#people tell him to be things and then he is those things until he's not

[userarmand]

"I love you, I do love you," he said. "And why? Quick-witted, yes, beautiful, yes, and inside you, the burnt-up relics of a saint!" 

"Master, I don't know what you're saying to me. I was never a saint, never, I don't claim to be a saint. I'm a wretched, disrespectful and ungrateful being. Oh, I adore you. It's so delicious to be helpless and at your mercy."  

The Vampire Armand, Anne Rice (1998)

[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

[xinganhao]

✏️ seatmates joshua x reader.

prompt: "we sit next to each other every day, i lend you pencils, you share snacks with me, people are assuming we’re a couple, let’s go with that." ✶ part of my svt university milestone event

⤿ fluff, slight miscommunication, joshua is whipped, jeongcheol [if u squint!]. more content under the cut. ♡⸝⸝ prompt from anon!

It's not looking like a good start of the week for Seungcheol.

He had an insane bender the night before. He missed the morning bus to school and ended up walking the whole two-kilometer way. And now, the not-quite-a-couple duo who sat in front of him at class was back on their bullshit again.

With his fingers pressed to his temple, Seungcheol watches warily as the starry-eyed boy— Joshua, Seungcheol thinks his name is— places a canned coffee atop the edge of your desk. God, Seungcheol would kill for that right about now.

He's too far gone to make out anything the two of you are saying, but Seungcheol can fill in the blanks. It's probably something stupid, he thinks bitterly. Good morning, love. How was your weekend, love? I missed you, love.

Blegh.

There's only one thing he can think to do. Seungcheol whips out his phone and shoots out a quick slew of texts, trying to ignore the way that Joshua has begun to laugh a little too loud at something you just said.

Seungcheol it's a monday and i'm hungover and the pretty boy in front of me keeps making heart eyes at his seatmate he's laughing. i'm hungover to the heavens and he's laughing god what have i done to deserve this god when will it be my turn Jeonghan you think someone else is pretty? :( Seungcheol do NOT start with me rn

Seokmin doesn't think Joshua notices.

It's just like Joshua, really, to be a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to matters of the heart. And so Seokmin nods along, the perfect picture of indulgence, as you wheedle your way into Joshua's every day.

You don't even have to show up in the physical sense. Joshua fills in those gaps for you. I think they'll like this, Joshua (while holding a box of some obscure snack) tells Seokmin at the grocery store. They'll get a kick out of that, Joshua cackles as he snaps a photo of a silly eraser.

Seokmin knows he could, should probably ask his best friend what the hell is going on. The boy is in desperate need of a quick 'check-the-label' moment, honestly.

In the end, Seokmin decides: Not my circus, not my monkeys.

He figures the two of you will eventually hammer it out yourselves. It's a rite of passage, isn't it? The limbo of flirtation, confined in the four corners of a classroom. The happy crush that may or may not reciprocate.

As Joshua all but skips— honest-to-God skips!— to the Wednesday session of his class with you, Seokmin can't help the fond shake of his head at what Joshua has gotten himself into. Sharing snacks and stationery every M/W/F?

There are worse situationships to have, Seokmin concedes.

Professor Kang has been in the academe for nearly two decades.

He's watched relationships bloom, and last, and end. One or two students have even invited him to their weddings. There's no shortage of gossip in the faculty rooms; there's always a seating plan to orchestrate, a partnered project to use for a little drama.

He likes to think he has a sixth sense for this sort of thing, and that's why he initially believed that you and Joshua... aren't really a thing.

Sure, the two of you bend your heads together a little too close when discussing something. He notices, too, the exchanges— both the transactional and spoken ones. But he's unconvinced, for the most part of the semester, that there's not really anything worth reading into.

That is, until, you don't show up to class one day. On a whim, Professor Kang asks Joshua about your absence, and the boy fumbles with his phone for a couple of minutes.

"Doctor's appointment," Joshua eventually divulges, though there's a slightly worried crease in his eyebrows that has Professor Kang thinking, huh.

That huh gives way to an ah when, at the next class, the two of you slot right back into place. Professor Kang catches bits and pieces of your conversation with Joshua; how he eagerly inquires about your Friday plans, how he listens intently to your little rants.

As the two of you walk out the classroom, your shoulders brush. It's slight enough that anybody not really looking would miss it, would dismiss it, but Professor Kang can only watch with amusement. Joshua apologizes for crowding you— only to take an infinitesimal step closer as the two of you leave the classroom.

By the time the two of you are out in the hall, your shoulders are almost touching again.

Ah, Professor Kang thinks. He swears he's seen it all in the past twenty years, but he's not immune to making mistakes.

Perhaps they're a little bit in love, after all.

[yugsly]

Hey uhhh. Sorry if this is too spoilery. So that Zine. Mentioning Capochin. THE FULL ON EMO EXCLUSIVE.

Do you think Capochin and [Redacted] improve together? They got a lot of work to do?? Is it okay for them to be together?

I wanna know MORE and I just. People are SCARED for Capochin myself included uhhhh.

PLEASE I NEED ANSWERS

Hey, before I say anything- I know they're mine and Day's characters, but anything I talk about related to "post-game" or context not in-game is still "speculation". Meaning, not necessarily canon unless it was something recorded in dev-text or something I specifically had in mind while creating it, not after. I would never want to snuff out anyone's own ideas for what things "mean". THAT BEING SAID, I have some things to say- DO NOT READ ON UNLESS YOU HAVE COMPLETED THE GAME:

So, It's pretty complicated and I've thought about it a lot during and after making the game. Hector's got to do a LOT of work to even earn Capochin's forgiveness, if he'll even give it to him. (if most anyone will give it to him, really.) It's a silly cartoon game but yes, the situation is pretty grim. I mean, you've seen that cooking video Capo made. You've seen what he said when you faced him at the end of the line. All those implications. Without getting into specifics, yeah, the situation was really, really bad. But it's complex. It's not black and white. Hector and Capo knew eachother for a long long time even before Hector became Inspekta (a nosy person might have noticed the news clippings in Milldread). So they go way back- and I imagine things were pretty great up until, and a good ways into Hector ascending. But you know, there was a certain turning point- leading to where he ended up. Razzma speaks on this a bit, throughout. (Razzma has a lot of interesting background tidbits, explore giving her different phrases!) Him realizing that becoming a god didn't solve his insecurities like he thought they might... and more... I won't elaborate too much, because I want you to imagine it yourself. I only want to spread a few bread crumbs and let you make up your minds, even if I have my own thoughts, you know? Your question: "Is it okay for them to be together?" Well, that's up to you to decide. It's okay to imagine whatever you want. Capo forgives Hector eventually? Great. He never forgives him? Also Great! Do I wish I had more time in-game to elaborate on these things? Sure, I do. There's a handful of things I'd love to have explored. But I also like that it's open ended- you can tell, at the end, even though the day was saved, Hector and Capo feel awful. Sure, Capochin gave him that confidence boost to save the day- nothing he said was a lie- it was just the right thing to do in the moment. But you know, they don't really get a chance to really hash it out. It allows for y'all to really brainstorm, the world is your oyster. Whatever you come up with- be kind to eachother and respect eachother's ideas, okay?

[hernamewaslily]

-"How old is she?" RAFE CAMERON X READER

(open requests)

paring: rafe cameron x reader

warning: none

summary: you and rafe were friends since birth, you two fell in love but he cheated on you and you went away and never went to outer banks but your mother died and you went to her funeral but you didn't knew rafe and his family would be there.

Going back to Outer Banks was not a good idea and i knew it, but with my mother's death I knew I had to go, my father was in pieces so was I. I look at my one year old daughter sleeping in the back of my car, "I hope I don't see him" i think.

Me and Rafe were childhood friends since ever and 4 years ago when we started dating I knew he was the love of my life, but I was wrong, I can still remember Sofia kissing him and he hugging her:

1 year ago I was going to tell him about the pregnancy but when I saw them my heart broke and I just left Outer Banks without looking back. Had Charlotte in New York, my parents knew but I made them promise to don't talk about her to anyone.

I was not alone, I had friends in New York, I had a job at my dad's company, but the most important thing I had Charlotte. She is just like him, her strong blue eyes, her blonde hair just as soft as his, she had a strong personality just like him, it was his copy, my little chunk of my love with him.

When I got home, everything looked the same, nothing had ever changed. My father wasn't home and I soon went into my old room, I saw polaroids of Rafe and me on the wall, the presents he had given me, it looked like I had never left, everything was clean and the bed was as messy as the day I decided to leave the city behind with a baby.

Charlotte looked at the room with precision for a 1 year old baby, this year on her first birthday we came here at night to have dinner with my parents and we left early in the morning so there was no risk of Rafe knowing I had been there.

"Mama" She pointed to a teddy bear that I had gotten from Rafe on our second anniversary. I gave the bear to her, watching her reaction. My little girl hugged the bear and started laughing.

"How are you so cute" I started tickling her belly, her laughter filled the room with joy.

"Here are my girls" I looked back and my dad was leaning against the door frame with a smile despite his tired looking eyes.

"Bubu" she ran towards him and hugged his leg tightly, my father picked her up with a sad smile on his face "Hello my love" he said to her.

"The burial will be tomorrow morning" he said with a soft voice.

I nodded in agreement and we soon went to dinner.

In my dream, Rafe laughed with me in my room, "If we have a daughter, her name will be Charlotte." He said looking at my eyes

"Why that name?"

