~Love Sturniolo triplets... obviously...
Boy directioner (ot5)
⋆Zquad, Louie, Niall boi
Other fav music artists: Lana Hozier, Arctic monkeys, mitski, Jorja Smith many more..
Evan peters is my bae
Nicholas Galitzine is bby girl
♡James Dean..
I am an amateur artist too..!
THANK YOU~~~
My FANFICTIONS:-
Crimson and Clover Honey ~ Nicksturniolo x male!character
Worship Me For the Night is Young ~ ONESHOT Nicksturniolo x male!character
A/N: this one... It is special to me!!! Probably my longest fic yet... Lmao! This is how Oliver and Nick met! Happy reading!!!
Warning: nothing really!!! But this is quite long... So strap in!
Real.
If I ever fall in love, it’d have to be with someone real. Not perfect. Not polished. Just—real.
Someone who doesn’t fake being nice.
Someone who doesn’t pretend to be likable just so people orbit them like flies to sugar.
Someone who doesn’t twist themselves into a performance just so the world claps a little louder.
And this guy?
This blonde-haired, smiling-at-eight-in-the-morning, sunshine incarnate guy?
Yeah. He’s faking it. For sure.
He’s standing at the front of the classroom, practically radiating eagerness like a Labrador at a park.
“Hi! I’m Nick Sturniolo! I do gymnastics, and I’m also a triplet!”
A chorus of half-interested chuckles ripples through the room. My eyes stay deadpan. I drum my fingers against the desk like a ticking bomb. He squints, scanning for a seat. His smile falters—barely—but I catch it.
Good. Let it crack a little.
And then, of course—of course—he starts walking toward me.
No.
He keeps walking. Backpack swinging. Shoes squeaking.
Fuck.
He flops down beside me like this is some sitcom and I’m the sarcastic side character about to be changed by the golden-hearted protagonist.
Spoiler alert: I’m not.
He glances over, that smile still firmly affixed, like he doesn’t notice the black hole of irritation radiating off me.
“Hey,” he says, and it’s annoyingly soft. “You mind if I sit here?”
“You’re already sitting,” I mutter, not looking at him.
Instead of taking the hint, he laughs—like I made a joke. God. He’s one of those people.
“Cool,” he says. “What’s your name?”
I look at him now, finally. Let him see the unimpressed. Let him see the walls.
“Does it matter?”
He blinks. For just a second, he looks taken aback. And then, like a stubborn lightbulb, the grin comes back even warmer.
“I guess it does if I plan on talking to you again,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “You planning on that?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Maybe.”
Bold move, Gymnastics Barbie.
I turn away, biting the inside of my cheek—but not before I catch something flicker across his face.
Something not polished. Not perfect. Not rehearsed.
Something... real.
Shit.
---
He’s quiet for a beat.
I think I’ve finally won. One-word answers are usually enough to send people packing.
But then he says, “Okay. If you won’t tell me, I’ll guess.”
I blink. “Are you twelve?”
“Mentally? Yeah, maybe.” He grins like this is fun. Like I’m fun. “You look like a... Jonah. No, wait—Ben. Or Oliver. You’ve got Oliver energy.”
I stiffen.
His face lights up. “Is it Oliver?”
Goddamn it.
I sigh through my nose and stare ahead, refusing to answer. My heart feels weirdly loud, like it wants to be noticed. Like he noticed it.
He lets out a little victorious “yes” under his breath. And for the first time in forever, I don’t feel like bolting out of my own skin.
Not yet.
---
Third period.
He’s already at the table when I walk into Chemistry. His eyes catch mine like it’s nothing, like we’ve been doing this for years. He waves. Actually waves. Like we’re friends.
I sit next to him again.
I don’t mean to. But every other chair feels wrong.
“You again,” I mutter, flipping open my notebook.
He leans in. “Fate.”
I roll my eyes, but... my lips twitch. Just slightly. He sees it. I know he does. Because he doesn’t point it out. Doesn’t gloat. He just smiles softer.
Like he’s saving it. Like it means something.
