♡ synopsis: when a patient attacks you & embeds a scalpel in your abdomen, you go to jack for help. overwhelmed & irritable, he snaps at you to go find someone else for whatever it is which you're running to him for. once robby has tended to your injury, he informs jack of how he royally screwed up & your husband comes home after his shift to make amends.
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty! i hope i did ok ;_;
Blood drips in fresh, crimson splatters onto polished white tiles from the wound your hand hovers near.
Protruding from your right lower quadrant is a scalpel which a patient has just impaled you with. You don't even respond—there is no screaming, wailing in panic, or hyperventilating to bear witness to which interrupts the beeping, shifting monotony of the ED—before you turn and head out the door of his exam room without another word.
With your shirt awkwardly clutched in your hand, you walk with measured steps to an empty room—cringing all the while from the rhythmic movement.
Once you've closed yourself behind a locked door, you pull the silver instrument from your now inflamed abdomen with a quiet cry of distress, and drop it into the stainless steel sink you stand at. Clattering against the metal basin, you pluck half a dozen tissues from a plastic box mounted to the wall and press them firmly to your weeping laceration.
Not but perhaps two hours ago did you stand at a patient's bedside and hold his hand as a heart attack claimed his life and ripped him from his family's embrace. His wife threw herself over his corpse after—screaming all the while for him to wake up, wake up, wake up; she can't do it without him, how will they survive?
Her children, meanwhile, trembled in a corner while holding fast to one another—their tiny faces flushed and red from tears, unable to understand why daddy wouldn't open his eyes like mommy wanted.
You excused yourself to the restroom to vomit thereafter.
Fighting down a familiar feeling of nausea, you flex stiff limbs while continually pressing numb fingertips against your palm—continually counting them as a grounding technique.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
You believe that you may be going into shock.
You'd like a heated blanket to keep you warm, or your husband's arms to make you safe. Most of all, you wish to leave this place.
You go in search of Jack.
"Hey, Jack?" you ask quietly from the entryway of Trauma 3, watching as he smoothly inserts an IV in the arm of an unconscious patient.
You slide your shaking hand behind you so no one can see.
At least you're still upright, you think. Small blessings.
Even behind the blue and white mask he dons, you can hear him huff in irritation. "Honey, I'm a bit busy right now. If it's a consult, or you're needing help, you need to go find somebody else."
You take a small step forward, ignoring the way your fresh wound smarts when you do so. "I was just—"
He swiftly tugs down his mask and grips the handrail of the patient's bed he stands guard beside. "Go find Robby or Langdon. Anybody else. Can you do that?" he barks. "I don't always have to be the one you come to. They're just as capable."
Your eyes flit to Parker, who turns to Jack with an open mouth—you know she intends to defend you; chew him out for the way he's just spoken to you—until you take a step back in acquiescence to prevent an argument.
Sniffling quietly, you nod, now feeling like a burden. Does he often feel like that? Like you're breaking his concentration, or are too attached? Perhaps it's unprofessional behavior on your part. Work and home are two different things which you've ignorantly merged into one.
"Yeah, I'll go find Robby. I'm sorry for interrupting."
The door swings shut behind you.
You stare at Robby a handful of feet from where he stands, and watch as he heads into an empty exam room before following close behind.
"Are you busy?" you inquire softly while fingering the edge of the striped polyester curtain you waver beside.
He glances to you with kind brown eyes before tearing wrinkled paper from the exam table he stands at. Robby shakes his head while balling it up and tossing it into the trash. "Never too busy for you. What's up?"
You pull back the curtain to give yourself a bit of privacy.
You nervously tug at the hem of your shirt while your other hand continues holding your throbbing side, which Robby's eyes flit to before meeting your own once again.
"I need you to promise me," you say while shuffling forward. "That you're not going to make a federal case out of this. I...I think he's going to end up under psyche's care. I left him—" You shake your head. "I shouldn't have."
You half turn around then. What if he leaves his room and harms someone else? Why did you just walk out and not call security like protocol demands?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. No wonder Jack was so short with you.
You go to head back the way you came until Robby starts toward you and grabs your forearm. "Sweetheart," he says while resting his opposite hand on the crown of your shoulder. "You're my concern now. Tell me what's going on." He nods toward your stomach. "It have anything to do with the way you're holding yourself?"
You shift on your feet uncertainly and wince quietly from the movement. "Promise me. He's unwell. I don't want him arrested, or—"
Robby finally throws up his hands. "Fine, fine, if it'll get you to tell me what's wrong, I will give this man the royal treatment. Now, tell me."
You chew the inside of your lip, then gingerly lift the bottom of your shirt before carefully peeling away the wad of tissues that've dried to your unwanted incision.
"Jesus Christ," Robby curses while stepping forward and gripping your hip to begin examining the damage inflicted. "When did this happen?"
"A few minutes ago," you sputter in explanation. "I didn't tell anyone. I just turned and walked away. I don't know why. I went to Jack, but he...he was busy—"
"Too busy for this?" he asks incredulously. "A patient sliced your fucking stomach open."
You hang your head. "It's not that extreme, Robby."
Maybe if you deny that you were assaulted, things won't turn out to be as bad as you're afraid they are when he finally takes a look.
Robby gently prods at it and your hand flies—sinking your nails into his shoulder. "Ow!"
He raises a brow. "Isn't it?" Robby shakes his head. "Jack should've dropped everything to tend to you."
He waves you toward the exam table, and you climb awkwardly atop it while favoring your side. "I didn't exactly tell him," you murmur while lying back.
Pulling on a pair of gloves, Robby purses his lips in disapproval.
"He told me to come find you. Or just...someone. He was busy—overwhelmed—so he didn't mean to snap at me."
Robby shakes his head. "No excuse. When you come to me, I drop everything without complaint."
You grin, ignoring the way your body is trembling because it's so painfully cold. "It's because you just adore me, right?" you say playfully between chattering teeth while tucking your shaking hands beneath your thighs.
Seeing how you're shivering, Robby frowns, then shrugs off his hoody before draping it over you. "You know I do," he rumbles before grabbing a pack of wipes. "Was the instrument—"
"Sterile," you supply. "I just need stitches." Your eyes flit to the machine next to him, and your stomach sinks to your knees. "Robby..."
"What is it, sweetheart?"
Your chin wobbles. "Ultrasound." Your hand flutters toward your stomach. "My...my ovary."
He stills for a moment and studies you—the way your tearful eyes plead with him to tell you anything but that which you're now terrified of hearing.
He wheels the machine around and switches it on.
You stare up at him through glassy eyes. "Is...is it—"
He shakes his head. "It didn't go deep enough to hit anything. Barely went any deeper than the subcutaneous level."
You squeeze your eyes shut and begin to sob.
Pushing the cart away, Robby slides a palm over your forehead while shooshing you. "It's alright. I'm going to clean the area, give you a few stitches, and then," he says while folding your shirt until it's positioned just beneath your breasts, "I'm taking you home."
You shake your head. "No. Robby, I can—"
He drags an antiseptic wipe over the affected area. "This isn't some option I'm laying before you. I'm an attending, you're my resident—"
"I'm Jack's resident," you state.
Robby looks at you. "I'm making you my resident right now. And as your attending, I'm telling you that you're going home. I'm not asking," he states with finality.
Throwing your head back against the hard vinyl beneath you, you huff in irritation. "Fine."
Robby alerts security to the altercation which occurred where you clearly neglected to, followed by a page to psyche for a consult. After you've completed a workplace incident form and he's compiled a bag of supplies for you to take home so you can tend to your wound in private—as well as some pain meds—he presses the keys to his truck into your palm and tells you to go wait for him.
You think to ask as to why he can't come with you, but refrain.
You'd really like to sit down, and the sooner you make it to his vehicle, the sooner that can happen.
Jack's just exiting the room he found himself unwittingly stationed in for the last hour to the sight of Robby coming straight toward him with a displeased look on his face. He's left to assume that you went to him in the end like he commanded you to, then, and now he's about to be ripped a new one for daring to withhold attention for a damn minute.
"Take it she came to you?" Jack asks while ripping off a surgical gown.
Robby crosses his arms. "She's out in my truck. I'm taking her home."
"I'm sorry, what?" he asks with a raised brow while swinging around toward him.
"I'm guessing you don't have any idea why she came to you earlier?"
Jack plants his hands on his hips. "I assumed because she had a question, or needed help with a patient."
"She was the patient," Robby spits.
Jack falters momentarily.
"He's been taken up to psyche, but she was trying to treat a man having an episode of psychosis. He shoved a scalpel in her belly for it."
Jack curses then runs the heel of his palm along his eye and past his temple. "She didn't say—"
"Maybe if you'd bothered listening for a moment—allowed her to get out what she was trying to fucking tell you—then you might've known."
Jack hardly wastes a moment before shoving past Robby and hobbling toward the doors of the ED. His leg is giving him fucking fits tonight, and instead of dealing with it like a man, he chose to take it out on you instead. You, who was already terrified after someone committed battery against you.
You had looked a bit wan, but he merely shook it off as hazards of the job. Hardly anybody around here is in tip-top shape at all times.
Robby jogs to catch up with him, then presses a hand to his shoulder to halt him in his tracks. A gesture which he bats away. "I'm going to see my wife."
"Jack—"
"Dr. Abbot," calls Henderson from two doors down. "He's crashing, we need you!"
Jack grits his teeth and growls in frustration before turning back around yet again. "Just get her home. I'll be there as soon as I can once my shift is over," he calls reluctantly over his shoulder.
"You sure you don't want me to come in with you? Stay for awhile?" Robby asks while settling his forearm atop the center console and turning in his seat to face you.
You shake your head and force a smile. "No, thank you. I'll be okay. I'm just going to go in, try and bathe," you say with a breathy laugh. "Maybe order something, or just warm up leftovers. Afterward, I'll probably lay down for awhile and watch TV."
Robby seems to debate something for a moment, but ultimately relents. "Alright. Just call me if you need anything," he says while giving your hand a reassuring squeeze.
You nod. "I will. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
When Jack enters your shared domicile, it's to strict quietude. He presumes that you long ago fell off to sleep in wait of him, so he heads in the direction of the bedroom to get his damn leg off and switch to the relief crutches provide.
And then he finds the bed devoid of your previously expected presence.
Tugging off the apparatus, he practically tosses it onto the floor at his side of the bed, slides himself onto his preferred means of physical support—when he's home, anyway—and goes in search of you. An exploration which doesn't take long when he sees light peeking out of the crack found at the base of the bathroom door.
He knocks quietly. "Honey, can I come in?"
He hears something roll across the floor, followed by a quiet "damn it."
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry for what happened at work. I just had a lot going on. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. Just open the door for me, angel. Please."
There's the sound of something crinkling.
With a huff, he goes to turn the handle, only to find it locked.
He's really in the doghouse this time, isn't he?
"Either you can let me in, or I'm going to find a key," Jack states.
"I'm busy," you snip.
He sighs, rolls his eyes, then turns and heads for the multiple keychains that hang near the front door.
The doorknob jingles, then turns with a quiet squeak. "Now, do you wanna tell me why—" He promptly shuts his mouth.
It's worse than he thought. Robby did a clean job of repairing what that man damaged, but he's horrified by the sight of you sitting atop a towel in the middle of the bathroom floor in no more than your underwear while you try and clean your dozen stitches.
Leaning his crutches against the sink, Jack hops forward, presses a palm against the wall, then slides downward to join you on the floor.
"C'mere," he murmurs. "Let me take care of it."
"No, I can do it," you mumble while half turning away.
Jack plants his legs on either side of you and shoves your hands from the injury before you manage to reopen it.
Picking up the bottle of rubbing alcohol, he eyes it with a raised brow before glancing to you. "You know better."
You shrink into yourself out of embarrassment. "I was only gonna use a little..."
With a shake of his head, he reaches across the way, grabs the top, and screws it back on.
Swiping an ace bandage from beside you, he peels it open and tosses the wrapper in the trash before making to apply the dressing. "I'm sorry," he begins while smoothing the edges with his thumbs. "I didn't know. Not until Robby told me. For what it's worth, I was a worried wreck for the remainder of my shift. I couldn't get back here fast enough. I went flying by a state trooper on the interstate, but got lucky when he didn't come after me."
In every spare moment Jack had tonight, he found himself subconsciously fiddling with his wedding ring—not wanting to acknowledge the ugly truth of what kind of hell losing you would bring upon him.
He feels doubtful he could survive it; unsure that he would want to.
But you don't need to ever hear something so ugly.
Once you've been properly tended to, Jack grips your hips and pulls you toward him. "My leg has been aching all fucking night, I ended up having to do a cric on the patient you saw me with—" he shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."
Cupping the back of your head, he tries pulling your lips toward his. "I'm sorry, baby."
You slide a hand up his chest. "I forgive you," you whisper.
An apology which is soon followed up with a mischievous smirk. "Robby's really good with his hands, by the way. You ever had 'em on you?"
Jack glares at you. "You do not want to test my patience right now."
"I'm the one who got stabbed," you retort. Leaning in close, you giggle. "Even let him come inside and tuck me in..."
Jack deadpans. "I need to check the security cameras?"
You shrug. "Only proof of what we did in bed is stored on my phone in a locked folder. It's filthy."
He fights against a smirk. "You're such a pain in my leg."
You raise a brow. "And you're a pain in my belly."
He snorts while bringing you flush against his chest. "If something like that ever happens again, you scream at the top of your fucking lungs. Alright? Made me sick thinking about you trapped in there alone... He could've done far, far worse."
You nod while nuzzling against his neck. "I just froze. My body locked up, and my voice with it. All I wanted was you I was so scared."
He could put his head through a fucking wall hearing that. Jack wraps his arms securely around you. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. What happened tonight will never happen again. You come first. Always."
Sliding a hand up your back, he presses a kiss to your temple. "It's my job to protect you. And tonight I failed to—"
You shake your head. "Jack, I didn't even tell you." Leaning back, you caress his cheek. "It happens. As terrible as it is, it does in our line of work. It's just a cut that, at most, may leave a small scar. Better it be me with a sterile instrument than someone he attacks on the street with a dirty knife. He wasn't himself. I'm okay."