"I don't know, love, I just like it." And he hugged me softly.

I woke up confused with my daughter in the crib next to me.

The route to the funeral was silent, I just thought about how I wished my mother was here. She was very sick and cancer took her from us, my father said that at least he had ended her suffering and pain during those years.

I got out of the car with Charlotte and her teddy bear by my side, her dress was black with a big bow on her side and I was with the same dress. There were few people at the funeral but since my mother was a pogue there were many of her pogue friends and I saw John B's group right at the top of the stairs JJ looked at me and smiled. The day was beautiful but it seemed unfair because my mother had died but I knew that the weather was a message from her telling me that she was okay.

My father picked Charlotte up and they went in first and I was just working up the courage to go in while praying not to see him. The crowd had already left and I started to enter the house near the beach where my mother's funeral would be.

Until someone bumped into me, I knew that scent but I didn't want to believe it, there it was. Rafe was wearing a black suit, his eyes got bigger when he saw me and he seemed to want to say something but he couldn't, he was in complete shock to see me after 1 year without news.

"Um-oh hi-" he was interrupted by my daughter screaming mommy when she saw me, Charlotte asked to be held by me and I picked her up. Rafe looked at her holding the teddy bear with confusion, his head turned to the side and so did my daughter's, they looked at each other as if in a mirror.

"Mama" my daughter tried to go to rafe's lap who was in complete shock.

"Charlotte no baby you can't" when he heard his name rafe he felt like he was going to faint

"Charlotte? wh-who is this?"

I had thought about this conversation for a long time but nothing came out of my mouth, I always thought that I could call Rafe and tell him everything and we could become a happy family like we dreamed of but I couldn't say anything.

"Rafe, c'mon your father is asking about you-oh hi" There she was, Sofia look at me with disgust and confusion, but when she saw the baby in my arms she just looked at Rafe looking for some answer as to who that was.

"How old is she?" Rafe asked with a weak voice and tears in his eyes, I could tell he knew the answer but wanted to hear it from me. Before I could answer, my father appeared in the hall and understood what was happening.

"Where were you, let's go is going to start" My father grabbed my hand and took me while I was in complete shock and Charlotte was crying wanting to go to Rafe's arms.

I just walked away and left a confused Rafe with his eyes closed as if he was holding himself back from crying.

"Fuck" was the only thing that crossed my mind.

part 2? I had this idea on the subway on the way to school and i had to write it! let me know if you guys want pt 2💞

[sentientgolfball]

Who wants to hear my stupid thoughts about Aether and Phantom and irresponsible use of medical equipment?

(I just think all quints are allowed to be weird about medical stuff ok)

When Phantom begins training in the infirmary they’re SO excited. Everything is so cool and they get to look at blood and bones and see how those weird little human creatures work. Unfortunately for Aether that means they’re very distracted most of the time. He tries to teach them about what a machine does and how to use it and the information does in one ear and out the other.

Fortunately by this point Arther knows how to calm the bug down, burn out his little star’s excess energy so they’ll pay attention. A quickie in the bathroom. Using his quint to make them cum untouched. Anything along those lines really. One good orgasm and Phantom is so calm and attentive. They can’t take their fucking eyes off Aether if they tried.

They’re almost done with their training at this point. Aether takes bug to learn about the ultrasound machine and the plethora of things it can be used to for. But they’re not paying any attention, more so than usual. It’s not their fault Swiss and Rain were teasing them all day with quick little kisses and hands that wandered too far. They don’t hear a word Aether says. The only thing in their mind is images of behind sandwiched between a multi ghoul and a water ghoul. Every hole filled.

Unfortunately bug still doesn’t have a grasp over their quint yet and Aether can feel the lust radiating off of them. He likes to think he has golden self control, for a ghoul at least, but he cannot take it anymore. He calls Phantom out on not paying attention and ever the people pleaser they babble and apologize and promise they’re listening. Aether just shakes his head and decides a hands on lesson is needed to make sure they really are learning.

He gets Phantom up on the table and preps the machine. Just a check up he claims. Just to show them how it works and what to look for. He tugs the waistband of their pants down just enough to run the probe over their stomach. He shows them what their uterus looks like. How empty it is. Phantom is downright fascinated being able to actually see inside of themselves like that. This actually does get them to pay attention. Maybe a little too well, but Aether won’t complain.

They don’t notice slide his free hand down. They don’t notice him shimmy his pants down just enough to pull out his half hard cock. They barely acknowledge Aether pulling their pants down more. Probably just to get better access. Well they are right about that. Everything Aether does goes unnoticed until they feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against their cunt. Already fucking drooling from fantasizing about Swiss and Rain all damn day.

They try to question him but Aeth just shush them and tells them they need to know what it looks like filled too. He slips inside and makes Phantom keep their eyes on the screen so they can watch him fuck into them.

They cum so hard so fast. Something about being able to see the head of Aether’s cock pounding into them while feeling it just makes them burn.

[manias-wordcount]

Hi, can I request a Midoriya Izuku x Fem reader from childhood friends to lovers, if you can please do it oneshot ,of course you can do it whenever you want, have a nice day.

Exception (Izuku Midoriya x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗼𝗼𝗽𝘀 ): 𝗶 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗮𝗱 ):

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

For the longest time, the two of you only had each other.

You didn’t know anyone else who was quirkless. He didn’t know anyone else either. So it made sense that the two of you would cling together. It made sense that the two of you would seek solace and reassurance in each other. It made sense that the two of you would be together- always and forever. It made sense. The two of you made sense. It just did. 

Until it didn’t.

Ten years ago, your best friend in the whole world suddenly had a quirk. It happened suddenly. Practically overnight. All that the talk about him training and wanting to become a hero suddenly felt a lot more possible than the two of you ever thought possible. But you suppose things aren’t meant to go your way. At least, not forever. Because it was then that he took off running- as if he sprouted wings and learned how to fly. 

That new power of his took him to UA High School while you were stuck at the local high school- the one you thought the two of you were always going to end up going to together. Sure, the two of you were still able to see each other after school every now and then. But with him going to UA living the life of a hero-in-training meant that you and your boring civilian life were competing with so much now. Because the two of you no longer only had each other. 

Because he had so much more now. More friends. More love to go ahead. More reasons to keep him busy. More reason to have him reschedule your hangouts. More reasons to have him cancel on you. More reasons for him to miss your cancels and respond to your texts later and later and later. More reasons for him to lose track of your number altogether. And eventually, more reasons for you to stop trying to compete. Because as much as you hate to admit it, things are different. They had to be different. He wasn’t quirkless anymore. So he didn’t have time to spend with quirkless nobodies like you. He had lives to save. Villains to fight. A quirk to train. And so much more to do. And none of those things would ever, ever include you.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But then one day, you saw him again. Just a chance encounter. A small sighting of the Pro-Hero Deku out on the streets, giving interviews after a particularly nasty, yet quick battle. You didn’t mean to stay. But then again, you never meant to spend the last decade or so keeping up with his interviews and fight footage. Praying and cheering silently that he would make it out of every battle unscathed.

So you found yourself lingering. Just watching from your spot in the crowd as just another fan and concerned citizen. Just another nameless, faceless person who heroes like him keep safe. Someone thankful, but forgettable. Someone with nothing but awe and praise for people like him, but completely ordinary. Someone who will disappear the second you step out of sight.

But then his eyes met yours. 

For a stupid second, you wanted to believe that he recognized you. You wanted to believe he knew it was you as looked out into the crowd and right in your direction. But then the moment lasted longer than a second. And then it was longer than a minute. And then it was glances back in your direction, every chance he could get. Throughout the interview. Throughout the autographs. Throughout the crowding and chaos and the mayhem. 

That morning, you thought everything was going to be painfully normal, as it always was. That afternoon, you received a phone call from a number you thought you would never see again. That night, you found yourself being invited to an apartment in an expensive part of the city that you know you and your best friend in the whole wide world would have balked at just over a decade ago. And the morning after?

You find yourself walking up in a pair of arms that are oh-so-familiar, yet so very different from when you last saw them. 

It was still Izuku Midoriaya that invited you over as if you were still fourteen years old, ready to trade comic books and swap hero-sighting stories. But Neither of you could deny the fact that he was a changed man. Though neither of you could deny the level of change you had to go through either. Because unsurprisingly, his absence left a hole in your heart. Quirkless people are growing fewer and fewer by the day. Your world became lonelier without him in it. And no amount of whispered promises or recorded TV interviews was going to bring that back. No amount of anything was going to bring your best friend back and all the years that were stolen from you. 

Still, he tried. He got down on his knees and held your face in his hands as he tried to explain himself to you. He told you everything. He told you about every time he canceled. He told you about every time he forgot to call. He told you about why he kept his distance. He told you about why it pained him, so to keep himself away from you. Because apparently, he had made enemies early on. Apparently, your name had been used as leverage against him starting as early as your freshmen year of high school.

Apparently, he would rather die than get you caught up in his mess after he had already broken his promise of forever and always with you.

And it worked. All his convincing- all his words? It worked. It worked because you could still hear him. You could still hear your Izuku’s voice despite the years that have passed you both by. It may be older and a little bit gruffer now, but you could still hear him. And it also worked because you could still see him. You could still see the places where his youthful and childlike expression would have been. You could still see that very little about him has changed. And the parts that did change all came with murmured explanations in your ear and he encouraged you to trace your finger over every scar and every freckle as his own arms circled themselves around your waist. Asking you over and over again if he still looks like the boy you used to know. 

