Don't You Want Me

bitter to the taste; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc + pairing: 5.5k, luke castellan x f!reader

synopsis: a sharp blade, a black eye, and (more than) two kisses.

warnings: this is even sluttier than the last one, language, sword fighting, sharp objects, blood/injuries, reader is still a horrible person and so is luke but he's also a loooser, making out, allusions/mentions of sex but no super explicit descriptions, kind of fluffy at the end

notes: i’m starting to hate this bc i think i’ve been staring at it too long sorry if this is not as good as pt.1 but i have plans for this series ok. also READER AND LUKE ARE NOT GOOD PEOPLE!!! THEIR RELATIONSHIP WILL NOT ALWAYS BE GOOD!!! THEY SUCK!! they are also not real but keep that in mind :) synopsis inspired by crush by ethel cain; designated song for this fic is unpunishable by ethel cain (i’ve got a whole chronological playlist for these freaks like it’s serious)

You’ve always had a taste for violence. And an equally powerful penchant for sloth. 

You prefer to watch the carnage, not participate. It satisfies something inside you that you know, if it wasn’t for your laziness, could cause something irrevocable. Who the hell has time for that?. You’d rather lie back and watch instead.

This flaw of yours is the only reason you haven’t stirred more trouble, you think. It’s the reason you never attend camp games or sparring lessons. Sometimes, when you do, a dark muscle flexes inside your heart to curl out of its slumber, forming a hunger you don’t have otherwise. The second it starts to pry you have to rear yourself back and tuck the monster in. Banish the need for something more.

You don’t want to feed it. You don’t know what happens if you do. So you let other people do the feeding for you.

Luke cuts through two dummy heads in one swoop. It’s fucking gorgeous. The moon reflects off his sword, a silver sheen casting his face when he’s in the right spot. His brows are set, eyes so dark they blend with the night. Every motion is ruthless. Satisfying. 

You don’t know how many times you’ve watched him like this. He called you out for it last night, but you’re sure he doesn’t know the half of it. The shadows are a sacred cloak to you, and you wait inside them until you want your presence known. 

Meet me tomorrow. 

It runs through your head like a broken record. You can still feel his breath on your lips and your neck is still tender—had to wear a sweater in the blazing heat to hide the marks. Since you were created you’ve accepted a universal truth about yourself: you don’t harbour affection for anyone or anything. There’s not a single thing you’ve felt drawn to or protective over but yourself. It’s solitary, yes, and lonely, yes, but that’s the way you’re supposed to be. 

But you think about last night. You think about the moments between the kisses and the rush. When he teased you against your ear. When his hand brushed a certain spot on your back and something much lighter fluttered inside of you. When you crawled into sleep and thought about him, those were the moments that struck you the strangest. 

His gaze pans over the treeline every once in a while, the anger diluted. Then it comes back twice as hard as he shreds another dummy to pieces. 

He’s waiting for you. Oh, this is rich! A better person would probably turn around and go spoon their offerings into the bonfire the second they understand what they’re doing is incredibly destructive. But who are we kidding? You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. 

So you take a step forward, slip out of the comfort of the dark, and the next time he looks to the treeline he knows you’re there. He can’t see you, but he knows. 

You wait. His strikes are less tenuous, much smoother. It almost makes you laugh. Some fucking showman he is. 

Eventually, he buries his blade in the dirt and wipes his brow. “Are you gonna come talk to me or are you gonna stare at me all night like an owl?”

You relish in the feeling of shedding the darkness, coming into the light of the moon. “Hi,” you say flatly, but there’s a tiny smile on his face when he sees you that almost puts you off. 

“Hello, rotten.” He tries to lean on the hilt of his sword but it isn’t quite tall enough so he stumbles. It’s so pathetic it almost makes you laugh. 

“Don’t call me that,” you grimace.

“Okay, back to heathen?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Well, you don’t seem too happy when people call you by your name so pick your poison here.” 

You don’t say anything, your mouth set in a scowl. “All right, both it is,” Luke shrugs.

He’s different from last night. Less impatient. You hope it’s not because he thinks he has you now—he’s got another thing coming. “I almost thought you weren’t gonna come,” he says with a crooked grin, neither bashful nor ashamed. 

You’ve made your way closer to him, the soft grass turning to dusty earth. “Don’t know why I did,” you mutter crassly. 

Having abandoned his sword, Luke chuckles wryly. “Yes, you do.”

That bitterness he hides from everyone else pierces through. He tilts your face up like he did yesterday, the press of his fingers beneath your chin almost burning you. You know he’s peering at the marks on your neck. 

“If you made me come here just to hook up with me you’re delusional,” you glare. 

“What, like that’s not why you’re here?” He pushes your face up a little higher, grinning a little when you add resistance. “I’m a gentleman, you know. I can be patient.”

This guy is full of fucking shit.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” you snipe. The only point of contact you have is his hand on your chin, but you’re a hair’s breadth away from having everything else. The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you.

He keeps your face still. He’s studying you, and you’re suddenly curious about what he sees. You remember all those looks you’d share at the dinner tables that made this happen in the first place. What did he see then? 

“You wanna fight?”

It takes you a second to react. “What?”

“You want to fight. Pick up a sword, let’s go.” He smiles as he finally lets you go, waltzing away from you to unbury his sword from the dirt. His touch permeates through your skin and you hate it. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? I can’t fight.”

“Sure you can,” he replies, grabbing another sword from the training rack. “You need to burn off a little steam.”

You laugh sharply. “And you think me waving a sword around is gonna do that?”

“Uh, yeah,” he grins. “It’s the method that lets us keep the most clothes on.” 

You glare at him. His smirk is a mile wide. The way your stomach is simmering almost makes you sick; it’s like gorging yourself on candy except this time the candy has a sword and maybe wants to fuck you. 

You just watch as he hands you his sword, and the moonlight glinting off the metal has you believing it’s not the kind used for training. “I’ll use the dull one,” he assures. “C’mon, heathen. I know you’ve used a sword before, they force us to.”

“I usually skip those classes.”

He laughs. You can’t tell if it’s at you or with you. “Of course you do.”

You don’t like following orders, but oh, what the hell. Luke knows something about you, just like you know something about him. You’re only a little curious about it. 

“Straighten your back,” is the first thing he says once you’ve taken your stance across from him. The blunt of his sword reaches out to tap your hip. 

You begrudgingly do as you’re told. He watches you mirthfully, and the press of his sword against you starts to feel like a substitute for his hand. All the closeness you’re hungry for, dampened by cold steel. It still makes you buzz. 

