hi

Jason is on all fours in front of you. You sit behind him, nervously fiddling with the lube bottle in your hands. 

The bright redness on his face is visible whenever he turns around, trying to predict your next move.

"Do you want to make me wait any longer?" he huffs.

You aren't really sure how it got to this moment. Was it after you got home drunk from a night out that you two ordered the pink strap on? And when it arrived and both of you tried to remember why the hell you ordered the thing, that Jason said you should try it? Just once, just for fun?

Well whatever, you obviously said yes, maybe a bit too enthusiastically, but now actually had to perform.

You open the lid of the bottle, squeeze out some of the lubricant onto your fingers and lightly press them against his hole.

"You ready?" You ask him. 

Jason nods, back muscles tensing visibly.

"We don't have to." Your other hand calmly strokes the side of his hip.

He grunts. "Do it, I'm ready." After a short pause, he adds "and I really want to." Almost too quiet to hear.

A slight grin spreads across your face. "Okay then, Im going in."

"Don't say it like tha-" he gets cut off by one of your fingers slowly pressing in. "Ah, fuck-"

"You tell me when it gets too much baby, okay?" His answer is a short nod again.

You press deeper and soon enough a second finger follows. Jason's whines get harder to hide with every slow stroke in and out. At some point his arms give out. The pillow under him now muffling his sounds even more. A shame, really.

"You look so pretty like this." You coo, your hand gently moving along his back to his hips and eventually circling part of his ass with your thumb. "So pretty baby."

Jason moans at that.

"You want my cock now?" 

"Yes, yes please, god-" his begging sends a chill down your spine. You´ve never seen him like this before. All whiny and pathetic, begging you to fuck him. Jason turns his face and you can see his flushed cheeks and watery eyes.

You lean down to press soft kisses to his muscular back. Then pull out your fingers, wipe them clean on his ass cheek and line up the silicone cock strapped to you.

The head rubbing against his hole made him involuntary back up into it. "You really want it, huh?" Jason whines louder this time, not even bothering to hide it.

You chuckle. Then press forward again, guiding it in. Gently, watching your cock disappear inside him. 

"You still okay?" Your question is answered by a whiny "Yes".

"You're doing great Jay. So good." He whines again and rocks his hips back, pathetically trying to get more. "Patience, don´t want to hurt you." You lean down again to plant feather light kisses along his spine.

When you get up once more, you move your hips back, seeing the pink silicon appear again. You do it slowly, dragging every little whine and moan out of him, then pushing back in. You continue in an agonizingly slow pace.

"Baby, please-" his words get choked out by a low hum escaping his lips. "More, please, just ah-" 

You keep pushing in and out, speed increasing after every thrust. "Like this?" You can hear your own voice getting more hoarse and desperate.

Your hands are gripping his hips tightly. The more that the speed increased, the harder it is for you to keep yourself up straight. Your one hand loosens its grip and slides down Jason's sweat coated back till it reaches his shoulders. Your hand finds his hair and gripped it.

One hand now on his hips and one in his hair.

"´s that good?" Your voice nothing more than a breathy whisper. 

There is no real answer, just a thick groan and more huffing. You can feel him tensing again, his muscles shifting under his skin. 

He turns his head again, his eyes darker than usual. His expression tells you he's completely lost in the moment

A few strokes later, he shudders and collapses onto into the pillow, his legs still shaking after you pull out. 

You discard the harness and sit down beside him. One of his arms finds its way over your thighs around your waist and his face nuzzles against your warm skin.

On Jason's behalf, he's still grumbling to himself about a clingy girlfriend who's so fucking obnoxious as he undresses for the shower. When he finally steps under the scalding spray—alone—he lets himself begin to relax.

And only then does he reflect on how he just acted toward you, his babygirl. He'd told you to leave him alone...told you that you're annoying...told you he was sick of you. And on top of it all, he just stood there, watching as fat tears slid down your cheeks, weighing your pretty lashes down.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself, letting the water soak into his dark hair and slide over his body. As much as he hates to admit it, he wishes you were here with him. In a perfect world, you'd be washing his hair and back, listening to him ramble on about everything that was wrong. Instead of being something to attack, you'd be his teammate, his companion that he goes to.

Silently, he goes through the motions of a shower: shampoo in hair, rinse. Wash body, rinse. Wash face, rinse. He does it all with a heavy heart and a clouded mind. The same thought repeats in his head like a mantra: Why do I treat the love of my life like this?

As he shuts the shower off and wraps his soft white towel around his waist, he half-expects to walk out of the en suite bathroom to see you sat on the bed, patient and eager to help him unwind—to be there for him.

But of course, you're not.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he slips himself into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, shaking his wet hair out with a towel. Twisting the door handle slowly, he creeps it open. "Sweetheart?" he calls out tentatively.

No response.

He inches out of the room, eyes scanning the apartment floor for you. Not in the kitchen, not in your office, not...

Oh, there you are. Curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a book in your lap. So precious he thinks to himself, then silently curses himself for it. He shouldn't be allowed to think such soft things of you after how he treated you. "Hey..."

You glance up, look into his eyes with your sweet, gentle ones, then look back to your book.

His heart squeezes so painfully that he has to reach a hand up to rub his aching chest.

"Ma, please talk to me. I'm sorry," he murmurs gently, as if he's speaking to a wounded animal and not his girlfriend.

"I know."

"You know what...?"

"That you're sorry," you reply, looking up at him again. "You're always sorry, Jason."

Against his will, his temper begins to flare once more. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You come home from patrol, explode on me, leave for an hour or so, then seek me out to tell me you're sorry," you say. "That's usually how my nights go nowadays."

"You can't just pin that all on me," he argues. You gently shut your book. Here we go. "It's not my fault that you just...piss me off so badly."

You nod. "Okay, Jason," you mutter, lifting off the couch and walking toward the bedroom. You dump whatever wine was left in your glass down the sink on the way.

He hates that he can see the dried tears on your cheeks. He hates even more that he can't shake this inexplicable anger he feels.

"What do you mean 'okay'?"

"I mean okay," you reply gently. "I'm going to bed."

He blinks, standing in the middle of the room like a lost dog. "You're just...going?"

You nod.

"O...kay. Why?"

You let out a sigh. "Really, Jason?"

"Yes, really!" he exclaims. "Why're you just leaving?"

"I don't wanna be around you, quite frankly," you murmur, walking closer to the bedroom.

His shoulders sag as he hears the click of the bedroom door shutting. Your words repeat in his mind, paining him.

I don't wanna be around you.

Of course you don't, because why would you, what with how he's been treating you. He glances at the microwave clock—12:15am. Simply seeing what time it is seems to make Jason's exhaustion weigh heavier on his shoulders. He yawns, rubbing his eyes softly.

Couch...or bed?

He's been sleeping on the couch for god knows how many days now, one more day wouldn't hurt. But at the same time, he misses his baby. He misses feeling you snuggle up against his chest, wanting to be held and loved. He smiles faintly at the memories of all the times you've nudged up into his hand, silently asking for him to play with your hair.

He doesn't deserve to have that anymore, he knows it. But still, he makes the decision that tonight, he is going to sleep where he's meant to: in his bed, next to the woman he loves.

He shuffles into the kitchen, washing your wine glass for you as well as the new dish you bought the other day but hadn't gotten around to cleaning. Then, flicking the light off, he makes his way to the bedroom door.

As he enters, he's met with a pitch black expanse of nothingness. The only light is the faint moonlight peeking through the curtains, perfectly illuminating the slope of your nose for him to see.

You're not asleep, he can tell from your breathing. Gently, he crawls in beside you, scooting close enough that he can spoon you. He hates the way your body tenses when his arms envelop you before releasing, hates that you're no longer used to his cuddles.

"It's just me, baby," he whispers softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"I'm not really in the mood to cuddle, Jay. Sorry..."

He blinks. "Oh. Yeah...sorry, love." His arms release from around your waist, and he slides back until he's on his side of the bed.

He stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the spin of the fan in order to avoid looking down at your pretty self. His strategy only works for a solid two minutes before his eyes instinctively flicker down to you.

His eyes trace you—your relaxed forehead, your soft brows, your shut eyes, those beautiful lashes, the slope of your nose...all the way down to those plush lips he loves so much.

"I don't know why I act the way I do," he whispers shakily, as if he's admitting his deepest, darkest secret. "I..."

You look over your shoulder at him. "You what, Jay?"

"I'm not...a violent dog. I don't why I bite..."

The pure sadness and insecurity in his voice does truly make your heart ache, but what about you? What about all the times he's lashed out on you without reason, making you feel unwelcome?

"I know, but..." you sigh. "I'm so tired, Jason. You didn't always used to treat me like this...you used to, I dunno, regulate it better."

"Tired of me?"

"Of how you treat me, like you're not afraid of losing me."

You can physically hear his breath catch. "But...oh, baby, no..." he whimpers softly. "Do I really make you feel that way, my love?" His hands cup your cheeks, thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones.

Softly, your hands find his wrists, removing his hands from your face and placing them in his lap.

"You're...you're losing me, Jay," you murmur. His eyes are immediately glassy, you can tell. You want to do nothing more than kiss that sadness away—but you can't. "You're definitely going to lose me if you keep treating me like I'm disposable."

"I'm trying to get better for you, baby, I swear I am–"

"I know you're trying, but nothing's actually changing, babe..." you pause a moment to look into his eyes, trying to truly get your point across. "I...I've considered leaving if this keeps up."

His breathing is labored and uneven as he imagines a life without you—it's a horrible, pain-riddled, miserable one. "No..."

"Jay..."

"Baby, no," he's actually crying now, tears streaming from his beautiful blue-green eyes. "I need you, ma, I–"

"Then you'll get help and fix your problem," you say. Your fingers twitch, aching to brush the tear away that's sliding down his cheek.

