c

she/they ; 18 ; 🍉🇵🇸

[spncvr]

NAVIGATION !

MEET THE WRITER ! hi im cait, but u can call me c! ; 18 ; indonesian ; she/they ; reid & lupin enthusiast ; f1 (merc) ; english is nawt my first language but i try my best lmaooo ; i speak indonesian, german and english!! ; 70s music enjoyer (mostly led zeppelin and pink floyd) ; currently only writing for reid but it probably will change ; my other account is @hmxltn

masterlist requests: open! but im slow at making them lol

[hmxltn]

drunk, running | o. piastri

summary: i loved you, but only in ways that let me leave first—until you finally did. (based on the song drunk, running by lizzy mcalpine if that wasn't obvious)

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!avoidant reader

warnings: my bad english. it's not my first language bear with me. angst angst AAAANNNNGGSTTT. some swearing, fluff if you squint. also reader adresses oscar as "you" and reader is the first person here—sorry guys it just mad more sense that way lol. this is hella rushed if im being honest but!!! oh wel!!!!!! oh also reader is lando's best friend—that isn't a wanring but it's worth mentioning?? i think.

a/n: OMG FIRST POST (boo what a lie). first writing post?? (also a lie, i mean first fic posted on this account) i had so many lectures today so this was me lowkey projecting bc i miss my ex! so!

I HAVE THIS vivid memory of your hands.

Not the first time I saw them, not on the steering wheel when you were driving me home, not on your sim, not even on a podium when they were shaking just enough to give away how much you’d wanted it. It’s a smaller one, almost laughable in how unremarkable it should have been: your hand on the back of the sofa in Lando’s flat. Your fingers drumming against the fabric in a rhythm only you could understand—as if there was a song in your head and your body couldn’t help but keep time.

I was sitting on the far end of that same sofa, shoes kicked off, legs folded under me in a way that would make my spine hate me later. Lando was between us, moving his hands around widely, as he recounted some overtake that had already been replayed seventy times on the television right in front of us.

“And then,” he said, grinning wide, “this little freak just sticks it down the inside like he’s got nothing to fucking live for—”

Your knuckles flinched at the word, just barely. I saw it. Lando didn’t. He was still playing commentator over your highlights reel, dramatic as ever, while you rolled your eyes and tried not to smile.

“Yeah, alright mate,” you sighed, “It wasn’t that deep.”

“It was cinema,” he insisted. “Oscar Piastri: main character of Formula One.”

He nudged your knee with his, and you shoved him back. It was easy between the two of you, something that came naturally after too many hours in debrief rooms and motorhomes and aeroplanes. And I—Lando’s best friend, the extra body on the sofa, the one who’d flown in because, in his words, “You never come to races anymore, and my life is so hard,”—I watched your hand at the back of the sofa and thought, Of course you play piano.

I didn’t know if you did. But in my head, that’s where my brain went: you, hunched over a piano, shoulders tense, fingers moving with the same concentrated ease I’d seen you on screens. I’d seen you drive long before I met you. Lando talked about you often enough that you’d been an invisible presence in our friendship for months. Oscar said this. Oscar did that. Oscar likes his coffee like this. You were the ghost driver in every karting story, the benchmark on every sim race, the name that came up without effort.

It would have been so easy to dislike you on principle. To be bored of the myth of you.

But your hand was there, drumming nervously, and your knee kept knocking into Lando’s, and you were quiet in a way I hadn’t expected. Less myth. More boy. And something in me, something I hadn’t gotten around to naming yet, started paying very close attention.

Lando paused the replay. “You’re not even watching,” he accused me.

“I am,” I lied.

You followed my gaze to the screen, but your hand kept moving against the sofa, fingers tapping, tapping, tapping. It looked like impatience at first. It took me a little longer to realise it was something closer to restraint.

You looked at me properly for the first time when Lando got up to get more snacks.

“I’m not actually that full of myself,” you deadpanned.

I blinked. “Sorry?”

“You looked like you were about to roll your eyes during that story,” you continued, and there was a tiny, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Like you were thinking, God, isn’t he fucking insufferable?”

I huffed, resisting the urge to look toward the kitchen where Lando was banging cupboards open. “I was thinking nothing of the sort.”

You tilted your head, entirely unconvinced.

“I was thinking,” I corrected myself, “that Lando needs new adjectives. He uses the same three for everything. Incredible. Cinematic. Life-changing.”

You laughed then. It was a short sound, barely there, but it filled the little living room, made the fading sunlight look warmer than it actually was.

“He… does do that, yeah,” you conceded. “It’s either that or decent.”

I mimicked Lando’s voice— “Yeah, quali was decent, car felt decent, vibes were decent”—and your laugh came again, slightly louder. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” you told me, after a moment. You sounded like you meant it, which threw me more than it should have. “He talks about you a lot.”

“Hm.” I hummed, “Bad things, I hope.”

“Depends,” you said. “Usually, it’s you telling him he’s being an idiot. Which, from what I’ve seen, sounds like a full-time job.”

I shrugged. “Someone has to manage him.”

“And here I thought that was my responsibility,” you replied.

There was no sharpness in it, no possessiveness, just a quiet warmth. The strange, flickering awareness in my chest grew a little stronger. I told myself it was nothing. A crush, at most. Fleeting, inconsequential. I was good at that—minimising things before they could grow teeth.

This is what I do, I should tell you now, if I’m being entirely honest. I take the thing that might hurt me, and I shrink it, repackage it, call it whatever makes it easier to hold. I like you, turns into you’re fun to be around. I need you becomes it is nice when you’re here. I love you is a silence I hope you’ll never learn to read for yourself so that I never have to say it and risk hearing it back.

Because the moment you say it, it becomes real. And real things break.

IF I TRACE the line back with the benefit of hindsight, I could say it started there, on that sofa, with Lando’s television paused on your car overtaking someone else’s, with your fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm against the fabric. But that would be too neat. Stories are always too neat when they’re being told backwards.

It did not feel like the beginning of anything at the time. It felt like a Thursday. It felt like jet lag and the faint, clean smell of your washing powder when Lando insisted I stay in his spare room, and I borrowed one of your hoodies because it was cold and my suitcase was buried under his race gear. 

You came back from the gym and found me in it, curled up at the kitchen table with my laptop, eyes burning from staring at emails I didn’t want to answer.

“Is that mine?” you asked, pointing at my chest.

“At ease, soldier,” I said. “He gave it to me.

“I didn’t give it to you,” Lando called from the living room. “I said you could borrow it.”

You watched me tug at the sleeves where they covered half og my hands, and I didn’t miss the way your eyes softened, just slightly.

“It’s fine,” you told me, “It looks better on you anyway.”

I pretended not to hear the way my heart stuttered at that.

You moved around the kitchen quietly, opening cupboards and the fridge with a familiarity I was still getting used to. This wasn’t even your flat, but you moved like it could’ve been. You got a bottle of water down for me without asking. You put the kettle on because you’d noticed I always went for tea in the evenings. You did it all without commentary, without me making a show of it. You were like that from the start—your kindness folded into the ordinary, made to look like nothing much at all.

I fell in love with those small nothings long before I let myself acknowledge it.

When it finally shifted from nothing to something, Lando was the last to know. Which is ironic, considering he thought he knew everything.

“You like him,” he accused me one night, months later, in a hotelroom that smelled of stale air con and room service chips. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

I stared at the ceiling. “You're delusional.”