He presses a long kiss to your forehead. "You're way more empathetic than I would've been. Good thing you didn't tell me. Because if you had..." He doesn't want to think on how he may've very well put the assailant in the morgue.
"I'm just glad he's safe and getting the help he needs. Everything is alright now," you insist.
He brushes a kiss over your lips.
"C'mon," you say while pushing back. "Come lay in bed for awhile and I'll massage your leg." You grin. "Robby gave me the good painkillers, y'know?"
He rolls his eyes. "He does tend to baby you," he says with a grunt while pushing himself upward.
You paw at his middle once he's standing. "Guess that makes two of you."
You pad out of the bathroom and he pinches your rear on the way out, causing you to yelp in surprise.
"Let's go see if we can't overwrite your and Robby's video," he croons while sliding onto his crutches.
"'Overwrite'? Think you're cruising in the wrong century, old man."
He switches off the bathroom light and nearly barks a laugh at the reply that comes to him. "Yeah, well, I'm about to fuck you into the next one, little girl. So you better hope those stitches were sewn tight enough."
cw: self harm, grief, depression, an extremely loving steve
part 1 | part 2
how every member of the party realized you and steve were in love, true love. this time, it was max.
it was an unspoken rule that whenever max’s mom and stepdad were out, and billy was inviting a girl over, max had to leave.
she wasn’t forced to, but it was for her own sanity. hearing her stepbrother go at a girl for hours on end, complete filth leaving his mouth, wasn’t an ideal way to spend her night.
more often than not, she’d come back home right as the girl was about to leave. his chosen girl would have tears streaming down her face, telling max how much of an asshole her stepbrother was.
billy would just be in his room, his blanket draped over his bare torso lazily, a cigarette in between his lips.
billy died, and the house was always quiet.
her mother took up drinking and her stepfather left. max pushed everyone away until she had no one.
some nights, the house got too quiet and her thoughts took over. those nights never ended well.
she was so tired of the same routine over and over again.
quiet house leads to overbearing thoughts leads to impulses you can’t control leads to stinging showers leads to pounding heads and sleepless nights.
she had enough.
she got on her skateboard and rode to steve’s house. the autumn leaves crunching underneath her wheels.
when she got to his house and heard a scream, she instantly tensed up, remembering billy. what followed confused her. “steve! you’re getting flour all over my hair!”
steve murmured something back too low for max to hear.
she knocked on the door multiple times before it opened to reveal steve. a messy steve. his hair was tugged in all directions and he had flour all over his shirt. “oh, hey max.” he stepped aside to let her in.
“max!” you yell, running over to hug her, arms extended so you don’t get any batter on her. “come, sit, sit! we’re making a cake.”
she followed you to the kitchen and sat down on a stool, hands carefully placed in her lap and shoulders hunched in.
“to what do we owe this pleasure?” asked steve.
“you never shut up and it’s quiet back home.” she swallowed, crossing her arms defensively.
“you got that right.” you huffed, bending over to put the cake in the oven. max saw a handprint on your left cheek, white residue contrasting your black sweatpants. “you’re always welcome here, max. mi casa su casa.”
a frown slowly made its way onto her face. you and steve probably weren’t even in love, just keeping each other busy. that’s what billy loved to do, and she didn’t see why steve could be any different.
steve instantly caught on and sent you a glance. you returned his slightly confused look and started cleaning the kitchen. “sorry it’s so messy. steve’s an animal in the kitchen.”
“you kept distracting me!” he defended himself.
“so you started the blender without even putting the cover on because of my buttcrack?” you could say you forgot that max was there, but in all honesty, you didn’t care. that’s what steve (and everyone else) liked so much about you—you didn’t care about saying the wrong things in front of people because you simply believe there are no wrong things to be said.
if you feel the urge to speak up about something, you do. if you feel the urge to give your unwanted opinion, you do. you firmly believe that words are the strongest weapon a man could brandish.
steve’s face flushed and the tips of his ears went pink. he busied himself with wiping down the counter. “it’s a nice crack.”
you looked over at max with a look that said ‘get a hold of this guy’.
max recognized the look on your face all too well. it’s the disappointed look billy’s one night stands give her when they realize her stepbrother is nothing but an animal.
what she had failed to recognize was the teasing smirk on your face, or the lovestruck look you gave him almost immediately after.
she stood up abruptly. “i’m going to the bathroom.”
“okie dokey.” you nodded.
on her way to the bathroom, the borderline shrine steve set up of you two caught her eye.
dozens of framed pictures sat atop a table. what caught her eye is that in three fourths of the photos, you two were kissing. the remaining one fourth were normal, but with steve touching you all over.
a hand on your lower back, a hand tucked into your back pocket, a hand resting on your shoulder, on your knee, everywhere.
her frown only deepened.
as she washed her face with cold water, the realization hit her. steve was no different than billy. it wasn’t love he felt, it was primal instinct disguised as love.
you didn’t deserve that.
when she returned, you and steve were sitting next to each other watching a movie. you two weren’t close that you were touching, but a person definitely couldn’t fit between you two. steve had his arm draped over the couch, fingers rubbing patterns on your shoulder.
max made her way to you two and sat right in the middle. she wiggled her hips to push steve lightly, and leaned into you ever so slightly that you thought you were making it up in your head.
“yup,” sighed steve, moving away to give you two space to space out. “make yourself at home, kid.”
you shot him a discreet look at his subtle sarcasm.
when you realized the 45 minutes were up, you got up to retrieve the cake. once you left the living room, max tilted her head to look at steve. he was sprawled across the couch, taking up more space than necessary, just like billy.
the resemblance made her sick.
she laid down so he was no longer in her line of sight. she pushed his thigh to give her legs more room to stretch out.
he grabbed her ankles and rested them on top of his thighs, squeezing her calves.
she almost felt bad. almost.
you came back with three slices of cake. your heart almost melted at the sight of steve and max. you had always loved their relationship.
“aren’t you supposed to let the cake cool, baby?”
she isn’t stupid, thought max.
“it just smelled so good!” you defended yourself, tapping max’s forehead so she could sit up. “eat.”
“not hungry.”
“nobody eats cake when they’re hungry, silly. it’s a snack.” you shrugged, handing her her plate.
max raised her hand to take it and the loose sleeve fell down, exposing too much of her forearm. she hoped you didn’t see, and you pretended you didn’t.
it was surprisingly good, so all three of you scarfed it down while it was still hot. it made it taste even better.
max laid back down, head resting on your thighs and legs resting on steve’s thighs.
you ran a hand through her hair, scratching her scalp. steve massaged her calves. she couldn’t help but close her eyes. it was the most relaxed she’d felt in ages.
you thought she was asleep. both of you did.
“are you okay, steve?”
“hm? oh, yeah. m’fine.” he swallowed.
“you don’t have to lie.” you murmured disapprovingly. “i know you hate to see her upset. we all do, but you hate it a bit extra.”
“i think you hate it the most.” countered steve.
“stop deflecting.”
steve sighed. “it’s not nice seeing her like this, but the fact that she came means something, right? she came to us. maybe this is her way of asking for help.”
“i saw…” you cut yourself off, swallowing the lump in your throat.
steve gently placed max’s legs back on the couch and crouched in front of you. “what’d you see, baby?”
“steve, she’s hurting herself.” you said in a voice just above a whisper. “like, physically.”
max stilled. you saw.
you brought a shaky hand up to wipe the tears that fell. he held your hands in his. “we’ll help.”
“i-i can’t.” you admitted shamefully. “i can’t and i feel so horrible.”
“it’s okay, baby.” he kissed your knuckles.
“when i first saw them the first thought i had was fuck i miss that.” you confessed. “it’s been on my mind for the past hour. i can’t get mad at her or tell her to stop cause that would make me a complete hypocrite. i wish it wasn’t like that. i wish i wasn’t like that.”
“i love you as you are,” he emphasized. “all of you. there isn’t a single thing about you i would change. and we got through it before, right? we’ll get through it again, because you’re so so so strong. and we’ll help max get through it too. i know it’s hard, baby, but i’m right here. whenever you—or max—need me i’m here. always will be.”
you pressed the heels of your palm to your eyes, trying to stuff back whatever tears were threatening to burst.
max’s position on your lap made it uncomfortable for steve to try and comfort you. “i’m gonna go take her to bed then we can continue talking.” he put an arm under max’s knees and the other under her back and lifted her up with ease.
“i love you so much, baby. please never forget that.”
“love you too, steve.” you murmur, palm still digging into your eyes.
he walked to the guest room and placed max on the bed. he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and tucked her in.
steve wasn’t like billy, not in the slightest, and max felt so incredibly foolish to even remotely think so.
steve loved you in ways that were unimaginable, and max saw it in the way his voice absolutely broke when you told him about your thoughts.
steve wasn’t always touching you because he wanted to get in your pants, he was always touching you because it was grounding you. it brought you back to earth. it ripped you away from your thoughts.
warnings: attempted sexual assault (not by rafe!!)
synopsis (requested by anon): at one of his parties, a kook who’s been obsessing over you follows you to rafe’s room and attacks you. rafe finds you in time, violently stops him, and the night ends with rafe makes sure you’re safe, and he has a little break down and guilt for not saving you.
Downstairs, the party was in full swing, but as a Pogue, being here felt like you were being watched 24/7, unable to actually have fun but Rafe’s hand on the small of your back had kept you steady all night.
"I need a second," you whispered over the music, gesturing toward the stairs. "It’s too loud down here."
Rafe leaned in, "Go. My room. I’ll be up in ten to check on you, okay?"
You nodded and walked away. You didn't notice Jaxon watching you from the corner of the porch. Jaxon was the Kook the others avoided—the one who took things too far, whose jokes were always a little too rude, and worst of all whose obsession with you had become a dark secret since you started dating Rafe.
The silence of Rafe’s bedroom was a relief. You shut the door, leaning against it for a moment. But then, the door handle turned. You stepped back, thinking it was Rafe, but the man who stepped inside and immediately clicked the lock wasn't your boyfriend.
“Jaxon?” your voice climbed an octave. "What are you doing? Get out."
"You think you’re so special because of him?" Jaxon’s voice was low, his eyes fixed on you with a terrifying look. "A pogue girl in a house like this? You’re just a stray he picked up."
Before you could scream, he moved. He was surprisingly fast, catching you by the waist and throwing you toward the bed. You scrambled to get up, but he was on top of you instantly.
"Get off me! Rafe!" you shrieked.
He pinned your wrists over your head, his grip bruising your skin. You bucked and kicked, your heel hitting him in the ribs, but he only grew more aggressive. He began tearing at your clothes.
He managed to yank your shirt away, leaving you in your bra, and his hands fumbled with the button of your jeans. You were sobbing now, fighting with every ounce of strength you had left, but he was heavy and forceful, pinning your legs down with his knees. You felt the cold air hit your skin as he pulled your pants halfway down, his breathing ragged and disgusting in your ear.
The door didn't just open, it exploded.
Rafe had heard the scream. He had been looking for you, a growing knot of anxiety in his chest that turned into pure anger when he saw what was happening.
“Get the fuck off her!”
The roar that left Rafe’s throat didn’t sound human. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing Jaxon by the back of his neck and throwing him off you with such force that Jaxon hit the heavy oak dresser, shattering the mirror.
Rafe didn't wait for him to get up.
Rafe’s fists moved in a blur, all of it coming from the psychotic side he usually tried to keep hidden from you
Every time Jaxon tried to cover his face, Rafe found another way to hit him.
"Rafe, stop! Please!" you cried out from the bed, trying to pull your clothes back together.
He couldn't hear you. He was in one of his “states”. The sound of meat hitting bone filled the room. Jaxons’s face was unrecognizable, his nose shattered, his eyes swelling shut.
"Rafe! Stop, man! You're gonna kill him!" Topper and Kelce burst in, having heard the crashing furniture. It took both of them, grappling Rafe’s arms and pulling him back, to get him off the limp body on the floor.
Rafe was vibrating, his chest heaving, his face splattered with blood that wasn't his. His right hand was already swelling, the knuckles split wide and purple.
"Look at her!" Rafe screamed at Topper, pointing a shaking finger at you. "Look what he did!"
Kelce quickly dragged Jaxon out of the room and the moment the door shut again, the adrenaline seemed to drain out of Rafe and he looked scared instead as he scrambled onto the bed.
"Don't look at me, don't look at the blood," he choked out, his voice trembling. He reached for a clean hoodie on the chair, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold it. He draped it over you, his eyes searching yours.. "Did he... did he get to...? Did he hurt you anywhere else?"
"No," you sobbed, finally breaking down into his chest. "You got here... you got here in time."
Rafe pulled you into his lap, ignoring the pain in his shattered hand. He wrapped his arms around you, rocking you back and forth. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath hitched in his throat.
"I’ve got you. I’m so sorry. I’m never letting you out of my sight again," he whispered, his voice thick with tears. "I’ll burn this whole island down before I let someone touch you again. You’re safe. I promise you, you’re safe."
The chaos of Tannyhill faded into a muffled noise as Rafe carried you out the back entrance, avoiding the eyes of other kooks. He didn't want anyone looking at you, and he certainly didn't want anyone seeing the look on his own face.
He settled you into the passenger seat of his truck, his movements gentle. He didn't seem to feel his swelled up hand. His only focus was the way you were against the door, wrapped in his oversized hoodie.
When he pulled up to your house, he didn't let you walk. He hopped out, rounded the truck, and lifted you into his arms again. He used his foot to nudge the door shut and carried you straight to your bedroom, setting you down on the edge of the bed.
Rafe moved through your room and disappeared into the bathroom and came back with warm water, a soft cloth, and a first-aid kit.
He knelt on the floor between your legs.
He started with your face. His left hand grabbed the back of your neck to steady you. He used the cloth to gently wipe away the tear tracks and the smudges of stuff on your face where Jaxon had pressed your face into the pillow.
"Tell me if I’m hurting you," he murmured, his voice barely a rasp.
He moved down to your wrists. He stared at the dark bruises left by Jaxons fingers and for moment his jaw was clenching so hard you could hear his teeth grind. He began to dab the skin and every time you winced or took a sharp breath, he froze, his eyes darting to yours with a look of pure agony. He moved to your collarbone and shoulders, cleaning the small scratches.