If you could love him like the boy you used to know.

Now, maybe you’re stupid. Maybe you’re far too lonely and broken, and he’s feeling far too high on nostalgia and your tears to see why this might be a bad idea. Or maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re not stupid, and maybe this isn’t a bad idea. Maybe for once in a long, long time, the two of you can have each other again without things ending up in heartbreak. After all, you’re tired of re-reading old old text messages. You’re tired of watching interviews. You’re tired of watching his life from the sideline. You’re tired of facing the end of always and forever. 

So, is it really wrong to want this for yourself? Is it really so wrong when the arms, fresh with new scars and wounds of battle and fights you know nothing about are opening themselves up so willingly to you? You don’t think so. You really, really don’t think so. But then again, what do you know? Nothing, after all. You know absolutely nothing. Because you weren’t the exception back then.

So who says you’ll be the exception now?

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XXIX)

Chapter 29: ‘My lover’s words were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses on these lips’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! It’s the poetry reading!!! Also, we’re getting some special guests in this chapter!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 5237

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Anne Hathaway

‘Item I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…’ (from Shakespeare’s will)

The bed we loved in was a spinning world of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas where he would dive for pearls. My lover’s words were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme to his, now echo, assonance; his touch a verb dancing in the centre of a noun. Some nights, I dreamed he’s written me, the bed A page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste. In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on, dribbling their prose. My living laughing love- I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head as he held me upon that next best bed.

Carole Ann Duffy, The World’s Wife

It was raining in Dublin that afternoon.

Andrew was nervous, to say the least. As he hurried into the bookshop that was hosting his poetry reading, he was questioning all of his life’s choices. If he was proud of his work, if he had been on a stage before, if he was used to talking in front of crowds… he still had dreadful nerves right before any of these events.

He tried to calm down, opening the glass door of the bookshop in a hurry. He was suddenly very aware that the rain must have made his hair look like a bird’s nest, and as he bent to enter the shop, he could feel himself taking up too much space.

He put these thoughts aside, forcing himself to smile as he walked across the shop, recognising his agent instantly as she was talking with the bookshop owner.

“Andy! This is Niamh O’Brien, the owner of the bookshop,” said Caroline, as Andrew shook hands with the fifty-something woman in front of him.

“It’s very nice to meet you, thank you for organising this,” Andrew smiled, his voice sounding a little hoarse as the stress was making his throat tighten.

“Oh, it’s nothing! It’s a pleasure, indeed! Thank you for accepting to come here, I truly admire your work,” complimented O’Brien, making Andrew nod and blush.

“Thanks,” he answered automatically, pushing the compliment away instantly.

“Alright, let’s go to my office so we can run through today’s event, and then I’ll give you a little time to get ready if you need,” explained the owner of the bookshop while they walked across the shop and to a small door at the back, near the Shakespeare section. “As I was telling Caroline, we have a large room upstairs for these readings, for seminaries, lectures… all those things. The response to the advertisement was very encouraging, indeed! We’re expecting over two hundred people today.”

Andrew nervously chuckled.

“I thought this was a small event…”

“I thought it would be! Poetry readings are not always the most popular events, sadly. But we had underestimated the popularity of your work, clearly! We have about two hundred seats upstairs, and we’re expecting a full house!”

“Wow… that’s grand,” Andrew grinned, digging his hands into his pockets.

They walked inside O’Brien’s office, and discussed some details about the afternoon around a warm cup of coffee.

“We have planned some questions after the reading,” O’Brien went on, sipping on her beverage. “Anything that we should… avoid or that you are adamant to discuss?”

“Erm… like… I reckon it’s best if you decide what questions are more relevant. I’m not going to discuss anything too private, though.”

“Too private?”

“Like… my personal life is private, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Of course. I can understand that.”

“Thank you.”

“We gave Caroline a few titles that we would really like you to read, if that’s fine by you. But I’m curious to know what are the other poems you’ve decided to share today.”

“Erm… yeah, totally! Erm… I’ve noted the ones you asked for, I’ll read them obviously. Then, I’ve just picked a few that I felt fitted your selection. I’m also going to publish a few poems next month, so I thought I could read three of these.”

“Oh, that would be amazing! Maybe finish the reading with these new ones!”

“Yeah, I thought I could do that. Do you prefer to read them before hand?”

“Oh, no, no! You’re the author, you choose what you read and want to share today! On the contrary, I can’t wait to discover them when you read them aloud!”

She grinned excitedly.

“Oh, now I truly cannot wait! Right, we still have about forty-five minutes before the reading begins, I’m going to help welcome our visitors. You take some time to get ready, and ask us if you need anything, alright?”

“Totally… yeah. Thank you.”

As soon as O’Brien had left the room, Caroline heaved a sigh, relaxing in her chair while she turned to Andrew.

“You’re ready for today?”

“Of course, I am.”

“Good… are your parents coming? I mean… they always come when the readings are in Dublin, I don’t know why I’m asking,” she chuckled, and Andrew enthusiastically nodded.

“Yeah, they’ll be here! Jon is off to Cork for a project he’s working on, but both my parents are coming.”

“Anyone else you’ll know in the crowd? Alex?”

“No, Alex is busy working on a music project with his new band at the moment. I… I have another friend who’s coming, though.”

“Really? Who?”

“Erm… Her name’s Y/N. We work together, actually.”

As she studied his features, Caroline raised a teasing eyebrow, a grin slowly creeping over her lips.

“And… is this Y/N nice to look at, too?”

“Caroline!” Andrew chuckled, rubbing at his cheek. “She’s just a friend.”

“She is at the moment, perhaps… but is she meant to remain just that?”

Andrew didn’t say anything at first.

“I can’t see the future, you know? I didn’t pass the exams in divination back in College.”

“Are any of these new poems influenced by her?”

Andrew cleared his throat, reached for the thermos of tea and honey he had brought for his throat.

“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled under his breath. “I should read these again, just to practice.”

“Yeah, I bet you should,” Caroline laughed, taking her phone out of her purse to check her emails.

Meanwhile, Andrew read some of his poems again, just to remind himself of the pauses, the stresses, the intentions he wanted to add when he would read them out loud. About ten minutes before the beginning of the reading session, he checked his phone. His father had sent him a couple of texts, one to notify him that they were ten minutes away from Dublin, and another later on once he and Andrew’s mother were already seated in the bookshop.

There was another text from you as well, and Andrew’s heart skipped a beat at the sight.

Waiting for the reading to begin! Just wanted to wish you good luck, although I have no doubts you’re gonna kill it!

He started typing while Caroline was checking a few last-minute details.

Hey! Thank you again for coming today, it means a lot to me. I’ll try not to make too much of a fool of myself out there.

 Your answer was almost instantaneous.

No need to thank me for that. I’m glad to be here.

You’ve got a full house btw! I was right to come here early, the room is packed. Some people are sitting on the floor, others are just standing. Apparently they’ve had to turn some people away, there was just no room left.

And I didn’t even know you wrote poetry, shame on me…

Andrew chuckled at that, not noticing that Caroline was talking to him. He was too busy answering.

Ha… thanks. Now, I’m going to die of stress before I can get up there and read.

Also, I hadn’t warned you, but all these people were hired. I’m only trying to impress you.

He realised there was a little bit of flirt in that last message, but he didn’t change it. Instead, he bit on his nail, eyes fixed on his screen while you typed a response.

Ha, that explains it then! You’re actually a rich egomaniac who is forging his success!

He chuckled.

Indeed, I am. You’ve read right through me.

Caroline frowned, but he didn’t notice either.

And I thought you were just a talented poet.

He blushed, tried to brush the compliment away.

Christ, I really am not, trust me.

“Andy!”

Andrew finally looked up, startled.

“Hmm?”

“It’s time to go, come on.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah…”

“You’ll do just fine. You always do great in these.”

Andrew nodded, typing quickly one last message before he would follow Caroline upstairs.

Time’s up. I’ll talk to you after the reading, if you want to stick around a little.

You sent him one last encouraging text that he didn’t have the time to read, but that would make him grin later that night, when he would discover it, hours later.

For now though, he was walking inside the large room, after O’Brien had quickly introduced him, and he waved shyly while the crowd clapped for him. He settled in front of the mic stand, readjusted its height to fit his tall body better.

When he looked up again, he easily spotted his parents, first row, as per usual. They grinned proudly at him, and the sight made him relax instantly. He took one more second to scan the room quickly, and it was indeed packed with people, more than he had anticipated for such an event, that was supposed to be a small gathering.

His eyes finally landed on you, fifth row, grinning at him with genuine excitement. You gave him a thumbs up, and it made him grin, almost laugh. You were wearing a green shirt that was revealing your cleavage a little more than usual, he noticed that right away. He noticed how you were smiling, how your eyes were shining, how you seemed happy to be here.

He blushed, before finally speaking.

You were beyond impressed, to be fair.