I pull out my book. Solitaire. A book that, in my opinion, perfectly encapsulates my life. Boredom. Walls. Tori Spring. That’s all me.
He notices. Of course he does.
He leans in. “Hey, I’ve heard of that book! Haven’t read it. Is it good?”
He knows about the book? And for a moment... I really look at him.
His blonde hair shifting slightly in the breeze.
His eyes—piercing blue.
“Is the book good?” he asks again.
“O-oh, y-yeah. I’ve read it a couple times.” God, I hate it when I stutter.
“Yeah? I should totally read it, then,” he says, smiling again.
Why does he have to do that?
And just like that, silence resumes.
---
Three weeks later.
I know his laugh by heart now.
I know he hums when he’s concentrating and twirls a pencil between his fingers when he’s nervous.
I know he talks to his mom on the phone every night at the bus stop and drinks strawberry milk like it’s sacred.
I know he sees me.
Really sees me.
And it scares the hell out of me.
Because the closer he gets, the more the mask I wear starts to slip.
And I’ve worn it so long, I don’t know what’s underneath anymore.
But he looks at me like he already knows. Like it doesn’t scare him at all.
---
It’s late. We’re on the rooftop of the gym.
He found the way up. Of course he did.
The sky is navy and bruised. The world is quiet. Just us and a city that never learned how to listen.
“I don’t think I’m built for people,” I whisper. “They want too much. Or they don’t want anything real.”
Nick doesn’t say anything for a while. Then:
“Maybe they’re not your people.”
I turn. He’s lying back, arms behind his head, eyes tracing constellations like they belong to him.
“I don’t want anything fake from you,” he says. “I just want you. However that looks.”
I swallow.
The wind picks up. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for his. I don’t. But I think about it.
God, I think about it.
And in that moment, I realize—
I want him to know who I am.
Even if it wrecks me. Even if it ruins everything. Because maybe—just maybe—he’d still stay.
“I read the book, by the way,” he says, cutting into my spiraling thoughts.
He read the book?
“The Solitaire book?” I chuckle. “You haven’t. Don’t lie.”
“No, I actually did!” he laughs. “It’s pretty good!”
I hate this.
He listens.
I hate that I can’t just hate him.
He makes it so hard.
---
Friday. After school. Gym hallway.
I find him outside the locker room, still in his practice clothes. Sweat on his neck. Hair a beautiful mess.
He spots me immediately. His smile flickers into place like muscle memory.
But I don’t smile back.
“Hey,” he says cautiously. He feels it.
“Hey,” I echo, leaning against the wall. “Got a minute?”
“Yeah, of course. What’s up?”
I study him. His stupid, hopeful face. That sincere voice. That look in his eyes like he’s trying to memorize every second I give him.
It makes me want to scream.
“You’ve got to stop,” I say, cold.
He blinks. “Stop… what?”
“This. The trying. The being nice. Acting like you see something in me worth seeing.”
His brows furrow. “I’m not acting, Oliver.”
I laugh. Hollow. Sharp around the edges. “Yeah? Then you’re just stupid.”
He stiffens.
“Seriously,” I say. Arms crossed. Walls rising. “You keep saying you want the real me. That you don’t care how messed up I am. But you don’t know me. You know the version of me that lets you in a little, then slams the door.”
“I know more than you think.” His voice is low now. No smiles. No sunshine.
I step closer. “Then tell me what happens when you see all of it? When I stop being sad in a way that’s safe, and start being difficult. Angry. Mean. Because that’s in there too. That’s me.”
“I won’t leave.”
“You will. Everyone does. They get tired. They stop looking. They say they want the truth, but the second it gets ugly, they run.”
Nick flinches like I hit him.
But then—God, then—he steps closer.
“Maybe you want me to run,” he says quietly. “So you don’t have to deal with someone who actually stays.”
Silence.
My chest burns. Not from hate. Not from anger.
From hope. That awful, vulnerable thing.
I turn away. My hands shake.
“I didn’t ask you to stay.”