As he moved the cloth down to your knees, his hands suddenly stopped. He stayed hunched over, his head hanging low between his shoulders. A heavy silence filled the room, and then you saw it—a single tear splashed onto the top of your foot. Then another.
"Rafe?" you whispered.
He let out a jagged, broken sound like a half sob. He dropped the cloth and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently.
"I saw him," Rafe choked out, "I saw him on top of you. I heard you screaming my name and I wasn't... I wasn't there fast enough. I’m supposed to be the one thing in this world that keeps you safe. That's my only job. And I let that piece of shit put his hands on you."
He looked up then, and the sight was devastating. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with tears, full of guilt. "I know what people say about me. But you were supposed to be the only one I protect. I was supposed to keep the rest of them away. I failed you so bad."
You leaned forward, ignoring the ache in your limbs, and reached down to cup his face. Your fingers brushed against the blood still splattered on his cheek.
"Look at me, Rafe. Look at me," you commanded softly.
He slowly met your eyes.
"You didn't fail me," you said, your voice gaining strength. "He chose to do that. He’s the one who’s sick. But you... you’re the one who stopped him. I heard your voice and I knew I was going to be okay. You saved me. Do you hear me? You saved my life tonight."
Rafe let out a shaky breath, leaning his face into your palm and closing his eyes. He let out a long, shuddering exhale, the tension finally leaving him as he pressed a long kiss to the center of your palm.
"I'm never leaving you alone again," he promised. "I don't care who I have to go through. You’re mine, and I’ve got you. Always."
He finally pulled back,
"You need to get out of these clothes," he said softly. His eyes dropped to the torn hoodie he’d wrapped around you—his hoodie, now stained and ruined. "I’ll get you something clean. Something warm."
He stood up and pulled out your softest pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He walked back to the bed and set them down beside you.
"II'll turn around," he whispered.
When you were done, you crawled under the blankets.
"Rafe," you called out quietly. "You can look now."
He turned around and the tension in his shoulders dropped an inch when he saw you tucked safely under the covers. He walked over and sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of him making the bed dip.
He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was so light it was almost a ghost of a feeling. He pulled the blankets up to your chin.
"I’m going to stay right here," he said, his voice dropping to a low, soothing hum. "I’m not going back to the party. I’m not going home. I’m staying in this chair by the bed, and I’m watching that door."
"No," you whispered, reaching out and grabbing his arm. "Stay. Stay on the bed. Please."
Rafe hesitated, looking down at his swollen, bruised hand and the blood still under his fingernails. He looked like he felt too "dirty" to be near you, but the look in your eyes made him crumble. He kicked off his shoes and lay down on top of the covers beside you.
He didn't try to pull you into a tight grip instead, he just let you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. He rested his chin on your hair.
"I've got you," he whispered into the dark, his hand resting protectively over yours. "Nobody's ever hurting you again. I promise."
As sleep finally began to pull at you, the last thing you felt was Rafe’s thumb tracing small, soothing circles over the back of your hand, his eyes wide and alert, guarding you until the sun came up.
Omg jade!!! Are we gonna get a kiss scene next chapter?!!? Im so excited <3
beyond the sea au | fem, 2k
“D’you wanna sit in the living room?” Steve asks, closing the door behind you. He doesn’t pretend that there are chores to be done or attempt to buy himself any time, not when his nerves turned to a bone deep want the moment you pulled out of the mall parking lot.
“Bed? Hold and talk?” you ask.
Steve smiles at you. A real one that he’s not as used to wearing anymore. “Yeah, okay. Hold and talk, we can do that.”
Steve follows you up the stairs. You unbutton your denim jacket as you go, and hang it on the back of his door once you’re both closed away inside, reaching up to hook it and exposing the line of your back. Steve tosses his own jacket over the end of the bed, kicking out of his shoes, and climbing unceremoniously into his bed, the sheets already rumpled from this morning.
You go on knees at the end and crawl up to him. There are still hints of makeup on your cheeks, but the lipgloss was gone by the time you finished your fried scampi, doubly gone after your raspberry lemonade. He can’t tell whether you like lemonade or if the fizz is novel enough to make you drink it, but you smell like soda as you settle in front of him. Raspberry soda and clothes detergent, the kind for babies, because Steve worried you’d be sensitive to anything more chemical-heavy. The closer you get, the more you smell like you, though. Like sand, maybe, the sun-warmed kind. Sweet like the end of a garden.
“Kissing,” you begin, unafraid. “You want kissing with me, kissing with…” You meet his eyes, curiosity and wanting all wrapped up neatly in the dark well of each pupil. “Mermaid kiss, not kissing more.”
“You do kiss?” he asks, not totally surprised. He only had to kiss your forehead once for you to start returning the gesture, it came to you easily.
“Kiss give food, and kiss want kiss, want happy,” you tell him.
The image doesn’t fill Steve with confidence. “You don’t want to kiss just to share food, though, right? Humans don’t do that. I don’t think I’d like a kiss with food.” He tries to put it firmly but gently.
You spread your legs where you’re kneeling to sink more comfortably into the sheets. “Not kiss you give food. Not if you not want.”
“Okay.”
Your hands play restlessly with each other just in front of you. Steve realised belatedly that he’s left you in an awkward gap, though the longer the quiet stretches, the less awkward he finds it. He thought maybe you’d rush to kiss him once you were home; you’re always eager to do what it is you’ve decided you’d like to accomplish, and he figured his wanting to talk about it would confirm things to you. He practically jumped at the idea, hadn’t he?
You want me to kiss you like that? he’d asked.
“Kissing can be different for different people. And it can be kissing for different reasons.” Steve feels inadequate as he lays it out, but it must be lain. “Most people want to kiss, but you might like it less than you think, or more than you think. And it can be a kiss for nothing, or a deeper,” —his voice shudders with roughness— “kiss, or it can go further than that. I think I know what kind of kiss you want, but we need to talk about how to say no.”
“No?”
“If I kiss you, and you don’t like it, you can say no. You need to say no.”
You tilt your head to one side. “Okay.”
“You understand?”
“Yes. I understand… Steve say no, yes? If you not want.”
“I know how to say no, I promise.”
“Okay hold you, now?” you ask hopefully.
Steve sits back expectantly. You crawl forward until he can get his hand under your arm, half-dragging you over his lap as you use his shoulders for balance. You let your weight rest in his lap as Steve pulls you into place, not quite close enough to kiss, but enough to see you, to read your expression, to look for what you want in the face of his own desperation.
Steve lets his feelings rise. “Do you want to know what beautiful means?” he asks after a minute, letting his hands run down your sides to rest lightly on your hips.
“Beautiful. Yes.”
“You know what pretty means?” He squeezes your hip. “Pretty, it’s like. Almost every girl I’ve ever met is pretty. It means there’s something in your face that makes you pretty, it’s–” Steve lets his gaze wander from point to point. “Your nose… your eyes, your mouth. The pearl on your chin.” He brushes at it with his thumb, then lets his hand tumble searchingly against your upper thigh.
“Beautiful?” you ask.
“You are beautiful. Because you’re pretty, but you’re beautiful.” He says it with quiet weight. “It’s all of those things together. Your face, and your neck, and your hair.” He smiles to himself, squeezing at your leg. “Your legs.”
“My tail?” you ask.
He nods. “Yeah, honey. That was beautiful too. It’s not gone forever, is it? You’ll have it again?”
“Tail… I not want, tomorrow and tomorrow, but.” You hold your hand to your chest. “What word, me? Me, tail me.”
“I think that’s the only word for it. You’re you, and everything about you before you got your legs was still you… I think I thought you’d be more you now you can be back in the world, but you’re a little different, now, aren’t you?” He feels up your thigh, thumb in the crease where your leg meets your tummy, pushing with no want to go anywhere else.
“I am happy,” you say, covering his probing hand with yours. “Ecstatic with you. With you make me happy, like. Word not know before.”
Steve turns your hand. “Have you ever been in love?”
“In love?” you ask quietly.
“You know what ‘in’ means, that you’re inside of things? We go in the pool, in the car, in the house. Being in love, being inside of love. It’s…” Steve pauses, taking a deep breath, the kind to fill his lungs and leave his chest aching as he empties them. “‘Love’ is want, and need, and like. It’s a big feeling.”
“Love…”
“Do you have that at home? In the lake? People you love?”
“I love people.” You squeeze his hand absentmindedly, looking down at the sheets, at his side, somewhere in between. “People and people. Like Robin and Eddie. Like Nance and Jonathan. People know, people not know.”
“Close friends and neighbours,” he suggests, matching your quiet tone.
“Not like me and you,” you say, looking up at him with the shyest smile he’s ever seen you wearing.
“No? You’ve never felt it?” he asks, voice dropping still, afraid to speak too loudly and spook you. Or more, too afraid to scare himself.
“Need you more. Need, not want. It feels like need.”
There’s something there in your voice he’s getting more familiar with by the day. A confidence in what you’ve said, but an aching, too. Your last four words hit him like a freight train, because it’s the closest you could’ve come to telling him you love him without saying the word, and it’s the most assured you’ve ever sounded in your own voice. There’s no hesitation there. No stumble or slur.
It feels like need.
“Do you wanna take your shoes off?” he asks, a lightness that’s impossibly similar to pressure building in his head and in his hands as he turns your foot enough to undo your shoelace. You let him untie them, loosen them, and ease out your foot. You let him do it to the second shoe on your other side, then readjust yourself in his lap to tuck your feet under your thighs.
Steve holds your waist and drags you in, until your stomach lays against his own, and there can be no illusion of space, your hand slipping under his jaw. He grabs your elbow and holds you in place, in a middle distance now as he turns his face into your hand and kisses your palm.
Kisses your wrist.
Your breath comes out in a sigh as he presses his nose to your pulse and breathes against your skin, eyes closing now, too afraid to see you and make a noise that’ll distend the bubble that’s lapsed around you, his quiet room, the darkness growing outside and the hedging glow of sunlight that makes its way through, a slice of horizon glowing pink, and orange, kissing your skin and painting you in new colours.
“Beautiful arm,” he says, nosing to your elbow, letting his lips part at the crook and closing them there in his most wanting approximation of a kiss. “Beautiful here.” He pins your shirt sleeve and kisses your upper arm, lingering there, close enough to you to feel your quickening breath ruffle his hair.
He raises his head, already missing your arm, the curve and slope of your shoulder hidden beneath thin blouse. His hand is greedy at your neck, taking hold of you, lining his thumb to your throat and pressing down gently. Your pulse capers. He can feel it jump.
“Beautiful here,” he says, turning your head to kiss your neck, more chaste than the slow pull at your bicep, too impatient now to tease, “beautiful–”
You turn your face up so his kiss lands on your chin, rather than your jaw. “Steve?” you ask softly, looking at him through eyes half-lidded.
“What, baby?” he asks, framing your face in his two hands. They feel bigger than usual against your skin. They look blunt over something so delicate. “What?
“Feel,” you say, bringing his hand to your chest, pinky finger nudging under your shirt. He almost can’t bear to have it moved, but he presses his palm flat to your heart within your chest and lets it batter against him. “Not know to do.”
You sound panicked as your heart. “Yeah? You don’t know what to do?”
“Need to do, but– I need– I need–”
Your voice shudders close to tears, but Steve knows it’s not the kind that comes with fear. Fuck, if he could keep you here, away from his world and yours, if he could glue his hand to your chest to feel it trip as he rubs his thumb against your cheek, that soft skin.
“Do you need a kiss?” he asks, holding your gaze as he tamps down a smile. It breaks through anyhow.
“Please?” you ask.
His hips kick as he straightens, as his thumbs line your jaw, an ache rocking through his stomach as a voice inside of him begs to turn you into the pillows and lay between your spread thighs. “Please?” he says, speaking into your mouth now as his eyes flutter closed, “So you’re polite now, yeah?” He kisses you so briefly he almost hates himself for it, worse when you make a needy sound so soft he has to hold back a sigh. “Beautiful girl, you need a kiss?”
You part your mouth to answer and Steve leans in to take it.
His hand slips behind your head, over hair, to the opposite ear, his arm laying across your shoulders as he turns his head to the side and opens you up. It’s a bump of a kiss, lips warm and soft and tongue warmer, such a hesitant, wanting little press of it that he makes a sound too close to pain and has to turn his head, has to move into the kiss like the tide pulling away. You push softly against him. Your hand balls tightly in the front of his shirt.
He pulls away as quickly as he can. “Is this okay?” he asks, breathing hard in the curve of your Cupid’s bow.
“Okay, okay,” —you kiss him once, like a prompting— “please, I need–”
Steve laughs into your mouth and kisses you again.
Somewhere downstairs, the front door whines open, and a person slips inside of the house without being noticed.
In which Remus' favourite jumper is accidentally shrunken, and the Marauders hatch a genius (insane) plan involving your animagus form to restore it to its former glory.
f i c t o b e r d a y t w o
warnings: animagus!reader, fem!reader, the marauders are idiots, one moment of Remus having dirty thoughts because this boy is down bad (sue me), swearing, no use of Y/N | word count: 1886 words
note: wow this was meant to be out like a week ago but Greece smacked me in the face with a lack of wifi that drove me INSANE
“Well, this is new.”
Remus hesitated at the portrait hole of the Gryffindor common room, cloak and hair still damp from the rain that had been drizzling persistently for the last few days, blanketing Hogwarts and the surrounding mountains in a fine layer of damp.
The common room was mostly abandoned, with only a few stragglers at the study tables and the loud and boisterous group he despaired to call friends loitering around the fire. Along with, he noted with a sudden warm jolt in his chest, you.
Well, not you exactly.
The small cat blinked up at him from Sirius’s shoulder, all wide eyes and unrurly fur, unfairly adorable as you dug your claws into the leather of Sirius’s jacket.
It wasn’t your animagus form that was the cause of such bewilderment – lord knew he had seen it often enough during full moon nights or evenings of general mischief that the sight was more than familiar.
What was strange, however, was the old brown jumper that was far too familiar, and far too small, considering it had been human sized when he had worn it the day before.
Remus cleared his throat, catching the attention of the group. “... Is that my jumper?”
James, who had frozen like a deer in headlights – he gave himself a mental high five for that pun – lifted his hands placatingly. His round glasses slid down his nose as he shot Remus a bashful grin.