Andrew’s deep, soft voice was lulling you into another world, another plane of existence, while you listened to him reading his poems. There was something unbelievably magnetic in the way he spoke, in the way he stood there, alone in a single spotlight, a hand in the pocket of his brown corduroy trousers, the other holding his book. He looked so handsome like this too, curly hair partially tied back, the rest let loose over his shoulders. His brown jacket matched the colour of his trousers, the black of his turtleneck was the same shade as his leather shoes. His glasses perched on his nose caught the light from time to time, but you were obsessed by the eyes beyond them, irises seeming brownish in this light. You noticed that he often looked at you as he spoke, or while he talked a little in between poems, explaining something about the text before he would read it, or sipping on his thermos of hot tea. You spotted the two teabag tags hanging from the grey bottle, and couldn’t refrain a fond smile at the sight. He liked his tea so strong, just like his coffee…

Behind him, across the white wall, there were pictures projected while he read, matching the poems. Sometimes short, silent films. You were particularly struck by the LGBTQ+ meaning on the black and white extract for Take Me To Church, the roughness of the themes for Cherry Wine, the dancers that moved behind Andrew’s frame for Movement. You were more impressed by his work itself though, by the beauty in the images he summoned, the sincerity he seemed to inject into each word, the gentleness he used to speak about love, the complexity of the feeling, too, and the way he talked about sex as an act of worship instead of pure lust, as a sacred act of loving. You loved every second of it.

Finally, he closed his second book, but pulled from it a few loose sheets of paper, and smiled at the crowd.

“We have only a few minutes left, and… erm… I thought I could share with you a few new poems today. They will soon be published in a poetry journal, but this sounded like the perfect occasion to finally… erm… release them into the world and… and… erm… to just, let them loose, I guess. The first one is called Why Would You Be Loved, and it is about… the despair that comes with love. With sharing something so absolute, and wondering why it should even occur to you, and why you should let yourself be engulfed in this kind of… erm… like… this kind of overwhelmingly strong feelings, that will probably hurt you an awful lot, in the end. So… yeah, I definitely thought that I needed to lift up the mood a little for this last part, and thus chose the most pessimistic poem I could find for you all. I expect a lot of smiles and giggles for this one.”

Everyone chuckled at that, and you weren’t an exception.

Although, you were most definitely not laughing when Andrew started reading. He seemed a little more nervous with this poem, you noticed how he was fidgeting with this piece of paper, how his eyes were shining a little more now, how his voice sounded deeper than before.

You listened, not realising that you were tearing up. But you were, you noticed it at last when a tear rolled all the way across your neck, tickling your skin.

His words echoed into your own pain, and you read in them his heartbreak after Samantha’s betrayal.

Why would you play it all on somethin' as hollow as trust?

What if you gave it all, to find that it wasn't enough?

Damn, you brushed your cheeks to dry them on your sleeve. This was echoing in your soul a little too much, a little too desperately…

The woman next to you was crying as well, you noticed the man before you rubbing discreetly at his eyes.

And then Andrew was quiet again. The applause was so loud, he looked up in surprise.

“Erm… thank you,” he smiled, nodding his head. “I… I have a couple more poems. This next one is called NFWMB, you’ll find out pretty quickly what that stands for. And it’s just… I had fun with the theme of the world ending, and I was reading a lot of Yeats too at the time, so there’s a bit of that in there. I just played with the… erm… like, the idea of having your partner being absolutely terrifying, and actually almost… thriving in that chaos. So, yeah…”

He cleared his throat, caught your eyes as he took a deeper breath before starting reading. And there was something different in his gaze, something so intense, it made you unable to look away. When Andrew looked down at his paper to read, his body was still slightly turned in your direction.

Your breath caught in your throat when he spelled out the title, when you realised what this was truly about…

Nothing fucks with my baby

You thought back about that afternoon with him, that conversation. That joke you made about being tougher than you looked; the way he had replied with a serious gaze, a firm tone, that you were tougher than you thought you were.

He looked up right after that verse, caught your eyes with his, and you knew then, you knew without a doubt that this was about you.

If I was born as a blackthorn tree

I'd wanna be felled by you

Held by you

Fuel the pyre of your enemies

But these words, they couldn’t be aimed at you… how could they? Was that what he thought of you? Was that… was that what he was ready to be and do for you?

You were struggling to breathe by the end of the poem.

Did that mean that he wrote about you?! That Andrew wrote love poems about you?

And not just love poems, but poems that showed you as some badass independent woman?!

Was that how he saw you? Strong like that?

“This is our last poem for today. It’s more of a tongue-in-cheek kind of poem. I played with the idea of using language to seduce someone. Especially in poetry, we use words in an aesthetic way, like… erm… like, I wanted to play with that idea of using poetry to lure someone in, in a way… like, using metaphors and beautiful turns of phrase to hide the fact that you just… want to jump their bones, basically.”

He smiled humorously, while the audience laughed and chuckled.

But then his eyes were back on you, and you noticed the way he blushed before he began reading.

He stole a few glances at you throughout the poem, and you almost liquified on your chair when he looked at you right after reading a certain verse…

Imagine being loved by me

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

You struggled to swallow when he kept eye contact with you while he repeated that verse, your heart pounding, head spinning a bit, and feeling your entire body react to his deep, suave voice speaking these words directly to you.

You could barely breathe by the end of it.

You didn’t pay attention while Andrew was sitting now with O’Brien, you merely clapped along, but couldn’t conjure up any logical thought.

You took a couple of deep breath, feeling your entire body on fire. And then, you were the one imagining things he could do to you as you stared at his hand while it reached the microphone O’Brien was handing him…

The questions offered an interesting insight on many of Andrew’s poems. He sounded passionate about them, about the political messages he wanted to carry, about the vision he had of love and sex and the honesty that he thought was necessary in poetry. You listened attentively, often agreeing with his views. When the interview was over, and the applause had quieted down again, O’Brien announced a short break, before Andrew would sign copies of his books. You weren’t sure if you ought to talk to him now, as people were walking out of the room, some to go home and some to wait outside to get their books signed. You had already bought both of his books, even though you had not read them, wanting to discover Andrew’s work while he would read it. So, you stood there awkwardly for a while, hesitating to walk up to Andrew even though he was now talking to a couple of people he seemed to know, or to walk out of the room.

You were about to listen to your anxious self and walk away to wait for him outside when he called for you.

He approached with a grin on his face, and you tried to ignore how everyone was staring at the two of you.

“Thank you for coming!” he grinned, and you offered him back the same happy smile.

“No need to thank me. On the contrary, thank you for inviting me! It was amazing.”

He looked nervous for a moment.

“You… you liked the poems, then?”

You chuckled.

“That… is the understatement of the century!” you joked, and Andrew seemed deeply relieved. “I loved it. You… your poems are so beautiful, and so deep and complex and insightful and just… amazing. Truly, absolutely stunning.”

He stared at you for a moment looking a little stunned by your words, blushing more and more. He nodded, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you so much. I’m glad you liked my work.”

“I really loved all your poems.”

You saw him biting the inside of his cheek, and he was about to speak again when he was interrupted by the woman he had been talking to a moment before. Actually, she didn’t speak to him, but he must have felt her approaching, and he turned to her with a warm smile.

“Oh, erm… This is Y/N,” Andrew started introducing you while a man was joining them too. “We work together at Trinity, I told you about her. Erm… Y/N, this is my mom Raine, and my dad John.”

You raised a surprised eyebrow, hearing that Andrew had told his parents about you, but you quickly recovered and shook their hands, warmly greeting them.

“Of course! Andy has told us a lot about you, indeed!” Raine nodded, making Andrew blush. “We were thinking about going for a coffee while Andy is signing some autographs. Would you like to join us? We could all go for dinner after that!”

Andrew raised a surprised eyebrow, and looked at you with a careful expression, that seemed to convene the message that you shouldn’t feel pressured to accept if you didn’t feel like it. But you merely grinned, nodding enthusiastically.

“I don’t want to bother you,” you politely declined a first time, but Raine insisted, and this time you accepted, excited at the thought of talking with Andrew’s family.

“Alright,” Andrew nodded, and he seemed a little uncomfortable but happy all the same. “This shouldn’t take too long, I’ll join you all when I’m done here.”

You ended up in a coffeeshop nearby, bought some cake and a coffee with Andrew’s parents. You were a little nervous, worried that they might dislike you, although you refused to dig into the reasons that made your heart quicken with dread. Your fears were unfounded though, the conversation went smoothly, and both of his parents were kind-hearted. His father was a little quieter than Raine, but you couldn’t help but notice how much Andrew and John were alike, both physically and in their behaviour. They made you laugh while telling you some funny stories from Andrew’s childhood, and you answered their questions about your life, your career. Andrew joined you about an hour later, and he offered for all of you to come to his flat for dinner. You didn’t want to intrude, but they all insisted, and so you ended up yielding.

Andrew was nervous, although he tried very hard to hide it.

The adrenaline from the afternoon had not waned yet, he was still a little high on it. The fact that his parents were now sharing some of his childhood stories with you wasn’t helping. It felt a little surreal, to have you talking with them, joking, laughing with his parents. You seemed to easily fit in though, and Andrew couldn’t help but draw the comparison with Sam, how she never quite felt at ease with his parents, especially his father, who was a little more reserved than Raine. But now John was deep in conversation with you, telling you about the days when he was a blues musician, the drummer of a band called Free Booze, and you laughed with him at his anecdotes.

“Of course, everybody was coming in with that written on the sign by the door of whatever pub we were playing at. And once they were inside they thought ‘might as well buy a beer’, and so we were often booked around town!”

You laughed at that.