"Help?"

"Y'know, like therapy."

Immediately, his mood shifts. It's so quick, you'd miss it if you blinked. His eyes sharpen, his face hardens, and his body becomes more alert. He wipes the wetness off his face. "I don't need therapy."

"Then how else are you gonna fix this?"

"I don't know, Y/N, but I don't need therapy," he doesn't catch the way his voice is rising. "Me, Jason Todd—'son' of batman—therapy?"

"You're doing it again," you murmur numbly.

"What?" he blinks.

"Yelling. You're yelling at me, and you don't even realize it."

His eyes soften. "Oh."

"Yeah," you mumble. "You do that a lot, Jay."

"Okay, but I'm...I'm not getting therapy."

You look down, debating whether to say exactly what you're thinking or to just agree with him and move on, to let the cycle repeat.

"It's either therapy or me, Jason."

He blanches. "What?" he whispers, wondering if he heard you correctly.

"It's therapy or me," you repeat a little more firmly, looking into eyes when you say it this time.

"I'm a bat, Y/N. I don't do therapy," he defends.

"Jay, for christ's sake!" you exclaim. "Are you not like, processing what's happening right now?" You say your next words slowly, trying to get them through his head. "If you don't go to therapy and get help for your anger management, you're going to lose me. I'm going to leave. I won't be your girlfriend anymore.

"I can't just keep being your punching bag forever, baby, no matter how much I love you—how much I know you love me. So what's it gonna be, Jason? Your ego or our relationship?"

=

It was an average day for school, get up, sluggishly get ready for the day, brush your teeth, slump to the great hall, eat breakfast like a living corpse-slowly wake up, and then head to class.

You yawned, loudly and high pitched-stretching your arms above your head as you moved with the flow of the morning crowd. You felt a cold hand grasp your elbow and pull your arms down, you looked up with watery bleary eyes, pouting as you saw your friend…boyfriend…person??

Tom Riddle, who gave you a look as he held your arms down. “It’s impolite to shove your hands in someone's face,” he said cooly, and you huffed, shaking your arms out.

“I was stretching,” you groaned, twisting your arm to grab his hand-his jaw clicked but didn’t stop you, like he ever would. “S’ not my fault you walk too close and get smacked.”

That happened-far too many times, you’d be either animatedly talking or stretching-or whatever-and bam! Tom got smacked by accident because he liked to loom close to you.

“Perhaps you should learn to control your actions instead,” Tom muttered, the two of you turning into the DADA classroom-it was open today, the desks all packed away with a large jolting wardrobe in the middle of the room, Professor Merrythought standing just in front of it.

“Boggarts?” you muttered to Tom, who stared at the wardrobe with disinterest. “Didn’t we do this in third year?”

“We did, Ms. (l/n),” Professor Merrythought said, guiding students into a group. “Hence, the review, just to make sure you all still remember what to do. Now-does anyone remember the charm to Repell a boggart? Yes, Mr. Riddle,”

Tom had raised his hand and lowered it once called upon. “Riddikulus, turns the boggart from something you fear-into something…funny, from your imagination,” Tom said, and Merrythought nodded approvingly, awarding him five points.

“Show off,” you murmured with a smirk, and Tom only smirked back, elbowing you lightly.

“All right, all right, everyone form a line-we only have one boggart and my third year class needs it for today as well-line up, line up,” Merrythought said, and everyone shuffled into a single file line, you and Tom ending up somewhere in the middle of it with you behind him.

The fears that came forth ranged from basic fears like heights or even dark creatures, to more irrational ones like public speaking(that was an odd one to see), and one that even made Tom jump a little-was a fear of needles, a giant needle hovering above the student before they squeaked out the charm and the thing deflated like a long balloon and flew about before smacking into the window.

Then, it was Tom’s turn.

He stepped up, drawing his wand. He’d faced boggarts before-only twice. The first in 3rd year, back then, it had been a fear of rejection from his father-before he found out who his father actually was. The 2nd was a fear of death, he remembered the boggart clearly, taking the form of the grim reaper with his body laying beneath it-bleeding out.

He suspected it would remain the same, after all-it was still what he feared most.

But what shocked him, and everyone else, was the form the boggart took on. It was still the grim reaper-but now the body it took wasn’t Tom’s.

It was yours. In the shadows the boggart created, your eyes looked up at him, weak and pleading-watery and in pain, blood pouring from your mouth and stomach as the scythe pressed around your neck.

“Mr. Riddle?” Profesor Merrythought asked hurriedly, wand at the ready; Tom was out of it-eyes wide, breath short and sporadic, his wand trembling at his side as the boggarts' shadows began to close in on him.

You watched with wide eyes-hands cupped to your mouth. His worst fear, was your death? You were torn between thinking that was the sweetest thing ever and wanting to cry. “Professor Merrythought, please!” You cried out-realizing Tom wasn’t responding and the boggart was closing in on him.

Professor Merrythought stepped in front of Tom, and the boggart changed to her worst fear-she flicked her wand and cast the charm-and sent the boggart back into the wardrobe. She turned to Tom, and you stepped forward, gently grabbing his arm. He was shaking-his eyes unfocused.

“Tommy?” You whispered, and his eyes snapped to you, you gave a reassuring smile. “I’m okay, I’m right here, I’m okay,” you said softly and his hand twisted to grab yours, his wand clattering to the ground as he grabbed the back of your neck and yanked you close-pressing his forehead to yours, closing his eyes as he shook. You wrapped your arm around him-holding him as Professor Merrythought dismissed class-even though it had just started; but a students wellbeing mattered more than continuing the lesson.

Tom just stood there with you, holding you as he trembled-you’d never seen him like this-not since 3rd year and the original Boggart lesson. But…“that was really romantic, you know,” you murmured, caressing your thumb against his side, you waited until you knew he was listening-curious as always. “your worst fear is me dying? Super cute.”

You were teasing-if only to get him out of his head. Tom scoffed lightly, urning his head away-his ears pink. Got him. “Shut up,” he grumbled, oh was he actually pouting? You lifted your hands-taking yours from his grip and squishing his cheeks.

“I mean, seriously? It’s sooo romantic-out of everything in the world to fear, you fear losing me,” You teased, and Tom groaned-pulling himself out of your hold.

“No, stop,” he muttered as he walked away, the flush spreading to his cheeks as you followed, latching yourself around his waist.

“You loooove meee,” you giggled, clinging to him as he grabbed your bags from the wall and left the classroom with his face bright red and you lovingly embarrassing him.

“I’ll kill you,” Tom said, prying your hands off around his waist-scrunching his face as you only twisted around to stand in front of him and hug him again.

“You wooont, that’s your worst fear,” You snickered, and Tom put his hand on your face and shoved you away-much to your delight as you cackled.

“Go away,” Tom sneered-too quietly to mean it, and you laughed again, following him as he stormed off to the library, your bag still hanging from his shoulder.

He couldn't take much time to search for a babysitter; it was already taking too much time to take care of Lisa, work, and the house to start searching for a person— a stranger —to take care of his baby girl.

But you were the niece of one of his co-workers. Young, at college, trying to make extra money to survive. So he gave you one week to see if you and Lisa get along.

Lisa loved you from the first night.

You played all the games she wanted, watched all the animated movies she had on DVD, played tea parties, listened to her talk about her nightmares for hours, and read that extra book all the time before bed.

Lisa was a funny, cute, and interesting little girl, and you found yourself enjoying your job. You had been babysitting annoying and bratty kids lately, so difficult that you even considered stopping babysitting, so this was a great job. Also, the payment wasn't bad at all. It was clear that Tom— or as you called him, Mr Riddle —made a good living.

But he was difficult. You were slightly scared of him.

He never smiled, at least not when you were present; he just talked when necessary, and you barely knew anything about him.

Usually, you knew things about the kids' parents. What they worked on (you know it just because of your uncle), usual office gossip, little things about their personal life.

However, Mr Riddle was a true mystery.

You already had a month babysitting the little girl, and life was going great. You had a full day of Disney movies and tea parties when she finally fell asleep. You were resting on the couch, your arm under your head, when you heard the door open.

Mr Riddle

You watched the man get into the house and lock the door. His head cocking a bit to the side, trying to get a clear look at your sleepy face, see if you're awake.

"Hard day?" he asked, leaving his coat on the rack.

"She didn't want to sleep, but out of that, everything was perfect," you said with a smile, getting up from the couch and ready to leave. "What about you?"

"Not much, just another business dinner," he takes out his wallet from his pocket and extends a few bills to you. "Thanks, I could take you home, it's late," he said, with no emotions or expressions on his face.

"It is not necessary." You didn't want to bother. He must be tired, and he had already taken off his coat.

"I took longer than expected, it is fine, I can take you home," he said, shrugging, hands in his pockets.

"Fine," you said softly, looking up at him. At his brown locks, his handsome face—

"Well," he says, interrupting her staring. "Let's get going."

His car smelled like his cologne and pine car air freshener. It was a black, simple car, the leather seats cold.

The ride was silent after you gave him the directions to your apartment, the only sound was the radio humming with some news, he never listened to music, always listening the news.

The silence was just a bit awkward… your hands fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

You saw him out of the corner of your eye. You could see his face was tense, thanks to the traffic lights, his hair still perfectly combed, though he had hours at work.

At a red light, you turned quickly to look out of the window, knowing he could catch your gaze.

"Lisa's going to have a party tomorrow at the park," he says, and you change a bit of your posture to see him.

"Want me to babysit her tomorrow?"

"No." He simply said. "I'll be there… she just wants you there. Since her mom left, she… needs a girl around, you know how it is."

'You know how it is,' the thing everyone says when they don't want to reveal too much.