“Ah. Moony.”
“Uh oh,” Peter mumbled as he hid behind the long scroll that was his Charms essay. Remus could see the bumps in the parchment where his friend had frantically scribbled out sentences – almost the entire essay, by the look of things.
“Sirius.” Remus crossed his arms over his chest, knowing damn well who to was blame, levelling him with his best unamused glare whilst trying to tamp down the amusement steadily rising inside of him.
It wasn’t funny, not really – he didn’t have many jumpers, and that one happened to be one of his favourites – but something about how adorable you looked, blinking innocently up at him, swaddled in his (albeit miniature) jumper, illuminated by the golden glow of the flames slowly dying to embers in the fire, had his heart softening to the point where it was truly impossible to be mad.
He could never be mad at you. It was practically impossible. He hated it. He adored it.
Sirius and James, however? Oh, it was more than possible to be mad at them, and he was incredibly eager to demonstrate if they didn’t start talking soon.
“Explain.”
James winced. “Don’t be mad–”
“When a person starts a sentence with that phrase, it rarely means anything good.”
You meowed in agreement from atop Sirius’s shoulder, and he gently scooped you up to settle you on the arm of the sofa.
“You were better off holding her,” Peter said, not looking up from his essay. “He won’t hit you if you’re holding her.”
Sirius hesitated and then slowly reached down to you again. You batted his hand away and hissed, and Remus was unfairly thrilled at the offended look on Sirius’s face as he cradled his hands against his chest, scowling.
“Oh, so now you won’t let me pick you up? That’s hardly fair.”
“You were trying to use her as a human shield.” James shrugged. “Or feline shield, rather.”
“Says the one who bribed her to do this by promising her ten of your chocolate frog cards and a pack of cauldron cakes!”
You purred as you strided across the arm of the sofa and up to James, rubbing your head against his hand.
Remus cleared his throat, thoroughly agitated. “Excuse me, but would you lot care to tell me why the bloody hell my shrunken jumper is on my girlfriend?”
At the sound of his voice, Sirius and James winced again simultaneously.
“Right. That.” James said tightly. “Well, you see – Sirius can explain.”
“What?!” Sirius exclaimed incredulously. “This was your idea!”
“You’re the one who shrunk it!”
“It was an accident, you pillock!”
“Pete, care to chime in here?” Remus asked, thoroughly exasperated.
Peter shook his head, ears pink. “Not particularly.”
Remus sighed. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Alright,” he said loudly, cutting through the squabble. “If neither of you explains within the next twenty seconds, then James, I’m telling Lily you skirked off prefect duties last week.”
“What?!”
“Hah!” Sirius raised his fist in the air in victory.
“And Sirius,” Remus continued, “I’m telling Janice you were recently at the hospital wing for a horrific rash on your… unmentionables.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”
Remus’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Try me.”
There was a moment of tense silence, in which your head swivelled between each Marauder, eyes wide with excitement, before James threw a hand up and pointed at Sirius. “It was his fault!”
“Oi!”
“We were trying to help Pete out with his Charms essay, and we were showing him how to do a shrinking charm, and your girl had brought the jumper down earlier for when she got cold later and Sirius tried to shrink the plant pot and missed and now your jumper is tiny and–”
“We were gonna fix it though!” Sirius said quickly, noting Remus’s expression of pure bewilderment.
“And how, pray tell, is putting the shrunken jumper on a cat fixing it?”
“Well,” James said proudly. “We had an absolutely brilliant idea to set things right.”
“Foolproof, really.” Sirius nodded.
“Yes, but is it you two proof? Because if not, I can’t see it working well.” Remus ran a tired hand over his eyes. Sometimes, more often than not, it felt like he was raising his friends and doing a spectacularly bad job at it.
A gentle pressure against his palm caught his attention, and he glanced down to see that you had moved silently across the sofa, coming to rest at his side. You blinked up at him slowly, and his heart melted in his chest as he bent slightly to scoop you up.
“Hey, dovey,” he said softly, nestling you against his chest.
You purred in response, bumping your little nose against his chin.
James scoffed. “Blatant favouritism. She bit me when I tried to pick her up earlier.”
“Deserved,” Remus said unapologetically, scratching lightly behind your ears. “And none of that explains why she is wearing my jumper.”
“Well, animagi don’t lose their clothes when they turn into animals, right? Like, we turn back with them on, don’t we?”
“Right,” Remus nodded, not even pretending to understand how that little bit of magic worked.
It was a blessing, considering how often his friends ran around the castle in animal form – at least this way they didn’t have to stash clothes everywhere on the off chance one of them would end up wandering around naked.
He felt his cheeks flush at the thought as he ran his fingers soothingly over your fur, trying to banish the idea of you naked from his head. Lord knew that was hardly the time.
“Well, in theory, they shrink with us, correct?” James continued.
Remus squinted, having absolutely no idea where this was going. “Well, you hardly wander around wearing your leather jacket as a dog.”
Sirius was silent for a moment before he turned to James with a grin. “Can we try that? That would be fucking awesome.”
“No, you cannot try that,” Remus snapped before James could answer. “The smell of dog would never come out.”
“I do not smell like dog!”
Peter’s nose wrinkled. “Well…”
Sirius went white. “Oh my god… do I smell like dog?”
“Oi, idiots.” Remus rolled his eyes and gestured to the cat curled up in his arms. “Please?”
“Oh, right.” James looked bashful. “Well, we thought that if the clothes shrink with us then surely they’ll grow with us too, right?”
Remus had a sinking suspicion where this was going, and prayed that he was wrong.
“So, theoretically, if she was wearing your jumper as a cat, when she turned human again, the jumper would grow with her. You know, back to its normal size!”
There was a moment of stunned silence in which Remus questioned every single life decision he had ever made, namely letting the two idiots in front of him sit in his compartment that day in first year on the Hogwarts Express.
“You…” Remus felt his left eye twitch. “You’re joking.”
Sirius crossed his arms. “Give me one reason it wouldn’t work!”
“Hmm, I don’t know, how about I give you a dozen of them, namely the pieces of my favourite jumper that will be all over the floor when the damn thing rips!”
“It won’t rip!” James argued, looking thoroughly offended. “It’ll just grow back to its normal size, and then you would have been none the wiser, except you just had to come back from your walk early and stop us right before the magic happened.”
Remus looked at him incredulously. “Are you even hearing yourself, Prongs? Magic.”
Both James and Sirius stared at him blankly. You made a noise in his arms that sounded an awful lot like a disappointed sigh. Peter lowered his head into his hands.
“Idiots. You’re both idiots. You’re wizards, you twats! Just use Engorgio on it! Or have the last six years at this school been for absolutely nothing?”
More blank stares.
Sirius bashfully rubbed his neck. “Didn’t think of that.”
“Mhm.” James ran a hand over his mouth. “Well. That’s a… perfectly reasonable, rational, sensible solution there, Moony.”
Remus rolled his eyes, feeling the beginnings of a migraine slowly tugging behind his eyes. With a loving scratch behind the ear, he deposited you down on the couch, where you waited patiently, blinking up at him dopily.
“So… we just take it off her? And use magic to regrow it?”
James looked at Sirius blankly. “How the hell did neither of us consider that?”
“You were too excited about putting a jumper on a cat,” Peter chimed in, finally deeming it safe enough to look up from his essay.
“Right. Yes.” Sirius stared down at you and grinned. “Worth it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake–” Remus reached forwards to remove the jumper, but James leapt in front of you protectively, arms outstretched widely.
“Wait!”
“For the love of Merlin, what?”
“You know what else is a great spell?” James asked, eyes bright. “Repairo. You know, the magic fixer of all things broken. Or, in this case, ripped.”
“... You want me to let you try it anyway, don’t you?”
Sirius nodded. “Very much so, yes.”
Remus looked blankly at Peter.
Peter shrugged bashfully. “In the name of science?”
He hated his group of friends. Really, truly he did. If he hadn’t spent six years growing awfully attached to them, he’d insist on finding new ones. As it were, he sighed wearily and stepped back, tucking his wand back into his pocket.
“Fine, fucking hell. But I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
One ripped jumper, a laughing you, and several frantic repair spells later, Remus had his (thankfully intact and normal sized) jumper back, and was content to sit with the knowledge that as usual, he was right, and his friends were complete idiots.
They were his idiots though, he supposed, and his life was better for it.
The Miscommunication GP (Multiple Drivers x Reader)
Summary: You didn’t leak the location, you didn’t flirt, you didn’t ghost — but they thought you did. Cue bratty sulking boys, tearful truths, and the sweetest grovels this side of the paddock
Pairings: Oscar Piastri x Reader, Charles Leclerc x Reader, Lando Norris x Reader, Max Verstappen x Reader
Oscar Piastri
The apartment door clicked open sometime after midnight, Oscar dragging his suitcase inside with a weary scowl. The flight back from a brutal triple-header had left him running on fumes, and the simmering frustration of a weekend gone wrong hadn’t helped.
What made it worse? The calls.
Three missed FaceTimes. Two unread texts. He’d sat in the lounge watching the little “no answer” notification blink at him, jaw clenched. By the time he got home, he’d convinced himself you’d just… ignored him.
“Didn’t even bother to pick up,” he muttered, kicking his shoes off with more force than necessary. “Nice.”
He found you in bed, curled under the blanket, phone facedown on the nightstand. The faintest glow from the screen showed the “Do Not Disturb” icon.
“Really?” he scoffed under his breath, tugging at his hoodie. “Couldn’t even wait up—”
Your eyes blinked open, heavy and glassy with exhaustion. You sat up, rubbing at your face. “Oscar?”
“You didn’t answer me all day.” His voice was sharp, irritation masking the ache beneath it. “Not one call. Not one text. Do you know how that feels, flying home after that mess of a weekend, and you don’t even have dinner ready?”
The words landed like a slap.
You blinked at him, throat closing. Without saying anything, you pushed yourself out of bed, padding quietly into the kitchen. Silent tears streamed down your cheeks as you pulled chicken and broccoli from the fridge, spooning rice into the pan.
Oscar huffed and disappeared into the bedroom, too wound up to notice the way your shoulders shook as you plated the food.
When he returned twenty minutes later, the table was set with one plate. Just one. Chicken, rice, broccoli—his usual. No second dish. No glass of water for you.
You weren’t there either.
The sliding door to the balcony was cracked, and when he stepped closer, he found you outside. Curled into yourself in the corner, knees pulled tight to your chest, hoodie sleeves hiding your face.
“Love?” His voice softened instantly, guilt already curling in his stomach. You didn’t look up.
He crouched down in front of you, heart dropping at the shimmer of tears streaking your cheeks. “Hey, hey… what’s this?” He tried to reach for your hand, but you pulled back, turning further into the corner.
It hit him like cold water: he’d snapped at you—his safe place, his anchor—because of his own bruised ego. Because of a race. Because of nothing.
“Oh, fuck.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, voice cracking. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I was an absolute dick. I didn’t mean it. I just—I came home angry at myself and I took it out on you. And you don’t deserve that. Not ever.”
You sniffled, hugging your knees tighter.
He shifted closer, desperation tugging at every word. “Please don’t shut me out. I know I don’t deserve a second chance tonight, but—god, I hate that I made you cry. I hate that you think even for a second that I don’t adore you.”
He reached again, gentler this time, brushing his thumb along your sleeve until you let him catch your hand.
“You weren’t ignoring me, were you?” His tone was broken now, realizing the truth as he asked. “You just… fell asleep?”
You nodded faintly, voice raspy. “Bad day. Phone was on silent. I wasn’t ignoring you.”
Oscar’s stomach twisted. He tugged you into his lap immediately, arms banding around you like he could physically erase every word he’d thrown at you earlier. “I’m the worst,” he whispered into your hair. “Absolute worst. And you still cooked for me.” His throat worked hard. “And I was a prick.”
You tried to turn away, but he kissed your temple, frantic with apology. “No more. I promise. You never owe me dinner, or calls, or anything. Just—please don’t curl away from me like this. Please don’t make me feel like I lost you over my own stupidity.”
He held you tighter, rocking you gently until your breathing steadied.
Later, he carried you back inside, tucked you under the blanket, and crawled in beside you—clingy and contrite, whispering “sorry” into your hair every few minutes. He couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop kissing your knuckles, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth.
By morning, the untouched plate was still on the table. But in bed, Oscar was wrapped around you like ivy, murmuring into your ear:
“First thing we do today? I’m making you breakfast. And then I’m spending the whole day proving I don’t deserve you, but I’ll try anyway.”
And for once, he wasn’t joking.
⸻
Charles Leclerc
The night was supposed to be perfect.
Charles had said so himself when he kissed your hand on the way into the restaurant: “Just us tonight. No cameras, no noise. Only you.”
The place was tucked into the harbor, quiet, romantic. You’d snapped a picture of the sunset bleeding orange over the water, the kind of photo that begged to be shared — except you hadn’t. You’d texted it to your mum with a quick line: my love treats me so well. That was it.
But before the main course even hit the table, fans had started arriving. One, then three, then ten. Charles signed napkins, menus, a Ferrari cap someone had in their bag. By the time he slid back into his chair, jaw tight, his wine glass sat untouched.
“You couldn’t wait, could you?” he muttered, cutting into his food with more force than necessary.
Your fork paused mid-air. “Wait for what?”
He gestured at your phone, still face-down by your plate. “Posting. Sharing. Whatever. You gave the whole world our location.”
Your chest went cold. “Charles, I didn’t. I texted my mum a picture. That’s all.”
“Sure, bébé,” he said, voice clipped. He didn’t even look at you when he rolled his eyes.
The rest of dinner passed in silence, broken only by the scrape of cutlery.
⸻
The ride home was worse. The city lights blurred by the window, your reflection pale in the glass. Charles kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping restlessly against his thigh.
Finally, he muttered, “I just wanted to do something nice for you. One night for us. And you had to go and ruin it. Show it off.”
You turned sharply in your seat, heat rising to your face. “I didn’t ruin anything, Charles. I texted my mum. That’s it. If anyone ruined the night, it was you — accusing me of something I didn’t do.”
He didn’t answer. His knuckles just went whiter on the wheel.