“So cunning. Great marketing skills right there,” you joked, everybody laughing at the happy memories.

“Ha, these were back in the days,” John heaved a nostalgic sigh. “Then, we had Andrew, and… I had a choice to make. Being a gigging musician wasn’t paying all the bills every months, sometimes it was working well, but other times it was inconsistent. Having a second child, I had to give up on it. Besides, I didn’t feel like travelling around the country with my two lads at home.”

“Do you ever regret quitting music?” you asked, voice gentle.

“No, not really. It was not an easy choice to make, but music demands a lot of sacrifices. And I was certainly not ready to sacrifice my family for it.”

You nodded, humming in quiet agreement.

“So, that’s where your love for music comes from then?” you turned to Andrew, and he nodded with a smile.

“Yeah… grew up being fed a lot of blues, rock, soul music… stuff like that.”

You nodded, before Raine would draw the conversation to another topic. Andrew saw you sneaking a bit of food to Elwood, and he smiled fondly at the sight, his heart growing warm at the thought that you fitted so easily into his family, into his home. His parents seemed to genuinely like you, and you seemed to like them as well. By the end of the evening, you had learned a worrying number of silly anecdotes about Andrew’s childhood, you were planning to exchange recipes with Raine, and were setting a bet on the next win for the Irish Rugby team with John. It seemed easy for you to fit into the bubble of love that surrounded Andrew. Sam had never felt like that…

His parents were staying a little longer, planning on helping Andrew clean up, but they all shushed you when you offered to help. You seemed tired, Andrew could see it, and he knew you had classes early the next day. He offered to walk you back to your car, just so that he could steal a few minutes alone with you.

“Thank you for today, Andy! It was grood craic!” you grinned up at him as you both walked across the street towards your car.

“Thank you for coming. I hope my parents weren’t too obnoxious, especially while I wasn’t around.”

“No! Not at all! Your parents are lovely.”

“Yeah… yeah, they’re very nice people.”

“And now I have so much to work with to laugh at you… mister ‘I’m a bad boy because I climbed a rotten tree thinking it was a ladder, and now I have scar on my chest and I look like I was attacked by a bear!’”

You both exploded with laughter, Andrew shaking his head.

“Christ, don’t tell that to anyone, I’m begging you…”

“Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”

You reached your car, but lingered by the door, turning to him instead.

And God, you looked so beautiful like this, in your black jeans and green shirt… the lights of the lampposts shining in your hair. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the street was still damp, tainted with orange hues by the light.

He wanted to kiss you so badly…

“Andy… can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” he encouraged you, tilting his head to the side a little.

“I… I assume the poems you wrote in your collections are about Sam, as you were together at the time, but… the ones you added… the new poems you read at the end of the session… were they about her as well?”

Andrew’s heart started to quicken its pace until it was pounding. He nervously rubbed his palms together.

“Hmm… no. I wrote these after she left, so… they were not about her. They… they are about another woman.”

He intensely stared at you, silently trying to convey his feelings. That the poems were about you, about his desire for you, about how strong he thought you were…

He saw that you were struggling to swallow, heard that your breath was catching in your throat. He could have sworn that you were glimpsing at his lips…

But then you shook yourself, and looked away in a hurry.

“Well, good night, Andy! I’m gonna read the rest of your poems this weekend. I’d love to talk about it with you next week, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah! That would be grand, yeah. Sure… Totally!”

You exchanged a shy smile, before you would turn to your car.

And as he watched you drive away, Andrew wondered if you had understood him. If you knew that he had written NFWMB and Talk for you. And if you had, indeed, understood him… were you running away now? Had he made you uncomfortable? Perhaps he shouldn’t have chosen these poems after all, perhaps he should have kept them a secret, or at least, hidden their true meaning, hidden that they were about you.

He walked back to his home, helped his parents wash the dishes.

“Y/N is such a lovely woman!” Raine praised while Andrew was getting busy washing the plates.

“She is,” he nodded with a soft smile.

“Very smart, and with a lovely humour too,” John approved with a nod, putting the washed glasses back into the right cupboard.

“And she is very beautiful,” Raine added. “And single.”

Andy laughed, although he was blushing.

“Mom! Stop it! How do you even know she’s single?”

“I asked her!”

“You’re incorrigible…” Andrew laughed, shaking his head.

“All I’m saying is that… she’s beautiful, around the same age as you, that she… has a strong career, a stable situation. And as your father said, she has a lovely personality, she’s smart… and you seem to have a lot in common. And she seems to be so nice, Andy. So very nice…”

“She is,” Andrew nodded quietly.

Raine looked carefully at her son for a moment, before speaking again.

“You like her, don’t you?”

Andrew said nothing, merely pressed the sponge against a plate.

“You know, we’ve never told you about it but… your father and I… we’ve never really liked Samantha very much.”

Andrew chuckled.

“I know, mom. It was pretty obvious.”

“She was… I don’t know. There was something off with her. I’ve never felt like she fitted into your world very well. Not that a couple should share everything! It’s very important that you both have hobbies of your own, some things that belong to you. But it’s something else entirely to show no interest in your partner’s life.”

“She made efforts,” Andrew answered, growing defensive out of habit more than conviction.

“She never came to your readings. She never read your poetry…”

“She doesn’t like poetry…”

“And I don’t know anything about music. I still listen to your father when he talks about it, still try to support him in the things he loves, even though I don’t understand it on the same level as he does. Just like your father supported me with my art, with me going back to university for a degree…”

Slowly, Andrew nodded.

“You’re right. She wasn’t like that with me.”

Slowly, Raine nodded.

“It’s good that you can see that now, son,” John patted Andrew’s shoulder.

“Hmm…”

“We really want to see you happy, you know?” Raine added, and Andrew nodded with a tender smile. “So… Y/N… for how long have you been writing poems about her?”

Andrew laughed, clearly uncomfortable now.

“Who said I am?”

“Come on now, I’m not blind. The way you look at her…”

Andrew blushed all the way up to his ears.

“Have you asked her out yet?” John asked, but Andrew shook his head.

“We’re both getting out of difficult break-ups… I don’t think this is the right time. I don’t think I feel ready for that. I… I like her a lot. I don’t want to mess it up because I’m trying to move on too soon.”

He didn’t tell them that he was in love with you. That he had fallen in love with you a little bit more every day for months now… that he kept on falling every time he looked at you, with every conversation and every new detail he learnt about you.

No, he didn’t tell them that. Instead, he merely cleared his throat.

“Anyway… I don’t think she sees me like that at all,” he added, but both his parents exchanged a look, and then chuckled fondly at their son.

“You can be so blind sometimes, Andy…” John shook his head.

“What?”

“She likes you. A lot,” Raine stated as if it was the most obvious truth on Earth.

Andrew blinked at her, his hands still in soapy water.

Did you? Did you like him? Really?

[aves-rook-laidir]

I can feel myself becoming more and more familiar with DaTV now, like, the characters are becoming more familiar. I find myself thinking about them when I’m going about my day, filling in the gaps of who they are with my own headcanons. Like, did you know Emmrich is deaf in his left ear? He got slammed in his first week of combat training as an Apprentice. He was so annoyed about this that from that point on he worked really hard to practice combat, and to his, and everyone else surprise, was brilliant at it. It’s funny really, that this calm, gentle professor known for floating around picking flowers can knock you off your feet if you test him. Taash was the first to pick up on it, they didn’t bring it up just started fighting on his left.

Or Davrin, he keeps pushing off Bellaras attempts to talk to him about the gods, because he just can’t think about it. If he did it would be like a waterfall. He spent the most formative years of his life caring for Halla in the forest, Ghilan’nain is the Mother of Halla! His clan lived and breathed her worship, whether or not he keeps religion now, her presence is interweaved throughout his childhood, and it was all crap, she was nothing more than a psychopath mage, he can’t think about it.

Hallas make Bellara sneeze, but she denies it.

Lucanis was so overwhelmed that he missed his shot at Weisshaupt it took him nearly a day to utter a word to any of them, he left to be on his own as soon as possible and the moment he was alone he had a panic attack.

Harding often thinks back to Haven, and when the inquisition was just stating out. How she had thought back then that Varric and Solas were old friends, they way they walked together in the hinterlands, chatting about nothing in particular, felt so…comfortable. She misses those days terribly.

Neve didn’t lose her leg in some fantastic battle against the Venatori or a Dragon fight, she was just born without it. Sometimes people are just born different.

When Rook awoke from Solas telling her the truth about the Archdemons, she was so stunned and in shock that when she walked down the stairs to discuss with the others, she fell down them much to everyone’s alarm.

Having to fight a dragon in Treviso almost immediately after meeting cemented a close connection between Rook and Davrin, literally thrown into hell together.

Dorian was the only one able to get anywhere close to that dragon in Minrathos, managed to get a hit square in its eye, but it wasn’t enough. The Iron Bull was in the city the week before, but by the time the dragon attacked he was halfway to the Free Marches.

They all regularly play cards and games around the dining room table.

Taash keeps a small sketchbook on them where they likes to draw all the dragons they meets, they also pets every dog and cat they come across. They sneak hugs from Assan when they think no one is looking.

Emmrich gets Bellara to talk academic theory with him a lot as a form of distraction because he knows she lies awake at night having a never ending crisis of faith.

Bellara often worries and frets that Lucanis isn’t eating enough even though he’s feeding everyone. Lucanis worries the same thing about her.