He gives you the barebones—the right grip, how to maneuver, the proper balance. But long gone is his easy disposition. The motor inside him that powered all those dummy beheadings and disembowelments is running again, except this time it’s for you. He wants a fight. This is his battlefield. All right, you’ll bite.

You start to spar with the skill of an overgrown toddler. The sword feels like an unnatural ligament hanging off your body. Luke is precise, convicting, far more enthusiastic than you. “You can do better than that,” he prods after your swords clash lazily for the billionth time. “Stop going easy.”

“You’re going easy,” you shoot back. 

“Yeah, but I’d really rather not. Come on.” 

There’s a moment of hesitation. You think about that dark thing you keep harboured. A muscle aching to be used. 

“Come on,” he says again, and he almost sounds pissed. “All of a sudden you’re playing nice? What are you afraid of?”

Something flares inside you. “Nothing!”

“Then pick up the sword and fight me.”

You huff and roll your eyes, but your next swing is far more inspired. Luke blocks it easily, but you don’t care. “There we go,” he nods. “Again.”

This is more than you bargained for when you decided to come see him. All you want is to make out with this hot, awful person and have him tell you hot, awful things about yourself you probably already know. Why do you have to fight to get it? 

He keeps provoking you no matter how hard you try. Your temper picks up the more you swing, discordant clangs bruising the air, but it’s still not enough. Luke doesn’t let up. Of course the one time you try to be nice, you’re not allowed to. On second thought, why are you reigning yourself in for Luke? The only other person in camp with a real, consuming viciousness? If anything you should hit him twice as hard, since he’s so sure he can take it. 

“No wonder you’re so angry all the time,” Luke heaves out, and it gives you a swell of satisfaction. “You don’t have a proper outlet. Maybe you’d be nicer if you didn’t sit around and complain all day.”

“Shut up,” you gnash your teeth. 

“Just saying, maybe you should do something about it.”

You’re getting lost in the rhythm of the swords, the adrenaline, the sweat passing the scar on his cheek. Every swing you think less and less, and that dark muscle flexes more and more. It feels like home to you. Like a good meal. Your bones ache and the world has darkened, but that rotten pit inside you cracks open in full bloom. 

Luke keeps egging you on but you can’t hear him. Not like he still needs to. You think you’re smiling, or huffing furiously, or both. The sharpness of the sword intrigues you. A million terrible things reflect off its blade and you imagine them, all at once, until you are out of your body and the black hole inside you has properly wedged itself open. 

Luke jabs at you and you bring your sword down with a vengeance. But it’s a little too low. You only notice when he drops his weapon to the side and staggers back.

The fog of violence falters. It fades almost completely when he hisses long and hard, eyes screwed shut, and you see the tear in his shirt. In his skin. 

“Shit,” you say. “Fuck.”

You don’t sound sorry, you don’t think you are sorry, especially when he laughs. It’s a wheezy one through his teeth as you come up to him, but a laugh nonetheless. “Knew you were going easy,” he remarks through a wince. 

You ignore him, looking down at the injury. A  gash across his abdomen. It’s bleeding a little, but not enough for it to drip. You did that. Just looking at the blood, you feel the bitter taste of it in your mouth, the reward a temporary hunger for carnage brought you. This is why you don’t play camp games. 

“I’ve got thick skin. I’m fine,” Luke says casually. “I’ve got a medical kit under that tree over there in case I beat myself up too bad.” He’s no longer scrunched in pain, and you’ve got a feeling he’s telling the truth. So you go fetch the kit where he said it was. You need to wrap that slash. Not because you’re sorry for him, but because looking at it makes you angry. 

You kneel and pop the lid of the small tin kit, covered in dirt. It’s mostly gauze and bandages. Rubbing alcohol too. “Just give me the gauze, that’s all I need,” Luke gestures. 

“Shut the fuck up, I’m doing it myself.” You’ve already torn off some gauze, sitting all the way up on your knees. 

“Most people just say sorry.”

“You pushed me,” you spit back, surprisingly forceful. Luke’s smile drops. You take a deep breath, adjusting yourself to get eye level with the injury. “I told you I don’t fight.”

You’re not sure what makes Luke give in, but he doesn’t say a word as you lift the hem of his torn shirt and he holds it up. There’s no proud remark about your eyes lingering on his stomach, or the hesitation in your hands. You stare at the wound. It really is shallow. Your thumb presses at the skin around it and he winces. “My bad,” you mutter. 

As you sterilize the cut and wrap the gauze around his torso, you try not to let your fingertips cling to the warmth on his skin. You try not to notice the other scars littered there, most faded to the point they should be impossible to pick up even in the sun. It’s obvious he’s staring at you. Your neck is crawling with warmth. But you don’t engage, you just wrap the gauze a few times and do your best not to notice the rise and fall beneath his muscles as he breathes. Then you fasten things neatly and put everything away so you can get up. Any second. Come on. 

“Good?” You ask instead, exhaling. 

“Good,” he affirms. He slides a hand under your forearm and gets you up. It stays there once you’re standing. The night stills. 

“I’m guessing you’re adding ‘attempted killer’ to your list of horrible qualities,” you go on to break the silence.

He holds your gaze unyieldingly. “I’d consider that a pro, actually.” 

You are entirely fed up with this drawn out evening, but you can’t bring yourself to speed anything up any more than stepping closer so your chests brush. “I will give you one, though,” he continues, craning down to your ear. You smell his skin and it sends you back to the position you were in yesterday. 

He finally kisses your jaw, just once, then your neck. You shiver. “You’re too tense.” Another kiss behind your ear. It’s not enough. “Do you even know how to have fun?”

“I don’t want to have fun,” you reply bitterly. I just want to make out with you, asshat.

Luke’s breath frosts over your face when he chuckles, but before he can get any further away you catch his mouth with yours. Almost instinctively his arm winds around you to pull you in closer, your hand looping through his curls. It's a relief, knowing last night wasn't some freak accident. This does feel good, actually, and it can happen. Everything you felt yesterday is only more urgent now, hungrier, and you're pretty sure the way you kiss him gives that away.

He indulges you, squeezing the base of your hips as his other hand thumbs across the marks on your neck. This is so fucking embarassing—you think you whine when he bites down on your bottom lip. You’ve never needed something this bad, you’ve never needed anything. But you press yourself as close to him as you can manage and his hand runs lower, slips against your inner thighs, and it’s difficult to worry about anything else. 

Until he pulls away. Like a dick. 

He doesn’t go far, his forehead pressed to yours, but you feel like pulling out all his hair. It’s a muddling mix of frustration and longing you’re starting to associate with him. “Dude,” you groan, an inner coil only starting to unwind begrudgingly compressing. 

“Let’s go for a swim,” he says. The enthusiasm is almost alarming. Almost makes him look younger.