“He was standing next to you for thirty seconds in the paddock, and you lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.”

“I lit up because the sun came out.”

“It’s night,” he said flatly.

“It was earlier.”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was knowing smugness in his voice. “Just admit it. You like him.”

As if admitting it would have changed anything. As is saying the words out loud wouldn’t have lodged them somewhere far too permanent. I rolled onto my side and pulled the duvet over my head.

“Go to sleep, Lando.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “He likes you too, you know.”

I clenched my jaw, hard enough that it hurt. “He likes a lot of people.”

“Not like this,” Lando said, “He gets all weird when you’re around. Forgetful. Distracted. Which is annoying for me, thanks. And he—”

“Drop it,” I cut in.

He sighed, “You’re gonna push him away, aren’t you?”

The duvet muffled my voice. “The world doesn’t revolve around your teammates' feelings.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but he’s also my friend. And so are you, I don’t want to watch you fuck eachother up.”

He said it like it was inevitable, like he’d already seen the fracture lines before we’d even admitted there was anything to crack.

And maybe he had. Maybe he knew me too well—the way I kept people at arm’s length, the way I flinched from anything that resembled permanence. I’d done it before, in smaller ways, Puch, pull, retreat. The choreography of someone who has learnt that closeness is always conditional, always something that can be revoked without warning. You don’t let yourself rely on something that can vanish. You make your own vanishing act first.

But with you, it felt different.

That is, I think, what scared me.

YOU ASKED ME out for the first time in the most unromantic way possible.

We were standing in a corridor that smelled of tyre rubber and cleaning products, post-race chaos still humming in the air. The media pen had emptied, reporters already marching off to file their stories about strategy, tyre choices and points. Lando got swallowed into an interview he really did not want to go to. You and I were left in the corridor, a little bubble carved out of the noise.

You were still in your race suit, fireproofs clinging to your neck, hair a mess from the balaclava. Your face was flushed, eyes bright with the kind of tiredness that comes after giving absolutely everything.

“You leaving tonight?” you asked.

I shrugged. “Early flight. Back to London.”

“You could stay,” you said, almost too casually. “Come with us to dinner.”

“It’s a team thing,” I pointed out. “I’m not team.”

“You’re Lando’s plus one half the time anyway,” you said, “They won’t notice one more.”

It was true. The lines between my life and yours had blurred somewhere along the way. I was in more photos than I wasn’t. Not the ones that got posted, but the ones on your phones, in your group chats. Candid shots of me stealing fries off Lando’s plate, of you sleeping on my shoulder on a flight, of us playing some stupid card game on the floor of a hotel room because the flight was delayed and we had nothing else to do. 

I looked at you now, trying to ignore the way my heartbeat had started to climb for no good reason.

“I should go home,” I said. “Work, life, responsibilities. Remember those?”

You shifted your weight, that nervous energy back in your hands, fingers worrying at the zip of your suit. “You always go home.”

“That’s where my stuff is,” I said lightly.

“Your stuff’s here half the time,” you countered, and your eyes flicked up, meeting mine with a sudden, surprising intensity. “You’re here half the time.”

The corridor seemed to narrow. I could feel the hum of the paddock, the muffled announcements, the clatter of equipment being wheeled away. It all faded in comparison to the way you were looking at me: as if you’d finally—finally— decided not to dance around the thing that had been sitting between us for months. 

“Stay,” you said. Just that. No arguments. “Please.”

I swallowed. My instinct was to back away. To make a joke, deflect, dilute whatever this was into something less dangerous.

“Why?” I asked.

You blinked. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why do you want me to stay?”

You exhaled, a tiny huff of disbelief. “You really don’t see it?”

“See what?” I pushed. I shouldn’t have. But some cruel part of me wanted to make you say it. To force the words out from your mouth, so I could decide what to do with them.

“Us,” you said, “This.”

You gestured helplessly between us. “You’re always here. Even when you say you’re not staying, you end up back in the same hotel bar or the same apartment or the same car. I look up and you’re just… there.”

“That’s not an answer,” I said, but my voice was softer now.

You ran a hand through your hair, frustrated.

“Okay,” you huffed. “I like you. I’ve liked you for fucking months. I like you when you’re telling Lando he’s an idiot, and when you steal my hoodies, and when you fall asleep sitting up on flights. I like that you never pretend to understand racing, but you still care. I like that y— that you feel like home, alright? There, I said it. Happy?”

No. I was not happy. I was terrified.

Because I liked you too, and I’d spent months pretending that like was a small, containable thing. Hearing you say it out loud cracked that illusion like ice.

You were breathing a little harder now, anger at your own vulnerability colouring your cheeks. “You wanted an answer,” you said. “That’s the answer. Stay. Go to dinner. Or don’t, and I’ll still see you in London and pretend this conversation never happened. But I had to say it. I couldn’t just—”

I kissed you.

It was almost clumsy, the way my body overrode my brain, one step forward and my hands on your suit and your breath catching in surprise. For a second, you didn’t move, like you couldn’t compute it. Then everything slotted into place: your mouth against mine, warm and certain; your hands finding my waist, as if they’d been waiting there all along.

Someone walked past us and wolf-whistled. The world might as well have fallen away.

When we broke apart, you were smiling. Not the polite, press-facing smile. The real one. Soft and a little dazed.

“So is that a yes?” you asked, voice a little unsteady.

“I hate you,” I said, but I was breathless, and my hands were still on you.

“Yeah,” you murmured, forehead resting against mine for a second that felt like an eternity. “Me too.”

It should have been that simple. Just a decision, a hinge the whole story turns on. Stay. Go. Choose. Be chosen. The movies make it look so easy.

What they never show you is what happens after you say yes.

YOU LOVED ME loudly. Not in grand declarations—the paddock is not a place that encourages those—but in the way you rearranged your life around the idea of me, without ever asking for anything in return.

You learned how I took my coffee and started ordering it before I even got to the table. You’d wait outside the circuit gates when you knew I was arriving late, just so I wouldn’t have to walk in alone/ You’d text me pictures from your track walks: the sky, the kerbs, a stray cat in some corner of the paddock, each one accompanied by some dry commentary that made me laugh out loud in public.

You memorised my flight numbers so you could send a message right before takeoff and right after landing. Sometimes it was just a single word—Here. There. Alive—and sometimes it was longer, a paragraph about something small that happened in the garage, or how you’d nearly fallen asleep in a meeting because it was so boring,

You never once asked me to prove that I felt the same. But that didn’t mean you did not need it.

I was inconsistent. I know that now with a clarity that makes me wince when I think about it. One week I’d be entirely present—flying out on a whim, showing up at the track with a lanyard around my neck and a stupid grin on my face when you spotted me from across the hospitality. I’d wrap my arms around you outside the motorhome, whisper something ridiculous in your ear to make you laugh before Quali. I’d hold your hand under the table at dinner, my thumb drawing idle circles on your palm as the others talked strategy and gossip.

The next week, I’d go quiet.

Not maliciously, not even intentionally at first. Just overwhelmed. I’d get busy, I’d say. Tired. Stressed. I’d stare at your message and feel this ridiculous pressure building in my chest: the pressure to respond in a way that matched the care you put into every word. And instead of sending anything at all, I’d put my phone down. I’d tell myself I’d reply later. When I’d rested. When I felt less… whatever this was.

Later stretched into days. Days into a week. You’d send something gentle: You okay? And I’d feel guilty enough to respond, but only halfway.