“I know,” he says. “But I’m here anyway.”
And I hate him for it.
I hate how much I want to believe him.
I hate that he might actually mean it.
---
The hallway is quiet now. Most people have gone home. Just the buzzing of old lights and the weight of what I just said hanging between us.
I’m facing the lockers, fists clenched, staring at my reflection in the dull metal.
I feel him step closer. Not touching. Just there.
“I didn’t ask you to stay,” I say again, voice shaking now.
“Why would you? I don’t make it easy. I don’t even try to.”
“I know,” he says. “But you don’t have to.”
His voice is calm. Steady. He’s the eye of a storm I didn’t know I built around myself.
And suddenly, I can’t hold it in anymore.
“You don’t know me!” I snap, spinning around. My voice cracks—God, it cracks—and I want to disappear.
“You see pieces, Nick. You see the way I flinch at kindness and you think that’s depth. You see my silence and mistake it for mystery. But it’s not. It’s just fear.”
I’m breathing hard now. The words tumble out.
“I don’t know how to let people care about me. I never have. Because they either want to fix me, or they want to leave. And if I let them see it—if I show them what it’s really like in here—”
I press a fist to my chest. “They look at me different. Like I’m broken.”
Nick doesn’t look away. He steps forward.
“I won’t look at you like that.”
“You will,” I whisper. “Eventually.”
He shakes his head. “No. Because I already see you. All of it. The sarcasm. The anger. The way you pretend not to care when you care so much it eats you alive. I see it, Oliver.”
His voice breaks. Just a little.
“And I still think you’re worth it.”
My knees give out. I slide down the wall, curling in on myself before I can stop it. I don’t cry. Not really. But my breath hitches. My eyes sting. And for once, I stop trying to hold it all in.
Nick kneels beside me. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t push.
He just reaches out—slowly—and rests his hand near mine. Not touching. Just close.
“I don’t need you to be easy,” he says softly. “I just need you to let me stay.”
And I think—I think—this is what it feels like to be seen. Not the pretty parts. Not the version of me I polish up and hand out to the world.
Just me. Messy. Angry. Afraid.
And still—he stays.
"One person person can change everything... And you... Oliver Maddox... Changed everything for me" he whispered... So low I thought I wouldn't hear it. But I did.
I look up at him. He's quoting it... He's quoting solitaire. He actually read the book- of course he did he's Nicolas Sturniolo why wouldn't he?
He smiles like he already knew.
"You actually read the book?" I say giggling a bit. A hint of smile playing on my lips.
"Well what can I say Tori Spring... I guess I am your Michael Holden." He says fully smirking at me.
---
A/N: MY LOVE FOR SOLITAIRE WILL FOREVER BE UNMATCHED!!! that book just... I love it guys! And I love when people quote books especially romantic ones! It's so sweet!!!
Also I know this isn't really like my other Nick and Ollie fic but trust the more blurb-y style will come back lmao. I just had this idea and I really liked it!
Venice bitch by lana del rey but edited the best parts with reverb
Read here
Nick Sturniolo is a Bookstore owner in a small town in Northern Italy. Vayu Arora is an elementary school teacher who is a frequent customer at Nick's Store. Both of them meet and they are suppose to fall in love like faith intended. But what happens when one o
"If I were a different kind of person, I might say that this whole incident is a metaphor for life in general: things get broken, and sometimes they get repaired, and in most cases, you realise that no matter what gets damaged, life rearranges itself to compensate for your loss, sometimes wonderfully."
An excerpt from a book that I read. And inspired me to write again...
maybe he is that gray cat that has begun to sit outside our neighbor’s house, purring when I reach out my hand to it; maybe he is that new puppy I see tugging at the end of my other neighbor’s leash; maybe he is that toddler I saw running through the square a few months ago, shrieking with joy, his parents huffing after him; maybe he is that flower that suddenly bloomed on the rhododendron bush I thought had died long ago; maybe he is that cloud, that wave, that rain, that mist. It isn’t only that he died, or how he died; it is what he died believing. And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.