You’re homicidal. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes, heathen. Let’s go for a swim, come on.”

He’s rubbing circles on your thigh, which only makes you want to strangle him. “But I—I don’t have my bathing suit,” you string out. 

The smile gets more boyish. “Wow, whatever shall we do?”

It’s another challenge. Another dare. And he knows what you want, fucking jerk. You’re going to kill him. 

“Fine,” you grunt, and the second the words leave your lips you’re pulled to the lake. 

It’s a warm, sticky evening, only made worse with the sweat and the half-assed kissing, so the water doesn’t seem all that bad. Unfortunately, you don’t like giving into demands. So you stare ghoulishly at your fingernails as Luke tosses off his ripped shirt and his shorts so he can plunge into the lake. “Aren’t you going to at least come in?” He asks, but you don’t look at him. 

“I don’t like swimming,” you lie. 

“At least your feet. It’s nice, I swear!”

A splash, like smoke moving through wind chimes. You look up and Luke has completely submerged, popping his head up closer to the mouth of the dock. “Please,” he says with such conviction your resolve turns to butter. Gods, what is happening to you? You still need that lobotomy! 

You sigh, roll your eyes, turn your back to him. “Fuck this,” you mutter under your breath. You undress to your undergarments and you’re not sure if you want Luke to be watching or not. The moon touches your bare skin and a chill trickles through you. 

You take a seat at the edge of the dock, knees tucked to your chest. Luke swims over for you right away. His hair is dripping against his skin, and you hate how beautiful it looks. The waterline is high tonight, almost ridiculously so, so he props his elbows up on the dock with no problem. “Come in,” he urges. 

“No.”

“Just your legs?”

“No.”

“Gods, I’ll make it worth it, just throw your damn legs in!” 

Your eyebrows shoot up. His face is stubbornly pink. Oh, so now he wants something. You take your time uncurling yourself and Luke wades away from the dock so you can put your feet in. The water goes up to your calves, and you shiver. “So fucking difficult,” he mutters, and your pulse flickers. 

“Sorry, what was that?” You let yourself grin for the first time all night. 

“Nothing,” he hums. This time when he comes to the dock, he wraps his hands around your calves. You’re pretty sure he can stand here because he stops treading. The warmth of the water seems to spread further, long past the threshold of your knees. 

He rests his chin just above your knee, water pooling on your skin. “Stop dripping on me,” you complain. 

“Sorry.” He fake pouts when he kisses the damp spot. You see, ever so faintly, a diabolic shift in his expression. He nudges your leg with the point of his nose, then kisses it, then starts to move it aside. “Feel bad about teasing you all night,” he murmurs, still with an edge. He presses more kisses on your legs. “I really did want to see you.”

The irony that he’s still teasing is not lost on you. You’re not loving how desperately warm you’re starting to feel. “Why’s that?” You lean back on your palms. 

“You’re a very interesting person,” he quips innocently. His hands are cupping the backs of your calves. He’s pulled you a lot closer to the water, and somehow you’ve just noticed. Another blistering kiss on the inside of your thigh. 

“You’re fucking evil,” you scathe. 

He looks up at you from between your legs. “You have literally done nothing but berate and injure me this whole evening.”

“Yeah, and right after I patch you up you jump in the water for shits. You’re playing infection roulette, Castellan.”

“See? You’re so mean.” He sighs, and in a move that almost surprises you to death, he hoists both your legs over his shoulders and they dangle into the river behind him. “And here I am anyway, making it up to you.”

You are suddenly illuminated on the purpose of this situation. Why Luke is between your legs. Your heart jolts. “Luke, you can’t be serious.” 

“Mmhm.” He leans forward to kiss right under your navel. 

You hate how much you want him to do it again, how your body burns, but you avert your eyes. “Someone’s gonna—someone’s gonna hear us.”

He snorts, “No they won’t. Either this or you come in the water with me. Or both. We’ll see.”

A huge smile cracks across your face before you push it back down. You’re going to spend a lot of time coming back to this moment, this night, wondering why. “What is wrong with you.”

It comes out like a compliment when it leaves you. You want to vanish. Luke chuckles, and something foreign to the both of you buzzes through the air. 

“Are you going to be nice?” He asks against your skin. 

“Are you going to be quick?”

His mouth finds your hip bones and yeah, why the hell would you say no to this? He nods, “Swear.” 

That’s all you need. You let your eyes slide shut and your head tilts towards the sky. Luke takes your permission and runs with it, pries you open with his mouth until the stars soak through the black of your eyelids. 

You discover pretty quickly neither of you are good at keeping promises. 

The next time you need Luke’s med kit, he’s already awake. 

It’s been happening more and more often. You lurking around camp past moonrise and finding Luke outside his cabin, going for a walk or a stretch or a … something with you. 

“Do you ever sleep?” You ask him sometimes between flurries of kisses with your back against a tree. 

“Could ask you the same thing, heathen,” he squeezes your hips and nips at your neck, but never answers the question. And neither do you, so you’re both okay with it. You’d hate to give up this feeling, but he doesn’t need to know that.

This is the first time in your punitive life you have felt alive. Like a person, with bones and flesh and soul, a real presence. Not a ghost of smoke and shadow. You are real. 

Fooling around makes you feel like an actual teenager. You’re young, you remember when Luke joins you in the dark. You’re having fun. His hands under your shirt and his mouth on your collarbone, the way he bites down and winces when you do something a little too well, when you string out his name and he rewards you for it. You’re both greedy, insatiable people, so there’s a push and pull only the two of you would ever be able to handle. And nobody has to know. Despite all the bruises, the sleepless nights, the swollen lips, all you and Luke share in the daylight are noxious looks, and that's only if he can find you. A perfect crime. Camp Half-Blood’s angel and the vice that lives in the shadows. But in the dark, it’s hard to tell which is which. 

“Luke,” you whisper. “Luke.”

“I’m up,” he grumbles, peering up at you. “You shouldn’t sneak into my cabin.” He was already sitting up in his bed when you slipped in, and he didn’t notice you were there till you were right in front of him.

“Worried someone will catch me? You should know better.” 

He follows you outside so you don’t wake the other campers. There’s a thrill knowing just one interaction between the two of you could ruin both your reputations forever. 

“What is it, heathen?” He asks as the door closes behind him. It’s so dark and your back is turned to him, but his voice is drenched in smugness. “You don’t usually want to put up with me more than once a night.”

“Don’t have a choice,” you mutter, staring out at the camp. You go to chew on your bottom lip, but you wince immediately. “Where’s your kit thingy? The one we used after I impaled you.” 

“You mean after you lightly grazed me?” 