Lucanis is dyslexic as fuck got really self conscious about how long it was taking him to read one of Neves novels, well, until he realised he literally wasn’t being judge at all actually.

Harding grows elf root to smoke it. Dream blunt rotation to be honest.

Communicating with the dead the way Emmrich does is harder than it looks, it takes a lot of stamina and if the connection is held for too long he’s prone to nosebleeds.

They spar and practice combat in the courtyard in front of the dining hall, usually one v one with the others sitting on the steps watching. Neve keeps encouraging them to take bets.

When Aves sleeps on the green couch, she often wakes up to find Assan curled up nearby. Either that or Emmrich hovering over her because she was screaming in her sleep again and he could hear her in the next room.

Taash and Bellara I’m still working on.

[blitzwhore]

No no no listen because you're so right, but also. Stolas is the ONE person Blitz believed he couldn't hurt. No matter how cold, or harsh, or dismissive, or careless he was, Stolas—in Blitz's mind—simply could not get hurt, physically or emotionally. After all, why on earth would the actions of someone as inconsequential as him have any repercussions on the life of an immortal prince of hell?

It isn't until Western Energy that he learns Stolas isn't physically indestructible. And it isn't until The Full Moon that he realises Stolas also isn't emotionally untouchable. And it isn't until Apology Tour that Blitz fully grasps Stolas is literally just a person. Not some untouchable, god-like figure, but a person, just like him. Just like everyone else.

And so now, Blitz has to live with the fact that, for however many months their arrangement lasted, he actively hurt Stolas without meaning to.

And I say "without meaning to" because when Blitz hurts others, he's very aware he's doing it. He knows full well he's being an asshole, knows he's actively proving to others and himself that he's a worthless piece of shit. But—and here's the key difference—he also knows when to stop.

We've seen it over and over again: when he tells Loona he loves her and will never replace her; when he softly reassures Moxxie that he's doing a good job and is capable of so much more than he realises; when he tells Millie she's more capable than anyone he knows and deserves good things in her life. Yes, it's true: most of the time, Blitz behaves like an asshole toward the people he loves. But he'd never hurt them enough to actually damage them. He knows when his people need him—the real him—to take care of them. He knows how to be there for them, to some capacity. At the very least, he knows how to show he cares.

With Stolas, he never paused, never back-tracked. He never fathomed there was even a limit that could be crossed. He never contemplated that Stolas could need reassurance, or words of affirmation, or genuine connection from him. Even when Stolas was actively offering and asking for connection, Blitz simply couldn't fathom it might be genuine.

And now that he's realised that Stolas did need those things and Blitz withheld them, it haunts him. It haunts him that he didn't take Stolas' hand in Ozzie's, that he didn't accept Stolas' invitation afterwards; that he didn't believe Stolas' confession, that he yelled; that he didn't reach out, didn't touch or hold Stolas while he cried.

Blitz cares. Blitz always cares. Hell, all Blitz does is care. But because of his trauma, he keeps his love for others very carefully locked away, and only lets it show when he senses that those around him need to hear him say it.

And now he has to live with the fact that he never said it to Stolas when he had the chance.

Physically ill over the fact that, when Blitz was being tormented by memories of his worst moments and biggest regrets, one of them was pulling away from Stolas's hand at Ozzie's

He's so upset that he didn't take the chance to open up 😭 and I can't help but wonder how many times he's gone over those moments in his head, moments where Stolas offered closeness or affection and Blitz cut him off, because he couldn't let himself believe that Stolas cared about him

[azriellls]

az x f!reader — writing #1

• summary: azriel can’t stand the torment of loving you and being unable to show it • pairing: az x fem! reader • warnings: none, just angst. food?

Cassian’s laugh, so rich and full, pulled you out of your reverie; spoon still in hand, your untouched porridge atop it long gone hard and cold. For the past ten minutes, you’d been trying and failing to get down the breakfast spread out in a buffet before you: bread and butter, seasonal fruits; all courtesy of Rhys’ stocked townhouse kitchen. But every time you tried to eat, the leaden weight in your stomach grew heavier. The absence of one particular male at the table was a tangible, physical thing.

But your surroundings snapped back to you then: the faces of all the people, bar one, that you loved the most in your war torn world. Feyre, to the right side of Rhys, had her hand lovingly placed atop his, but her eyes were flitting to you at short intervals with an increasing, almost motherly, concern.

You could tell within seconds that a private conversation flowed silently between the two of them. Knew it as surely as you knew it was about you. About what to do next, and how.

Indeed, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed as fully, as heartily, as Cass.

With a slight shake of your head as if to refocus, you spooned in your mouthful of oats. Chewed, swallowed. Did it again. Again. Again. Again.

Across from you, beside Cassian, this time Morrigan caught your attention. Out of everyone in your found family, you often felt she understood you best: that your trauma bond was one that ran so unspeakingly deep, between two females that had been broken and made themselves reborn.

Now, her eyes were tender, painfully so, as she sought out your own. Beneath the table, her shoe clad foot bumped yours, and you took the message as if her voice had spoken in your very own head. Come on.

It wasn’t chastising. Never would Mor, a sister to you in soul if not in blood, be chiding. Food was fuel, and they all knew it, too. Had fought enough battles, enough wars, to know it.

And the Cauldron only knew what they’d face today to make you regret not agreeing.

Still, Cassian and Amren continued their sniping back and forth across the table; what they’d been saying, you couldn’t have said, but the rumble of voices was a sure — albeit distant — comfort.

There was still most of the breakfast spread left, a veritable feast with no chance of going to waste when surrounded by such warriors.

Or, as you and Feyre liked to say, an excess of Illyrian babies.

You shut down the thought as you deliberately didn’t think about the one conspicuously absent.

As if it was a physical thing, you knew your sorrow bled out into the room; knew it was pretence that kept your friends laughing, and joking, and talking into that deep quiet.

As if on cue, Cassian and Amren’s bickering slowed, then died out altogether.

It wasn’t until that scent caught you in the gut that you realised quite why it had.

Azriel’s presence took all the air from the room, the townhouse, the world, as he took one step over the threshold. Around him, his shadows were an extension of himself: that inner darkness you knew lingered in him, that you loved dearer than your own self.

Of course, he’d known you’d be in here — those lithe whorls of living night never missed a trick, especially not when it came to you.

So it was a surprise, a shock hit to your gut, when Az’s broad frame filled the doorway, and he walked in, swift as though born on a wind, and made to the seat beside yours.

It had been a month — longer, even — than he’d been this close. Than he’d been within range of even speaking. At every chance, he wouldn’t deign to say a single word; would leave a room, no excuses needed when it was him, just because he knew you would soon enter it.

No one, as far as you knew, could discern exactly what had gone wrong between you —you certainly couldn’t. But you did know how they spoke about it in your absence, and it never sat well. Even though you knew it was for love of you both, it didn’t work to lessen the sting.

The proud, stubborn insult of it. Of being what they had to discuss.

The pains the others took to restart conversation almost brought you to tears, your heart been hammering against your ribs like a struck bird of prey trapped in its cage.

Between you and Azriel, tension thickened and wrought the air heavy with its taste. His shadows twined around his shoulders and you knew they whispered to him; could swear you sometimes felt them watch you — speak to you — as they did him.

One breath in, one out. With impossible focus, you looked anywhere but at the Shadowsinger, holding fast to the deep timbre of Rhys’ voice, and Feyre’s responding, light laugh.

The easiness between them, the intimacy that came so readily, so naturally —

You couldn’t help but turn your eyes to the male seated beside you, hoping for something, anything, some sign that he was there, just that he cared for a second —

All at once, the room changed. Azriel’s chair was pushed back with the ease and assurance of the warrior he’d always been. His tall frame seemed to fill the whole room as he stood from the table and crossed to the doorway.

He didn’t utter a word as he left, as his scent was carried on a phantom wind.

But you could’ve sworn you heard that whispering, heard it pull at something deep inside your core, deeper even than your heart as he walked from the room. From you.

Your family met your eyes, guilt and disappointment twin aches on their faces. No no no. You couldn’t stand their pity.

Even worse was the genuine sorrow not only for you, but for who they’d lost as well.

When was the last time the seven of you had eaten together, a full meal? When was the last time you’d laughed together like you used to, as a unit, as a family?

You couldn’t bear to keep count any longer.

•~•

Azriel hadn’t made it three steps out of the dining room before he could’ve fallen to his knees. He might have, were it not for him knowing that you all watched his back receding from view — he knew, even without his whispers, how acutely you all mourned his presence.

But what could he say, or do? Azriel had thought of going to Rhys, of telling him — confirming to him — what he suspected he likely already knew. That was, judging by the way he’d met his eyes just before you turned his way.

In that one look, every unspoken word between the two brothers had passed. It was a flat, unyielding look, tinged with a sympathy he couldn’t stand. Toeing the line between brother and High Lord wasn’t always easy, and it never was now. Not with this.

Not with you, his mate.

And when you’d turned your head, those wide searching eyes so damn trusting, so achingly hopeful as they sought out his own —

Your scent had lifted up from your hair with the movement, and that had been Azriel’s undoing.

He’d had to get out of that room before his heart caved in on itself. He’d had to get out, get out, and now that he was he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think around the ache in him —

Not even his shadows, in their swift stealth and silence, could quiet the voice in his mind; a child’s voice, his voice. Unloved unloved unloved.