Yeah, just busy. Sorry.

I wasn’t lying, exactly. I was busy. But that wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth was harder to articulate: that your love felt likea mirror I was not ready to look into for too long. That being with you meant being seen in a way I did not know how to survive. 

You know, I think, even then, that my silences were not benign. That they were saying something I didn’t have the courage to voice. But you never accused me of anything. You never said, You make me feel like I’m asking for too much when I’m asking for the bare minimum. You waited. Until I resurfaced and then carried on as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes I wonder if that was your mistake. If you had called me out earlier—if you’d held me to my words, to the version of myself I kept insisting I could be—maybe we would’ve unravelled sooner. Maybe it would have hurt less in the long run.

But you loved me too much to let me go. Which is just another way of saying you loved me more than you loved yourself.

THE WORST FIGHT we ever had wasn’t loud. There was no shouting, no slammed doors. It happened in at my small flat in London, rain tapping at the windows, everything muffled and grey.

You’d had a rough race. Not catastrophic—no crash, no retirement—but bad enough to sting. Strategy calls that didn’t work out, tyres that went off at the wrong time, losing positions you shouldn’t have lost. It was one of those days where nothing was quite right, and the car felt like a stranger under you.

Normally, I would’ve been there. I knew that. You knew that. There was a pattern: when things went well, I texted congratulations and sent emojis with little trophies. When things went badly, I got on planes.

Except this time, I didn’t.

I told myself I had good reasons. Deadlines. A family thing. I watched the race on my laptop with the volume low and my phone face down beside me so I wouldn’t have to see your name light up the screen.

Lando called afterwards. His face appeared on FaceTime, sweaty and exhausted and buzzing.

“That was brutal,” he said, flopping onto his bed. “He’s gutted.”

I swallowed. “He’ll bounce back.”

“Obviously,” Lando said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not about that. It’s just…you know how much he hates feeling like he’s let everyone down. You should call him.”

“I will,” I said quickly. “Later.”

“Later when?”

“I don’t know, Lando. Just…later.”

He studied me, eyes narrowing, that irritating brand of intuition of his kicking in. “Why aren’t you there?”

“I told you. I couldn’t come this weekend.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

I bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means he asked me yesterday why you didn’t want to be around him when things go wrong,” 

Lando said bluntly. “And I didn’t know what to say.”

I stared at him, throat tight. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked. “Look, I get it. You don’t owe anyone emotional labour. But you can’t keep doing this thing where you show up when it’s convenient and disappear when it gets hard. Not with him. Not with Oscar.”

The mention of your name felt like a slap. I scoffed,  “What, so I’m a bad girlfriend now?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m not picking sides, alright? I love you both. Which is exactly why I’m saying this. I see what it does to him when you go quiet. And I see what it does to you when he tries to get closer. You think I don’t notice? You flinch like he’s a knife.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I’m being an arse. I just…you told him you wanted this. You said you’d try. He believed you. If that’s changed, you need to tell him.”

I swallowed. The word try echoed in my head like a mockingbird. I had said it. I’d said it in a hundred different ways: on that corridor when I kissed you, in the car on some motorway at two in the morning when you’d reached over and tangled your fingers with mine, in bed when I’d traced constellations on your skin and listened to you talk about your childhood in Australia.

I’ll try. I’ll do better. I’m not going anywhere.

“I didn’t lie,” I whispered.

“I know you didn’t,” Lando said gently. “But sometimes not knowing yourself is almost the same thing.

YOU SHOWED UP at my flat two days later.

I’d been expecting a call. A text. Maybe a voice note, if you were feeling particularly brave. But not this: not you standing on my doorstep in a hoodie and trackies, a baseball cap pulled low over your eyes, the strain of a long-haul flight etched into your shoulders.

“How did you even—”

“Lando,” you said shortly. “He gave me your address months ago. In case of emergencies.”

I stared. “Is this an emergency?”

You shrugged, a humourless smile twitching at your lips. “Feels like one.”

You stepped past me into the flat without waiting for an invitation. It was a small space, cluttered and imperfect, a far cry from the polished minimalism of Monte Carlo and driver apartments. You looked slightly out of place in it: too big for the doorway, too tired for the harsh overhead light.

I closed the door slowly, one hand on the knob as if I needed something to anchor myself.

“You could’ve called,” I said.

“I tried,” you replied. You took off your cap and shoved it into your pocket. Your hair was a mess, curls sticking up at odd angles. “You didn’t answer.”

Guilt flared and then, in a move I would later despise myself for, I covered it with defensiveness. 

“I was busy.”

You laughed, short and disbelieving. “You’re always busy when I need you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you asked, echoing Lando’s words from days before. “You know what’s not fair? Getting out of the car after a shit race and wanting to hear your voice more than anything, and realising I don’t even know if you’ll pick up. Knowing there’s a fifty-fifty chance you’ve decided I’m too much work this week.”

I flinched. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you only want me when I’m convenient. When I’m winning. When it’s easy to love me.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The words that came to mind sounded pathetic even to my own ears. That’s not true. I care. I’m trying. How many times can you say you’re trying 

before it stops meaning anything?

“You’re…” I started, then forced myself to breathe. “You’re asking for too much.”

The instant the words left my mouth, I wanted to claw them back. Your face went still in a way I’d never seen before, like every muscle had frozen mid-expression.

“Too much,” you repeated flatly.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” you said quietly. “You meant that needing you to answer the phone is too much. That wanting you to be there when things go wrong is too much. That asking you to say what you feel instead of making me guess is too much.”

“That’s not—”

“You once told me,” you continued, talking over me now, “that you didn’t grow up with people staying. That you learnt early on not to rely on anyone because they’d eventually leave. Do you remember that?”

Of course I did. It had been late, one of those nights when we were both too tired to maintain the usual defences. I’d told you things I hadn’t meant to. About shouting matches behind closed doors. About promises broken so cleanly they cut. About learning to pack my own suitcase at an age when other kids didn’t even know what a boarding pass was.

“You said,” you went on, “that the worst thing someone could do was look you in the eye and say they weren’t going anywhere, and then go anyway. You said you needed people to be honest. To tell you if they were going to leave, so you could make your peace with it.”

I gripped the back of a chair so tightly my knuckles ached. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“Because I told you,” you said, voice trembling with something that wasn’t quite anger and wasn’t quite grief, “that I wasn’t going anywhere. I promised you that. And I meant it. I meant every word. Even when it hurt. Even when you made it feel like I was begging for scraps.”

My chest constricted. “I never asked you to stay.”

“I know,” you said. “That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? You never ask. You just…accept. You let people love you and then you stand there and watch them bleed, and you call it fate, or trauma, or whatever makes it feel like it’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. It felt useless, that word. Small and weightless.

You laughed, but there was no humour in it. “You always say that.”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“Tell me the truth,” you said. “Tell me you don’t love me. Tell me you never did. Tell me I made it all up in my head, that every look and touch and late-night conversation was just me projecting. Tell me I’m crazy, and I’ll go. I swear to God, I’ll walk out that door and I won’t come back.”

The room pulsed around us. The kettle clicked off in the background, unnoticed. A siren wailed somewhere on the street below and then faded into nothing.

“I…” I started, but the words snagged on the tight knot in my throat.

This was the moment. The line between us had never been sharper. You were offering me an 

escape, twisted as it was: if I could convince you that none of it had been real, you’d set us both free. You’d stop waiting for a version of me that didn’t exist.