“Just tell me where it is, Luke.”

Your sharpness could cut through any sleepy daze he possibly has. He’s silent behind you for a second. “Why?” He asks.

“Because I need it.”

His hand curls around your shoulder and before you can think to submerge yourself in darkness, he turns you around. When he sees you, his face breaks from something proud to something … you’re not sure you like. “Oh, heathen,” he murmurs. “What happened to you?”

You guess it’s a semi-appropriate reaction, although you expected at least a grimace. To put it lightly, your face looks gnarly as fuck. There’s a bruise on your cheekbone and your lip is split. But what really draws attention is the half-formed, garish black eye swelling up your right side. 

“Just the usual. Pissed someone off.” It hurts the skin on your lip that’s caked with blood. 

He rests his thumb on your unbruised cheek, but somehow it still stings. You know he can’t see much of you in the dark but he tries. The prolonged eye contact without the imminent promise of a kiss feels foreign. “You need to go to the Apollo cabin,” he concludes, brows pushed together. 

A laugh slips past your broken lips. “No fucking shot. They would not help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because one of their shit-eaters did this!”

The words take a moment to register. You see them filtering through Luke’s brain. He blinks absurdly. “An Apollo guy beat you up?”

“Not beat up. Just … tussled.”

“How much tussling earns you a black eye, exactly? From Apollo kids.”

“Gods, just tell me where your kit is so you can go back to fucking sleep.”

His fingertips inch around the back of your neck, thumb still against your face. “Already wasn’t sleeping. I might as well help you,” he shrugs. “I move the kit every once in a while so some other campers don’t ravage it.”

“I don’t need help.”

Luke opens his mouth, then sighs deeply. He takes a firm hold of your arm and starts to tug you along. “Hey, what—” you swat at his arm. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs. “Come on.”

It’s strange. Luke’s never done you a favour before. At least not one like this. You’re disgruntled enough that you had to go ask him in the first place and now he’s dragging you around? “This isn’t such a big deal, Luke,” you badger. “I’m fine.”

“Sure, whatever. Wait right here.” He lets go of you and only then you realize you’re in front of the Apollo cabin. You grimace, and Luke must have noticed because he says, “Don’t worry, I’m just gonna go inside and grab some things. No one’s gonna jump you.”

You scowl at him, and he just laughs. A part of you hopes he hits his head on the way in. You hide anyway. 

It’s a few minutes of waiting in the oppressive summer heat, until Luke emerges from the cabin with his hands full. He looks around, hesitantly calling, “Heathen?” Then again. You move out of your hiding spot and he jogs over to greet you. 

“Nice haul,” you comment. There’s an ice pack, cotton pads, a few miscellaneous items. “How’d you get them?”

He smiles widely. “Everyone loves me, heathen. It’s not hard.”

“…So you stole them.”

“Yes, but only because I’m too tired to talk to people and I’m protesting for your sake,” he rattles off. “Now hold this ice pack before it gives me frostbite.”

The two of you make your way down to the docks again. It’s morphed into your usual meeting place, since the waves lapping at the shore mask when Luke gets a little too noisy just to piss you off. (At least that’s what he tells you.)

He’s stashed his little tin in a different tree this time. After he retrieves it he sets everything out like a chef preparing to make a meal out of gauze and rubbing alcohol. 

Your head has been throbbing for the past few hours. You’re not proud that you antagonized the wrong Apollo kid and got a shiner for it. You’re less proud that you came to Luke for help. Just like everyone else does.

“Come,” he gestures, tugging at the waistband of your pants. You scoot closer to him and swallow the weight of your pulse when he touches you. 

Luke slowly presses the ice pack to your black eye, letting you hold it. “What did you do to earn this, anyway?” He asks, head tilted to the side. 

You’re hissing because of the ice, half-consciously shifting into him. “The usual. Spat at him. Made fun of his daddy a little too much. Tripped him so he landed face-first in his offerings.”

“You did not,” Luke laments as he dots alcohol onto a cotton pad. 

“You’re allowed to say you’re proud of me, Saint Castellan. I won’t tell. You can be mean.” Your voice drips with irony, and you hope it bothers him. The flex in his jaw gives it away. 

“You’re always gonna be meaner,” is all he says back. “This is gonna hurt.”

It’s all the warning he gives before he presses the pad against your lip. The sting envelops you immediately, and your good eye squeezes shut. “Shit, ow!” 

“Stop moving your mouth.”

“Fuck,” you swear anyway. Your lip burns so hard you can feel it in your teeth. 

Luke holds your jaw with his other hand so you can’t shy away. “I’ll kiss it better,” he teases. “Almost done.”

You roll your eyes, but Luke takes the pad off a few moments later. “Serious question. How are you so awful to people all the time?”

A groan tears through your throat with such force your head tilts back. “Not you too! I don’t need a fucking reason, there is no reason. Why doesn’t anyone get that?” 

“I’m not asking why. I’m asking how.”

He’s oddly serious, the caress of his thumb on your cheek far slower. You hate it when people want a reason why you’re like this, just to help them sleep at night. But from the bags lining Luke’s eyes, sleep doesn’t seem to be on his radar. 

“I just don’t care,” you admit, shrugging. “I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care about what they can do to me. I don’t care about anything.”

“…What about the Gods?”

It makes you cock your head. “Huh?”

“You wouldn’t care about them, either?”

You think, but only about which words to use. “No,” you decide, “They don’t scare me. They’re nothing. What are they gonna do to me?”

Luke snorts, almost nervously. “Uh, punish you for saying that, for one.”

You turn back to him, ice pack leaving your eye as you gesture. “How? By killing me? Pecking out my eyeballs? Burning me alive? I’m telling you, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. It’s all just nothing to me. I’m fucking unpunishable, I’d like to see them try.” 

Huffing, you look back up at the firmament of stars. Luke says nothing. 

The grass rustles as he shifts, and his mouth ghosts over the bruise on your eye. “Unpunishable,” he murmurs, like he’s testing it out. Then he places an uncharacteristically gentle kiss just beneath your eye. And another just above. “We’ll see about that.”

You get that feeling again, the unbearable lightness in a place it shouldn’t be. Mixed with the poison lodged in your heart. 

Luke kisses you, still so delicate that you wonder if he’s been body-snatched. If anything, your bleeding lip feels soothed against his. His hands cradle your face with no ferocity at all. It seems wrong. 

“How do you feel?” He asks after pulling away, dark eyes nebulous and wide. The night usually sharpens his features. Now, they’ve been hushed.

“Um, better,” you reply. 

He hums, laying a slow trail of kisses on your jaw. “Did you at least get the other guy?” He asks between kisses. “Like, did you hurt him?”

