silence filled the bedroom.

Your heart raced as he moved to stand at the dresser across from you. You could see the tension radiating from him and you swallowed back any kind of hope for him to love you still. 

“What happened?” he asked finally, his voice wavering with barely-controlled anger.

“I-I just wanted a pop. I just came in-inside and he—he . . . I couldn’t—couldn’t get away—” The words tumbled out of your mouth incoherently. 

“Which one?” 

You looked up at him through your tear-soaked lashes. “I—I don’t . . . Did Johnny not—”

“Johnny didn’t tell me who. Just told me . . .” His words died as he looked at the purple marks forming on your neck. His jaw clenched hard and he looked away from you. Your heart sunk at the action. He couldn’t even look at you anymore. He was so disgusted that he couldn’t even look at you. You could feel him slipping through your fingers and total desperation hit you like a wave. The ocean, you thought, that's what it felt like. You were lost in the middle of the ocean and a storm broke a nasty hole in your tiny ship. You were sinking, drowning in that vast, dark water.

The tears broke free from their dam and rolled down your cheeks as a sob caught in your throat. “I’m—I’m so sorry, B—Benny. Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” He looked back at you but you couldn’t face his hard gaze. 

Looking down at your lap, you cried. “Please don’t be upset with m—me. I’m sorry.”

He crossed the distance between you, lowering himself to his knees before you. You squeezed your eyes shut to avoid his gaze, heart shattering in your chest.

His warm hands enveloped yours tightly. “Bunny.”

Please don’t leave me here to pick myself up, you wanted to say. Please don’t abandon me to this darkness, I'm already drowning. I'm still me. I'm still your girl.

“Bunny, look at me.” His voice was so soft, just barely above a whisper. 

You obeyed his gentle command. His face was inches below yours, eyes examining. Slowly, he lifted his hand and his fingertips ghosted over the bruises forming on your throat. His brows pinched together but his eyes were soft as they returned to yours. His fingers traveled over the curve of your jaw and up to swipe the heavy flow of tears from beneath your eyes.

“I could never be upset with you, Bunny," he whispered. “I could never.” 

Your hands came up to grip his wrists as if he were a life raft holding you afloat. His hands, you realized, were shaking slightly and you held even tighter, anchoring him to you. 

“I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with myself. Angry that I wasn’t there to protect you.” His voice wavered, tears rimming his beautiful blue eyes. “I promised to always protect you and I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry, Bunny. I’m so, so sorry.”

Words failed you, but you never needed them for Benny. You threw your arms around his neck, burying yourself into his chest. He reacted immediately, pulling you impossibly close as he moved to sit on the bed beside you. You cried, and he let you.

And when Johnny came to check on you, that’s how he found you: curled into your Benny's chest, his arms a protective shield from the rest of the world as he whispered into your ear, hands running gently through your hair. And Johnny knew that you’d be okay, because you had Benny. And Benny would be okay because Johnny and his boys had already taken care of the ex-Vandal who dared to lay a hand on their little bunny.

*Tag List *

@Imusicaddict @elizabeth916 @jaiuneamesolitaiire @dudii4love @ironmooncat @beebeechaos @astrogrande @pearlparty @themorriganisamonster @sillylittlethrowaway @ughdontbeboring @penwieldingdreamer

[slaygentford]

mark my words they're going to be like louis takes a more physically dominant role with armand equality <3 girl does the megalodon ever make you feel so safe by letting you hand feed it. and it purrs too and flops over on its back for more megalodon belly rubs and youre like omg my sweet megalodon :') bc it wants you to be the big spoon. But Then the megalodon controls every aspect of your life including your diet and sleep schedule and clothing bc under that onion layer there is another onion layer where you are their beautiful little specimen novitiate catboy which you are of course aware of as a result of the mental and sexual st andrews cross that you are willingly strapped onto in your shared mind palace which coincidentally has bars around it, to protect YOU of course. from the outside world. which you believe :) though at the same time as with all your men you hold the secret trump card which is just straight up leaving, their greatest fear that they have both gone to absolutely fucking insane lengths to prevent, using opposite tactics. mark my words the point is that lestat and armand use opposite tactics to get the same result (louis pussy until the heat death of the universe). mark my words that they are inventing a type of bdsm that is heretofore unseen and illegal in the eyes of interpol