But I couldn’t say it. Because it wasn’t true.

“I do,” I choked out. The admission burned. “I do love you.”

Something fractured in your expression. Relief, pain, anger—they all flickered across your face in quick succession.

“Then why,” you asked, and your voice broke on the word, “does it feel like you’re always halfway out the door?”

There it was. The question. The one I’d been avoiding not just with you, but with everyone, for as long as I could remember.

I could’ve told you about fear. About how love had always felt like a trap to me, a room with no windows. How I associated commitment with suffocation, promises with betrayal. How the idea of needing someone made my skin itch, made me restless and irritable and cruel in ways I hated even as I leaned into them.

I could’ve told you that loving you made me feel vulnerable in a way that wasn’t romantic or poetic, just terrifying. That every time you looked at me like I was the best thing that had ever happened to you, I heard a countdown ticking in the background, waiting for the moment that illusion shattered.

Instead, I said, “I don’t know.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly. “I think you do.”

We stood there, the chasm between us yawning wider with every heartbeat.

“I’m not good at this,” I whispered. “I told you that from the start.”

“You said you’d try,” you replied. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m asking you to show up when it matters.”

“I am showing up,” I said, gesturing around us. “You’re here, aren’t you? I haven’t pushed you out. I haven’t—”

“You don’t have to slam the door for it to feel like you’re leaving,” you interrupted. “Sometimes all it takes is standing there and doing nothing while someone begs you to choose them.”

The unfair thing about what you said is that I knew, deep down, that you were right. And knowing that made me defensive all over again.

“So what?” I snapped. “What do you want from me, Oscar? A guarantee? A contract? A promise I can’t make? People leave. That’s just…that’s life. I’m trying to protect both of us from being idiots about it.”

You stared at me, incredulous. “You think loving me is being an idiot?”

“That’s not what I—”

“What you’re doing right now,” you said, cutting me off, “is trying to convince yourself that caring is some sort of moral failing. That if you keep everyone at exactly the right distance, you’ll never get hurt. But that’s not how it works. You’re hurting anyway. I’m hurting anyway. The only difference is that I’m not pretending it’s noble.”

Silence stretched between us, taut and thin as a wire.

“Maybe we’re just not good for each other,” I said finally, hollow even as the words left me. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

Your eyes flashed, like you’d been expecting that line all along. “There it is,” you said softly. “The exit strategy.”

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, helpless. “That I’ll change overnight? That I’ll wake up tomorrow and be the kind of person who can give you everything you deserve? I can’t promise that. I won’t. It would be worse to lie.”

“I never asked you to be someone else,” you said. “I just wanted you to be honest about who you are.”

“I am being honest,” I insisted. “I’m telling you I don’t know if I can do this the way you need me to.”

A beat. Two. The room seemed to tilt.

“Okay,” you said finally. Your voice was small in a way I’d never heard. “Alright.”

You reached for your cap, jammed it back onto your head with hands that shook just enough for me to notice. You walked to the door.

Panic flared, hot and immediate. “Where are you going?”

“You told me what you can and can’t give,” you said, hand on the doorknob. “I heard you.”

“That’s it?” I asked, heart pounding. “You’re just…leaving?”

You huffed out something that might have been a laugh in another life. “You make it sound like I want to.”

“Don’t you?” I asked, my voice cracking on the last word.

You turned, finally, to look at me. There were tears in your eyes. You weren’t trying to hide them, and that made it worse somehow.

“I love you,” you said. The words were simple, unadorned, devastating. “I love you so much I stayed long after I should’ve gone. I stayed when you went quiet. I stayed when you pushed me away. I stayed when every part of me knew I was bleeding for someone who couldn’t even admit they were holding a knife.”

I flinched. “I—”

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” you said. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth. And because if I don’t walk away now, I don’t think I ever will.”

The thing about the stories we tell ourselves is that they always centre us. In my head, I was the one in control. I was the one hovering at the edge, deciding how close to stand, how far to retreat. Leaving was my prerogative. Staying was something that happened around me, to me, without my consent.

It hadn’t occurred to me—stupidly, arrogantly—that you might be the one to go.

“Don’t,” I said, the word torn out of me. “Please.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, as if that might make it easier. When you opened them again, there was a resolve there I hadn’t seen before.

“I can’t keep waiting for you to choose me,” you said. “I can’t keep loving you for both of us.”

“That’s not fair,” I whispered. “I do love you.”

“I know you do,” you replied. “But love isn’t enough when fear keeps winning.”

You opened the door. Cold air from the hallway crept in, smelling faintly of dust and someone else’s cooking.

“Don’t do this,” I said. My voice wasn’t steady. “You said you weren’t going anywhere. You promised.”

You swallowed. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did. I thought if I loved you hard enough, it would fix something neither of us had the tools for. That was my mistake.”

You stepped out into the corridor. For a second, you hovered there, on the threshold, caught between in and out, us and not-us.

And then you walked away.

You didn’t slam the door. You just let it close, soft and final, between us.

PEOPLE TALK ABOUT breakups like they’re a single event. A day circled in red on a calendar. But the truth is, the leaving had been happening in increments long before you ever stepped into that hallway.

I replayed that moment in my head for weeks afterwards. Months. I kept thinking: I should’ve run after you. I should’ve grabbed your hand. I should’ve said, Stay. I’ll try harder. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll answer the phone.

Instead, I sank to the floor in the silence of my flat and stared at the door you’d walked through, as if I could will you back by sheer force of regret.

I thought about calling you a hundred times. My hand would hover over your name on my phone, thumb shaking. I’d imagine your voice, the way it softened when you said my name, the way it sharpened when you were excited about something. I’d open a new message and type: I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’m scared and I don’t know how to stop being scared but I want to try. With you.

Then I’d delete it.

The cruel thing is that the very fear that drove you away kept me from trying to get you back. It whispered in my ear: If you call and he doesn’t pick up, it’ll kill you. Better to keep him in your head, in your memories, where he’s still yours in some warped way.

So I made a person out of memories.

I made you out of the hoodie still hanging on the back of my chair, out of the half-empty bottle of your shampoo in my shower, out of the notes you’d left in the margins of some book you’d borrowed and forgotten to take back. I made you out of the cracks in my routine, the spaces where your presence used to sit—FaceTime calls on Sunday nights, texts after races, your breathing in the dark when you couldn’t sleep and I’d reach out just to feel you there.

In my head, you were still mine because I hadn’t seen you move on. Reality didn’t intrude on the version of you who still thought of me when something funny happened, who still bookmarked things to tell me later.

It worked, for a while. Or at least, it numbed the edges.

Then came Monaco.

I wasn’t there. Of course, I wasn’t. I watched from my sofa, alone, the way I used to before I knew you as anything other than a name on a screen. You drove like a man possessed, threading the car through impossibly tight walls with that calm aggression you’d always had. You won. Of course you did.

The camera caught your face as you took off your helmet: wild joy, disbelief, the kind of happiness that lights a person from the inside out. The crowd roared. Lando tackled you in parc fermé, grinning like a maniac. The commentary was all superlatives and statistics.

And then they panned to the podium, to you lifting the trophy, champagne spraying in an arc over your head. Your eyes scanned the crowd for a second, some habitual instinct. For the briefest moment, I let myself imagine you were looking for me. That you’d be disappointed when you didn’t see me, that your first act back in the drivers’ room would be to check your phone for a message that wasn’t there.