“Not really,” you divulge, wondering if you should feel shame. 

“Why?” He’s made his way to your neck now, nudging your jaw up so he can kiss behind your ear. 

“I’m not a fighter.” And, without warning, for a reason you will never, ever be able to explain, your tongue adds, “I’m a killer.”

Your own brows furrow. Luke pauses for a moment, but knocks his nose against your neck. “Guess one of us has to be.”

There’s no more fooling around. No snappy insults, no feverish kisses, no hunger to be satiated. Luke just checks you over a few more times, hides his med kit, and you both get up to sleep. But his hand wraps around your wrist, far less firm than when he dragged you here. “Stay in my bunk, heathen,” he offers. “Leave in the morning.”

You think you’re making a mistake when you agree, but it doesn’t feel like one. 

The next day, after you’ve left Luke’s bunk, rumours float around camp that Luke Castellan accidentally butted some Apollo kid in the face with his sword during training. Caused a bloody, broken nose. Luke was very sorry, apologized profusely. 

But you know, by the way he takes you behind the stables that night, that he didn’t mean a single damn word.

luke taglist: @sunniskyies @apollos-calliope @lillycore @sunny747 @m00ng4z3r @pabkeh @thaliagracesgf @theadventuresofanartist @bonnie-tz

rotten taglist: @thaliagracesgf

leave a pm/comment/ask if you'd like to be added to a taglist :)

SUMMERWEEN SERIES | FORMULA 1

“It’s Summerween!”

monster mash | oscar piastri

oscar gets stuck babysitting on halloween night. with the help of a seven year old, he gets the number of the cute neighbor

thriller | mark webber

(90s au) mark’s crush is stuck working in a video rental store on halloween night so he keeps her company.

ghostbusters | max verstappen

max’s is jealous of his girlfriend’s crush on egon spengler

this is halloween | logan sargeant

logan comes back home to florida just in time for the biggest halloween party yet

love potion no. 9 | sebastian vettel

(teenage sebastian au) can a nerdy teenager make the prom queen fall in love with him?

(don’t fear) the reaper | jenson button

jenson’s idea of a first date is the drive in where ‘friday the 13th’ is showing (spoiler alert: it doesn’t end well)

season of the witch | charles leclerc

charles finds out the reason for all his good luck

coming soon…

an: hi friends! this little idea came to me when i was watching the summerween episode of gravity falls lol I’ll try to post all the fics before june 22nd because according to google that’s the day of summerween but if i don’t then it’s ok either way <3 enjoy! also i am aware that not everyone from the current grid is on here, i know for a fact that i won’t ever finish a series with all the current drivers so i just did a couple :)

✶ FOR THE HOPE OF IT ALL

summary: the italian sun shines on you and oliver's summer idyll, but the month of august trickles away rapidly─ what will happen when it reaches an end? ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « will you love me in december as you do in may? »

F1 MASTERLIST | OB87 MASTERLIST

pairing: oliver bearman x f!reader

wc: 5.2k

cw: summer romance, bittersweet, fluff, hopeful ending, reader has an anxiety disorder, use of y/n, oliver has an injury for plot purposes

note: requested here! first time writing for ollie so i'm kinda nervous, hope i did him justice! also there's not near enough fics of the '25 rookies it's scandalous

♫ like real people do - hozier, august - taylor swift, let it happen - gracie abram

THE LASTING WEIGHT on your shoulders was something you became accustomed to. It settled there long ago. The quickened breaths, the sharp sting behind your eyes almost comforting in its regularity. The clatter of your pen dropping to the floor during another restless study session and the ache in your ribcage as you fought for hopeless takes of serrated air no longer startled you. Your newly-appointed therapist told you, scribbling away on her notepad— “Maybe you need fresh air, time away from university.” As if sunlight could smooth out the tension etched into your bones.

That was what the seaside house was meant to be.

It wasn’t a cottage per se. Just a weather-worn brick-walled home tucked near the Italian coast, kissed by salt and sun and blue shutters faded to memory, ivy hugging the balcony tenderly. You rented it with the help of your parents, who insisted that you go on this trip, but the silence you were standing in was yours alone. You, twenty years old, burnt out, along with a diary you promised your therapist you’ll write in every day, from the soft, sunlit beginnings of May to the cold end of August.

The house in itself was as isolated as it could get, perched above the sea along eroded rocks and concealed from the nearest town and its tourists. It stood alone, in all likeness to you, waiting for inhabitation. The only hint of human life you noticed, as you mindlessly sipped your iced tea from the back doorway, sun warming your knees, was the distant outline of another house, a few kilometers down the coast. Far enough that it’d take a good ten-minute walk to reach it, but close enough so that you could discern the silhouette of a tall man standing in its overgrown backyard.

You didn’t linger much on it. He was but the ghost of civilization— a shadow at the edge of your retreat you weren’t ready to let back in. This was the time to center on your thoughts, peel back the numbness eating at your heart, and relearn yourself. You stepped back inside, glass empty, and didn’t think about him again.

At least, not then.

The month of May passed slowly, honey dripping down the rim of a jar. You mostly stayed in your little alcove of the world, letting the days stretch out in silence. Mornings were slow— toast with jam, milk coffee, the dog-eared pages of half-read books sitting on the sunlounger outside. You wrote in your diary about it, about how you’d paint your nails one day and chip them off the next, or how on other days you’d lie out on the balcony, the crash of the waves lulling you in and out of sleep. You watched the ivy grow and the sky change. For a while, it was nice, soft, and still.

But solitude, even chosen, eventually turns sharp at the edges. By the third week, the silence wasn’t so romantic: you started counting the hours between meals, pacing the kitchen tiles barefoot, and you reread your own diary entries even if you hadn’t spoken aloud in days. The stillness you once craved had started to feel like a trap— yet the worst of it was yourself: thoughts of precious hours you were wasting away instead of sitting at the desk of your dorm room haunted your boredom, similar to a ghost.

Which is why, now and then, when the breeze shifted just right, you found your gaze drifting down a few centimeters down the coast, toward the other house, and the man you suspected might still be there.

To the unknowing eye, you’re sure it could have looked unsettling, but truthfully, you didn’t have anything else to do but to observe. He was a welcoming presence, something that didn’t make you feel so secluded. Some days, the man would tinker with a bike for hours until the sun bled orange. Other times, he’d vanish with a towel slung over his shoulders and goggles in his hand, not returning until dusk. Occasionally, he’d mirror you, barefoot in the garden, basking in the sun. And sometimes—only sometimes—you swore he tilted his head upwards and caught your eyes. On those days, you always turned away first, slipped back inside, and retreated for the night.