Your voice cracked when you added, “If you don’t trust me, then why do you even bother with me?”
Silence swallowed the rest of the drive.
⸻
Back at his apartment, you went straight to the bedroom. Your phone landed on the dresser with a thud, screen lighting up with the most damning evidence of all:
my love treats me so well
Mum: He’s such a gentleman. You’re lucky, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.
You didn’t wait for him to follow. You locked yourself in the bathroom, water scalding hot as you cried through your shower, hands pressed to your face.
A knock came after a while. “Mon amour,” Charles said softly through the door.
“Go away,” you choked, voice breaking.
Silence. Then retreating footsteps.
When you finally crawled into bed, eyes swollen, he was there already — on his side, back turned, shoulders tense. You slid under the covers, facing the opposite way.
“Bébé, I’m sor—”
“Not now, Charles.” Your voice was flat, final.
He exhaled, the sound heavy. “Tomorrow,” he muttered.
And that was it.
⸻
Tomorrow came with an empty bed.
You drifted through the morning in a haze, heart heavy. The apartment was too quiet, too big. You made tea and didn’t drink it, curled up on the couch and stared at nothing.
When the door finally opened, you didn’t bother to look up at first.
“Mon amour…” His voice was careful.
You turned your head — and froze. Charles stood there, hair mussed from the wind, bouquet of white roses in one hand and a takeout bag in the other.
He set them down gently, like a peace offering. “I was wrong,” he said simply. His voice cracked, just a little. “I accused you without listening. I didn’t trust you, and you didn’t deserve that.”
Your throat tightened, but you stayed quiet.
He unpacked the bag slowly, almost nervously, and slid the box toward you. The smell hit instantly — warm, sweet, familiar. Your favorite French toast, piled high with strawberries and powdered sugar.
You tried to fight it, you really did. But your lips twitched when he pushed the fork into your hand.
“You’re still in trouble,” you muttered, spearing a bite.
Relief broke across his face like sunlight. “I’ll take it. Just… let me make it up to you. A redo. No distractions this time.”
You chewed slowly, letting him sweat. Finally, you sighed. “One redo.”
He grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Merci, mon amour. I won’t waste it.”
And this time, you believed him.
⸻
Lando Norris
Martin’s set was insane. The lights, the beat, the crowd surging with every drop—it was the kind of night Lando lived for. He was grinning ear to ear, a tequila shot in one hand, already pulling people onto the dance floor.
You tried. Really, you did. You nursed one tequila soda, then switched to water when your head started to ache. The bass thudded so loud it rattled your ribs, and by the time Martin went into his third remix, every pulse of the music sent a spear of pain through your temples.
Still—you smiled when Lando bounded over, sweaty and glowing, planted a sloppy kiss on your cheek. You leaned into his ear, yelling, “I’m gonna Uber back to the apartment, okay?”
“OKAY, BABY BACK!” he shouted, already looking past you at the crowd.
Not exactly listening. But you took it as enough. You slipped out, phone buzzing faintly in your hand as you ordered the ride. By the time you stumbled into the apartment, head splitting, you were nauseous and shaky, medicine bottle rattling as you fumbled it open. You didn’t remember falling asleep—just the cool pillow under your cheek, the blanket pulled halfway over you.
⸻
The texts came first.
Lando 🧡: Where’d you go??
Lando 🧡: You just left me??
Lando 🧡: Not cool.
You groaned, head pounding too much to even answer.
The second blow came in the morning:
Lando 🧡: Since you left me last night, I’ll just go get breakfast with Charles and Alex.
You dropped your phone face-down, chest tightening.
⸻
When he finally came back around noon, you were curled on the couch with the curtains drawn. The door slammed, sharp enough to make you flinch.
“There you are,” he muttered, shrugging off his jacket. “You could’ve at least told me before you disappeared last night.”
You pulled the blanket tighter. “I did. You weren’t listening.”
“Yeah, sure,” he scoffed, kicking his shoes into the corner. “Convenient excuse. Do you have any idea how shit it felt, standing there like a dickhead when people asked where you’d gone? Looked like we’d had a fight or something.”
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to—”
“And then you ghost me all morning?” He yanked open the fridge, let it slam shut again. “Could’ve just said you didn’t feel like going out instead of bailing. You made me look like an idiot.”
You blinked hard, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying. He stomped around the apartment, muttering under his breath, loud enough for you to catch every jagged edge: always so dramatic… ruin a good night… can’t just enjoy things…
Each word landed heavier than the last, your chest aching worse than your head.
⸻
By late afternoon, you couldn’t take it.
“I can’t—” Your voice cracked, tears spilling over before you could stop them. “I can’t do this right now, Lando. My head still hurts, and you’ve been stomping around blaming me like I ruined your night when I just—” A sob broke free. “I felt sick. That’s it. I felt sick.”
His eyes widened. The anger drained from his face, leaving panic in its place. “Wait—what?”
You hiccuped, pressing the heel of your hand to your eye. “I tried to tell you at the club. You didn’t listen. I came home and I was—” You shook your head, curling further into the blanket. “And then you got mad at me. You didn’t even check when you came back. You just slammed things around like I ruined everything.”
“Fuck,” he whispered, dropping instantly to his knees in front of you. His hands hovered before he finally reached, cupping your damp cheeks. “Oh my god. Baby. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. That you were annoyed with me, or wanted to leave early because you were bored. I’m such a fucking idiot.”
You tried to turn away, but he followed, thumb brushing over your tears. “No, no, don’t shut me out. Please. I was wrong. I was such an ass.” His voice cracked now, guilt dripping from every word. “You didn’t ruin anything—I did. I should’ve listened. I should’ve checked.”
Your body sagged against him, exhaustion winning out.
“Let me fix it, yeah?” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Tell me what you need. Food? Tea? I’ll run anywhere, just… let me take care of you.”
Your voice was small. “Food. Please.”
Minutes later, he was back with toast, eggs, tea balanced on a tray, fussing with your blanket like you were made of glass. He tucked himself against your side carefully, rubbing circles on your back.
“Say the word and I’ll grovel for the rest of the week,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry, baby. I was a dick. I know it. But I’m yours. Always.”
And when you finally managed the tiniest smile over your tea, he exhaled like it was the only air he’d been waiting for.
⸻
Max Verstappen
It started as nothing.
Just a laugh in the garage during FP2. You, leaning on the counter with your notebook open, smiling at one of the Red Bull mechanics. He said something in Dutch that Max couldn’t catch, and you laughed, jotting something down.
Max’s chest tightened instantly. Laughing with one of his guys. Writing something down. He didn’t need to see the words—he’d already decided it looked wrong.
When you rejoined him, his tone was clipped. “What were you writing?”
You blinked. “Notes.”
“Notes,” he repeated, flat. “Or maybe a phone number?”
Your brows shot up. “Max—seriously?”
He looked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t believe you.
⸻
That night, you slipped out for an errand. He noticed immediately.
Max 🦁: where are you
Max 🦁: who are you with
Max 🦁: why do you need to sneak off during race weekend?
You typed back quickly—just shopping, stop worrying—but his replies stayed sharp, suspicious.
By race day, the tension was unbearable.
You showed up at the garage, notebook tucked under your arm and two little paper bags in your hand—one tucked away for later, the other you passed discreetly to the same mechanic. Max’s eyes zeroed in on it, stomach burning.
Of course. Giddy smile. Bag in hand. Sharing it with him.
He didn’t care to wonder why you’d have two. Didn’t want to. It was easier to feed the anger.
So he shoved it down, got in the car, and when the lights went out—Mad Max came out. He drove ruthless, furious, unbeatable. Won the race because anger had always been the best fuel.
⸻
On the jet home, the bitterness spilled.
“You looked happy with him,” Max muttered, staring out the window.
You blinked. “What?”
“The mechanic. You smiled more at him than you did at me all weekend.” His knuckles whitened on the armrest. “First you’re laughing, then writing. Then you show up with bags. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
Your chest squeezed. “Max, it wasn’t—”
“Always an excuse,” he cut in. “You disappear during FP2, come back giddy, give him gifts, and you expect me to just ignore it?”
You stared at him, stunned. “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”
He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms, jaw iron-tight, eyes fixed on the dark sky outside.
You turned away, swallowing hard. “Fine. If you can’t trust me to talk to someone without assuming the worst, maybe we just don’t talk at all for now.”
Silence. Cold, suffocating. Neither of you spoke again until the plane landed.
⸻
At the apartment, you didn’t even try to fix it. Max stomped off toward his sim rig, headset already in hand, barking to his Team Redline friends. You quietly unpacked in the bedroom, shoulders heavy with defeat.
At the bottom of your bag, your fingers brushed the little paper package. The sweets. The ones Max had told you about once—half shy, half nostalgic—when he’d admitted his mom used to sneak him something sweet while he was at school. You’d asked the mechanic for help finding the shop. You’d even gotten him a small bag as thanks.
All so you could surprise Max.
Now it just felt pathetic.
With trembling hands, you set the sweets on his pillow. Then you retreated to the guest room, showered, curled up on the bed, and cried yourself to sleep. One of the cats padded up and pressed against you, their little purr the only comfort you had left.
⸻
Much later, Max padded into the bedroom. He froze at the sight of the bag on his pillow.
His heart dropped when he saw the logo. He knew that shop. The old Dutch place that still stocked those candies—impossible to find unless you knew exactly where to look.
He tipped the bag open with shaking hands, candy spilling into his palm. His chest seized.
That’s what you’d been writing. That’s why you’d disappeared. That’s why you’d had two bags—one for him, one as thanks for the tip.
Not flirting. Not secrets. Just… thoughtful.
His throat burned. He left the sweets where they were and padded quietly to the guest room.
The door was cracked. Inside, you were curled into yourself, eyes puffy even in sleep, one of the cats tucked tight against your chest like a furry little guard dog.
Max stepped closer, sinking to his knees beside the bed. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. You stirred faintly but didn’t wake, a tear-streak still dried on your cheek.
The cat opened one eye, glaring at him like it understood everything. Like it was saying: you hurt her, asshole. She feeds us.
Max swallowed hard, guilt slicing him open.
“I’m sorry, schat,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I was wrong. So wrong.” He pressed a kiss to your hair, pulling back slowly. “I’ll fix it tomorrow. I promise.”
The cat’s glare followed him as he left, and for once, Max Verstappen knew he deserved it.
⸻
The sunlight crept too bright into the guest room. Your head throbbed—not from a hangover, but from the swollen heaviness that only came after crying yourself to sleep.
You dragged yourself into the kitchen, puffy-eyed, hair unbrushed. The apartment was quiet, empty. Max was gone.
Fine. Better.
You moved through the morning like a ghost. Coffee sat untouched. Your phone buzzed a few times with messages you didn’t check. Even the cat seemed quieter, trailing after you with soft paws like it knew you were still brittle.
By the time the door opened again, you were curled on the couch, blanket pulled over your knees.
Max stepped in with his arms full. Flowers. A sleek shopping bag. A white paper bag with the logo of your favorite café stamped on the front.
He looked almost… sheepish. “Schat,” he said softly. “I brought you breakfast.”
You stared at the table as he set everything down. Strawberries glistened on French toast, powdered sugar dusted thick, exactly how you liked it. The flowers were bright and clumsy, not perfectly arranged—like he’d grabbed the biggest bunch he could find.
And then there were the other bags. Designer. Shiny.
“Your favorite,” he said quickly, lifting the takeout container toward you. “And some… things. To show I’m sorry.”
You swallowed hard, heat rising in your chest—but not the good kind.
“You think a bag and a dress fix this?” Your voice cracked sharp in the quiet room.
Max froze, hand halfway between you and the table. “I—”
“You didn’t trust me.” The words came out raw. “You saw me smile at someone and assumed the worst. You thought I’d give my number to one of your mechanics. Do you know how much that hurts?”
He flinched, lips parting like he wanted to argue, then closing again.
“I wasn’t flirting,” you said, louder now, tears stinging again. “I was trying to do something nice for you. I wanted to surprise you. And instead you made me feel like a liar.”
Max’s chest heaved. His hand dragged through his hair, tugging like he could rip the frustration out. “I know. I know, schat. I was wrong.” He moved closer, kneeling in front of you. “I saw you laughing, writing, sneaking away… and I didn’t ask. I just assumed. And that’s on me. I got jealous, and I—” His voice cracked. “I hurt you.”
Your arms tightened around yourself. “You didn’t even let me explain.”
“I know.” His voice was desperate now. He reached for your hand, but you pulled it back. His eyes dropped, guilt carved deep in his features. “You don’t deserve that. You deserve trust. Always. And I didn’t give it to you.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy. You sniffled, glaring at the pile of expensive things he’d brought. “I didn’t want a bracelet. Or a dress. I wanted you to believe me.”
Max’s jaw clenched. Then, slowly, he pushed the shopping bags aside like they didn’t matter. He picked up the café box again and set it gently in your lap.
“Then no gifts,” he said quietly. “Just me. Trying to be better. Please, let me try again.”
You hesitated, staring down at the strawberries dusted in sugar. A tear slid down your cheek.
“Max…”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse, eyes searching yours. “I was a jealous idiot. And I’ll grovel as long as it takes, schat. But don’t give up on me. Please.”
Your throat tightened. He looked so raw—so unlike the stubborn, untouchable Max Verstappen the world saw. Just a boy on his knees in front of you, begging for another chance.
You let out a shaky breath. “This is your one redo.”
Relief crashed over his face. He nodded quickly. “I’ll take it. I’ll do better. I swear it.”
Finally, you let him take your hand. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, tentative and reverent, like he was scared you’d pull away again.
“You’d better,” you muttered, though your lips twitched faintly.
Max leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand. “Whatever it takes.”
And though your chest still ached, some part of you knew he meant it.
inexperienced isaac asking you if he's doing a good job between your thighs, accidentally slipping up and saying am i being a good boy? and then immediately being so embarrassed that he buries his face further into your wetness. he doesn't want you to say anything, he has to make you so incoherent that you can't say anything. he sucks and licks just right, till all you can mumble out are profanities. his hair is messier, more dishevelled and his glossy eyes look up to meet yours one last time before you come undone. fuck, you're such a good boy.
tw: chronically/seriously ill reader (not romanticising. I have a chronic illness myself), mentions of reader death, madness, obsessive behaviour, angst, light fluff | masterlist.