But later, scrolling through social media, I saw a photo someone had taken from the paddock hospitality. You were standing with Lando and some team people, still in your race suit, hair damp with sweat and champagne. There was a woman beside you I didn’t recognise. She was laughing at something Lando was saying, head thrown back, and you were looking at her with an expression I knew too well: that soft, attentive focus you reserved for the people you cared about.

It wasn’t romantic, necessarily. It could’ve been a sponsor, a friend, a relative of someone. But the sight of it—the idea that you could stand in that same paddock, under that same sun, and look at someone else the way you’d once looked at me—knocked the air out of my lungs.

Because it hit me, finally, that you were living a life that no longer had a space carved out for me. That my haunting you in memory did nothing to change the fact that, for you, the leaving hadn’t stopped at my door.

It had continued, step by step, into whatever came next.

reblogs and feedback are apprciated :3

[spncvr]

HE ASKED YOU OUT?!?!?!!!?!?!?! okay i can't help you with this one i'm sorry i don't have any experience in this maybe other anons can help you? good luck!

yeaaahhhhh i ended up saying yes tho bc it wouldn‘t hurt to try,, hes not a bad dude

[spncvr]

guys btw update i ended up saying no to him fully and were good now…. i hope… ITS SUMMER HOLIDAYS ANTWAYS WHO CARES😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[spncvr]

crazy update: i dated him then he was a dick so i broke up w him LOL

[krs-kross]

[777heavengirl]

AM - Chapter 1

Snap Out Of It 

Sirius Black x reader Chapter 1/3 warnings: Warnings: angst?, smoking, suggestive themes, fwb to lovers word count: 4,684 masterlist

Currently playing: Snap Out Of It by the Arctic Monkeys

Sirius Black does not care. He doesn't care about who you date or hang out with. He does not care that when you smile the corner of your eyes crinkle or that he made you laugh so hard once you actually cried. Sirius does not care that the pink hair clips Remus got you for your birthday matched your lip gloss, as well as the underwear you wore on his birthday. He doesn’t care that you don’t protest when he doesn’t want you spending the night. He doesn’t care that you risked the wrath of Walburga Black by sneaking into the Black household during the summer, just to help heal his wounds as they were so extensive he could not do it alone. He doesn’t care that you always wink at him before your quidditch matches. He doesn’t care that you ditched him to hang out with a no-name blond from-

Sirius didn't want to remember what house he was in, much less his name.

The Gryffindor common room was warm and fairly empty. While the marauders never wasted an opportunity to run around Hogsmeade for a couple of hours, it had been the collective decision, dictated by the foulness of Sirius’s mood, that the lot would stay in the castle today. At least for the first part of the day. It was now 5 in the afternoon.

Remus slapped his book closed, nothing short of exasperated. Although sitting crisscross on the large plush armchair and reading had helped negate the hostile vibrations Sirius had been emitting the past hour, enough was enough.

“If you’re going to pout all day about Y/N’s absence, invite her to Hogsmeade yourself instead next time,”

“Is that where she is? Hadn’t noticed,”

“You are a terrible liar Pads please spare us,” James groaned from the ground, his back against the bottom half of the armchair Remus sat on.

“I don’t know why you think I give a rat’s ass where she is or who she’s with right now,” Sirius knew he was really stretching it now, his tone hadn’t exactly come across as calm and nonchalant. Quite the opposite, his brows had furrowed his face into a scowl and Remus had taken this as his sign to leave, getting up from his chair, James sluggishly crawling into the now empty spot.

“Y/N is not yours Sirius,” Peter frowned at the boy. Sirius’s clenched jaw and hard stare did nothing but spur Peter into rolling his eyes. “You don’t get to be upset when you insist there is nothing between the two of you and then expect her to be at your beck and call,” Peter swiftly got up after, not wanting to even hear what Sirius had to say. They were best mates, but that didn’t mean that any of the marauders wouldn’t tell Sirius Black when he was being an asshole. Peter grabbed his coat from the back of the couch, as he and Remus made a beeline to the common room door, no doubt to make their way to Hogsmeade, enough of the day had been wasted. The fat lady's singing, as she so often fancied doing, perforated the room briefly as the boys opened and closed the door.

“Seriously mate,” James shook his head. ‘You need to snap out of it”. Sirius looked up from his spot on the couch, his legs could now stretch with Peter’s absence and he took the cushion Peter had been hugging to put between his back and the arm of the couch. He couldn't help but stare at the ceiling. James started speaking mindlessly about anything, really, the new prank they wanted to try out, if he should ask Lily Evans on a second date or if it was too soon? I reckon she enjoyed it though. James knew quite well Sirius hadn't been truly listening, but he didn't mind. Not really anyway. He knew his friend quite well, he knew the feelings the boy was trying to repress were bound to bubble up sometime. He had caught Sirius staring at you the entire time you had been at Hogwarts. His eyes trailed after you since you were 11. Since you met on the train.

It wasn't like James didn't know what had been happening recently either. You had been attached at the hip since the ripe age of 5. He was your closest confidant, you joked you were actually cousins. Siblings. He had known about the spirals of conflicted feelings you had fallen on during your fifth year. Much to your own dismay, you liked Sirius Black.

James had a low-key way of encouraging it, even knowing the casanova tendencies Sirius had started to display. The way you bounced off of each other, the jokes, the irony, the stolen glances. The way Sirius's touch always seemed to drift towards you, small pushes after jokes, sweeping you off the ground as you landed, snitch still in your grip. You'd have to be blind to not see the chemistry the two of you had.

Maybe Sirius needed glasses.

James did, however, regret encouraging you. Since April of your fifth year til now, February of your sixth, you had been tangled in Sirius's bed sheets. But not his heart. He wouldn't allow it. And you acted like you didn't either. James held you a good couple of times, as the sobs broke your chest and endless tears poured from your eyes. It isn't his fault Jamie, promise me you won't be mad at him. He couldn't exactly bring himself to let your heartbreak roll off his back, but he didn't want to expose your feelings. So he kept his mouth shut and went to crazy lengths to make sure Sirius wasn't seeing anyone else. Pulling Sirius into crazy unprompted schemes, setting up the girl of the week with someone else, and putting all sorts of spells to lock their door during parties. This one had left them locked out and sleeping in the common room quite a few times. Remus hadn't been happy.

James had tried his best.

Sirius continued to stare up, eyes glazed over as he tried to count the cracks in the ceiling of the common room. He wondered if you were having fun. If the unnamed blond made you laugh. Had you laughed to the point of tears? He doubted it, he looked a bit dull.

Sirius Black did not care that when he asked you if you were going on a date, you blushed, waving off his statement like it was a cloud of smoke.

-

You didn’t want to piss off Sirius. That actually wasn’t the goal at all, because who the bloody hell cares what he thinks? Yet you couldn’t help but think of him while you sat in Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop.

He'd hate this place.

The tea shop was a cute place, it frankly was. It was a rather twee location, filled to the brim with bows and frills. You stared holes into the lacy napkins and sugar bowls. You didn't particularly dislike it. It was cute and you had grown to cherish the pinks and bows, that came with what some defined as femininity. But you enjoyed such things in moderation. And in secret. A lacy napkin stuck out slightly from your small handbag pushed down in a hurry. It would be nice for your scrapbook.

It was the date spot for the hopeless romantics. Or the pushy ones too. You didn’t peg Mr. Jacob Brown as one to frequent such places, but you wouldn’t say no to a free meal with a handsome man.

You weren't usually into blondes though.