Your personal game of people-watching stretched for a week or two before you spoke for the first time.

You spent the afternoon on a small, sheltered beach just a few minutes away from your house. The dry air had nipped at your skin just enough for it to become uncomfortable after a few hours, and the sun-turned—from warm to punishing—had your cheeks tight with the start of a sunburn. You packed up as the sky began to blush with the first hints of sunset, already fantasizing about the cool shade of your living room and the steady hum of the fan. It would have been glorious.

Would have, if you hadn’t locked yourself out.

You jiggled the handle once, twice, but nothing. Your towel slipped from your arms, and you cursed under your breath, pressing your forehead to the wooden door. Saltwater still clung to your skin, your hair stuck to the back of your neck, and the stupid key was sitting smugly on the kitchen counter inside.

A posh, British accent spoke from behind you. “Do you need some help?”

You turned, confused about the origin of the sudden voice, and there he was. The man from the neighboring house.

It was unmistakably him— there was just something about the tousled mess of brown, semi-curls falling in front of his face, the soft eyes crinkled at the corners with barely contained amusement. His skin, darkened by the sweep of summer, looked like it had soaked up every hour of its beginnings. There was familiarity in the delicate shape of him and the easy way he stood, towering over you. The towel in his hand was the same deep navy you’d seen slung over his shoulder days before. His gaze—sharp, steady, curious—felt exactly like it had when you’d caught him looking up at you.

“I, uh… I might?” You stumbled on your words as you answered.

He chuckled, leaning slightly against the fence in front of your house. “Locked yourself out?”

“I wish I could say no,” you nodded, making a noise somewhere between a whine and a laugh.

The man, who looked increasingly more boyish the more steps he took toward you, gripped the door handle. He twisted it a few times before kicking the bottom of the wooden plank and, before your stunned expression, it snapped open. He looked at you with a proud smile. “Don’t worry, people who rent this house usually don’t know about this trick.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Does that mean you come here often?”

Mortification crashed over you along with realization— you threw an accidental pick-up line at a complete stranger. A stranger who, objectively speaking, was very cute, yes, but still a stranger. You opened your mouth, already halfway through a flustered attempt to walk it back. “Wait— I didn’t mean that like— I wasn’t trying to—”

He let out a surprised, wheezy laugh. “No, no- you’re fine,” he said, grinning now. “I come here every summer, actually. I’m in the house further down the coast.” He seemed to catch the flicker of recognition in your eyes and gave you a knowing smile. “My name’s Oliver, by the way.”

“I’m Y/N,” you replied. “I… I think I’ve seen you around. Sometimes.”

Oliver’s traits softened, and you could see the playful interest behind the darkness of his irises. “Yeah.” His voice dipped slightly. “I think I saw you, too.”

Both of you stood there with the hesitant awkwardness usually reserved for teenagers— which, to be fair, you weren’t far from. He couldn’t have been older than you, early twenties at most. The silence stretched until he announced he had to go, something about needing to work on his bike. You had to abstain to say I know. 

Yet, before he could disappear completely around the corner, Oliver paused. He looked back over his shoulder. “If you ever want company, it’s just me down there. Come by whenever.” You didn’t have to add that you were alone as well. In a strangely comforting sort of way, it looked like he knew.

And it didn’t take you long to take him up on his offer.

It started when your trips to the beach began to align— first by coincidence, but then by something more deliberate. You came to realize that you and Oliver had claimed the same forgotten stretch of land where the sea kissed the rocks, and you drifted toward each other like its tide. At first, it was just run-ins: you, stretched out on your towels, half-asleep due to the sizzling heat; Oliver, standing over you, droplets of salt water falling from his hair onto your flushed cheeks. “What are you doing here?” you’d ask, squinting up at him.

“I like running,” he’d say with a shrug, before his characteristic, mischievous smile reached his lips once again. “And a dip after a run keeps me motivated.”

Oliver started sticking around. He’d keep the last of his water bottle to rinse the sand off your feet, sharing watermelon he’d always accidentally cut a little extra from. He would walk you home, and you’d lead him with slow, lazy steps, to drag the moment longer. Your laughter would echo against the rock and sea walls paving the way to your house, and he’d talk about little things—the birds and the heat—then about bigger things, how the ocean seems to always stay the same but feels different every year, for example. You’d match him, word for word, stories unfurling like waves, and miss him when he’d continue his way without you.

It wasn’t long before the space between your houses stopped mattering. One afternoon turned into an invitation to see the inside of his cluttered living room, and that was it. The next week, Oliver was sitting on your ivy-covered balcony, sipping homemade iced tea with your legs draped over his. Eventually, your days began to blur— his shirt left on the back of your chair, your books forgotten on his windowsill. You stopped counting whose house you were in until it became the house you were in together.

The month of May slipped into June in tentative brushes of the hand and peals of laughter lost to the warm air of summer nights. Oliver had become Ollie by the fifteenth—the nickname fell off your lips naturally—and you spent most, if not all, of your days in each other’s presence. The rhythm between you was almost domestic: you’d wake up and see his bare back at work in the kitchen along with the scent of coffee and discarded pans, or how you now knew his schedule by heart. He’d spend most of his Wednesdays and Fridays fixing up the old bike he’d found rusting in the garage, and he was partial to running on Saturdays. Swimming, however, was reserved for when you were with him. Any day. Every day, if he could have it.

By the time Ollie finished repairing the bike, the first month of summer was waning. One golden morning, with grease all over his fingers, he turned to you and asked if you wanted to visit the nearby town— a trip made easier now that the bike worked. To your own surprise, you said yes.

The town had become another stepping stone in whatever you and Ollie were building. The days spent weaving through the local market were your favorites, brushing past stalls of sun-ripened fruits and handmade trinkets, among which you both stumbled through clumsy Italian that vendors gently poke fun at you for. You’d mangle a greeting, and Ollie would butcher a question about apricots, and still, they’d smile like they knew what you were saying. You chuckled and asked him what the point of living in Modena was if he didn’t speak Italian. “My family’s still British, you know,” he answered. It only made you laugh harder, a sound he seemed to chase.

You never discussed the reason that brought you both to this isolated part of the Italian coast. It never came up, the questions drifted in the periphery— hinted at in the pauses between conversation, but never spoke out loud. It was a silent agreement: you didn’t ask, and neither did he.

But there was one evening, on the crumbling stone wall nearing the edge of town. Your legs were swinging gently over the drop— the cicadas had begun to quiet, the last smear of strawberry gelato clung to your fingertips, and the world was exhaling into night. Somewhere below, a dog barked once and fell quiet. That was when Ollie asked. “So… what brought you here?”