"When?"

"Two PM. On Bethnal Green. Is it too far? I can pick you up," he says, the light turning green, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens a bit more to keep driving.

"Ummm, I think it is fine, I can be there, I'm free tomorrow," it was a lie, you had to study for some exams you had next week.

But you wanted to spend time with Lisa… and maybe with her father too.

You arrive the next day at the park after taking the subway.

Two PM exact.

The green lawn was full of children running around freely. Laughter and loud voices made it clear where the party was.

You caught Lisa running around freely with two other girls around her age by her side, a soft smile reaching your face while you looked at her, still walking closer to the party.

"You're here," you heard a deep voice say behind you.

You turned to see Mr Riddle, right behind you.

He still seemed formal and polished, but not as polished as when he went to work.

His white button-up shirt was clean and perfectly ironed, and he had jeans on, not his typical suit pants he always wears.

"I said I would be," you say with a soft smile.

"Lisa was waiting. I don't know what I would have said if you didn't come." He walks past you to the little girl running.

Lisa saw her dad walking closer to her, her gaze drifted to his side, her eyes catching your form.

"YOU ARE HERE!" She says excitedly, jumping up and down. Her pink dress was already dirty with dirt and mud, and the corner of her mouth with what looked like Cheetos crumbs.

"Why so surprised? I said I would be here," you say with a smile, kneeling in front of the little girl. "When have I failed you?" You ask, not really expecting an answer; it was just a rhetorical question.

"Well, less times than my mommy," the little girl says, still with a childish smile on her lips, innocently, not really thinking her words had such importance.

Always kids saying reckless things.

Your smile faded a bit, turning into a grimace of discomfort, but the smile came back, a tight smile.

"Why don't you go to play?" Mr Riddle says, his thumb passing on softly over Lisa's mouth corner to clean the crumbs, your head turning a bit to look up at him. His eyes, which usually don't show any emotion, now with a bit of embarrassment behind them.

"Ok, daddy," the kid says, before jumping back to her friends.

You got up again, for some seconds (that felt like minutes), Mr Riddle and you just watched the little girl giggle and jump from here and there with tight expressions.

"Sorry about that," he breaks the awkward silence, his deep voice not giving away the embarrassment, but his eyes show it.

Mr Riddle was embarrassed.

He didn't want to admit how it hurt him that his wife left, how it hurt him that his daughter didn't have a present mother figure in her life, how they couldn't be a happy family with Sunday roasts and laughter.

He hated how his daughter had to see all the little girls in kindergarten happy and giggly with their mothers, while she had only her dad to paint her nails (badly).

"No worries," you say, your shoulders tense. "I'm gonna…" You point to the snack table with drinks and cupcakes, and everything a kid would dream of.

"Sure," he mumbles under his breath. "Watch Lisa for me for some minutes, I'll go for a smoke," he mumbles again under his breath, and I just nod. He turns with his hands in his pockets.

Smoking was the only bad habit Mr Riddle had. You've heard about it, but you've never seen it, because you were always with Lisa, and he never smokes in front of her.

But you could smell it sometimes, on the rare occasions that he got slightly closer. You could smell the smoke under that strong cologne he sprays after.

The party came to an end early, typical of kids' parties.

At 5 PM, everyone was picking up their children to go back home.

In the car, you were on the backseat with Lisa, playing Miss Mary Mack while Mr Riddle drove, not saying a word, sometimes his eyes checked Lisa through the rearview mirror when she squealed or giggled loudly, loving hearing her happy.

Arriving at the house, Lisa got out of the car with some of your help and jumped happily to the door, waiting for her daddy to open it.

"Thanks again for going, even if you weren't obliged to, and I wasn't paying," he thanks me again.

"Stop it. I love to spend time with Lisa."

"Yeah," he said, looking at the little girl waiting by the door, an ounce of tenderness feeling his brown eyes. "Sorry for what she said at the park. Her mom hasn't visited since she moved some months ago, doesn't call… and I don't think I'm doing a great job—"

"No," you interrupted him. "She loves you and she's happy. She speaks great of you, she sees you as her hero. I think you're very strong, Mr Riddle—"

"Call me Tom," he simply said, making you freeze, and he walked toward the door to join the little girl and open the door.

Maybe Mr Riddle… well, Tom, is opening more now.

The next week was the same routine; taking care of Lisa, studying for some exams, going out with some friends… but, there was something different.

Mr Riddle… Tom (it was still difficult to assimilate that he lets you call him that) was not as cold as before. He's not a super talkative man; he didn't show much emotion, it was his way to be… but there was a bit of softness in his expression.

He loves hearing Lisa giggle more, he loves listening to the adventures you had with her or what you made for lunch one day.

Currently, you're his daughter's happiness, and he plans on keeping it like that.

One Saturday, he arrived after a dinner he had to have with the company. He parks his car and notices almost all the lights are off… Lisa's already asleep.

He opens the door carefully to not make much noise… and the calmness and silence of the house receive him. A calmness that only happens after 9 PM, after the soft, innocent chuckles turn into soft, sleepy sighs.

He looks to one side, where the living room is, and there you are. Your head uncomfortably tilting to one side, a position you could just be making if you were asleep.

He left his coat on the rack and walked slowly to the couch, and yeah, you were asleep indeed after a tiring day with the little tornado.

He looks at you for some seconds, his hand rubbing his jawline.

He looked at how young you were, how peaceful you looked, the little furrow of your eyebrows… until you stirred, recognising the man's form almost immediately, making you sit quickly.

"Sorry," you said awkwardly, arranging your shirt; one sleeve had fallen off your shoulder.

"Don't apologise," he makes a soft movement with his hand, brushing it off. "Tiring day?"

"Yes… she didn't want to sleep, you?"

"It was boring," he says and sits beside you on the couch. "Want me to take you home? It is late, and you're tired."

"I'm gonna be fine," you said with a shrug, but you really wanted to stay close to him just a bit more.

He mumbles something under his breath, something you didn't catch.

You both looked at each other for some seconds.

He was leaning back on the couch, arms folded, legs a bit spread. He was relaxed; this was his space.

You both started leaning more into each other until his breath ghosted on your lips, and he started nibbling on your lower lip.

You didn't think much. You didn't think that this man was 15 years older than you, or that he was technically your boss, or that his daughter was resting peacefully upstairs. Your sleepy mind, your lips and your need are working on their own.

Until the kiss finished, your breath agitated, but his wasn't, and he leaned back onto the couch.

Not with the expression of a man who regretted something, or at least he didn't show it.

He moved again, getting up and pushing your shoulders until you were lying on the couch.

"You can rest here," he said, opening a blanket that was on the backrest and covering you with it. "Good night," he said softly, turning off the light and walking upstairs.

Leaving you thinking… and a bit guilty after the dopamine went down and you cringed at the memory.

Not because you didn't like the kiss, just because you felt stupid and… what if he didn't like it as you did?

But, mostly, curious about this intriguing man.

taglist <3: @castielscaplan, @zzluvsronweasleyyy, @allielovesstars, @sucker-4-angst, @beelzebzb, @iangelofmusic, @bro-idkwhatimdoinghere

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OOPS, I LIKE YOU - 1.3k you told mattheo to make friends outside of slytherin, but apparently you didn’t think that through — because now he’s off with some ravenclaw girl named evelyn, and suddenly you’re realizing you might have created your own worst nightmare.

STAY IN THE LAVENDER SHAMPOO HAZE - 0.5k ever since you started dating mattheo, he’s been obsessed with the way you smell, always nuzzling into your hair like a love-drunk puppy. but when you run out of your shampoo, he grieves — all pouty lips and big doe eyes, clinging to you like it’s the end of the world, demanding extra kisses to to help him get through this trying time.

RESIDENT GUARD DOG - 0.7k ever since you met mattheo, you knew he had a temper. but when some creep at a party gets too close to you, he completely snaps. now you're in his dorm, everyone yelling, but all you can think about is how pretty he looks when he's angry.

JUST FIVE MORE MINUTES - 0.5k mattheo doesn’t even let you take off your shoes before he’s pulling you into his lap, whispering that he missed you more than sleep and needs your hands in his hair, now.

MY PILLOW HAS A PULSE (AND CURLY HAIR) - 0.6k you come back from a horrible day, ready to hide in your bed forever. but the second you see your boyfriend, you end up melting in his lap and. . . accidentally leaking from the eyes. good thing mattheo riddle is excellent at kissing problems away.

mattheo who is STUPIDLY SOFT for reader : PART TWO

# THEODORE NOTT ❛  he's a bad dream, nicotine, druggie complication.  ❜

KISS IT BETTER - 0.8k theodore shows up bruised and bloodied from yet another fight, and you patch him up with a scolding, a kiss, and a heart that won’t stop falling.

HANDS OFF, GREENGRASS - 0.9k you didn’t plan on being jealous — until daphne got too comfortable with theodore.

WHO'S CAT IS THAT? - 1.2k after a minor spat, theodore finds what he thinks is your animagus form sulking in the courtyard and spends an entire hour apologizing to it — only to discover he’s been emotionally unloading on derek avery’s cat. at least theo’s humiliation proves one thing: he really would do anything to earn your forgiveness ( even buy the fancy salmon treats ).

MERLIN HELP ME (KISS YOU) - 2.7k you’re supposed to be studying, but theo’s glasses keep sliding down his nose and now you’re hopelessly in love and very, very distracted.

SO, WHAT DOES THEODORE NOTT LIKE? - 1.6k ever since you picked theodore nott for secret santa, you've been in absolute denial about caring. you’re definitely not going out of your way to find the perfect gift, and you’re absolutely not asking his friends totally casual questions about his interests. but when you find out he’s staying at hogwarts for the holidays, you can’t help but pry — and somehow, along the way, you might just end up learning more about him than you ever planned to.