Every day, every time — those words, and that same voice.

So if this was the price he had to pay then so be it. He would pay it, and be done. He knew exactly what he didn’t deserve.

Would never deserve.

Because if you found out the truth, if you knew for one second what you actually were to him —

He’d rather be the one to do the leaving than be left.

[scribescrawls]

"Faces of men who had long believed you're dead I see your wife with a man who is haunting A man with a trail of bodies (WHO?!) I see a song of past romance I see the sacrifice of man I see portrayals of betrayal And a brother's final stand I see you on the brink of death I see you draw your final breath I see a man who gets to make it home alive But it's no longer you" -("No Longer You" From EPIC: The Musical by Jorge Rivera-Herrans)

Sort of Skystar AU, I think Transformers One Starscream should go through his Odysseus Era in those 50 cycles of being unable to return home to his conjunx.

The song quote is from EPIC: The Musical about the Odyssey and in the song he talks to the prophet who tells him about the tragic things he will experience and how he won't come back the same he was before. Of course with oracles these things are never clear sounding unless you look at it in hindsight. So when he hears that his wife is shown with another man who has a trail of bodies and is potentially dangerous he thinks it is someone else since many of the things listed are things he has not done yet, but the person with his wife is the future version of himself. I just like the idea of Starscream ironically getting jealous of himself lol.

Just thinking about the potential of how TFOne Starscream and the High Guard basically could not return home for 50 cycles, hunted down by enemies, fresh off of a betrayal and watching the Primes their leaders/comrades in arms die, lack of resources and energon/food, stranded on the surface with a dangerous shifting landscape, and declared dead to the general public back home. Like I know it doesn't fit the Odyssey completely, but with some of the similarities I think about established relationship Skystar and how Starscream goes through all those things for 50 cycles and it slowly makes him worse as more time passes until the person who returns home is so changed by those experiences. Unlike the Primes who died, he gets to make it home alive. But the person who makes it home is not the same person 50 cycles ago. But also the yearning during those 50 cycles that he's going to keep going and surviving so he can get home to his 'Penelope' (aka Skyfire). I know most already know this, but for those who don't know the Odyssey 'Penelope' is Odysseus' wife. Meanwhile Skyfire has to deal with Starscream potentially never returning and people telling him to move on and that Starscream is dead :)

[thecoffinsys]

Slay the Princess is the perfect demonstration of trauma, dissociation, and systemhood.

I NEED MORE PEOPLE TO TALK ABOUT THIS. And it's NOT just for the reasons you may think. Yes, it is due to the multitude of voices, but that isn't all there is to systemhood. Slay the Princess dives into almost every fundamental stage of grief, trauma, stress, and body sensations regarding traumatic events that we as a collective have ever experienced. Stay with me.

SYSTEMHOOD

Not only does Slay the Princess display systemhood through the multitude of voices, inability to come to a conclusion on outerbody decisions, and having different methods of how to survive specific situations— it also displays systemhood through loss of time, depersonalization, loss of identity and sense of self, alters having abilities over the body that others do not, looping the same trauma over and over again, and rapidly splitting due to traumatic experiences — even down to not being believed by family members when you tell them something horrible happened to you.

The entire idea of jumping from one alternative world to the next after dying or making the incorrect choice perfectly displays a repetition of the same traumatic memory over and over again, the mind trying to logistically think of what could have been done differently as a means of coping with what really happened. When you fail to save the world in one reality, your mind restarts the entire scenario again, trying to find a better option to the mistake you've already made.

The Stranger rout perfect displays depersonalization, dissociation, loss of self and identity, and confusion regarding time. The second you step down a staircase, you completely and utterly forget yourself in the mundane action. Forgetting who you are, where you are, what your purpose truly is - and sinking deep within your own mind, until suddenly you're right where you are meant to be and have no memory of how you got there. It's so perfect in how it shows the confusion and distress.

This game is about becoming. whole. Gaining. A sense. Of self. And purpose. Gaining more perspectives, more understandings of what it means to be a person. (Oh my god I'm screaming)

In The Nightmare, the voice of the Paranoid displays perfectly symptoms of not only paranoia regarding trauma, but symptoms of OCD due to trauma. He has an ability that no other alter has, which is to keep their organs running by participating in his own compulsion. Which really displays how some alters have abilities that other do not, because to be a system, you must be fragmented. Several shards of glass attempting, to the best of their ability, to be a functional mirror- but never having the exact strength. And different shards will hold different capabilities than those who are smaller, weaker, and carry smaller and/or more specific burdens. Paranoid is a very big shard, I think.

Following that — mirrors are a huge motif of the game. Not only do you continuously see them in every rout, but you end each rout by finally looking at yourself and seeing you for you. And the more perspectives you gain, the less "you" you truly feel. You become tired, withered. But it is all in the efforts to "become whole". To make this being of perception finally understand what it means to be more than just broken worlds creating branching understandings.

In A Moment of Clarity, dozens of voices begin to cloud our understanding due to the very traumatic thing we experienced in the last world. A rapid split because of trauma! We become more broken; "losing ourselves". Now there are even more conflicting thoughts, feelings, and opinions regarding how we should go about surviving- and it displays our further descent from our sense of self. Which is ironic given the name of the ending!

And finally (but most definitely not finally, I could keep going on and on but no one would want to read all of that), The Narrator never believing you when you tell him you've been here before, have experienced horrors that he could never imagine, and have been through countless nightmares. But not only does he not believe you, he will also ridicule your idea, and go on to say "you failed because you didn't listen to me" or "you damned another world because of what you did". Puts the blame on us, once again. It's the same thing a lot of systems do experience in the real world. You try to reach out, you try to explain to someone you trust that something horrible happened to you, but you're met with disbelief and shamed for your own trauma. Made to feel like the guilty one when you are in fact the victim- the survivor. That one stood out to me very personally.

. . .

I really want to go on but this is already a billion paragraphs and I worry no one will even get this far. But this game means a lot to us as a system and as someone who experiences things very similar to what is displayed in the game on a daily basis. Slay the Princess might be one of our all time favorite games as of right now, especially considering the guy who traumatized us for 200 episodes straight is the main guy voicing the entire thing- that also helps with sentiment-

Uhhhh thank you for reading if you made it this far :]

[mooshkat]

missing car scene?? when i catch you, tim. timothy when i catch you i swear to god

Tommy feels lighter as he jogs to catch up to Buck. It's seared into his brain, the way Buck looked at him and said 'our people' in his speech to Billy.

He feels like his band of people is slowly growing, as he edges one foot into the door with the 118 again. He hangs out with Hen and Chimney more, and Eddie. Bobby and him are talking again. He gets invited to the family gatherings, and not just as Buck's boyfriend anymore, but for him.

They want him around and part of him still can't believe it.

The other part is throwing out warning signs saying how dangerous it is to let them be so close, telling him that this can only end in heartbreak just like it has every time before, but he pushes it away. Boxes it up and pushes those feelings deep, deep down.

He should be allowed to be happy, without expecting it all to come crashing down. Things with Evan are good, so good. He should get to have this. He does have this.

Tommy waits until they're both in the car before he leans across the center console and grabs Buck's face in a gentle hand, careful of the boils as he gives him a bruising kiss.

"See," he breathes, smiling into the next kiss as Buck leans into it, "it's not true."

Buck laughs and pulls away just enough to look at Tommy, his eyes bright and twinkling. It makes Tommy's chest ache, being looked at like that. "So you did it to prove a point?"

He shakes his head, and can't help but kiss him again. Their noses knock together, but they both grin through the brief pain. "No, Evan. You called me your boyfriend."

"Is–is that okay?" Buck asks, a little breathless from all the kissing.

"It's perfect."

[existential-crisis-of-the-mind]

Small Talk (Jason Todd x Reader, Pt 1 of 2)

Jason frowns as he looked down at his drink. A cup of steaming hot cocoa you had prepared for him, insisting it will warm him up.

His frown deepens as he glances at his fingers wrapped around the mug. Knuckles which were bloody and bruised an hour ago now carefully bandaged in ointment and gauze.

If it were up to him, he wouldn’t bother wrapping his wounds. They were surface level, didn't need stitches. The dried blood would serve a reminder of another target taken down. He wouldn’t bother taking any painkillers either and certainly not bother fending off the cold with a warm drink. None of that matters in the grand scheme of things.

His eyes then flit to you, sitting on the couch beside him, blanket wrapped around your curled up form as you distractedly flit through TV channels. 

Jason knows you’re not paying attention to the screen, it’s all just static and white noise. He can tell by light frown lining your brow, the way you bite your lip and the tautness in your shoulders that you’re worried. Worried about him, but unwilling to voice it. Probably cause you’d been bluntly dismissed the last couple times you raised your concerns.

Because Jason doesn't have the privilege to acknowledge his pain, doesn’t have the time to sit in his feelings nor reflect on his past. He's had to forego all that if he wants to move forward, to seek justice. At least his brand of justice anyway, drenched red in revenge as it may be.

But you, you stubbornly insist on being soft, on treating his wounds as if he’s delicate, making space for his feelings as if they matter, tolerating his outbursts without judgement or ire, staying in spite of how much the sight of his battered and bruised body coming home scares you.