You didn’t answer right away. You wiped your fingers on a napkin that smelled faintly of lemon, tossing and turning the way you could shape your response in your head. “Uni,” you said finally. “Or… me, I guess. Everything just got really loud, and I could barely think about anything else. I stopped sleeping, I stopped eating… setting myself up for failure before I even started, basically.”

Ollie nodded, yet no pity or needless apologies fell off his tongue. “My therapist sent me there to remember how to be a person again,” you added to his silence.

“What about you?” You quickly asked, hasty to get the attention off.

He looked at you, mouth agape in a desire to say something, but ultimately deciding against it. Long seconds passed before the British spoke again. “I race professionally, right now I’m in Formula One.” One look at your face was enough for him to understand you didn’t know anything about motorsports. He continued with a crooked smile. “I, uh… I crashed back in March. Nothing huge, but enough to knock me out for the season, apparently. The doctors told me to rest and take it easy.”

You glanced over, catching the way his profile softened in the lamplight. You had noticed his grimace after long days spent walking around, the painful stretches in his living room when he thought you were still deep in slumber. You never brought it up.

“No one tells you how hard that part is—” Ollie continued. “The not-doing-anything part. I figured I’d go somewhere familiar to make it better, you know?”

Taking your mind off an obsession, when you made it a part of yourself so integral you’re unable to define yourself outside of it, can feel similar to the tearing of a limb— it’s something you carry around, an itch you can’t scratch because your fingernails will start digging for blood. It’s something you knew all too well, it was the reason for your presence on this stone wall.

“Well,” you murmured. “I think you’re going to get into your car next season and show them all the talent they’d missed.”

Ollie huffed a laugh. “Thanks for believing in me, but the car isn’t even—”

“You worked on your bike. You can work on a car.”

“It’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

He laughed, curls catching the breeze, nudging his knees with yours. “Then you’re going to make every teacher regret putting you in this state when you go back.”

“That’d be assuming they care.” You rolled your eyes with nothing but fondness. “You’re too nice for the ruthless world of university, Ollie.”

The realization came as gently as the brush of his fingers above yours: you hadn’t thought about it at all. The tint of your skin had darkened, moles and sun-born freckles dusted your shoulders, your voice had picked up hoarser inflections from laughing, salt stuck to you like a robe, and you hadn’t noticed the oppressing heaviness of your shoulder ever since you ran into Ollie. You noticed, though, with a pleasant warmness swirling in your chest, that it seemed to have vanished. You couldn’t recall the last time you felt like the air around you wasn’t enough for your lungs.

In that moment, as the sky bruised deep violet and you could still taste the faint hint of strawberry on your tongue, it didn’t really matter what had broken you both to get there. You were here now, and that was what mattered.

The bike ride back to your house was spent in a sleep-induced haze. Your arms were loosely wrapped around Ollie’s middle, and he was pedaling slowly, not in a rush to get anywhere else but to you. When you reached the front door, you didn’t ask. He just followed you inside, barefoot and spent, and slept in the spare twin bed across from yours. The window stayed open all night. You could hear the sea mixing with his breathing. For the first time in a while, sleep came easy.

June made way for July, arriving in harsh, blinding sunlight, and days that stretched lazily into midnight. With it came a quiet shift, the startling and fluttering understanding that you might want to kiss Oliver Bearman.

It wasn’t in theory, in some hypothetical sunset-glazed movie scene. You wanted to kiss the real him, your Ollie, the one on the stone wall: the boy who stole your sandals to water your neglected garden, the one who wrangled in catastrophic Italian with a vendor for a pack of cherries you craved, the same one who read aloud from whatever your liking had set upon to make fun of it, only to keep reading when you weren’t paying attention.

In the delicate dance of almosts that blossomed over the month of July, you allowed yourself to think he might want to kiss you, too.

The first time it happened, you were both locked out of his house— for a change. A tragic incident involving a missing key and a dinner reservation you were already late for had left you standing outside, your arms crossed, and his sheepish grin doing nothing to help the situation. Ollie suggested the bedroom window. You, naturally, thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

You’d both ended up clambering through the fragile wooden frame like teenagers sneaking in past curfew, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It was stupid, and maybe a little childish, but it was part of why it always felt so easy with Ollie. When it was your turn to hop off the ledge, he helped you, hands steady around your waist. His hands lingered there a moment too long and as laughter died down, leaving you breathless and dazed, something pulled you closer ever so slightly. Never close enough to break, however.

There was a second time, when Ollie brushed a stray strand of hair after you’d both ran from a summer shower and the touch warmed your forehead for hours. A third, when you fell asleep over each other in the garden during a heat-drenched day and you woke up with his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. There was a fourth, a fifth, an amalgamation of disarming instances during which your breath hitched in anticipation of what never seemed to come. When he caught you watching him, and never looked away.

The day you kissed him, you found yourself in a predicament you never thought would happen to you. Ollie had just leapt off the cliff.

There was no hesitation or second thoughts in the clean arc his body sliced through the air. The splash below was clean, and right when you thought he’d never find the surface again, his voice echoed upward, bright and breathless as he laughed. “Come on!” he shouted, waving at you. “It’s not even that high!”

You stood at the edge, toes curled against the rock, and you could only disagree with the brown-haired boy the way the water spiraled beneath you. “You’re insane. This is suicide.”

“Oh, you’re the one who climbed up there!”

“I climbed up to watch, not die!” you yelled back, heart hammering. “Also, aren’t you injured? Should you even be jumping off cliffs?!”

He shrugged. “The water’s deep enough.”

You glared, which only seemed to egg him on. “Come onnnn,” he complained. “You said you wanted to feel like a real person again, right? Nothing realer than that!”

Even in the lighthearted argument, you had to see the truth in what Ollie said. You had come to this quiet corner of the world to shake something loose inside of you, to try and find the pieces of yourself you misplaced among the tangy taste of tangerines and the soft mornings. This was the summer you were supposed to stop clenching your fists around fear, and to get rid of the anxious feeling lodged in your throat. Your heart had beaten loudly and unapologetically until now, what was slowing it down except for yourself?

So you took a breath. Two. Then a few steps back.

And jumped.

The fall was sharp, dizzying, and the scream that escaped your lungs was nothing short of horrified. Yet, laughter was wedged between the hiccups of it, and you broke the cold surface with a disbelieving gasp. Ollie was already swimming toward you— his eyes wide in wonder, and his hands reaching for your figure. “You did it!”

“I actually did it,” you sputtered.

Ollie’s hands found the dip of your waist under the water, steadying you against him. There were seconds of silence, filled with the splash of waves and your all too loud breathing. That was when his eyes dipped to your lips.