[listofwhyyouloveher]

Can you perchance make a little silly imagine or headcannons (either works) of the gang (separately) with an s/o who really likes jewelry? Like, wears a bunch of bracelets and rings and stuff? Thanks so much!! (I love your works so much :))

Summary: The outsiders with a reader who likes jewelry. Warnings: none Author's note: I love matt dillon too much this is a very big problem. PONYBOY thinks that your jewelry is so pretty. He thinks it enhances your eyes and hair and makes you look elegant. He doesn't really understand the prices of jewelry (either pure diamond price or 3$), so he tries getting you some and is blown away. He saves up his whole allowance for months to get you a pretty set you've had your eye on for your birthday. JOHNNY really doesn't notice your jewelry. When he looks at you its more at your pretty face than anything else. He struggles a bit with eye contact so he always mindlessly looks at your earrings because they're shiny. He only really registered your jewelry when he saw your collection. From then on, he picks up any ring or necklace he can find in passing, in flea shops, something his mom doesn't want any more, and gives it to you. SODAPOP always notices your jewelry. It's the first thing he'll compliment you on when you see him, that and of course how pretty you are. He likes when you wear different pieces when hanging out with him because he likes to see what kind of jewelry you like. He blows a pretty penny on a fancy necklace for your birthday with your initials. He saved up for so long for it and tried to make it perfect. STEVE doesn't notice the jewelry as much. He knows you have it but he sees it as more a part of you than anything. He doesn't have the money to buy you a fancy necklace, but he learns how to make little bracelets with cute charms and gives you so many to make you happy. He's so excited if you ask to match rings with him, he wont take it off, (he's dreaming about it being on his ring finger trust). TWO BIT notices your jewelry from the beginning, that's what intrigued him. He doesn't really know much about jewelry but he thought it looked cool on you. For a gift, he's having his mom and sister help pick out things that you might like. He tries to make it perfect for you, even thinking about what would look best in your displays. DARRY is such a sweetheart about your jewelry addiction. He's always complimenting you if he recognizes a new piece, and he's very gentle with your jewelry too. He'll polish your jewelry for you too, but he's very careful not to tarnish them. When you two have been dating long enough (like im talking 3 years or smth) he'll give you his mother's necklace. He tells you that you don't have to wear it if it doesnt fit your style but he'd still like you to have it!

DALLAS actually noticed you because you had a ring that he was lowkey jealous of. He's not above stealing from you and he certainly tried that night but it ended up with you two dating instead (?!?!!?). He lets you wear his ring on a necklace as well as his St. Christopher's necklace if you want and he'll take your ring that he was jealous of and wear it as a necklace (because it couldn't fit his finger). He'd swipe you a pretty fancy necklace for a gift but he downplays it so much to look cool.

[xothatnerdykid]

say yes to heaven (say yes to me)

Aizawa finds out you have a crush on him. Fluffy, slightly suggestive Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead x reader drabble. Slight age gap, teaching assistant!reader. 1,937 words.

"You know Y/N has a crush on you, right?"

You nearly choke at that, freezing up against the wall. You had been taking a phone call outside the faculty lounge when you overheard Yamada and Aizawa make their way inside, oblivious to your presence. 

"I thought I told you to drop it already, Hizashi," Aizawa grunts.

"Wait, you know?" A third voice, Nemuri, asks incredulously, followed by a noise that sounds suspiciously like Aizawa elbowing Yamada mid-laugh.

You feel your face heat up, mortified at their discussion. Of course Aizawa knew you had feelings for him, you all but slap yourself. How could he not when you clam up and turn into a stuttering mess whenever he’s around? 

You're well aware that plenty of the girls of Class 1-A (and even 1-B) harbor a not-so-secret crush on their sensei, and you're embarrassed to admit that you're not much better. You're always suddenly breathless and flustered to be near him.

Always a little too eager to help during training or classes. Always tripping over your words whenever he spoke to you. He must have tried to brush it off at first, but it just kept happening too many times for him to ignore.

"The only thing I know," Aizawa answers gruffly, "Is that this conversation is bordering on entirely inappropriate."

"What? Why? It's not like she's a student here or anything," Yamada retorts.