Give me Isaac Night whose partner is chronically ill.
Give me Isaac Night who treats them with nothing but admiration and patience. Who is there for every bad day and good.
Give me Isaac Night who is at their every beck and call, day or night – anything to make them more comfortable.
Give me Isaac Night who has never had anyone else who understands the pain he went through until he met you.
Give me Isaac Night who laments every day you suffer, desperate to take your pain away.
Give me Isaac Night who memorizes every symptom, every cycle, every smallest change in your body, keeping notebooks filled with observations like the scientist he is.
Give me Isaac Night who refuses to let others care for you because no one else is precise, gentle, or devoted enough.
Give me Isaac Night who scoops you up on your good days and dances with you to dark waltzes in his tower, music crackling from his grammar phone.
Give me Isaac Night who crafts strange contraptions to ease your day to day.
Give me Isaac Night who sits by your bedside all night, reading aloud or humming softly so you can sleep peacefully, even if he hasn’t slept in days.
Give me Isaac Night who slowly drives himself insane in his tower lab, toiling night after night to find the answers.
Give me Isaac Night who sacrifices sleep, meals, and sanity chasing a cure, because the idea of resting while you’re suffering feels like betrayal.
Give me Isaac Night who whispers apologies into your skin when he thinks you’re asleep, for not being able to take it all from you yet.
Give me Isaac Night who hides his own relapses, his coughing fits, his trembling hands, because he doesn’t want you to think he’s weak when you already suffer enough.
Give me Isaac Night who holds your hand long after it goes cold, refusing to let go of the last tangible piece of you.
Give me Isaac Night who locks himself in his tower lab, conducting experiments that no longer have any purpose.
Give me Isaac Night who begins to see hallucinations of you in the shadows, in his notes, in every flicker of candlelight.
Give me Isaac Night who becomes entirely untethered from reality, chasing impossible cures and whispering to empty chairs at midnight, convinced you are still somewhere to save.
Give me Isaac Night who mutters that if he could not save you, he will tear apart the laws of the nature itself to make it right.
I miss my dad but I want the dad who sang me songs and told me story’s and tucked me in every night and made sure I was never lonely the dad who taught me so many games and who took my camping not the dad who had terrible anger issues and who would beat me if I bothered him but I miss when he wasn’t always like that. So it’s kinda like I miss this glorified version of him that I have put in my head not the real one who made me want to die the one who had the police called to our house so many times that the police officers new me by name. I miss how loved I felt at times and how I was never alone and that he never stopped trying to love me but his issues always stopped him from being who he wanted to be
SUMMARY ✰ A close friend sets you up on a blind date with the “perfect guy.” When you arrive at his house for the second date, you’re introduced to his shy, introverted roommate who ends up throwing a wrench into your situationship.
WORD COUNT ✰ 8.2K
CONTAINS ✰ Playboy!Lando Norris, Shy/reserved!Oscar, love triangle, reader and Lando have a fling dynamic, talk of hookup culture, Lando is a douche, STORY ENDS WITH SMUT, P in V, AFAB reader, soft sex, switch!Osc sort of, mature themes overall, alcohol
FEATURING ✰ Oscar Piastri x Reader + Lando Norris x Reader
A/N ✰ THIS WAS A REQUEST BUT I DON’T FEEL LIKE PASTING IT OVER BECAUSE I FORGOT TO REPLY TO IT. For the one asking for shy roommate oscar, this is for you. IT WAS TOO CUTE AND FAR TOO ACCURATE. I did add… My own little spin on it, one might say.
“You’re gonna love him, I promise!”
For weeks now, your best friend has been desperately trying to convince you to go on this blind date. She’s really dedicated her heart and soul into talking this random guy up, insisting he’s the perfect one for you. Every pro seems to complement your personality, and every con has a reasonable explanation behind it. But that’s just the issue; it’s all too good to be true and you know better than to fall for that.
“I’m not really looking for anything serious.” That was your reply every single time, because it was all together true. You were too focused on school to think about a serious relationship. You wouldn’t mind messing around and just mindlessly flirting, but it was nearly impossible to commit right now.
“Yeah, of course! This guy, he’s here for a good time, not a long time. You know?” It was unclear why she was so desperate to set the two of you up anyway. It’s not like she had a boyfriend herself, so you couldn’t see a future rich with double dates or anything fun like that.
Internally you decided it was because it truly had to be a match made in heaven. You sigh heavily, shaking your head. “Alright, alright. Fine, I’ll meet the guy.”
“Not just meet him— You gotta have a first date, that way you’ll know if this is the type of person you want to be around at all!” You give her a rather pointed look, and she huffs. “Look, can you just please do this one thing for me! It’s one date. One date won’t kill you.”
You’re stubborn, but you’re also ready for her to leave you alone about this entire ordeal. She’s right, one date won’t hurt. Besides, if it ends up being a fail, maybe you can just tell her that and you both move on. “Fine. One date. I’m serious.”
“You won’t regret it!”
That one date led you to a dorm room across the campus, which didn’t seem all that terrible considering you walked it every day to get to your classes, but when you’re dressed in a cute outfit and you’re all dolled up for a date, the last thing you want is to be sweaty and gross. Thankfully, the sun seems to take mercy on you today and you’re able to walk through delightful, partly cloudy weather without any issues.
Your nerves tingle in the back of your mind, whispering insecurities that you quickly push aside as you knock on the door. The bracelets adorning your arm jingle with the movement, and you quickly lower your arm to adjust the noisy jewelry. It takes a minute— A hot minute, but eventually the door opens.
Standing before you is a fairly handsome man, which you’re pleased to see. Subtly toned figure, evident in the large biceps hidden beneath a not-so-baggy sweatshirt, fair skin, big brown eyes, and soft brown hair that really makes for a ‘I woke up like this’ look. The man’s wearing a lazy outfit you’d expect for a day in watching movies. Not the fancier date you were promised. Nonetheless, he’s cute, which is always a bonus.
“Hello,” you greet, trying to appear confident despite the flushed feeling in your face. “Are you… Lando?” You folded your arms behind your back as a nervous habit, trying to avoid eye contact although it was essentially impossible. His eyes were hard to look away from. Such a simple color, but full of so much emotion.
“No.” Ah, that’s kind of embarrassing. You tense up, slowly nodding your head. “I’m his roommate. Lando’s at the store.”
“I see…”
He stares at you, his expression a mixture of uncertainty and slight confusion. Even with a kind expression, you feel someone intimidated by his gaze which penetrates right through the awkward shell you’ve put up. “Did you need something?”
“Oh, uh… Sort of? We’re supposed to be going on a date. I was told to meet him here.” You scratch the back of your neck, looking sheepish about the whole situation. This mystery man, who you’re only slightly disappointed to have discovered wasn’t the man of the hour, seemed rather surprised by this revelation.
He was hard to read, that’s for sure. His expression displayed pure judgment, which of course made you start doubting the character of this Lando guy. Maybe the two weren’t on great terms. “Right. You can wait inside if you want, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” He left you standing in the door, which was now wide open, inviting you to walk inside.
You hesitate before stepping forward, both your hands clinging to the straps of the purse you had hanging from your shoulder. You scan the environment in hopes that it will give away more insight for what this date might be like, but it was useless. The whole place just screamed ‘A MAN lives here’ which was already obvious.
“So uh,” you awkwardly stand by the door, unsure of what to do with yourself. Would it be rude to just invite yourself into his comfort zone and sit down? “What’s your name again?”
“Oscar.” Well, Oscar had plopped down on the couch, one arm thrown over the back cushions and the other used to hold his phone as he scrolled. You nodded, tongue poking your cheek.
“Cool…” Could this get any worse? “How did you guys meet?”
“He needed a place to stay and I needed a roommate.” Oscar hadn’t even looked up from his phone when he replied, he just spoke in a monotone voice and avoided eye contact. You couldn’t tell, because to you he just seemed entirely uninterested, be he was more or less nervous by your presence. That’s how he was with most people.
Thankfully, the door opens right then to save you from further embarrassment. It’s for the best, because you were so desperate for conversation that you were about to start asking him about his day, which seemed wrong because the guy looked like he had just woken up based on his unruly hair.
You stepped aside to avoid getting a door to the face, and Oscar looked up, greeting the other man with a small nod. Lando, taken aback by his curtness, surveyed the room. His expression lit up when he saw you standing there looking all too alert. “Hey- Y/N? Sorry I kept you waiting, had to grab a few things.”
Your eyes drifted down to the grocery bags he had, all filled with red solo cups and alcohol you couldn’t even name. It was all colored vibrantly, and looked like one sip would cause your much more classy taste buds to drop dead. It was easy to tell what kind of person Lando was just based off his shopping habits, but you also found this oddly comforting. You weren’t looking for serious, you were looking for fun.
“Oh, it’s okay. I was just…” You gesture to the roommate who was now entirely entranced by the contents of his phone. “Talking to Oscar.”
“Oh, Oscar! Cool, yeah.” Your eyes followed his figure as he walked into the kitchen, setting all the bags down. You take this moment to really register his appearance. A mullet of thick, curly hair, light facial hair along his chin and upper lip, baby blue eyes that contrasted to the doe-y look of his roommate’s. All too piercing, and all too handsome. It was nearly unbelievable. “Hey, actually,” He poked his head out into the living room, snapping his fingers to catch the other man’s attention. “Could you unload this? I gotta go.”
Oscar seems only somewhat annoyed as he sighs, leaning his head back. “Yeah, sure.”
“Thanks! I owe you one. Come on, I have a reservation and I don’t wanna be late,” Lando addresses you directly, gesturing for you to follow as he exits through the front door.
As you were leaving you heard Oscar grumble beneath his breath, “You owe me way more than one,” which makes you giggle. A sarcastic man is always an endearing one.
Thankfully, Lando makes you feel neither overdressed nor underdressed. Coincidentally, the two of you end up matching quite nicely in outfits that seem just right for the occasion. It’s not exactly a high-end restaurant. Lando’s clearly well off, but not to the extent where he can blow all of his money on lobster and pasta that’s way too expensive for how much you get. Nevertheless, the place is nice.
Your date is mostly a ‘get to know each other’ sort of affair. He tells you in an animated fashion, speaking with his hands, that you indeed find to be very attractive, all about his pursue of a radio broadcasting degree to eventually accomplish the dream of becoming a professional DJ. While it’s not the weirdest thing you’ve heard, you are a bit shocked to see someone with such a goal in University. You’d expect that sort of career to be freelance.
So, you voice your lighthearted concerns. “Do you actually need any sort of qualifications to become a DJ?”
He chuckles at your question as he sets the restaurant’s menu down, clearly deciding on what he wants after debating for so long. You had been ready a while ago. “Honestly, I kind of just enrolled for the experience. I like to party,” he smiles as he says it. It’s hard to believe someone with such an innocent, boyish smile is the one throwing the real ragers. You then remember the shopping bags he had hauled in earlier and suddenly you’re not so surprised. “What about you?”
“I’m studying creative writing for now, but I kind of expect it to change.” You press your cheek against your palm with a somewhat dreamy smile. “Last year I had entirely different dreams in mind, and the year before that I was hoping to pursue a third different degree.”
“Safe to say you don’t exactly have it all together,” He teased.
“Nope. That’s why I’m not too concerned with romance.” Which isn’t necessarily entirely true, because you’re not against you. You just believe you have to find the perfect guy, but you also 100% believe that perfect guy likely doesn’t exist. Even if he does, what are the chances he attends your university?
Conversation flows easily. Lando’s not hard to talk to, but he’s also hard to take seriously with his unbelievable stories and cheesy jokes. When the waiter approaches, you both end up going for the same thing, and then decide you’ll just split one instead, which ends in the both of you laughing about how ‘great minds think alike.’
You both eat in a comfortable silence, although Lando really seems to be chowing down like a starved man. You try not to laugh when he leans back, already satisfied with his fillings whilst you’re still taking your time to enjoy the delicious food. He hums, hands behind his head as he looks around the place, almost as if he’s scanning for a topic to discuss.
He eventually laughs under his breath, and then lets out a playful sigh. “I hope Oscar didn’t say anything too off putting about me.”
You wipe your face with your napkin, sitting up straight to give him a confused expression. Lando doesn’t meet your gaze, so your bewilderment gets by unnoticed for now. “He didn’t really say much at all.”
“Really?” You can’t tell why this is a surprise to him, because even when Lando was around it was clear the guy avoided conversation. It wasn’t that you had a distaste for him, but you were worried it was the other way around. Maybe your first impression was a lot worse than you thought. “Ah, yeah. I guess I can see that. He’s a nice guy, he’s just kinda introverted.” You nod, but Lando’s not done there. “When I first met him I thought the guy had like… No emotions, but he warmed up quickly.”
“Yeah,” you agree, albeit awkwardly as you’re not sure what else to say. It seems a bit odd that he’s going on a rant about his roommate whilst on a date.
At the end of the night Lando drops you off at your door like a proper gentleman, though he seems antsy about leaving. You figure he probably has other plans to attend to. Not like it’s your business, you’ve only just met the guy and you’ve both made it clear you’re not entitled to exclusivity. “Thank you for the fun night,” you address him politely.
“Yeah,” he has his hands in the pockets of his jeans. You’re almost jealous, because your pockets don’t sink nearly low enough to do that. “You got my number, right? Keep in touch, ‘kay?”
“For sure.” He shoots you a wink, and you just laugh it off, even though you find it to be a little unsettling. “See you around, Lando.”
For the following two weeks your nights are filled with endless kisses that end up with you tangled in the sheets of Lando’s bed, breathless and satisfied. You find yourself spending more time in his dorm room than your own, and your roommate has to wonder if she should be concerned about you ever returning. It’s hard to leave when Lando’s skilled in every aspect.
He can work his hands with ease; his touch is like magic. You could say the same for every inch of him, which strains to bring you to the peak of your pleasure. Some nights you’re left with contentment, but you’d also be lying if you said some nights you weren’t waiting for more. You couldn’t expect much more in a relationship that was simply a fling, but Lando seemed to prioritize his own pleasure first and foremost. You were grateful for what you had nonetheless.