It’s not like you know all that much about him to justify his antics. He’s not exactly disclosed his past beyond the fact he’s cut ties with his family, hasn’t really told you all that he gets up to as Red Hood. And his standoffish personality? A supposed byproduct of being resurrected only to realise you were abandoned by daddy dearest, though he’d rather not go down that rabbit hole.

So he can’t help but wonder why you choose to stick around. Why you put up with a caustic man like him, surely his sarcasm and occasional witty remarks don’t balance out his other self destructive tendencies.

“(Name)” He calls out, waiting until your eyes are on him before he continuing

“Do you feel sorry for me?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment, almost as if you need a moment to register that’s what he really asked.

“What?… What do you mean Jason?” your expression conveying genuine confusion at his out-of-the-blue question.

“You heard me” He mumbled gruffly, internally warring with the uncomfortable atmosphere he's created but also unable to sit with his doubts any longer.

“Do you pity me? Is that why you stick around and play house?”

He knew that last bit was uncalled for, but it was hard not to feel that way when his mind whispered those cruel words. That you felt sorry for him. Saw him as a broken man, damaged goods.

He knew that’s how the few people still in his life viewed him. A young boy subjected to trauma at the hands of Gotham’s most nefarious villain, turning to a life of revenge and vengeance... too far gone to see the light. An 'anti-hero' who needs to be stopped. Captured and contained.

Except how others perceived him didn’t quite bother him, not like he held any of them in high regards, especially not Bruce. Yeah okay, he was still bitter at how quickly everyone seemed to resume their day to day routine in his absence. Not like he had any evidence of them trying to avenge him and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give them the benefit of doubt.

But you, well you were different. You weren’t a part of his previous life, you only had the (dis)pleasure of meeting reborn Jason Todd. The jaded, sardonic Jason Todd, who was done with the world and all it had to offer. 

And yet you smiled at him. Cared about him. Worried for him. As if he’s deserving of any of those sentiments, as if even though you don’t fully understand him or the things he does, he still matters.

You seem to accept him in a way he’s yet to accept himself, and that thoroughly confuses him. To the point where the only conclusion his mind can offer is that you pity him. 

So here he is. He’d like to think this is him laying his cards on the table, but really he’s just an archer looking down the tall castle walls he’s built around himself, waiting to pierce an arrow through the one good thing he’s got going. Cause it’s just too good to be true. 

He’s not going to put a label on what he feels towards you, not just yet. Not when he doesn’t know where he stands with you.

He raises an eyebrow as he crosses his arms, curious but defensive in his stance as he braces himself for what you have to say.

He sucks in a quiet breath as your lips part. As much as he’d like to think he’s prepared for the worst, the possible reality where you do view him as damaged goods would definitely sting. 

His eyes flit back to yours regardless, he’s no coward after all.

—————————————————————————

Gotta love the random burst of 1am inspiration disrupting my sleep schedule. Let me know what you think of this! Part 2 is likely going to be dual POVs for maximum angst  

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Sauron might have bound himself to his physical form in Tolkien legendarium, after all

And what does this mean for his "Rings of Power" character arc?

I’ve come across this amazing Tolkien legendarium YouTube channel today, and here the author explains how Sauron, like Morgoth before him, bound himself to his physical form before the Fall of Númenor:

This theory combines evidence from several of Tolkien works: "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, "The Silmarillion", "Morgoth’s ring" and "Nature of Middle-earth".

This actually makes a lot of sense as to why Sauron physical form in the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy only has four fingers (the one cutted out by Isidulr is missing, even after his “re-embodiment”). This is similar to what happened to Melkor after he became bound to his physical form; he, too, had wounds that never healed (for instance, the burns on his hands from holding the Silmarils).

"The Black Hand of Sauron" drawn by Tolkien

But true 'rational' creatures, 'speaking peoples', are all of human / 'humanoid' form. Only the Valar and Maiar are intelligences that can assume forms of Arda at will. In any case is it likely or possible that even the least of the Maiar would become Orcs? Yes: both outside Arda and in it, before the fall of Utumno. Melkor had corrupted many spirits - some great, as Sauron, or less so, as Balrogs. The least could have been primitive (and much more powerful and perilous) Orcs; but by practising when embodied procreation they would (cf. Melian) [become] more and more earthbound, unable to return to spirit-state (even demon-form), until released by death (killing), and they would dwindle in force. When released they would, of course, like Sauron, be 'damned': i.e. reduced to impotence, infinitely recessive: still hating but unable more and more to make it effective physically. Myths Transformed: Orcs; "Morgoth's Ring"

This confirms that Sauron, after having his physical form destroyed during the Fall of Númenor, has been “dammed” and he’s reduced to impotence. We know this already because he loses the ability to take on fair form after this event.

Binding to a Physical Form

But the question is: how did Sauron bound himself to his physical form?

Morgoth, we know, it was due to his endless corruption of Arda, for thousands of years. And this included the corruption of other Ainur (several Maiar), creatures, children of Ilúvatar (orcs), etc.

The things that are most binding [to Valar and Maiar] are those that in the Incarnates have to do with the life of the hroa itself, its sustenance, and its propagation. Thus eating and drinking are binding, but not the delight in beauty of sound and form. Most binding is begetting or conceiving.  We do not know the axani (laws, rules, as primarily proceeding from Eru) that were laid down upon the Valar with particular reference to their state, but it seems clear that there was no axan against these things. Nonetheless it appears to be an axan, or maybe necessary consequence, that if they are done, then the spirit must dwell in the body that is used, and be under the same necessities as the Incarnate. The only case that is known in the histories of the Eldar is that of Melian (...) The great Valar do not do these things: they beget not, neither do they eat and drink, save at the high asari, in token of their lordship and indwelling of Arda, and for the blessing and sustenance of the Children. Melkor alone became at last bound to a bodily form. Note 5 (“Vinyar Tengwar”) of “Osanwe-kenta"

Side note: when Tolkien says "Melkor alone" it means the only Vala to bound himself to a physical form was Morgoth. He's speaking of the Valar in particular, here. He also tells us the Eldar were only aware of Melian as the only Maiar to bound itself to a physical form, but, as we know, the Eldar aren’t aware of everything that happens in the world.  

The Fanar [physical form] of the Valar were not “phantoms”, but “physical”: that is, they were not “visions” arising to the mind, or implanted there by the will of a superior mind or spirit, and then projected, but received through the bodily eyes.   [...] It is said that the longer and the more the same hröa [body] is used, the greater is the bond of habit, and the less do the “self-arrayed” desire to leave it. As raiment may soon cease to an adornment, and becomes (as is said in the tongues of both Elves and Men) a “habit”, customary garb [...] [If] the spirit (that is, one of the those not embodied by creation) [Valar and Maiar] uses a hröa for the furtherance of its personal purposes, or [still more] for the enjoyment of bodily faculties. It finds it increasingly difficult to operate without the hröa.  “The Visible Forms of the Valar and Maiar, “The Nature of Middle-earth" 

"Begetting and conceiving” might, indeed, mean more than just standard reproduction, because Morgoth did “begot” with creation and mastery of several races and creatures. However, the only other example of a Ainur (in this case a Maia) getting bound to a physical form in the lore is Melian, when she became pregnant with Lúthien (after reproducing with her Elf lover, Thingol).

How did this happen?

But Sauron didn’t exactly “begot” with creation like Morgoth did. We know, for a fact, he did not impregnate any Orcs during his “breeding of the Orcs” project in the First Age, because he would have bound himself to a Orc physical form, and that never happened.

And “Rings of Power” fans know this too, because Sauron would never have looked like this if he did. He would have a Orc physical form:

He would have never been able to take on the "Halbrand" form either. Nor the Annatar form, for that matter. In Season 1, and Season 2 of "Rings of Power", Sauron isn't bound to his physical form. The fact it's the same actor is irrelevant, because these are two different physical forms (one is a man, the other an elf).

One could argue Sauron bound himself to his physical form because of the One ring. But the One ring is a piece of jewelry, not the physical body his immortal spirit inhabits, like Tolkien tells us. He’s bound to the ring, yes, but apparently, he bound himself to his physical form, too, and for that reason, when he “re-embodied” after the Fall of Númenor, he was “damned” and “reduced to impotence”, and could no longer take “fair form” to deceive others.

This “binding” happened somewhere in the Second age timeline (which encapsulates thousands of years) before the Fall of Númenor. From the lore, we know that Maiar are at risk of binding themselves to a physical form when they overindulge on it: too much eating, drinking, sleeping, f*cking, etc. 

However, we know that Sauron shapeshifts a lot in the lore, so his risk of binding himself to any physical form is lowered than the average Maiar. So, how did this happened?

The fastest way for him to bind himself to his physical form is to father a child, this much we know. But why would Sauron ever want a child? Especially in the legendarium, we don't have candidates for the mother (I know, I know, folks from the 1970's disagree).

One time, I joked Sauron was the only iconic supervillain in pop culture without grandchildren, and that “Rings of Power” just gave us Sauron x Galadriel. Don’t tell me they’ll actually go with the insane “Half-Maia Celebrían” theory.  

Or maybe Sauron threw too much parties at Mordor and got wasted on a regular basis? Too much to eat? Too much fornication? Giving away those rings was wild, then.

We are not sure if Sauron will keep his Elf form (“Annatar”) for his Nine rings of power plan, and “King of Men” plot in Season 3 and Season 4. He might choose to take on a Man form, once again. If he does, he was clearly not bound to the Annatar form. So we’ll have to wait and see, on that one.