You shared the same table as him for Potions. Slytherin and Gryffindor were mixed in this class and you had a feeling Slughorn was regretting this fact as the term trudged along. Jacob was not what you expected. He was one of the more quiet ones, if you squinted he reminded you a bit of Peter. Demeanor wise at least. Jacob's kind eyes found it hard to look straight at yours as he caught you after class, you wouldn't have heard him calling you if he hadn't been in front of you. You could feel Sirius's eyes burning holes into the back of your head as he wanted at the classroom's door while you talked with the tall boy. You opted to ignore him as you listened to Jacob stutter out how he'd be delighted if you would be up for going to Hogsmeade with him on Saturday. You didn't need to say yes though,

You did.

His tall stature, golden blond hair, and tanned skin quite contrasted not only your dear friend Peter but a certain boy you were trying painfully hard not to think about. Jacob was quiet and kind, with a knack for exploding whatever was brewing in his cauldron often. But when you met up with him at Hogsmeade, the frigid February air bitting your cheeks, it was like he had come loose, his usually tense demeanor relaxed and warm. He complimented your outfit quite thoughtfully too.

You wondered if Sirius would like it too.

"Did you hear me Y/N?" You blinked, fuck.

"Merlin no, I'm sorry Jacob I got distracted," he lightly chuckled at the apologetic twist in your face "The frills y'know?" you said with a circular motion of your hand. The boy couldn't help but laugh.

"I was just asking if you liked your dessert, you've barely touched it" his lips spread into a small smile as you glanced at the abandoned oversugared pastry sitting in front of you. It wasn't bad, but much like this place, the cloying taste was sticking to your gums.

"No, I did! But maybe we should've shared it I feel like I'm going to go into a diabetic coma," you let out a laugh, standing up, prompting him to do the same. "Do you want to maybe go for a walk?"

His lips split into a wide smile as he dropped the change of galleons onto the table.

"You're a blessing, let's go,"

Maybe this would go better than you had thought.

-

"So?" James wiggled his eyebrows, throwing a look over his shoulder briefly, catching a certain Slytherin staring from the other side of the hall. Jacob turned as red as the Gryffindor table runner. "How was your date with the shy lad over there?"

James could feel Sirius glaring at him from his spot next to you. He hadn't left your side since you came back, an easy smile on your face much to his dismay. You had come just in time for dinner, meeting the boys as they came down.

"it was really good," a smile broke on your face, your hand still felt warm with the ghost of Jacob's. You couldn't help but contrast this new boy and Sirius. The way he asked to hold your hand, Sirius only ever threw his arm around your shoulders, the way he seemed sincere and upfront with his intentions, the way he complimented you at every turn. Genuinely too, his big brown eyes showing nothing but pure kindness.

You struggled to find a time Sirius had genuinely complimented you. One that wasn't from in between his sheets.

"Well don't just spill it all at once," You couldn't help but roll your eyes at James. Impatient fellow wasn't he?

"Well, he took me to Madam Puddifoot's" a collective groan came out of all the boys' mouths.

"So cheesy-" Peter laughed at the thought,

"He's a bloody wanker if you ask me, reject him while we're ahead," Sirius mumbled as he popped a grape into his mouth, regaining his failing appetite. You shook your head, cheeks tinted red. Of course, Sirius would say that. You couldn't even imagine him in that tea shop, much less even considering that you may have liked it. You couldn't help but frown. Although you had a good time, you secretly wished you were out with Sirius instead. You wished he'd compliment you, you wished he'd open the door for you and ask you your favorite flavor of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor bean. You wished he'd hold your hand, you wished he'd kiss your cheek as you said goodbyes. You wished he liked you enough to be bashful at the thought of asking you out.

You wished Sirius would just ask you out.

"Well, I'll have you know I quite enjoyed it," Sirius suddenly didn't feel hungry again, pushing his plate away. "after the abusively sweet dessert caught up with me, we went for a walk," Remus couldn't help but push the plate of food back in front of Sirius, giving him a pointed look.

"We talked a whole lot, he asked me stuff I don't think anyone has ever asked about me before like really detailed stuff," you couldn't help but pause as you thought about it, his interest in the things you liked, your favorite quidditch team, what you thought of your divination class.

"He asked to hold my hand-"

"Who the hell does that?" you failed to notice the kick James sent into Sirius's shins. He kicked back.

"I just haven't had a good time like that in a while, he was so genuine" James and Peter smiled widely, Remus slowly breaking into a smile as well as they all stared at your face. It was obvious you were happy, the way you hadn't stopped repressing a smile, the small bite of your lip as you thought about it more.

James wasn't going to let Sirius ruin it. As Sirius opened his mouth to speak James stepped on his foot as hard as he could.

"We are all very happy it went well," Sirius let out through the pain, and immediately James took back his foot.

"Thanks, Black," you hadn't called him that in ages. Sirius felt his heart clench, as well as his throat. He'd prefer if James stepped on him again.

You didn't last much longer at the Great Hall, waving them goodbye as you went up with Lily and Mary, spilling all the details to them as well.

"You're the bloody wanker Padfoot," James hissed, Sirius rolled his eyes as he pushed his plate of food away. Remus rolled his eyes too. It was like they were taking care of a child at this point.

Sirius stayed quiet, as he rested his cheek on his hand. Eyes looking for the blond on the far side of the Great Hall. He still didn't know which house to look in.

"Don't do anything to the poor boy" Remus frowned, Sirius always had something to bite back with. Always some quip, some remark. But he stayed silent.

Sirius stared blankly at Remus. He didn't know why. But the truth was that he wanted to beat the boy to a pulp. He didn't have a reason. You weren't his, he made sure of that. The kilometer-long distance he put between you and his heart. He didn't have any reason to be jealous, it wasn't his place. There had to be something wrong with the guy.

When he broke your heart you'd run back to Sirius.

-

Sirius didn't care. He didn't care that he could hear your giggles from the other side of the potions classroom as you helped the blond boy. He didn't care that you had disappeared the last two weekends to hang out with him. He heard from Remus you were trying to teach him how to fly. Imbecile.

He didn't care that he hadn't kissed you in two and a half weeks. Not since the day the boy had asked you out. Sirius Black was perfectly fine and did not at all care that you ran to hug Jacob after your latest victory. The boy had been waiting for you at the changing room's door even if it had been a win against his own house. Leaving Sirius standing in the middle of the pitch, being dragged inside by James. Sirius didn't care that you were missing from the victory party thrown later that night. He saw your names floating together on the map, they mocked him as he tried to swallow the knot at his throat. The rest of the night felt like a blur, like the entire world flew around him and he remained still.

In the two weeks since the date, you had drifted so far from his grasp. He missed the smell of your hair, you always smelled vaguely of vanilla. It was spicy and intoxicating and he could never get enough of it. He missed your laughter when he made some stupid joke. He missed having you in his arms. He missed how soft and supple your skin was. He missed the way your lips would curl up in a smirk when he said something vaguely snarky, or when they roped you into some scheme that would definitely land the lot of you in detention. The way you rambled on about constellations and everything else that crossed your mind when you sat at the top of the astronomy tower. The way you would rip away the occasional cigarette from his mouth, talking about these not being the muggle habits he should be picking up, you'd always take a quick drag before putting it out.

He didn't care that he felt a pit at the bottom of his stomach for two weeks.