Though something else simmered in the back of your mind. Something that waited for your acknowledgement and was desperate for an ounce of your attention— Oscar.
It was hard to ignore his rolling eyes and plaintive sarcasm along every step of the way. He’d walk through the door to the sight of you seated, innocently, mind you, on his roommate’s lap, and he’d only clench his jaw and not even bother to say hello. It felt like he was avoiding you like you had contracted the plague, and that if he held eye contact for more than a second the infection would spread.
Whenever you came over, he was quick to exit the room without a word, hiding away in his bedroom instead. You shouldn’t have been concerned about the guy. He was just the roommate of someone you were hooking up with; nothing more, nothing less. But every night as you rolled over onto your side, facing away from a freshly relieved Lando, your mind would wander to the other man likely sleeping just a few rooms away. What had you done wrong?
You tried to convince yourself that was just how Oscar rolled. Isolated and reserved from the outside world. But then you remembered the way Lando spoke about him the day you first met, and you also remembered seeing him interact with his peers in the few shared classes you both attended. He wouldn’t even breathe in your general direction, but he’d happily laugh it up with his friends; he’d do it in that cute, charming way too where his little giggles are hidden behind the palm of his hand to prevent himself from causing a ruckus.
You were internally determined that you’d crack the shell of the mysterious fellow, but at the same time you knew it wouldn’t make any sense. For what reason did you have to bond with Oscar Piastri? You weren’t entitled to him liking you, and it shouldn’t have been an issue to begin with; tons of people have disliked you in the past, but for some reason, Oscar Piastri’s evident distaste left a sour taste in your mouth.
You end up tossing and turning, eventually sitting up to peek at Lando, who was sound asleep beside you. Your sigh is filled with disappointment, but nonetheless you stand up with the intentions of calming your unsettled mind. You open the closet with slow, practiced movements as to not startle the man awake. Due to a desire to keep quiet, you just grab the first sweatshirt you see and slip it on over your bare skin. It’s extremely oversized, hanging past your thighs to give you a shred of decency as you tiptoe out of his bedroom.
You’ve learned to navigate his dorm in the dark with ease, eventually ending up in the kitchen. The dim light from the fridge causes you to flinch and cover your still-adjusting eyes. After a moment to recover from the initial sting of the bright light, you reach in to grab a large, half-empty bottle of orange juice. It sat alongside various other drink mixers, but tonight you ingest it plainly after pouring it into a clear plastic cup.
You sit at one of the stools at the kitchen island, your arms crossed over the marble as you stare into the cloudy liquid. It’s hard to ease your troubled mind when there’s so much occupying it— Too many dilemmas to count.
You’re so focused on your own issues that you don’t even notice a fresh set of footsteps that lead into the kitchen. It’s only when a large, pale hand reaches for the bottle that you take note of a new presence in the small room. Your eyes move up, and you can barely hide your surprise when you see Oscar towering over your sitting form.
Even in the darkness of the night, he looks dazzling. His appearance is dimly lit by the waning moon. He wears a simple outfit— A white t-shirt with pajama pants that hang low on his hips, so when he raises his arms to grab a cup from the cabinet, you can see his v-like peeking out from the waistband of his boxers. Oscar’s eyes briefly scan over you before he begins to pour his own cup, standing beside you. Dangerously close.
“Nice sweatshirt.” If you’re not mistaken, he’s wearing a slight smirk as he says it. You glance down at yourself. This is the first time you’ve actually taken a good look at the item of clothing you stole, and it’s rather… Plain. Just an oversized, navy blue hoodie.
Even for Lando it’s quite big— For a man that works out, his figure is shockingly slim. “Oh, I… borrowed it from Lando.” You make eye contact as he slowly sips his drink. His gaze makes you shift— You feel somewhat intimidated, and for what reason? His gaze was intensely attractive. That’s why.
“Hm?” Oh, you’re actually gonna die on the spot. His voice is tinged with grogginess, making it evident that he only just recently awoke from a comfortable slumber. “Well, when Lando was lending it to you did he just happen to forget that it’s actually mine?”
“Oh!” You whisper as a visceral reaction to his teasing. It’s hard to tell that he’s being playful, so your reaction is as if his anger was real. “Sorry, I didn’t-”
“It’s okay,” he replied genuinely. He was staring down into his cup, much like you had been doing only a few minutes ago. “He gets our laundry mixed up all the time.” Oscar turns away as he chugs the rest of his drink, rinses it out in the sink, and then begins to wander back to his room. Just when things were starting to get bearable, he leaves. “Goodnight,” you hear him whisper as he turns the corner, disappearing from sight.
“‘Night,” you reply foolishly, long after he’s already disappeared. Eventually you make you way back to Lando’s bed, putting the hoodie back where you found it before settling down. This time, you lay further away from him subconsciously.
You make the executive decision to distance yourself from the two of them for a few days— And by a few I mean two, because on the third you find yourself in a dire situation. You made up the excuse that you were running a fever and didn’t want to risk getting Lando sick, to which he naively believed without a second thought. But now, you’re calling his phone and he’s just not answering.
You stare at your lists of contacts as you undergo serious mental turmoil, your finger hovering over one name in particular. You got his number from Lando as a ‘in case of emergencies’ sort of thing, and that just happened to be right now. So, after another minute or two of internal debate, you call Oscar. He answers by the fourth ring.
“Hello?” His voice is deep, implying that he had once again just woken up. You freeze, the words stuck in your throat. “Hello…” He repeats again with a bit more urgency.
“Oscar- Hi,” you fumble over your words. “It’s Y/N, uhm…”
“Why are you calling so early?” He doesn’t exactly sound mad, but just confused. You pull the phone away, tapping the screen to check the time, and then hum as you bring it back to your ear.
“It’s eleven in the morning and you’re just waking up?”
“Well, it’s not exactly my fault I was up so late.”
“What?” You shake your head. “Okay, whatever, I was just calling to see if Lando’s home? He’s not answering my calls.”
The other line falls silent, but you can faintly hear Oscar’s breathing. You’re about to repeat the question, but he finally talks, “What are you talking about?”
“Uh, I… I just asked if Lando was home?”
“Yeah, but you—” He goes silent again mid sentence, and then sighs. “He’s asleep, what do you need?”
You’re still utterly confused, but you try not to linger on deciphering his strange behavior any longer than you have to. “My printer broke and I need to print my essay by tonight, otherwise I’m totally screwed. Like, my whole future might depend on this. I thought maybe he could help…”
“No,” Oscar replies in a flat tone. He’s hard to work with— You’re tempted to just hang up and pay for someone to come fix it. Of course the library had to be shut down today. “But I can.” His voice is softer now, almost like he’s shy as he admits it.
“Really?” Your tone is laced with excitement and you visibly light up. Though, Oscar can’t see you, so he wouldn’t know.
“Yeah, I’ll head over now.”
“Thank you so much, Oscar. Seriously, you don’t know how much this means to me.”
“Don’t mention it. See you soon.”
“Yes, thank you-!” He abruptly hangs up, but you don’t care. You’re just happy your problem will soon be resolved.
You spend the next few minutes tidying the place up, making it look at least somewhat presentable for a guest. It’s not spotless when he knocks on the door, but you feel less ashamed for the moment. You invite Oscar in, showing him the printer you’re currently struggling with. He surveys the exterior, hand on his chin like a true professional.
“Why’d you say no when I asked if Lando could help?” Once again, you’re striking up conversation that seems easiest. You can’t really help in this situation, so you’re just sitting on the desk, your legs swinging on the edge.
“Because Lando doesn’t know the first thing about this type of stuff.” Oscar starts to disassemble some of the pieces. You’ve still got no idea what’s happening, so you just sit back and watch.
“And you do?”
“Yeah, well I’m about to get my degree in engineering, so I would hope that I do.” You get a glimpse of his true colors when he smiles. It’s soft and tender, like a warm blanket on a cold winter day; it’s something you’d like to wrap yourself in. It’s unfamiliar, but you like it. A lot. Which isn’t an easy revelation to face.
“I see,” you nod, unsure of how to carry the conversation forward. You dig within the depths of your mind, but all that comes out is another, “thank you so much for your help,” which is starting to feel like a new vocal stim with how many times you’ve said it in such a short span of time.
“Yeah.” Oscar steps aside, gesturing to the inside of your printer, which is composed of a bunch of mechanical things you won’t even attempt to properly name. “See here, your roller is started to wear out.”
You peek over his shoulder to see what the big deal is about. It takes a moment, but when he points directly to the piece in question, you start to understand what exactly he means. “So how do I fix it?”
“You’ll have to get a new one.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But seeing as you’re on a time crunch, I think if you just…” He reaches down to fiddle with the piece, wiggling it around, “adjust it a bit, it’ll get you a few more uses.” He works to close things back up, and then gives to an approving nod. “Try it out.”
You slide off the desk, pulling the keyboard and mouse forward as you navigate to the paper you need to print. Before when you had hit print, it would tell you it was doing just that, and then nothing would come out. This time the machine whirrs to life and spits out a perfectly printed essay. “Ahh, you did it!” You cheer, turning to him and raising your hand. Neither of you really think about it as you high five. “You’re an actual life saver, how can I repay you?”
He gives you a look that, once again, is hard to read. If you didn’t know better you’d mistake it for pity, but surely your situation couldn’t have been that bad. “It’s no big deal, really.”
“Are you sure? At least let me make you something to drink. I’d feel bad if not.” He opens his mouth to argue, but you don’t let him. “I’m serious, c’mon!” And before Oscar knows it, he’s following you into your kitchen like a lost puppy. You ask him questions about his preferences and it ultimately ends in a mocktail you wouldn’t dare try, but Oscar seems satisfied with the results, which is all that matters ultimately. “I just don’t see how that could ever taste good?”
“Are you wanting to try it?” He asks with a little laugh. It’s a rare sound, specifically when it’s targeted towards you, but it melts your heart in a way that makes you stand on edge now. You’re not supposed to feel smitten by anyone, but especially not your— What do you even call Lando? Your situationship? Especially not your situationship’s roommate. That was far too messy, even for you.
“Not in the slightest.”
“Your loss.” He shrugs and takes another sip. You were nearly certain he’s pretending just so you don’t feel bad, but based on his reactions he seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself.
All good things must come to an end, because after he finishes his delectable beverage, Oscar excuses himself and bids you a polite, genuine farewell. When the door shuts behind him, you feel a burden lift itself from your shoulders. You feel lighter knowing that this man doesn’t harbor any resentment.
The change that occurred after that day was instantaneous. By now you had seen the soft side to Oscar Piastri— The side that flushed and quickly averted his gaze when you unintentionally made eye contact. The side that lightly teased, and then got all embarrassed when his jokes didn’t land. Looking past the rolling eyes and sarcasm, he was a man you found rather beguiling.
You always greeted him when entering the threshold of his living space. Even if you weren’t there for him, it seemed like the polite thing to do. But Oscar never replied. Or at least, not in a way that made it seem like he cared. He just hummed and nodded, walking away from the setting as soon as he could. Today, like clockwork, you greet him upon being let inside the dorm room. “Hi Oscar!” It’s almost second nature to address him with a friendly smile and cheery voice.
You’re ready for the dismissive hum, but it doesn’t make an appearance. “Morning, Y/N.” You nearly choke on your surprise it’s so palpable. He looks at you with a smile— A real, genuine one, and you feel like the whole world is caving in on you for just a split second. He eventually looks away, the tips of his ears shaded a deep red in typical Oscar fashion.
You try not to act shocked for much longer as you follow Lando into the kitchen, but your mind continuously drifted back to his roommate and how you had finally managed to break through his shell. This was a step in the right direction! However, you do take note of the way Lando’s jaw clenches when he walks in to you laughing at something Oscar said; It’s like rewatching the same movie, but the roles have been reversed.
You help Lando set up things around the house for the party he had been telling you about for weeks now. It was one of the first parties you had been invited to, and you were eager to assist him in the preparations. But it seemed your ideas of parties were drastically different things, because in your head you imagined decorating and making it look fun. Lando just wanted you to set out drinks and buy some snacks, which seemed a bit lackluster to you, but you didn’t question it. He was the master, after all.
…
“Do you like parties, Oscar?” Right, did I forget to mention that a certain Australian chose to tag along the trip to the grocery store? He said that he had some things to grab himself, but he didn’t seem particularly urgent to look for those things now that the two of you were actually there.
“No.”
“Really?” Your shock is evident. “Doesn’t it frustrate you that he uses your dorm room, then? If I hated parties and my roommate did that, I’d probably be mad.” You threw some chips into the cart that he was pushing, piling on to all the other junk you were planning to buy. All this just for one night, too… When you look to Oscar he’s simpering, lips barely curled up.
“He pays for half of it, so it’s fine if that’s what he chooses to do with the space.”
You whistle, and he follows as you continue down the aisle. “You’re a lot more patient and forgiving than I am.”
You don’t expect his patience to later be tested. To you, the party had been overwhelming right from the start. It felt like you were suffocating in a sea of people that already reeked of alcohol upon showing up, and to make it all worse the blinding lights and horrifically loud music made you feel like all your senses were being attacked at once.
You tried to stick by Lando’s side to soothe your nerves. Yet with him being the host, it seemed that people naturally flocked to him, which then led you to fall silent at his side, soberly watching drunk idiots behave like fools, left out from the festivities of the night. When the crowd disperses, leaving you alone with your man for just a moment, you’re quick to take advantage of the privacy.
“Where’s Oscar?”
That didn’t please him. Lando’s brows furrowed, his fingers anxiously tapping against the surface of the kitchen counter. “Why do you care?” His voice was low. If he weren’t so close, you wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the music.
“Just curious.” He rolls his eyes at your response, and you take a step back out of shock. He’s not usually this sassy— At least not with you. Maybe he wasn’t always a perfect gentleman, but he at least tried to appear nice.
“He’s studying like a lame ass. Look, I’m right here. Quit worrying about him, just relax and have a drink.” Lando pushes his cup towards you. You look down at the liquid and the indistinguishable color with the dozens of flashing LED lights.
You carefully push his hand away, shaking your head. “I don’t drink. You know this.”