"She was, just a few years ago."

"Yeah, and now she's my teaching assistant," Nemuri counters.

But you can practically see Aizawa shake his head. "See? Same difference."

"Oh, lighten up! So you have a bit of an age gap—"

"I wouldn't call 8 years a bit of an age gap, Hizashi."

"Who cares about that? I think she could make you happy, Shouta, and you deserve to be happy."

“Now that I think about it," Nemuri adds. "You two would be good together. You need someone who can make you smile and stop being so serious all the time, and she..." She chuckles playfully. "For some unexpected reason, really likes that about you."

"Don't tell me you haven't at least thought about it?" Yamada teases. “I see the way you look at her, too, you know."

Nemuri squeals, "Just imagine, the two of you being all lovey-dovey. It'd be so cute!"

Your heart catches in your throat, but Aizawa is quick to interject.

"It doesn't matter. None of those things you said matter. To do anything about Y/N's feelings for me would be taking advantage of her."

"Fine," Nemuri huffs. "But the least you can do is talk to the poor girl about it. You can't keep giving her the cold shoulder forever."

There's a beat of silence before Aizawa dejectedly responds, "You’re right.” And you hear the door knob lock behind them.

______________________________________________________________

You pretend not to notice that Aizawa's awkwardly been standing behind you for almost five minutes now, hoping he'd eventually leave if you looked busy enough typing away on your laptop.

And he almost does, if it wasn't for Midnight and Mic, who you can see out of the corner of your eye, gesturing at him quietly but frantically to go on. 

Your heart races when he clears his throat. "Uh, Y/N, do you have a minute?"

"Um..." You want to say no but can't think of a reason fast enough, so you take your time closing your laptop instead, bracing yourself. "Sure."

You get up from your seat and turn to face him, but neither of you can meet the other's gaze, which just makes everything feel all the more mortifying. 

"I'm aware of...Er, I mean...I apologize if I've seemed a little standoffish lately."

"You mean more than usual?" You smile weakly, trying for a bit of humor.

When you look up, you're surprised to see that his expression is serious but gentle. He almost smiles for a second before he seems to think better of it.

"It's been brought to my attention that you might…” He sighs, then starts over. “If I’ve ever given you the wrong impression, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention. I want you to know that I respect your feelings, but I think it’s best that we maintain a professional relationship."

“Of course! I-I never–You never–Um–" You swallow thickly, feeling your face burn up. “I agree.”

“Good. I hope this doesn’t make things awkward between us.”

Like it could get any worse? You bite back the retort.

You take a deep breath, attempting to regain your composure, and plaster on another half-hearted smile. “It’s fine. We can move past it.”

He nods, his expression neutral. “Glad to hear that.”

_________________________________________________________________________

But you do not, in fact, move past it. At least not for a couple of weeks. 

In the days that follow, you find that you can't shake off the conversation, the way he looked and the vulnerability in his voice lingering in your mind. The hours at work feel longer now that they're filled with lingering silence, heavy with unspoken words and punctuated with stilted conversations.

Even more embarrassing is the fact that everyone seems to know about your unrequited and inappropriate crush now, if they didn’t already. You notice Mic and Midnight's sympathetic glances, and All-Might's whispered concerns.

Their attempts to act normal around you are agonizingly obvious, so you make it a habit to be the first one to leave every afternoon and spend most of your days alone at your table, with your eyes glued to your laptop screen or your nose buried in a mountain of paperwork. 

So how, exactly, did you find yourself in this position? Alone with Shouta in his apartment and sitting in his lap with your fingers tangled in his hair and his tongue practically down your throat?

_________________________________________________________________________

Last thing you remembered, you were walking home when he suddenly fell into step beside you.

"Hi," you managed, giving him a weak smile. It must've been the first time you've ever been alone together since the talk. 

"Mind if I join you?" He tilted his head to ask, his hands in his pockets and looking as tired as ever. 

"Not at all," You tried to reply coolly, even though your heart just about dropped to the floor.

A familiar awkward silence fell upon both of you.

You bunched up your skirt in your fists, acutely aware of the way he’s looking at you. His usually stern face seemed almost…unsure. Finally, he broke the silence. "How have you been?”