A NOT SO STUDIOUS TEAM - 2.6k ever since slughorn paired you, theodore, and enzo for a year-long project, your life has been nothing but chaos. between enzo’s constant eyebrow wiggling, theodore’s smug italian nicknames, and your caffeine-fueled rants, it's a miracle any studying gets done.

THERE ARE FLOWERS IN MY HEART - 1.6k ever since you've met theodore nott, you've known he needed a little more joy in his life. of course, you weren’t gonna say anything because theo is. . . well, theo; but now, as his favorite ( and only ) sunshine person, you’ve got every right to drag him into flower-filled adventures — whether he likes it or not.

BARTENDER!THEODORE who is definetely in love with reader

# LORENZO BERKSHIRE ❛  sheep in wolf's clothing.  ❜

ANYTHING YOU WANT, DARLING - 1.6k lorenzo flirts with everyone but you, and it’s fine — really, it is. you’re not jealous. not even a little. but when you start ignoring him, he starts unravelling — seeking you out, lingering in doorways, watching you like you’re the only person who matters. turns out, he was never really interested in them. it was always you.

YOU LIKE ME! - 2.9k ever since you and enzo were kids, you've been inseparable. he's always been there — innocent moments that felt like home. but somewhere along the way, he started looking at you differently, and you never noticed. now, your best friend has feelings for you. . . and your other best friend wants you to set her up with him.

# TOM RIDDLE ❛  kneel before the dark lord.  ❜

IS THAT A DEAD BODY? - 0.6k marrying the dark lord came with its fair share of. . . complications. like the occasional dead body in the living room. but if tom riddle thinks he can get away with tracking blood into your house, he’s got another thing coming.

divider by @/nemoresources | divider by @/lavendergalactic

━━━RIDDLE FAMILY MASTERLIST ⭑ my masterlist full of fics about the adorably chaotic riddle family featuring: Tom riddle, Y/N, and their equally dramatic children Mattheo, Delphini, Marvolo and the twins..

───WEDDING!FICS MASTERLIST ⭑ a masterlist celebrating the wild, tender, and unforgettable moments leading up to and including the wedding of tom riddle and y/n

𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 - Tom and Y/N get distracted while cooking dinner, too busy talking and laughing to make any progress.

𝐎𝐡, 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 - Y/N publicly calls Tom “husband” in a crowded Hogwarts corridor, it stops him and everyone else cold. What follows is a calm but devastating scolding about his smoking habits, witnessed by a very entertained student body.

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 - Y/N catches Tom leaving the basement door open — right after baby Aurelia nearly crawls down it. One sharp “THOMAS MARVOLO RIDDLE!” later, the infamous Dark Lord finds himself gulping and apologizing like a schoolboy while all seven of his children watch in amusement.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 - Y/N decides to prank her husband, Tom Riddle, by secretly recording him listing his favourite dark artefacts. She edits the video to make it look like he’s responding to a trend called “Things me and my boyfriend have had stuck up our butts,” making his list sound hilariously incriminating.

𝐍𝐨 𝐍𝐮𝐭 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 - Y/N tells Tom that he’s participating in No Nut November, much to his disbelief. Confused, Tom argues that it’s unnecessary since he already had a vasectomy, but Y/N insists it’s a challenge to test his self-control. Their son Mattheo walks in with his boyfriend Theo just in time to hear the awkward topic.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐚 - Y/N settles into Tom’s lap to read Haunting Adeline, completely absorbed in her book until Tom realizes it’s smut.

𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - Tom and Y/N share a quiet, playful moment while Aurelia sleeps. Tom teases Y/N, asking for her name in a flirtatious way, and whispers a charming proposal. They laugh and tease each other, enjoying a sweet, intimate moment together.

𝐑𝐮𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐬 - Even after nearly thirty years of marriage, Y/N Riddle still dances around the manor like she’s falling in love for the first time. When “Rumors” by Sabrina Claudio plays, she belts out every word as if she and Tom are still courting — teasing him, singing the lyrics straight to him, all while he sits back with Aurelia in his arms and that trademark smug smirk on his face.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 -Y/N teases Tom with a ridiculous question about whether he’d still love her if she were a worm. Despite his exhaustion, Tom humorously answers, leading to a playful tackle and more teasing banter between the couple.

𝐔𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬 -After an awkward and teasing moment earlier in the day, Y/N retreats to her room, hoping to shake off the unsettling feelings.

𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - Tom Riddle takes a full week off to shower Y/N with love and affection, proving that even the most feared wizard in history can be utterly smitten.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫 -Chaos erupts in the Riddle kitchen when Y/N smacks Tom’s butt in full view of their grown kids. Cue collective groans, dramatic declarations, and emotional scarring—all while Tom remains smug and unbothered.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐔𝐬 - Tom Riddle doesn’t fall asleep with a book in hand but with a podcast playing out loud, lying stiffly on the bed like a content corpse. Y/N playfully teases him, rolling her eyes at his unusual bedtime habit before joining him with her own book.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐬 - Tom and Y/N engage in a subtle but ongoing “shopping war.” Y/N returns home with a secret bag of rare books, only to find Tom smugly adjusting his brand-new cufflinks.

𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐬 𝐯𝐬. 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 - Y/N discovers that Tom’s seemingly normal robe closet is anything but it’s a magically expanded collection rivaling a boutique. In true Riddle fashion, he smugly compares it to her multiple hidden libraries, sparking a standoff.

𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡é, 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - Y/N and Tom face off in the sitting room, arguing over her new books and his new robes.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐨 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐟𝐟 - Tom blocks the Floo until Y/N speaks to him after a mild argument. He insists they can’t leave without holding hands something they’ve always done when traveling by Floo. Banter turns into laughter, Albus pops in to rush them, and Y/N finally forgives him as they leave together.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐞𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐚 - Tom Riddle’s carefully curated appearance is in jeopardy when his signature hair gel is nowhere to be found.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐚 -While out shopping, Y/N calls Tom mid-trip, skipping any greeting to demand his help choosing between two dresses.

𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 - Y/N’s constant bickering with Tom Riddle only fuels his desire to hold her close. In their heated quarrels, she discovers the fine line between anger and affection in their dark world.

𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐭 - Y/N’s usual morning routine is interrupted when she discovers Tom has been brewing more coffee than usual and hasn’t slept.

𝐒𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 -Y/N finds herself hopelessly captivated by Tom—looking every bit the dark, brooding hero from her favorite romance novels. Despite her best efforts to stay cool, her six teasing kids gleefully point out her obvious crush, mocking her for being completely “whipped.”

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐭 𝐎𝐟𝐟, 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 -Tom Riddle returns home with an unexpected addition—a mustache. Y/N is less than impressed, inspecting it like an artifact gone rogue.

𝐏𝐚𝐥? 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐞 - Y/N decides to prank her husband Tom Riddle by calling him harmless names like "buddy" and "champ," she quickly learns that the Dark Lord does not tolerate such nonsense.

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬 - When Y/N giggles her way through a Muggle romance novel, Tom can’t resist duplicating the book to see what’s so amusing. He isn’t expecting to stumble into a smut scene and he certainly isn’t expecting to act on it.

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐒𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 - Tom reveals the song he’s always played for her is named after her and written just for her.

𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 - Tom and Y/N prepare dinner together his magic precise and controlled, hers a touch more chaotic. Between stolen kisses, playful banter, and a rogue carrot that “loses discipline,” their cooking turns into an intimate dance of love and mischief. Tom remains perfectly composed on the surface, but every glance and gesture betrays just how deeply he adores her.

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - Tom Riddle finds himself losing the one battle he never expected to a simple game of wizard chess against his wife, Y/N. When he demands to know how she won without cheating, her response cuts sharper than any spell: “I just knew you’d be looking the wrong way.” Tom insists he never took his eyes off her, only for her to smile “Exactly.”

𝐀 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 - Y/N’s frantic search for her favorite sweater leads to a cute confrontation with her husband, Tom, who is caught in the act of secretly fixing it. The conversation reveals his subtle but endearing habit of caring for her in small, unnoticed ways.

𝐀 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 - Y/N’s playful game of hide and seek in the garden turns into a charming encounter with her possessive husband, Tom Riddle.

𝐀 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞 - Tom notices Y/N is exhausted and unwell, immediately taking care of her with gentle hands and thoughtful gestures. From removing her heels to carrying her to bed, he ensures she’s comfortable, warm, and pampered, proving once again how much he cherishes her.

𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 -Despite hating dancing, Tom takes Y/N onto the floor, showing his devotion to her amidst a crowded ballroom.

𝐀 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 - In the middle of the night, Tom wrestles with the remnants of a nightmare, but Y/N’s unspoken love and the presence of their family’s image bring him a deep sense of peace and belonging.

Soft!Husband Tom

𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 - Tom Riddle is trying and failing to assert himself as “the man of the house,” only for Y/N and their children to remind him who truly runs the household. When she scolds him in front of the kids, the entire family instantly agrees she’s in charge, rushing to her for help with everything while Tom is ignored.

𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲, 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - Y/N finds herself exhausted and leaning on her husband, Tom. When she absentmindedly calls him “Tommy,” he smirks, teasing her about the nickname. Despite her sleepy protests, she falls into his lap, and he wraps her in his arms, kissing her head and stroking her back. She drifts to sleep murmuring his nickname.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 - After years of broken promises, Y/N finally reaches her breaking point, confronting Tom about his absence in their family.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐬𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 - Y/N decides to try out a silly Muggle trend: faking a dramatic phone call to see if her husband, Tom Riddle, is nosy enough to barge in. Of course, Tom doesn’t just fail the test he obliterates it.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐀𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 - Tom Riddle finds himself in unfamiliar territory after carelessly snapping at his wife. Her glare alone is enough to shake him, and for the first time, the Dark Lord learns to never yell at his wife.

𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐫𝐬. 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 - When Tom Riddle’s exhaustion catches up to him, Y/N steps in to care for her husband, reminding him of the love that softens even his darkest edges.

𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬. 𝐈𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞. -Albus never knew love could look like this — loud, relentless, shamelessly affectionate. Watching Tom and Y/N Riddle still wrapped up in each other after years together, he feels a strange ache in his chest. One part wonder, one part disbelief. But through Marvolo’s matter-of-fact teasing and quiet honesty, Albus begins to see the truth: love doesn’t always fade.

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲 - After a long and exhausting day, Y/N returns home only to be immediately met with Tom’s unwavering care. He helps her out of her heels, takes her things, and effortlessly lifts her into his arms, carrying her to a beautifully prepared dinner.

𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 -After dropping off their kids, Tom and Y/N enjoy a rare quiet moment alone. Tom asks Y/N to dance in the living room. As they move to soft music, they share a loving moment, showing how their love has stayed strong and tender even after twenty years.

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭 - When Y/N is upset with Tom, he playfully tests her resolve by calling her by the pet names she can’t resist.

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 - Tom Riddle’s focus remains unwavering for his wife, Y/N. From the living room to the kitchen and the library, Tom’s attempts to steal a quiet moment with her are repeatedly thwarted by their busy family. Each time he finds her, she’s surrounded by their children, because of this he regrets having so many kids.

𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝'𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - Tom Riddle leaves a meeting to help Y/N with her heels, showing his deep care for her.

Protective!Husband Tom

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 - Tom once enchanted Y/N’s wedding ring so it could never leave her finger until one quiet evening, it does. When he realises she’s mastered the countercharm years ago, he’s equal parts shocked, proud, and possessive.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 -When Y/N tries to fly alone to clear her head, Tom refuses to let her out of his sight. Possessive, protective, and completely unapologetic, he follows her through the sky giving her space only on his terms.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐄𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 -Y/N claims she’s fine in the cold. Tom disagrees and when his warming spell isn’t enough, he takes matters (and her hands) into his own. Wrapped together under one coat.

𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 -Every night, Tom waits for Y/N to sleep, guarding her with a tenderness he only shows her.

𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 - After finally dragging Tom to get his vasectomy, Y/N returns home to find her husband acting like he’s fought a war rather than undergone a simple procedure. He’s sore, overdramatic, and endlessly sighing yet still affectionate, still pressing kisses to her swollen belly and reminding her he only did it for her.

𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 -As Y/N prepares to lie about her last name to avoid revealing her infamous husband’s identity, Tom Riddle arrives just in time. Tom introduces her with a chilling threat, leaving Harry regretting ever approaching Y/N.

Affectionate!Husband Tom

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐫𝐬. 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 - Y/N brings a blanket into Tom’s office under the innocent excuse of “just checking” if he’ll take a break because she wanted to cuddle.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 - Y/N grows tired of waiting for Tom to finish his meeting. She shows up in her robe, making her intentions very clear and Tom immediately shuts the door so no Death Eater can see her like that. The moment he realizes she’s lured him out on purpose, he smirks, dismisses the entire meeting without hesitation, and Apparates them both straight to their bedroom.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞 - Tom insisting on getting the last one just like he has for thirty years while little Aurelia proudly tries to “protect” her mum and joins in the fun.

𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 - As Tom Riddle broods over what he perceives as competition for his wife’s affection, Y/N’s teasing and playful demeanor slowly dissolve his frustration.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 - Tom refuses to admit he’s sick, insisting he’s fine—even as he sniffles and burns up with fever.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 -Y/N curses her husband for passing on his cold, but as Tom patiently takes care of her, the tables turn, and she finds herself enveloped in his love and warmth.

𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦 - After returning home, Y/N wastes no time reclaiming her favourite ritual kissing Tom’s annoyingly perfect cheekbones every chance she gets. What starts as playful affection quickly turns into a soft, intimate moment when Tom the ever-composed, intimidating, definitely-not-soft Dark Lord actually blushes.

𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐧 -Y/N interrupts Tom’s work with a stolen kiss, a playful chase ensues through their home. Tom’s vow to always have the final kiss isn’t just a game—it’s his way of ensuring their love is never outdone.

𝐌𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮, 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 - Y/N attempts to be angry with her husband, but Tom's enchanted ring and playful persistence make staying mad impossible.

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 - Tom Riddle is trying to have a serious, tragic, brooding moment in the firelight and a cigarette in hand, dramatic shadows in place when Y/N crashes the mood with light switches, sarcasm, and a complete disregard for his dark lord aesthetic. But when she curls into his lap and calls him her “broody heater,” even the Darkest Wizard in History can’t help but melt.

𝐀 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 - When Y/N uncovers Tom’s research on love potions, she teases him about his past behavior—particularly his clingines.

𝐀 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 - Tom, always the gentleman, effortlessly helps Y/N out of her heels after a long day. As she teases him about still holding onto his cigarette, Tom’s care for her is evident in every action, from his soft touch to his playful remark.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 - While watching Aurelia play, Tom and Y/N share a quiet moment on the couch until Y/N catches Tom repeatedly sniffing her hair. Completely unashamed, Tom claims it helps him relax, proving once again that despite his reputation, he’s hopelessly obsessed with his wife.

Clingy! Husband Tom

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐖𝐢𝐟𝐞-𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 - Mattheo visits his father’s office and is shocked Tom isn’t glued to Y/N’s side for once. Teasing him about being obsessed, Mattheo digs until Tom finally snaps and admits the truth: he has a tracker spell on his wife, someone watching her, and a charm that alerts him to any danger. Mattheo is smugly delighted to be proven right, while Tom insists it’s all perfectly reasonable.

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐇𝐢𝐦 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 - Tom arrives at Mattheo’s house uninvited and unannounced because he instantly senses that Y/N is missing from the castle. Mattheo rolls his eyes, realizing Tom used the magical tracker he placed on his wife. Tom marches straight into the kitchen, where Y/N is cooking dinner with Theo, and immediately wraps himself around her from behind like he’s been starved for affection.

𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲 𝐖𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐬 - During a serious meeting with his Death Eaters, Tom Riddle hears Y/N calling loudly for him through the manor. His danger charm doesn’t activate meaning she isn’t hurt, just clingy.

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲 - After an argument, Y/N tells Tom that if he won’t listen, he can “sleep somewhere else” and “take what’s his.” Tom takes her words a little too literally by scooping her into his arms and carrying her toward the spare room.

𝐀 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐎𝐟𝐟 -It’s Wednesday, which means another round of visiting one of their many children — but Tom is exhausted. He pleads with Y/N for a rare night to themselves, only to be reminded that his idea of “alone time” is exactly how they ended up with so many children in the first place.

𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - Y/N charms a television to watch her beloved show while her husband Tom only wants to cuddle her to sleep. Feeling slighted by her rapt attention on the screen, Tom grows clingy holding her hand, kissing her knuckles, and finally resorting to spoiling each scene with smug precision.

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? - When Tom Riddle comes home early expecting his usual warm welcome, he's surprised to find his wife, Y/N, completely focused on making dinner instead of greeting him with her usual cuddles.

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐆𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 - Tom can’t stop staring at Y/N not out of worry, but because he still sees her as the greatest gift. She teases him for trying to “memorize” her and reassures him she isn’t going anywhere, but he admits he’ll never stop looking at her that way.

𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐳 - After a nightmare shakes Tom Riddle to his core, he seeks comfort in Y/N’s arms, needing only her presence to find peace again. But as they share a quiet dance in the moonlight, their six meddling children turn it into a family affair. Love, chaos, and glitter ensue but Tom wouldn’t trade it for the world.

𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 — 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 - Y/N settles down for her daily charmed mirror call with Hermione, but Tom—feeling uncharacteristically clingy—intercepts the moment with quiet affection and a possessive smirk.

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐬 -When Tom storms in mid-sulk and collapses into Y/N’s lap for comfort, the family wastes no time in teasing their all-powerful patriarch.

𝐀 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 - Tom proposes, but Y/N quickly catches him about to charm her engagement ring—though her wedding ring might not be so lucky.

𝐌𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮, 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 - Y/N attempts to be angry with her husband, but Tom's enchanted ring and playful persistence make staying mad impossible.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 - Tom’s possessiveness shows when Y/N forgets her ring, leading him to charm it forever onto her hand.

𝐍𝐨𝐭-𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 - Mattheo asks where Y/N is, Tom casually admits she’s shopping in Diagon Alley with the twins—thanks to the magical tracker he definitely insists isn’t creepy. Despite arguing about it, the two quickly decide to go find her anyway.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 - Y/N is trying to enjoy a long “everything shower,” Tom apparates into the bathroom because he doesn’t want to wait for her. Despite her attempts to kick him out, he stubbornly stays, claiming he can help.

Dark Lord!Tom

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - During a tense Death Eater meeting, Y/N’s unexpected appearance throws the room into disarray, but Tom Riddle’s response is unexpectedly gentle.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚 - For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle is powerless—not against an enemy, but against the loss of the woman he loves.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 - Y/N knows exactly how to get under Tom Riddle's skin, and it’s not with fear it's with humor, wit, and a little reminder of who has the upper hand behind closed doors.

𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - Tom Riddle orders Y/N to stay behind for her safety during a dangerous mission, locking her in their bedroom as she protests.

𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥 - Y/N sits surrounded by Death Eaters at a ball while Tom Riddle, her husband, makes a commanding speech, warding off unwanted attention from an oblivious suitor.

𝐇𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 -Tom Riddle and Y/N hide from Aurors in the crowded streets, staying calm despite constant magical warnings. Tom confidently leads Y/N to a quiet café, where he charms a surprised toddler, revealing a rare, softer side.

𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 - In a moment of rage, Tom confronts a follower after Y/N is injured, but her soothing voice brings him back from the brink.

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 - Tom’s return from a mission turns a quiet evening into a tender reunion. With their children away, he relishes the opportunity to have Y/N all to himself, their bond strengthening in the peaceful silence.

Oscar had just gotten off another call with Zak Brown, the McLaren CEO, who’d been teetering on the edge of a heart attack since the tape had leaked earlier that morning.

It had started with a single ping—a message. Then another. And then a tidal wave of notifications crashing in. But it wasn’t until her manager called that the panic truly set in. She had a strict do-not-disturb policy during summer break. Calls only came through if it was absolutely necessary.

Oscar had watched the colour drain from her face as she answered, her eyes growing wide, her grip tightening on the phone. Without thinking, he reached over, placed his hand on hers in comfort. But that clearly wasn’t what she wanted. The glare she shot him could have set most people ablaze. But not him.

He just raised an eyebrow, unfazed, pulling his hand back and leaning against the couch with a casual kind of defiance. His arms crossed as his gaze scanned her face—tense, unreadable, and beautiful in a way that always made his chest ache a little.

Then her eyes flicked to his phone. Her lips moved silently: “Open Twitter.”

In a normal situation, he would’ve teased her for still calling it that instead of X, but this—this wasn’t normal. So he did as told, ignoring the deluge of notifications lighting up his lock screen.

And when he saw it—his entire feed plastered with the leaked footage—his stomach dropped.

How the hell did that get out?

He swallowed hard and wordlessly handed her the phone. She scanned the screen, her eyes narrowing as the implications hit her all over again. Then she looked up, met his gaze.

That had been almost an hour ago.

Now, she sat curled into her favourite armchair, nursing coffee from her comfort mug, her expression distant. A faint red imprint lingered on her wrist—his handprint—from a moment captured and shared with the world. The hoodie she wore swallowed her whole.

His hoodie.

Oscar let out a slow breath and approached her, dropping his phone carelessly on the couch. He knelt in front of her, wrapping his hands gently around hers—drawing her attention back to him. She blinked, then offered a tired smile, soft and a little crooked, like she didn’t quite have the energy to mean it.

“What did Zak say?” she asked quietly, almost like she didn’t want to know. It wasn’t like their relationship had been a secret in the paddock—both team principals knew, and their core teams had long caught on. But fans? The media?

They had no idea.

Oscar, the current leader of the WDC, shrugged with practiced calm, his thumb tracing slow circles along her knuckles.

“He didn’t die,” he said simply.

She let out a soft snort and rolled her eyes, setting the cup down on the side table before reaching up to rake her fingers through his curls. He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into the touch.

“That’s… promising.”

He chuckled, lifting his gaze to hers. “How did Fred take it?”

She exhaled, her smile tilting a little more now. Almost playful.

“He didn’t die either.”

The video had been taken down, and both teams had jointly sued the website where it had originally surfaced. So, in a weirdly twisted way, a semblance of peace had been restored—at least within the quiet walls of their shared apartment in Monte Carlo.

She was cooking. Something savoury, rich with spice and distraction, because the endless vibrations from her phone were driving her mad. Enough people had seen the tape to make damage control nearly impossible, and those who hadn’t were making damn sure they caught up through frame-by-frame analyses on fan forums and Twitter threads.

She’d read a few—just a few.

And she would be lying if she said it hadn’t horrified her. The way people dissected their… activities with clinical precision and emotional detachment was something straight out of a psychological thriller. No privacy. No context. Just voyeurism masked as fandom.

But Oscar… he had been unusually quiet for a while.

Not silent—he wasn’t the most talkative by default—but still. Too still. Eyes glued to his phone. That alone was enough to make her pause. He never gave the device much attention when they were both at home. His interest always leaned toward her, not a screen.

“What are you doing?” she asked, settling down beside him on the couch with two plates of pasta. Comfort food. A small gesture. A way to anchor themselves.

He looked up, raised a brow at the plate in her hand, but took it anyway.

“That’s the third meal today,” he commented casually, already taking a bite. He hummed in satisfaction, eyes half-closed from the flavour—but they didn’t miss the way she immediately pouted at his observation.

“Technically it’s the first one,” she defended, twirling her fork with authority. “Chocolate and croissant don’t count as meals. That was sugar and vibes.”

Oscar chuckled, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.”

She beamed at him, smug with victory, but her curiosity hadn’t waned. She nudged his arm gently. “So… what are you doing?”

He smiled then. That slow, mischievous smile that always meant he was up to something.

Instead of answering, he handed her his phone.

It was an Instagram post. From his official account—not the burner one only she and a select few knew about. No, this was public. Verified. Seen by millions.

It was a black and white photo of them in helmets, standing side by side on the grid. They were looking at each other—intensely, silently. She remembered that moment. Jeddah. He had won the race. She’d finished seventh—right where she’d qualified. But he had found her after the cooldown lap, helmet bumping hers gently in celebration, and someone had captured it.

The caption made her pause.

She looked up at him, eyes narrowing with affection. “Yours, hm?”

Oscar huffed a laugh, nonchalant as his arm slid around her shoulder, anchoring her to him. “The world knows that better than anyone now.”

oscarpiastri just posted!

liked by thatferraridriver, lando, mclaren, scuderiaferrari and 362986 others

oscarpiastri since the cat is out of bag, I claim her mine ✨

view all comments

thatferraridriver I too claim this calm man mine 🥰

arthur_leclerc calm as if the whole world didn’t see him fing you like it’s GOT

user not tur tur spitting facts 🤣

lando so are we gonna pretend we didn’t see you two fuck like bunnies?

thatferraridriver so am I gonna pretend I am not thinking of crashing into you on purpose in Belgian?

thatferraridriver for legal purposes, I have been told by my team to say that I was joking

user not her commenting that too 😭😂

lando will you two be heart-eyeing each other on paddock now?

thatferraridriver can you please shut up?

lando @oscarpiastri she is bullying me

oscarpiastri you brought it on yourself

lando @thatferraridriver you were better in the video

thatferraridriver and you will be better in the barriers

user @oscarpiastri pls get your girl she obliterated lando 😭😂😂

mclaren does that mean we have to share our fav couple with Ferrari?

scuderiaferrari I guess so 😮‍💨

user I want to see Zak and Fred handshaking fs of them

logansargeant mama papa 🤩

thatferraridriver our practice child 🤩

user this is the most friend third wheeling core thing ever 😂

charles_leclerc so now my teammate is my…daughter in law?

thatferraridriver hello father-in-law

user so basically…Ferrari is a big Leclerc family now?

user and McLaren has the Leclerc son 😭

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

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

And of course, it had to be with Charles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guilt seemed to be a theme for everyone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you muttered. 

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

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

He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.” 

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

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

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

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

Call it superstition, if you must. 

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

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

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

______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not getting picked up today?” he asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“By that one pub? With the—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you said after a moment. 

“For the ride?” he asked. 

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

______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You never come to the Sunday meetings.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A soft, almost approving nod was your only response.

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t take long for Oscar to understand.  

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

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

______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little things like that made bartending enjoyable. 

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

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

You froze in surprise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s an angel shot?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“So… when are you off?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m okay with dumb.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, we’re watching the sequel.”

But neither of you moved to get the remote. 

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

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

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

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

“Oscar…” Your voice was soft, questioning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.” 

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

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

Yeah, Oscar’s brain was definitely broken. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, you were pulling him in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you feel okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Osc…” you said with a simple breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit,” you whispered. 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered. 

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

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

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered, again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—, Uhh… Not good?” 

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

“I’m on birth control anyway.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we really doing this?” 

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

“Please,” you said. “Fuck me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn you and your damn eye contact. 

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

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

“I’m gonna slide out, okay?” 

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

“Talk to me,” he whispered. 

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

“We should probably clean up.” 

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

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

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

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

“What changed?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you want me to.”

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

______________________

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

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

The trophies.

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

This was about to be awful. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room fell silent, save for your faint whisper. 

“I’m on probation.” 

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

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

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

“I’m leaving.” 

“No. You’re not.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the boyfriend?” Oscar managed to ask.

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

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

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

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

“Are you clean now?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking corrupt rich people,” you muttered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For making me stay.” 

______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I promise.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You took a deep breath and typed back.

You: “Yeah, I’m here with Oscar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He recognised you on TV?”

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

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

“I hope so,” you whispered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thank you for reading ★ please tell me what you think my asks are always open!

You didn't laugh. You saw his knuckles white around the hilt. You saw the humiliation burning in his ears. You walked down the steps, stood before him, and tied your favor—a small silk handkerchief—around his wrist.

"Rise, Sir Maxwell," you said, your voice trembling only a little. "I am safe with you."

He looked up then. And you saw the promise being forged in his eyes—stronger than any steel he would ever wear.

Ten years later, no one laughs.

Max has grown into the armor. He is a mountain of polished steel and terrifying silence. He is known as the Queen’s Shadow (a title he hates, because he belongs only to you).

In the throne room, he stands behind your chair, hand resting perpetually on the pommel of his greatsword. He does not speak. He does not eat at the feasts. When foreign dignitaries try to intimidate you, Max simply shifts his weight, the metal of his armor clanking ominously, and they suddenly find their throats very dry.

He is the perfect knight: obedient, lethal, and utterly emotionless.

The moment the heavy bolts of your solar are thrown shut, the knight vanishes, and Max appears.

It’s a ritual. You sit by the fire, and he begins the arduous process of removing the armor that keeps the world out.

"The Baron of West valley is an idiot," Max grumbles, his voice muffled as he pulls off his helmet. He shakes out his hair—damp with sweat, messy, and soft.