"Do you think he'll ask me to be his girlfriend?" you felt juvenile even asking, your words had been barely a whisper, they hung heavy in the common room as Lily, Alice, and Frank as well as the marauders all lounged around. It was fairly late, so the place lay otherwise empty. Your arms hugged your legs as you sat in the far corner of the couch, staring directly into the fire not wanting to see anyone's face. You usually were overjoyed at spending time like this, with all of your friends. Alice and Frank's relationship had brought the girls closer to the marauders as Frank was already a close friend. You no longer had to divide your time between your friends and James got to be around Lily.

James was delighted, of course, patting Frank's back with an I knew we were friends for a reason Frankie dear, the first time the girls stuck around to hang out.

But you had felt a tension lately, even with Lily and the rest of the girls. Like they were hesitant about your blooming relationship. Like they all knew something you didn't. Like they were waiting for some other shoe to drop. The smiles Lily shot your way as you talked about the boy and how well he treated you, were the same type of smile she used to give Marlene when she was delusional about some girl last term and didn't have the heart to tell her. James looked at you like you might break any minute, nervous to speak about your romantic affair. Sirius was completely avoiding you. You were scared you were reading too much into the compliments, into the attention you were receiving.

The tension came to a close when James spoke, his body was taking up 90% of the couch you were on, and he lay on his side. You knew his eyes stared into Lily's curled form. His foot poked yours as he spoke lowly,

"What makes you think he wouldn't?"

"Well-"

"None of that," Alice spoke up from Frank's arms on the opposite couch. He slowly fed jellybeans into her mouth as she spoke, the varying flavors making her face scrunch up every so often. "you're so lovely, and if he can't see that and commit then I'll blast him to hell myself," Lily hummed in agreement from her spot on one of the armchairs, sleep tugging at her eyelids.

"Cheers to that," Sirius spoke from his spot on the carpet, spread like a starfish in front of the fire. James wanted to kick his head in the fire. Sirius would probably welcome it at this point. He felt a knot form in his throat at your words.

Peter snored from the armchair next to Lily's.

"There's no reason to think he won't Y/N," Remus said softly from his spot also on the floor, his back resting on the front of the sofa seat, directly in front of you. You carded your fingers through his hair, and he shot you a small smile. You felt pathetic. You stared into the fire.

It wasn't as if Jacob hadn't been clear. He was really into you, and every second that he was free he'd find an excuse to be around you. Even when his housemates looked at him like he was mad. You felt a swirl of emotions clawing at your throat, almost to the point that you couldn't breathe. You wondered what Sirius thought. You hadn't talked in so long.

You almost felt bad at taking every ounce of attention Jacob gave you, you felt terrible. Like you were using him. Godric were you using him?

Were you using this poor boy to get over Sirius?

No! you liked him, he was kind and he never smirked nor got under your skin. He didn't laugh at you or drive you up the wall with his winks and smirks. He was nice and kind. He was kind yes. Probably what you liked best, one of his best qualities. And let's not forget how agreeable his face was, his strong features and dirty blond hair. And his parents were Americans! You didn't hear that often…

You thought back to December. When Sirius read to you in French, with your head on his chest and his fingers running through your hair. The grounds had been covered in white, cold seeping in through the windows. The words on the page, although foreign to you, rolled off his tongue with ease. Sirius had joked that this would be your Christmas present. He chuckled as you covered your face when he took out a little red box from his bedside table.

You fiddled with the thin golden bracelet he gave you that Christmas.

You felt like you were fighting back tears.

-

"Thought you'd be in love and giggling on some corner of the castle," Your feet dangled from the top of the astronomy tower, and although the security of the metal bars made sure you weren't going to fall, the lack of ground under your feet made you feel at the mercy of the air. Your fingerless gloves did little to stop the biting cold and your fingertips looked pale but you moved them nevertheless, taking the lit cigarette out of your mouth. Your large jacket and the sweater you had stolen from their dorm helped a bit, but you had sat unmoving for a good thirty minutes. You briefly thought of a professor finding you frozen in place the next morning. "I also remember you saying we shouldn't be picking these habits up hm?"

Sirius sat on the floor next to you, feet also dangling through the metal bars. His own jacket was zipped up to the top and the black leather material shone under the light of the moon. This was a different jacket from the one he used when he rode around on his stupid muggle motorbike. It was big and the leather looked soft and worn. His pajama bottoms couldn't be providing him with enough heat though… That wasn't really your problem, was it?

He took the cigarette from your fingers taking a drag.

"Not like you ever listen to me Black,"

"I hate it when you call me that," Sirius passed it back to you, his voice low. The cloud emanating from your lips turned and mixed with Sirius's in front of you. The crescent moon highlighted the swirls of smoke dancing in the air.

"And I hate smoking-"

"Then why are we here?" He hummed as he took the cigarette from you, taking another drag and putting it out on the side of the tower.

"Why are you here?" for the first time since he had arrived you turned to look at him. He did not turn to look back. His side profile was enviable. His defined nose, the plump lips, the way his pearly pale skin contrasted against his coal black hair. It was shorter than usual. His mom had maimed his hair during the two days he passed in his household during Christmas. He was trying desperately to grow it out again. The moon seemed to make him almost black and white. It was like watching a monochromatic film, and you were hooked on it.

You thought of the brown tinge his hair had during the summer months.

"Get bored of the blond yet?" you scoffed, taking out the pack of Player's No 6 cigarettes from your jacket pocket.

"He has a name, not that it matters to you" The ribs of the wheel on the lighter scratched at your thumb as you flicked it quickly, but the flickering warmth made your thumb feel like it was finally shedding a layer of ice. You lit your second cigarette of the night.

You really did hate smoking. You didn't answer his question.

Sirius moved his hand to take the cigarette from your mouth, as you let out the smoke. You moved his hand away, offering the pack instead.

He took the container in his hand and chucked it through the air. You watched with wide eyes as it disappeared through the air, the shadow of night covering whatever hint of where they may have landed. He took the cigarette from your lips and took a drag.

"What is up your ass Black?" you snarled at him, you felt your lips quiver as he finally looked at you one of his insufferable smirks on his face.

"You shouldn't be smoking love, it ain't good for ya," he took another drag and offered you the cigarette once again.

You felt like you were going to blow a fuse. You brought your legs back from the brink, tucking them in and using the bars as leverage to swing yourself up. Your fingers clutched the lighter in your pocket tightly. Sirius stared at the spot you had been sitting at.

"You're such a prick Sirius Black," he finally turned to look at you "You can never let me be happy, you won't even let me have my cigarettes,"

"come on love-" you scoffed, you could feel the hot tears welling up in your eyes.

"Dont 'love' me, you're so selfish" You could see his jaw clench, his chest rising as he took a deep breath in surprise. "go find yourself someone else to satisfy your needs, you will not keep me in this vicious loop any longer,"

You made to leave but turned back "His name is Jacob by the way, and I am not in love with him but he doesn't make me cry Sirius," he could see the trail of tears down your cheeks, the glow of the moon reflecting off of them. It was like you were crying starlight. He had never hated his name falling from your lips more than he did this moment.

"And that's all you do," he felt the bile crawling up his throat,

"You make me cry."

[spncvr]

this was scrum cant wait for moreeee

[spncvr]

HE ASKED YOU OUT?!?!?!!!?!?!?! okay i can't help you with this one i'm sorry i don't have any experience in this maybe other anons can help you? good luck!

yeaaahhhhh i ended up saying yes tho bc it wouldn‘t hurt to try,, hes not a bad dude

[spncvr]

guys btw update i ended up saying no to him fully and were good now…. i hope… ITS SUMMER HOLIDAYS ANTWAYS WHO CARES😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[spncvr]

guys im alive btw im just in camp

[honeyciders-deactivated20250727]

adore you.