“Oh, you know…” You waved your hand dismissively. “Just trying to get through each day.”

He nodded solemnly. “Listen, y/n, I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings last time we talked, because that’s the last thing I’d want.”

You shook your head. "No, not at all. If anything, I should be the one apologizing for the position I put you in."

"I just want you to know that...It's not that I don't..." He trailed off meaningfully, his eyes downcast. "I just don't think it would be appropriate or fair to you to pursue anything because...Your feelings for me…they’re not real.”

You felt your heart skip a beat. “What?” 

"I understand that you might be confused by...that the dynamics of our relationship might have clouded your judgement and made me seem…”

“Stop.” You level him with a fierce gaze and he does. You do your best to sound firm despite the sting of his words. “It’s one thing for you not to return my feelings. That I can understand. But don’t patronize me by telling me what I do or don’t feel. It’s clear that you think otherwise, but I’m not a child, Shouta.”

Aizawa, surprised by the intensity in your voice, leaned back slightly. He doesn't say anything, which gives you the courage to speak your mind, telling him off before you can think better of it.

“I don’t like you just because you’re older than me or I see you as some sort of authority figure. I like you because you care a lot but pretend you don’t. And it makes me want to get to know you more. I admire your dedication and hard work at being a hero and a teacher here.”

He looked at you thoughtfully for a few moments, then nodded, a flicker of realization crossing his features as he absorbed your words. “You're right. I shouldn't have assumed or tried to define your feelings for you. I apologize."

"Thank you."

"And as long as we’re sharing…” He rolled his sleeves up, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “I don’t think you’re a child, you know. I think you’re intelligent and perfectly competent. In fact, I think you're amazing."

The irritation and hurt you felt just moments ago was quickly chased away by the warmth that spread within you at his surprising admission.

He brushed his hair out of his eyes. "I was hesitant because I didn't want to take advantage of you, given our age gap—"

"It doesn't bother me," you said with newfound confidence, and he couldn't help but chuckle at your boldness.

"But maybe... I've been too cautious."

You tilted your head, smiling up at him softly, sweetly, like you used to. "What do you mean?" You asked even though you already knew, you just wanted to hear him say it.

He ran a hand through his hair again, rubbing the back of his neck. A nervous habit, you’ve noticed. "I mean, perhaps I've been so focused on maintaining professional boundaries that it's made me overlook the possibility of a genuine connection between us."

You bit the inside of your cheeks to keep from smiling any wider. "Are you saying...?"

He nodded, a hint of a blush tinting his face. "Would you consider having dinner with me tomorrow?"

_________________________________________________________________________

Fast forward to now, hours after dinner and one glass of wine too many, and you’ve somehow managed to muster up the courage to kiss him good night.

It catches him by surprise, but once he leans into it, he doesn’t let you pull away. He responds with an almost bruising eagerness, kissing you again, and again, and again, until you find yourself pressed up against the door of his apartment.

He jams his keys into the doorknob, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck.

But instead of swinging the door open like you expected, he puts his hand up against it instead, next to your face, and presses his forehead against yours.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” he says breathlessly, his eyes screwed shut.

You draw a steadying breath of your own. “Why not?”

“Because,” he drawls in that frustratingly raspy voice of his. The one so low and deep you could practically feel it vibrating against your own chest, echoing off the walls inside of you. “You do something to me…to my self-control…”

You swallow thickly. “Do I?”

He nods.

“Good.” You link your hands around his nape, pulling at some of the hair there, and smile against the crook of his neck. “Then the feeling’s mutual.”

He puts his hands on your waist, gingerly, cautiously. “Doesn’t make it rational.”

You kiss his jaw. ”Why does it need to be rational?” And then his cheek. ”We’re both adults.” And then gently bite his ear, whispering, “Why can’t we let ourselves want what we want?” 

“And are you sure…” He pulls away a little, his eyes still closed and his eyebrows furrowed. “This is what you want?” He finally opens his eyes to search yours, and his are so smoky and dark you feel as though you're falling through the night sky.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, captivated by the intensity in his gaze.

"Yeah," you answer, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "I'm sure."

His smirk is the last thing you see before your eyelids flutter close and his lips are on yours again. 

He doesn’t waste another moment.