"He brought me a peacock, Max. A live peacock."

Max snorts, tossing his gauntlets onto the table with a heavy thud. "I should have fed it to the hounds. Would have saved us the noise."

He walks over to you, stripped down to his tunic and breeches, looking human again. Vulnerable. He kneels to poke the fire, the orange light dancing on his face.

"You scared him, you know," you say softly, watching his hands. "When you stepped forward? I thought the Baron was going to faint."

Max looks over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips—that rare, precious expression he saves just for you. "Good. No one looks at you like that while I draw breath."

He sits on the rug at your feet, resting his back against your chair. It’s a scandalous breach of station. A knight sitting on the floor? Leaning against a Princess? If the Stepmother walked in, heads would roll.

But here, he is just Max.

He reaches back, blindly seeking your hand. You give it to him. He doesn't kiss it—he isn't that bold yet—he just holds it. He plays with your fingers, tracing the calluses you got from the embroidery needles, his thumb rough against your soft skin.

"Tell me about the book you're reading," he murmurs, closing his eyes, his guard finally, finally down. "Does the knight save the princess?"

"No," you whisper, looking down at the top of his head. "The princess saves the knight."

It happens during a joust.

Max is riding in your colors. He has just unhorsed the arrogance out of a visiting Prince. The crowd is roaring. Max trots his massive warhorse over to the Royal Box to receive the victor's wreath.

He flips his visor up.

He is winded, sweat trickling down his temple, a bruise forming on his jaw from a lance strike. He looks rough, violent, and exhausted.

But then his eyes find you in the crowd.

The violence drains out of his face instantly. He smiles. It’s a small, tired, dazzling smile that ignores the King, ignores the Queen, and ignores the cheering masses. It is a smile that says, 'Did you see? I did that for you.'

He lowers his lance, catching the wreath you toss, but he keeps looking at you like you are the sun and he is a man who has spent winter in the dark.

Your heart stops. You realize, with a terrifying clarity, that you don't just trust him with your life. You want him. You want the man beneath the iron.

And you know, tragically, that he will never ask for you. He thinks he is just the steel wall standing between you and the world. He doesn't know he is your world.

By the time Max is twenty-two, the joke is dead. Buried.

Stories of his prowess are whispered in taverns and war rooms alike. They say Sir Maxwell fights like he has nothing to lose but you. He doesn't fight for honor, or for glory, or for the King. He fights with a terrifying, surgical efficiency designed to eliminate threats to Her Highness in the shortest amount of time possible.

He is the youngest Knight Commander in the history of the realm. The older knights, who once laughed at his baggy chainmail, now step aside when he walks down the corridor. They salute him first.

The Queen hates him. But for the first time in her life, she is powerless against a servant.

You are in the solar. The Queen is tearing into you—criticizing your needlework, your posture, your refusal to marry the awful Duke of the South. Her voice gets shrill. She steps closer, raising a hand as if to grab your chin aggressively.

Sching.

It’s a small sound. Not a drawn sword, just the sound of a thumb pushing a blade one inch out of its scabbard.

The Queen freezes.

She looks over your shoulder. Max hasn't moved. His face is a mask of stone. But his eyes... his eyes are fixated on her raised hand with the cold, detached interest of a butcher looking at a cut of meat.

He doesn't say, "Don't touch her." He doesn't have to. The silence screams it.

The Queen slowly lowers her hand, her throat bobbing. She smooths her dress, suddenly pale. "We will... discuss this later," she mutters, and practically flees the room.

Max simply clicks the sword back into place. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Your father is old, tired, and sharp as a tack. He sees what the Queen refuses to see.

The King stands on the balcony overlooking the training yards. His High Advisor stands beside him. Below, Max is sparring. It’s not a fair fight; he is taking on three other guards at once, moving like water, disarming them with a boredom that borders on arrogance.

"He is... intense, Sir. Perhaps too intense. The Queen worries he forgets his place."

The King chuckles, watching Max help a fallen opponent up, only to immediately look up at Y/N’s window to check if she’s watching. "He knows his place perfectly. His place is between my daughter and the rest of the world."

"But surely, for the Princess's marriage... having a guard so attached... it might deter suitors."

"Good. Let it deter the weak ones. I have watched men promise to die for this kingdom and flee at the first sight of blood. But that boy?" The King gestures to Max, who is now wiping his sword, his gaze still fixed on Y/N’s window "He doesn't serve the Crown. He serves her. If the castle burned down tomorrow, he wouldn't try to save the throne. He’d carry Y/N out of the fire. That is the only man I want by her side."

It’s not just that he can fight. It’s that he anticipates.

You are at a crowded summer festival. It’s loud, chaotic, and dangerous. You don't even see the drunk man stumbling toward you with a jagged bottle. You are busy laughing at a puppet show.

But before the man can get within five feet, a gloved hand shoots out from the shadows. Max catches the man’s wrist in mid-air. He doesn't make a scene. He doesn't shout. He simply twists the man’s wrist with a precise, sickening pressure that forces the man to his knees in silence.

Max leans down, whispering something into the drunkard’s ear that makes the blood drain from the man's face. The man scrambles away, terrified.

You turn around, blinking. "Max? Did something happen?"

Max is already back in his relaxed stance, adjusting his cuffs, looking perfectly serene. "Nothing, Princess. Just a fly. I swatted it."

He offers you his arm to guide you through the crowd. His grip is firm, warm, and unbreakable. And in that moment, amidst the chaos of thousands of people, you know you are in the safest place on earth.

The festival wine was stronger than usual. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion of smiling for twelve hours straight.

You are sitting on the rug in front of the hearth in your private solar, your heavy ceremonial shoes kicked off into a corner. Max is sitting on the low bench nearby. He has shed the armor—the breastplate, the pauldrons, the heavy greaves—leaving him in just his linen shirt and trousers. He looks human. He looks tired. He looks beautiful.

He is holding a goblet of wine loosely in one hand, staring into the dying fire.

"Prince Valerius stepped on my train three times," you mumble, leaning your head back against the sofa. "And he smells like pickled herring."

Max huffs a laugh, taking a sip of wine. "He smells like old money and desperation. But the Queen likes him."

"The Queen likes anyone who doesn't talk back to her," you counter, turning your head to look at him. The firelight dances in his dark eyes. "She says he’s a 'sensible match.' A powerful alliance."

Max’s jaw tightens. He swirls the wine in his cup. "He’s a coward. I saw him flinch when the fireworks went off. If danger came for you, he’d use you as a shield."

"And you wouldn't?"

Max looks at you then, and the air leaves the room. The look is so intense, so raw, it almost sobers you up. "I am the shield, Y/N. That is the only thing I am."

"You're more than that," you whisper. You crawl slightly closer on the rug. The alcohol makes you brave. "You're my best friend. You're... everything."

Max closes his eyes for a second, a pained expression crossing his face. "Don't."

"Why not? Why can't I say it?" You feel a sudden surge of frustration. "Why does it always have to be about duty? My father wants me to be happy. He tells me that every day."

"He does," Max agrees, his voice rough.

"But he’ll marry me off to Valerius. Or some other Prince with a weak chin and a crown." You laugh bitterly. "Because the King needs a son-in-law worthy of the throne."

Max sets his goblet down with a sharp clack. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, invading your space. He smells like woodsmoke and steel and soap.

"Do you think the King is blind?" Max asks, his voice low, vibrating in the quiet room. "Do you think he doesn't know who actually leads his armies? Who actually keeps his daughter breathing?"

"Max..."

"He doesn't care about Valerius," Max snaps, the alcohol loosening the lock on his tongue. "He told me. Tonight. In the hallway."

You freeze. "What did he tell you?"

Max stares at you, his eyes searching your face, tracing the line of your jaw, your lips. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, debating whether to jump.

"He asked me if I was tired," Max murmurs. "I said I wasn't. He laughed. He clapped me on the shoulder and said, 'Good. Because I sleep soundly knowing you are the one watching her. I wouldn't trust her heart to a Prince, Maxwell. Only to a soldier who knows its worth.'"

Your breath hitches. "He said that?"

"He gave me the blessing, Y/N," Max whispers, the confession torn out of him. "He gave me the permission to... to be more than a guard. He practically told me that if I asked for you, he wouldn't say no."

The silence is deafening. The King, your father, had given the green light. The obstacle of rank, of station, of politics—it had been swept away by a father's love and a King's trust.

"Then why?" you ask, your voice trembling. You reach out, your fingers brushing the scar on his forearm. "If he approves... if he knows... why are you still over there?"

Max looks down at your hand on his arm. He covers it with his own, his grip tight, almost desperate. For a second, he leans in. His face is inches from yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him. You think he’s going to kiss you. You think he’s finally going to break.

But then, he pulls back.

He stands up abruptly, pacing away from the fire, putting the room between you.

"Because he’s wrong," Max says, his voice cold again, the mask slipping back into place. "He sees a Commander. He sees a loyal dog. He doesn't see the truth."

"What truth?" you demand, standing up on shaky legs.

Max turns to you, his silhouette dark against the window.

"That I am selfish," he says. "That I am not noble. A Prince would marry you to gain a kingdom. I..." He chokes on the words, then finishes, barely audible. "I would burn the kingdom to the ground just to keep you warm. And that makes me dangerous for you, Y/N. Not worthy."

He walks to the door, grabbing the handle. He doesn't look back.

"Sleep well, Princess. I’ll be outside."

The door clicks shut.

The silence is worse than the screaming.

Ten minutes ago, the corridor outside your chambers was a cacophony of steel clashing against steel, shouting, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the stone. Max had shoved you into the narrow servant’s passage behind the tapestry—a hiding spot only the two of you knew from childhood.