-> description: boyfriend!sirius black x gender-neutral!reader. domestic fluff, established relationship!au. 0.47k words. drabble.

it’s seven in the morning, and sirius black looks like an angel.

he should not be looking like an angel.

he should be looking more like you: frumpy bedhead, wrinkled pyjamas, the imprint of the pillowcase on your left cheek, and a little bit of drool by the corner of your mouth that you wipe away hastily. instead, sirius looks like he’s descended from the heavens and chosen to live in your humble abode—bathed in the early morning sun, hair spread around his head like a halo, hands clasped on his chest.

this is a problem, you decide. this is a very big, monumental problem, because right now, you want nothing more than to kiss sirius black.

how dare he look so ethereal, with his plush lips parted ever so slightly, quirked up the corners, like he’s smirking even in his sleep? how are you supposed to control yourself when he’s right next to you, looking like that? you shift closer to him, not taking your eyes off his face. he’s beautiful—he always is, but especially so like this. 

damn it. this train of thought only makes you want to kiss him even more.

it’s a bit unacceptable; you look like a raccoon who spent several hours scurrying around a dumpster. that’s not to mention your god-awful morning breath. heat creeps up your cheeks—how are you supposed to kiss him without brushing your teeth first? sure, sirius might have slept over at your place a few times before, but your relationship is still only a couple months old. 

you’re so caught up in your thoughts that you don’t even notice the object of your affection blink his eyes open, watching you as you stare at your pillow, teeth worrying your bottom lip. 

“hi,” sirius says. his voice is slurred with sleep, rough and hoarse—and god, that’s doing things to your brain you don’t want to comprehend. you jump.

“...oh,” you reply dumbly. “good morning.”

“good morning.” 

sirius arches an eyebrow. you gulp. a moment passes like this—a brief eternity where you’re staring at him with surprise, and he’s staring at you with anticipation. 

finally, he sighs, breaking eye contact. “fine. if you won’t do it, i will.”

“wait, what—”

in one fluid motion, sirius sits up straight and captures your lips with his. your eyes widen—what about your morning breath and the bird’s nest sitting on top of your head and the gunk in your eyes and—

sirius gently cups the back of your head, and swallows all your indecision with his kiss. you melt, just slightly, leaning your body on him and crumpling the sheets under your hands.

he pulls back, eyes bright and grin infectious. your chest heaves, but you can’t help the giddy smile that overcomes your face.

“good morning, angel,” sirius says again, softly. “you look beautiful, by the way.”

a/n: someone (my close friend) told me to post for the marauders. and so i did. this my first ever marauders fic, so i hope you like it! i'm still new to exploring the marauders side of the hp fandom, so i'd love it if you could tell me what you think :)

[spncvr]

I CANT BREATHE😭 throwing up THROWING UP.

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[spncvr]

haven’t been on that reading grind but UGH SAM u always make me squeal 😭😭😭

[spncvr]

EXAMS ARE OVER WAR IS OVER WATCH ME WRITE A NOVEL😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[moonstruckme]

hii idk if ur taking requests but can u write sth with rockstar!remus who’s like full of adrenaline after a shkw and just kisses r ☹️☹️ the others wont let them be LOLLL😭😭😭 hope ur having an amazing day 💘

You have an amazing day too !

rockstar!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 643 words

James all but sprints off the stage, as he always does, working off his post-show adrenaline the best way he knows how. His routine seems unaltered by the fact that this is the biggest show the boys have played yet, but you don’t suppose he can really kick it into a higher gear than it already is. It’s also entertaining for the rest of you, watching him hurdle over sound equipment and careen past frightened-looking crew members before calling a “sorry!” behind him. 

You know to expect Remus behind him, leaving the stage at a slower pace while Sirius stays and soaks up the energy for as long as he can before someone physically drags him off, but you’re not expecting the unusual energy about your boyfriend when he comes in. 

Remus is crackling, the exact sound of when he plugs his bass into the amp but around him like an aura. Your heart kicks in your chest. 

You beam at him, holding up the small bouquet you’d impulse-bought at a stand a few blocks from the venue. You feel a bit silly, but Remus doesn’t seem to mind. 

He lets out a breathy little laugh at the sight of you and shakes his head as he takes two long strides, grasping your hips and pressing you into the wall. 

The flowers are instantly forgotten. Remus’ mouth is warm and insistent on yours, his knee pushing in between your legs and his nose pressed into your cheek. You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until he breaks the kiss. 

He sets both hands on your cheeks. There are crew members buzzing around you, and the crowd is still thrumming outside, and somewhere James is talking loudly, but Remus’ face is the only thing in the world. Scarred and sweaty and smiling at you. 

“Great show,” you scrape out. 

Another short laugh. If you didn’t know better, you’d say your boyfriend was giddy. “Yeah?” He gives you another kiss, shorter but still shock-happy. His lips stay curved against yours. “I thought so,” he admits, a bit softer, like a secret. 

You lower your voice to match. “You were incredible.” 

Remus grins even bigger, brilliant and totally unlike himself. He’s practically glowing. 

“Remus,” Sirius shouts, prancing toward the both of you with his usual regard for private intimacy, “if you’d pause in fondling your girlfriend, James says we’ve got a group out back who wants autographs.” 

Remus drops his forehead to yours, his disbelieving puff of air tickling over your nose. You pet down the hairs at his nape. 

“Oh, are these for us?” Sirius sounds delighted. Remus doesn’t take the bait, but you do, turning to find him looking at the flowers hanging limply from your grasp. “Doll, you shouldn’t have!”

“How could I resist,” you play along, letting go of Remus to ease one of the stems out from the rest. Sirius takes it from you happily. “They go so well with your outfits.” 

“More Remus’ than ours,” James notes, coming over. He’s even sweatier than the other two, but his excess energy seems mostly spent, “but I’m sure that’s only coincidence.” 

“Certainly,” Sirius agrees. “She’d never pick favorites. Say, babe, want me to sign something of yours?”

“She’s good,” Remus answers for you, tugging you closer and touching his lips to your brow. “I’ve got this one.” 

“I’ll bet you do.” James is grinning. He prods Remus’ shoulder, encouraging you both to follow him towards where the fans are waiting. “She may not pick favorites, but you will, is that right?” 

“Enough,” Remus says, but he’s still too happy to work up any real rancor. 

“Oh, I already know you’re gonna get an extra special autograph, doll,” Sirius teases. Your face starts to heat. “Likely when we see you tomorrow, he’ll have left you some even darker than a marker could do—” 

“Enough.” 

[spncvr]

rockstar au my love,, this was scrum😓

[secretetherealbeing]

[midnights-dragon]

[spncvr]

HE ASKED YOU OUT?!?!?!!!?!?!?! okay i can't help you with this one i'm sorry i don't have any experience in this maybe other anons can help you? good luck!

yeaaahhhhh i ended up saying yes tho bc it wouldn‘t hurt to try,, hes not a bad dude

[spncvr]

i just realized i reached 200 followers 😭 tysm guysss💗💗

[youbutstupid]

-A Job That Slowly Kills You-

-Bruises That Won’t Heal-

[spncvr]

oh!

[spncvr]

he asked me out wtf do i do now