“C’mon, it’s just one drink, it won’t kill you. It’ll take your mind off things-”
A hand snakes out from behind you, grabbing the red solo cup to pour it out into the sink you were leaning your hip against. You glance behind you from over your shoulder, tense body melting into a state of relaxation when you recognize Oscar’s face. He’s wearing a blank, monotone expression that states his roommate down. “They said no. Leave it be.”
Lando nods, his jaw clenched with unmistakable anger. It’s like the calm before a storm, appearing casual on the outside, but you can see the rage bubbling up behind his eyes. “What the fuck is this, anyway?” He spits out, taking you by surprise. “Are you guys fucking now?”
“What?” You yelp, face twisted in pure disapproval. “What the hell is wrong with you, Lando? Why would you ever say something like that?”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how close the two of you are. If you’re not actually fucking then you’re basically undressing each other with your eyes. Maybe we’re not exclusive, Y/N, but I thought maybe you’d have an ounce of loyalty.”
“I’m not sleeping with anyone, Lando. Just you!”
“You’ve had enough to drink,” Oscar states firmly. “Maybe it’s time for the party to end.”
“Whatever. Run away like you always do, jackass.” Lando shakes his head as if he’s been horribly wronged before he storms off, grabbing yet another beer from the counter on his way out. You sigh, trying to keep your composure when you’re surrounded by so many people.
Oscar places a hand on your shoulder, anchoring you to reality. He’s strong and he’s capable, both mentally and physically. For a moment you want to just melt away in the safety of his big arms. To let him console you from the insults that have stabbed you in the back, but you don’t want Lando to be right. “I can walk you home,” he offers quietly. You don’t say no.
Fresh air has never felt better than it does when you leave the dorm room. The music is muffled when the door shuts behind you, but you can still hear the deep bass mixed in with excited voices. The further the two of you walk, the more your surroundings become enveloped by the sounds of nature instead.
“Thank you,” you mutter quietly. Oscar’s walking closely beside you, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants with practiced nonchalance. He tilts his head at you, encouraging you to carry on. “For your help, I mean. I… I know he means well, he’s just drunk.” You feel as though you’re saying that for your own comfort. Not for Oscar’s.
“It doesn’t matter if he’s drunk or not, he shouldn’t treat you like that.” You want to agree, and to confirm that you won’t ever see him again… But the truth is, you’re in too deep. A little mishap like this isn’t yet enough to scare you away when it really, truly should have been. Your silence speaks volumes to Oscar, and he sighs. “Y/N, I need to tell you something-”
“Not tonight.” He looks at you with wide eyes. You’ve reached your room, and you stand before your door, avoiding his gaze. “I can’t handle much more for tonight.”
“Alright.” He’d always respect your boundaries, which makes it more difficult to turn him away at your door. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Oscar.” He stays for a moment longer, even after you close the door. Oscar internally curses himself out for not being the gentleman you deserved. For not telling you what you deserved to know.
When you awake in the morning your phone is flooded with recent missed calls and apology texts. You naively forgive the man, despite your internal voice trying to guide you elsewhere.
You really shouldn’t have put your trust in a man infamous for his party-boy personality, because you’re only guaranteed to end up heartbroken once again. Lando owes you nothing but sexual tension. Not love, not loyalty, and most certainly not his fidelity. But you find yourself broken over his inevitable lack therefore of, especially after he only recently reprimanded you for a fake scenario he made up in his head.
It was your second time making the mistake of attending a party thrown by Lando, but in your own defense he had promised you again and again that these things would never happen again. That he would be more responsible when drinking and that all of that anger just stemmed from the alcohol. In your mind, you only hoped the night would end just as all the other ones hand. With whispered false hopes between quiet, desperate moans as bedsheets filtered through your fingertips.
No. Instead you found yourself once again missing out on the joys of celebration by sitting in the corner of the living room, trying to drown out the impossible: annoyingly loud music with words you couldn’t make out over the bustling crowds, and lights so bright your headache started to form the moment they were turned on.
But you didn’t miss this. You couldn’t. Because his hands were on another girl. The hands that once caressed your own bare skin, covered in arousal, were now running over the thighs of some unknown drunk girl who was loudly singing along to the music as she moved her body against his in hypnotic motions.
You wanted to run, but your instincts told you that the man before you needed to be humbled. You could smell the alcohol on him immediately, and when you tapped his shoulder he turned to look at you with that familiar, sleazy grin of his. You weren’t having it. “What happened to an ounce of loyalty?!” You have to yell over the sounds of the party.
“It doesn’t count, right? Just balancing it out! Plus, we’re not exclusive, anyway.”
“You- You were the one getting mad at me! For something I didn’t even do, by the way. You’re so- God, you’re so fucking insufferable!” You felt ridiculous as you fled the scene, going entirely unnoticed by anyone but Lando. It was unfair that a man could work his way into your heart and then turn around to do the same to another girl as if you never mattered, but at the same time… A part of you expected this.
You sat on the stairwell of his dorm building for what felt like hours, your knees pulled to your chest. You didn’t cry, because you didn’t feel shocked enough to, but you did contemplate every decision that led you to this all at once. When footsteps rang throughout the empty well, bouncing off the walls, you were on high alert, sitting up straight and looking over your shoulder.
Oscar descended the steps, silently sitting beside you. He handed you a cup full of ice cold water. You accepted it, but you didn’t yet drink. Just stared. Your shoulders brushed, and neither of you said a word. Silence spoke louder than words ever could.
But eventually, someone had to speak up. Oscar decided to face that burden alone. “I need to be honest with you. When you called me to come fix your printer, I was confused because… Well,” he scratches the back of his head. “He had someone over, and I thought it was you. That’s what I was trying to tell you the other night. I would have told you sooner, but I thought you guys weren’t serious or anything.” He sighed, troubled by the situation. “You don’t deserve a fling, Y/N.”
You turn to him, and he finally locks eyes with you, offering a look of consolation that works wonders to soothe your healing heart. “Then what do I deserve?”
“You deserve someone who treats you with respect. Who takes you seriously. Who… Who sticks up for you.”
You smile, albeit weakly. “So I deserve you?”
“Well, I-… I didn’t say that-”
“You were thinking it.” He laughs with flushed cheeks, looking down at the stairs with a sheepish nod before momentarily falling silent. You eventually reach over and cup his face to turn his head towards you.
He doesn’t pull away, but he does stop you from leaning in. “Don’t kiss me just because Lando messed up,” Oscar warns with a whisper, and he’s right to do so. He doesn’t want to be your rebound, both for your sake and his.
“I’m not,” your voice cracks. “I’m doing it because I want to. I want you.”
It seems so sudden, but when your lips meet in a tender kiss, you know this is right. He smiles against your skin, hand resting on the back of your head to pull you in closer. It’s not rough and fast like it was with Lando, but it’s tender. It’s long-lasting and considerate.
“We can take things slow,” he says softly as you pull away, your sadness replaced by a soothing sensation of elation.
“Yes, please.”
Take things slow you do. You don’t announce yourselves as an official couple, not even to each other, but you also know that this isn’t just another fling. That beneath your flirty kisses and the longing glances from across the room there’s something serious, but the relationship doesn’t define itself until Oscar snaps.
Your roommate is out of town, which meant you could invite him over for a movie night without having to keep things quiet in your room. Really, your intentions were innocent, but one thing led to another and he was on top of you, kissing you like a mad man. His hands slid up your pajama shirt just to caress your waist, soft thumbs brushing against your skin.
Oscar pulled away, lips trailing down your jawline to your collarbone, nuzzling his face against you. “You smell good.” His voice is sexily husky, right in your ear. He’s lost in your presence, the movie long forgotten behind him. He nuzzles his face against your neck, taking deep breaths to control himself. “Please,” he whispers.
“Please what?”
“Please let me have you. I want to make you feel good.” His voice cracks, and he almost sounds like he’s whining when he says it.
“Please,” you repeat his former words, giving him permission to take what he wants.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into your neck as his hands delicately yank off your shorts, his fingers then finding your folds through your panties to caress with his teasing, feather-like touch. “Thank you, thank you,” he repeats like a prayer. Oscar shifts back, strong hands pushing your legs up as he helps you out of your underwear now. He shamelessly sniffs the crotch, desperately inhaling your scent before tossing them aside, spreading your legs to get a whiff of the real thing.
“Wait-” He immediately stops to look up at you, his eyes starved with lust. “What are you doing?” It’s more of a rhetorical question. Like a ‘why’ rather than a ‘what?’
He kisses your inner thigh impatiently, pressing his hips into your mattress. “Do you not want me to?”
“I don’t know,” you admit softly, shyly. It takes so much restraint for him to now devour you then and there, but Oscar’s a strong-willed man that’s already proved to prioritize your comfort over all else. “I’ve never done that before.”
“Seriously? Never?” He’s sincerely shocked. “I promise to take good care of you, sweetheart,” his kisses trail closer to your center, but don’t yet cross the line. “If you don’t feel good, you can let me know and I’ll stop.”
“Okay.” You carefully pry your legs back open. His hands help you push them wide, displaying your bare cunt to his eager eyes. He takes a deep breath before he dives in, tongue slowly sliding over your spread folds. You relax into the mattress in hopes of thoroughly enjoying yourself.
It’s not hard to do with a starved man feasting on your pussy like it’s his last meal. Oscar starts slow— He’s taking his time with you, just like you’d expect. But every moan from your lips and tug of the hair from your hands sends him closer and closer to spiraling. He laps at your inner walls so gently while his fingers massage your swelling clit, drawing out soft mewls of pleasure.
You’re not the only one benefiting either. He sends soft vibrations straight to your stomach where your impending orgasm forms as he humps his constrained, aching cock against the bed, getting off at the sound of your delight alone. You feel your legs begin to spasm as you get closer to your climax, but before they can instinctively clamp down around his head, Oscar pins them back down, pressing his mouth further against you as you squeal and squirm.
“Oscar, please-” You tilt your head back, eyes shut. “Feels too good. I’m gonna fucking come- I’m so close.” He doesn’t say a word, he just continues to eat your delectable pussy as he gets himself off simultaneously. His moans grow to be high pitched and desperate, his own hips jerking as he fucks into the plush mattress with growing fervor.
When your orgasm arrives, you can’t even speak. Your mouth just hangs open and your eyes nearly go cross as pleasure washes over your whole body. He continues to move his lips in a hypnotic manner, devouring every drop of arousal that you give him. When the initial pleasure fades, you finally let out a deep moan as your body melts back into a state of relaxation.
You’re gasping for air, chest heaving as you come down from the intense high. Oscar rises to his knees, wiping his mouth with his hand. His breathing matches yours: heavy. “Nearly came in my pants there,” he says, followed by a short laugh. You laugh from the exhilaration. “I told you I’d make you feel good.”
He scoops you into his arms, hovering over you as he kisses your lips, nibbling on the bottom one. “I didn’t realize it was possibly to feel that good.” You hum, basking in the attention he’s giving while he peppers your face in light pecks. “But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“I want you to feel good, too.”
Oscar laughs and kisses your forehead. “I do feel good.” Based on your slight frown, he can tell you’re not satisfied with that answer. “You’re sore, aren’t you? I don’t want to push it.”
“Please, Osc, I want you inside me.”
It’s hard to say no to that.
“Alright,” he says, leaning back on his knees to slide his boxers and sweatpants down. You shamelessly eye his freed cock, which is already flushed and leaking with excitement. He’s big, bigger than anything else you’ve taken, but with Oscar you don’t feel intimidated. “Let me know if anything hurts.”
He teases your folds, rubbing the tip along the wet surface before slowly pushing himself in. His breath hitches, eyes squeezing shut. He has to take a moment to breathe before he continues, sliding in all the way to the base of his cock.
“I’m trying so hard not to come just from this,” he speaks breathily, earning a short laugh from you. He laughs a second after, burying his face in your neck and wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re so warm… So relaxed.” He knows he’s making you feel good, because he’s already learned to read your body perfectly. Plus, your soft moans give it away. He’d have that sound burnt into his memory if he could. Hell, he’d even get it tattooed.
“It feels good,” you murmur encouragingly. With your words in mind, Oscar slowly begins to thrust. Every shift of his hips sends a wave of pleasure right to your brain, activating every nerve in your body to tingle with excitement.
“I’m not gonna last long,” he warns. You just feel so good wrapped around him, your body trusting his. He gets off on nothing more than knowing you’re comfortable and that you feel good. It’s quite sweet.
“Me neither, it’s okay…”
After you come around his cock, writhing in delight, he pulls himself out, dripping in your arousal, and paints your stomach with his cum. Oscar whimpers, a sound that has every part of you fluttering, spurt after spurt of arousal shooting from his tip. When he’s done, he collapses on top of you, his arms wrapped around you as he rolls over onto his side, kissing your collarbone and neck generously.
“I love you so much, thank you,” he whines breathily. “I want you to be mine, forever.” He’s practically pleading.
“I am,” you reassure.
“I want you to say it.” It’s not a demand, but rather him begging with desperation.
This is the absolute last time I will talk about this because I genuinely cannot be bothered answering asks/comments individually.
Lando may or may not be sexist (i personally don't think he is but that's not the point here) and Magui may or may not be racist (if mouthing the N word while lypsynching to rap is racist then holy shit y'all need to touch grass) but one thing that is seriously pissing me off is that people are jumping at their throats, while completely ignoring the problematic things their own faves do. Because the truth is that almost all the drivers (and even a few wags) have said and done very problematic shit. So you either ignore it all, or hold every single one of them accountable for eveything they say and do.
Also, the misogyny I've been seeing (IRONIC, HYPOCRITES) targeting Magui is disgusting, and exactly the kind of thing I cannot stand with Wag culture. Personally, I don't care about Magui one way or the other. I don't really care about any of the other wags if I'm honest because ai watch formula 1 for the races, and the drivers, NOT for whatever woman they happen to be fucking at the moment.
And one must remain aware that they are all very rich cis men, mostly white, mostly from privileged backgrounds, who are completely removed from reality, so putting them on a moral pedestal is a mistake anyway. Obviously I can't tell anyone what to do, but what I can do is tell y'all to stop going on about it in my asks because you are boring as fuck with this.
You can find my opinions on various things (like the whole trump thing) in the # my rants tag below