"Stay," he had roared, a sound so primal it didn't sound like him. "Do not move until I come for you."

Then he had drawn his greatsword and stepped back into the hallway to hold the line alone against six men.

Now, it is quiet.

You wait. You count the seconds. The air in the passage is cold and smells of dust. Every shadow looks like an assassin. What if he doesn't come back? What if the silence means he…

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Footsteps. But they aren't the rhythmic, disciplined march of a patrol. They are heavy, erratic, frantic. Someone is running.

The tapestry is ripped aside with violent force.

You flinch, pressing your back against the stone, a gasp caught in your throat.

It’s Max.

He looks terrifying. His helmet is gone. There is a cut above his eyebrow, bleeding freely into his eye. His armor is dented, covered in soot and blood that isn't his. His chest is heaving like a dying animal’s. He looks wild—eyes wide, pupils blown, scanning the dark passage with a manic desperation.

"Y/N?" he chokes out. It’s a broken sound.

You step into the sliver of moonlight. "Max. I’m here. I’m safe."

The moment he sees you, the "Monster of the Realm" vanishes.

The change is instantaneous and shattering. The tension that was holding his body upright simply snaps.

CLANG.

His sword—the legendary blade he has never once let fall, the extension of his own arm—drops from his hand. It hits the stone floor with a deafening ring that echoes in the silence.

He doesn't care. He doesn't even look at it.

He crashes to his knees before you, sliding slightly on the stone, and wraps his arms around your waist. He buries his face in your stomach, holding on so tight it hurts. He is shaking. The most dangerous man in the kingdom is trembling like a leaf in a storm.

"Max," you whisper, your hands instinctively going to his hair, trying to soothe him. "Max, you’re hurt—"

"I couldn't find you," he gasps against your dress. His voice is wet, muffled, stripped of all rank and protocol. "The smoke... I lost the door... I couldn't find you."

He pulls you closer, his armored shoulders heaving with dry sobs. He isn't checking the perimeter. He isn't securing the area. He is drowning, and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

"I’m here," you say, tears pricking your own eyes as you realize the depth of his terror. "I’m right here."

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. His face is a ruin of emotion—sweat, blood, and stark, naked fear. He runs a trembling hand over your face, checking for injuries, touching your cheek as if to confirm you aren't a hallucination.

"I thought I’d lost you," he whispers, his voice cracking. "And without you… I have nothing."

He stares into your eyes, and the wall he has built for ten years crumbles into dust.

"I love you," he says. It rushes out of him, desperate and terrified. "I shouldn't have said it like this... I shouldn't... but I love you. God, Y/N, I love you."

He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, his breathing ragged.

"Please don't die," he begs, a whisper against your skin. "Order me to do anything else, but don't die."

The adrenaline will fade. The guards will arrive. The King will come running down the hall. But the words are out. The sword is on the floor. The line has been crossed.

The words hang in the dusty air of the secret passage.

“Max… I’ve loved you for years.”

For a heartbeat, Max doesn't move. He stares at you, his chest heaving, blood trickling unnoticed down his temple. He looks like a man who has prepared for every possible form of pain, every attack, every betrayal—but he was completely unprepared for joy.

He blinks, the harsh adrenaline draining out of his eyes, leaving them wide and vulnerable.

"Years?" he breathes. His voice is a ghost of its usual command.

You nod, smiling through the tears, reaching out to cup his face. Your thumbs brush away the soot on his cheekbones. "Since the day you practiced dancing with me in the doorway. Since you learned how to braid my hair because my maid was sick. Since always, Max. It’s always been you."

And then, he breaks.

He doesn't cry—not in the way he did a moment ago. He simply melts. The tension that has held his spine rigid since he was fourteen years old evaporates. His shoulders slump. The frantic energy leaves his hands.

He lets out a long, shuddering exhale, a sound of absolute surrender.

"I thought I was alone," he whispers, turning his face into your palm, kissing the center of your hand with a reverence that makes your knees weak. "I thought I was guarding a treasure I could never touch."

"You aren't guarding it," you whisper, pulling him closer until there is no space left between the silk of your dress and the cold steel of his breastplate. "You own it."

Max makes a low, choked sound in his throat. He surges forward.

He kisses you.

It isn't a tentative, courtly kiss. It isn't the kiss of a subordinate to a superior. It is desperate. It is messy with tears and salt and exhaustion. It is the kiss of a man who has been starving for a decade and has finally been allowed to eat.

His hands, usually so careful not to bruise you, grip your waist with possessing force. He pulls you down until you are kneeling on the stone with him, ruining your dress, ignoring the blood, ignoring the world.

For the first time in his life, he isn't scanning the exits. He isn't listening for footsteps. He is just... here. With you.

The Knight is gone. The Guard is gone. There is only Max.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes are closed. A peacefulness has settled over his features that you have never seen before.

"I’m going to marry you," he murmurs, the words vibrating against your skin. It sounds less like a proposal and more like a tactical fact he has just accepted. "I don't care what the Council says. I don't care about the protocols. I’m never standing outside your door again, Y/N. I’m going to be on the other side of it."

You laugh, a wet, shaky sound. "Is that a threat, Sir Maxwell?"

He opens his eyes. The darkness is gone. They are warm, brown, and full of a quiet, terrifying devotion that has finally found its home.

"No," he says softy, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. "It's a promise."

The morning sun streams into the King’s private solar, but the air inside is frigid.

You stand in the center of the room. Max is beside you. He is back in his uniform, his posture perfect, his face calm. But there is one crucial difference: he is holding your hand.

Not supporting your elbow. Not guiding you. Holding your hand, fingers interlaced, his thumb resting possessively over your knuckles. He grips you like he is daring the world to try and separate you.

Your Stepmother is pacing, her face flushed with indignation.

"It is unacceptable!" she shrills, gesturing wildly at the two of you. "The entire guard saw him last night! On his knees! Weeping like a child! And now this... this display? He has forgotten his station, husband. He must be discharged. Exiled!"

Max doesn't flinch. He doesn't even look at her. He looks straight at your father, the King, who is sitting behind his desk, reading a scroll with infuriating calmness.

"Your Majesty," Max speaks, his voice steady, though you can feel the slight tremor in his hand. "If I have brought shame upon Her Highness, I will accept my discharge. I will leave the Guard today."

He pauses, then squeezes your hand tighter.

"But I will not leave her," Max adds, his tone hardening into steel. "You will have to exile me to the other side of the world, and I will still find my way back. I love her. I am done pretending I don't."

The Stepmother gasps. "You see? Treason! Insubordination!"

The King slowly rolls up the scroll. He sets it down. He takes off his reading glasses and looks up. His expression is unreadable.

"Quiet," the King says softly to his wife.

"But—"

"I said, quiet."

The King stands up. He is old now, his movements slow, but he still carries the weight of the crown. He walks around the desk, stopping in front of Max.

Max squares his shoulders, bracing for the anger. Bracing for the order to leave.

Your father looks at Max. Then he looks at you. He sees the way you are leaning into Max, the way Max’s body naturally curves to shield you, the invisible tether that binds you together.

The King sighs, a long, weary sound... and then, a smile breaks through his beard.

"Finally," the King grumbles. "I was beginning to think I’d be dead before you two idiots figured it out."

The Stepmother freezes. Max blinks, stunned. "Sir?"

The King laughs, shaking his head. "Maxwell, look at me. Do you think I gave you the command of her detail ten years ago because of the Queen's little joke? No. I gave it to you because I saw how you looked at her when she bandaged your hand in the courtyard."

He steps closer, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder—not as a King to a subject, but as a father to a son.

"I have watched Princes come into this room," the King says, his voice thick with emotion. "They talk about land. They talk about dowries. They talk about what Y/N can do for them."

He looks at you, his eyes shining.

"But you," he nods at Max. "You don't just protect her. You see her. You honor her. You hear her when she speaks, and you listen to what she doesn't say."

The King takes your free hand and places it firmly on top of Max's.

"And most importantly," your father whispers, "you choose her. Not the crown. Not the title. Her. You chose her when she was a lonely child, and you chose her when there was a knife at her throat."

"I would choose her in every lifetime," Max chokes out, his composure finally cracking.

"I know," the King says firmly. "That is why you are the only man I will ever allow to take this hand."

He steps back, beaming at the stunned silence in the room.

"You have my blessing, Maxwell. Now, stop trembling. It scares the servants."

Six Months Later.

The cathedral is packed. The nobility is whispering. The Stepmother is sitting in the front row, looking as if she has swallowed a lemon, but she is silent.

You stand at the altar. The organ music swells.

Max is waiting for you.

For the first time in fifteen years, he is not wearing a sword. He is not wearing armor. He is wearing a velvet doublet of deep royal blue, embroidered with silver. He looks terrified. He looks breathtaking.

As you walk down the aisle, his eyes lock onto yours. He mouths a single word, invisible to the congregation, but clear to you.

Safe.

You reach the altar. He takes your hands. His palms are warm.

The Priest begins the ceremony. When it comes time for the vows, Max deviates from the script. He doesn't look at the book. He looks at you.

"I used to think my duty was to stand between you and the world," he says, his voice ringing clear through the silent hall. "To be your shield."

He smiles, and it is the smile of the boy who learned to laugh in your private chambers.

"But today, I promise to be your partner. To walk beside you, not behind you. To be your shelter, not your cage. I give you my sword, my life, and my heart. Yours, Y/N. Always yours."

You squeeze his hands. "And I promise to save the knight," you whisper, a callback only he understands.

He laughs, tears in his eyes, and as he kisses you, the crowd erupts.

The joke is over. The Queen lost. The Knight got the Princess.

And for the first time in the history of the Kingdom, the King sleeps soundly, because he knows his daughter isn't just safe. She is loved.

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