[writing-fanics]

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

[Before Lucifer got cast out of Heaven]

[prompt by: @saturncodedstarlette

[warning: self-harm: major angst: blood: mentions of panic attack]

You were angry and heartbroken, and felt betrayed by someone you thought to be yoursoulmate. Feeling used by them, having just found out that Lucifer and Lilith are together.

You stormed over to Lucifer outside the gates of the garden, hands balled up into a fist. “You lied to me!” You shouted angrily, and he turned to look at you.

Lucifer who you thought to be your soulmate, a red string tying the two of you together. Your face red and tears rubbing down your cheeks, “You told me that I am your soulmate!” You screamed, and he just stated at you almost annoyed that you were, taking his time away from being with Lilith

You guarded the gates of Eden, and Lucifer flirted with you and toyed with you just so he could see Lilith. “Just get back to that other woman!” You were angry fuming and felt used.

He just stared at you arms folded across his chest, as he raised an eyebrow and scoffed. “Don’t you understand? You’re the other woman.” said Lucifer, looking at you.

You shook your head vigorously, your frustration apparent. "No no!" you exclaimed, your voice rising in anger. "You're supposed to be with me!" You pointed in the direction of the garden, your true form as a seraphim revealing itself with multiple eyes on your head and wings.

Your figure seemed to grow in size and stature, towering over him and filling the space around you with an awe-inspiring presence.“She’s the other woman!” you shouted, glaring at him.

Lucifer rolled his eyes and saw Lilith in the distance. She had heard the commotion and was walking closer to the gate. "Why can't you understand?" he said, looking down at the ground and clenching his fists. He glanced over at her for a moment.

“It was a mistake, I would never be with you—” He said, Your entire body froze in shock, and you stood there motionless with your arms falling limply to your side. Your lips slightly parted, forming an 'O' shape as you struggled to comprehend what he had just said.

As soon as the words left his mouth, you could see the regret in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to reach out towards you, but then suddenly pulled his hand back and turned away. He entered the garden and walked away with Lilith, leaving you alone.

You couldn't help but fall to your knees, gripping your chest where your heart is. It hurt so much - not just the physical pain, but the emotional pain of being betrayed. You had broken the rules to let him into the garden, thinking that he cared for you. But this is how he repays you - by ripping out your heart and leaving you to suffer.

The words seemed to rip your heart out of your chest, leaving you feeling completely devastated. As tears began to trickle down your cheeks, you couldn't help but sniffle and sob softly. Your lower lip quivered as you looked at him, trying to make sense of the situation and find a way to process the overwhelming emotions coursing through you.

He used you. He fucking used you just so he could be with Lilith, he toyed with your emotions your feelings and your desires. To get what he wanted in the end. You saw a future and hoped he'd be there to fill that empty spot, in your immortal life. Be he saw as nothing but a obstacle, for his true goal. Lilith.

Your angelic weapon dug into your flesh drawing yellow blood. As you tried to carve the L off of your hand, the inital of your soulmate. That was on your hand when you were first made by angels. Your very own soulmate wanted nothing g to do with you, he never wanted to be with you. Only wanted to use you for his own selfish needs.

Your wound would just heal and the initial stayed, as much as you tried to dig it out. Nothing, it would appear again and again. You screams and cries of frustration being heard by Lucifer and Lilith, but he did nothing just sat there with his lover underneath the tree.

You wailed, staring yo at the sky and sobbing. Yellow blood seeping from the gash in your hand, you couldn't breathe unable to take a full breath. All you wanted was for Lucifer to comfort you, but he didn't. Your vision started to blur as you breathed heavily, gripping the fabric of your clothes.

“I would never be with you”

“I would never be with you”

You whimpered, curled up on yourself, and cried. You didn't know how long you were there for and eventually passed out. When you opened your eyes, you saw a bracelet that you had given to Lucifer a while ago. You stared at it blankly for a moment, not noticing someone approaching you from behind. Suddenly, you felt cold and shivered.

As you turned around, you heard a giggle coming from behind you. Suddenly, the grass around you withered and died, and an ominous presence leaned over you. "Has that little dreamer shattered your heart?" the voice asked as you looked up to see the personification of evil itself - your sister, Roo. She had a Glasgow smile on her face as she stared down at you.