You hadn’t come there to find something as unreachable as love, and you especially hadn’t expected to fall for someone like Ollie, but somehow he had folded himself into your days and the smallest gaps of you— a placeholder until you could fill them yourself, you imagined. Still, you couldn’t envisage a version of your months without him, his voice, or the steadiness of the soul that comes with the brush of his fingers.

I jumped off a cliff, you thought. I can kiss Oliver Bearman.

So you did.

You surged forward before you could talk yourself out of it, arms slipping around his shoulders as your mouth crashed onto his in impatience. He stilled for only a second— more than enough to make you doubt your actions. But he kissed you back. Just as eager, the smile he put into it charmingly familiar. You could taste sea salt on his tongue, his sun-warmed lips moving hungrily against you, breathing your air and taking it away in the slow rocking of the waves.

You didn’t want it to end, but the lack of oxygen pulled you apart. Ollie’s forehead bumped against yours. “I was waiting for you to do that,” he murmured, dropping another quick kiss to your lips.

“Then you could’ve done it sooner!” You punched his shoulder with a laugh.

“I don’t know, I like it when you take the lead.”

You rolled your eyes, heat climbing up your neck, and dunked him into the water. You didn’t resist when he pulled you under.

The transition from July to August slipped from your attention, seawater between your fingers— impossible to hold onto but clung to your skin all the same. You barely noticed the days shifting; they blurred into one another with a sleepy sentimentality, each marked by rituals you and Oliver had grown to create. Mornings bled into slow breakfast where he’d sneak a bite of your toast before making his own, and you’d pretend to be mad about it even though you always saved the corner piece for him anyways.

There were afternoons spent with your ankles tangled together in the back gardens. He kept a bottle of your fragranced sunscreen in his bag. You knew what music to play when you both cooked dinner with the door open to let the cooler air of the evening sift through the kitchen. It wasn’t dramatic, nor was it sickeningly romantic. It simply came as a natural progression, an obvious evolution in the most beautiful sense— like something that could last, if you let it.

You kissed more often, now, much to both of your delight. At first, it was shy, quick, smiling kisses stolen between absentminded conversations. The further you got used to it, the slower they became: curious, confident, eager to know more about each other in a way you couldn’t quite grasp before. Your hands knew each other’s mapped faces and bodies, your mouth recognized the other’s rhythm. Once, you kissed Ollie with your knees still scraped from a hike he’d convinced you to go to. Once, he kissed you beneath the pouring rain, soaked and giggling like children.

There were times you stayed over, and times he did the same, and it would just happen with no clear decision. Ollie would just end up asleep beside you, together beneath the light covers— somehow, even in deep slumber, his hands would always find yours, his breathing even and warm against your neck and lulling you to sleep.

You thought that maybe you had gotten too brave during your stay, enough to turn your cautiousness foolish, because you caught yourself believing this wouldn’t end. That it didn’t have to. August had felt achingly saccharine, it made you wonder where all that sweetness would go when it ended.

The last weeks trickled like sand in an hourglass in front of your eyes. The weight of each moment slipped past you, yet you tried nothing to catch them. It’s what hurt the most: you had all taken it for granted, you let yourself believe time could stretch forever for the sole reason it felt right. It wasn’t the truth, because the truth was in the dates printed in your calendar and the unread emails from your university. The suitcase under your bed, you carefully avoided.

Another year will start again soon. The patterns you persisted in peeling off—stress, anxiety, the pressure to perform until exhaustion and still look perfect—would be ready to claw their way back beneath your skin, circling you. Ollie knew it as well.

Neither of you said it out loud, yet the end was coming whether or not the words spilled out. It hovered just out of reach, a promise of winter in the chill of the end of summer. You’d catch him staring at the sea a little longer than usual, or watching you tie your hair up before journaling, memorizing the motion. You stopped taking pictures, and he stopped making plans for tomorrow. You still laughed, still kissed, and gripped the hours as if they weren’t running out. There was a grace to the silence— a fragile kind of pretending which somewhat felt like mercy.

But try as you might, pretending can never last long.

The sky was painted deep shades of violet and rust, cicadas humming low in the nature around the steps of the back porch you and Ollie were curled upon. His hand was brushing absent circles on your ankle, head resting between your thighs as your fingers curled in his locks. A pot of pasta was cooling in the kitchen. It should have been a perfect night.

You stared at the horizon, then at your chipped nail polish tangled in his hair. You don’t know what pushed you to ask, what made tonight different. The only thing you knew is that it would have happened nonetheless. “What happens when this ends?” It came out as something similar to a whisper.

Ollie’s fingers paused. He looked up at you, turning around completely, and there was nothing but expectancy in his dark irises.

“I was wondering when one of us would ask,” he answered, voice low.

You breathed out through your nose. No matter the number of times it happened to you, you never succeeded in hiding the tremor in your hands correctly. “I don’t want to keep pretending it’s not happening. I’m leaving because of uni. You’re leaving because of racing. We’ve both known that since the beginning.”

Ollie nodded. “Yeah.”

“I just—” You paused, trying to find the thin breath you were holding onto. “I don’t know what happens next.” You looked at the crescent moons your nails had drawn on the inside of your palms. “I’m going back to school. There’s going to be deadlines and all-nighters and the pressure, and– it’s going to be hard to breathe. I don’t know how long it’s going to take before I… I slip again.”

Your voice cracked. “You never saw me like that, Ollie. You were lucky enough to get the version of me that wasn’t drowning, and I– I don’t know if you’d still want me if you did.” The confession came quiet and vulnerable, but you couldn’t linger on it when you had so many things to say and so little time. “And you’ll be racing again. You’ll have a whole world that doesn’t include this place, or me. I don’t expect you to hold space for me when everything changes.”

You were offering him a bright exit sign, the sole opportunity to be honest and to bring the sunset-colored haze you’d been navigating this relationship with down as softly as he could. There was no promise your heart would be spared the shock, but there was also no need to put it on display if it was the case.

Ollie stared at you for agonizing seconds. The traits of his face, the same you could trace with closed eyes, shifted into something different. It wasn’t fear, nor was it sadness, but a gentler thing that looked like something close to a quiet resolve. He took your hands into his, detaching each fingernail digging into your palm.

“I don’t know what happens either,” he admits, slowly, “and I’m not going to pretend I know what it’s going to look like. I just know I thought about it—about you—a lot. And…” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Listen, I don’t need you to be okay all the time. I care about your stupid overthinking, the spirals, the bad habits that drive you crazy. All of it. That stuff’s not going to scare me off. I want you, not just the half of it I met this summer.”

“I’ll be racing, yeah,” he added with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ve got time. I can make it.”

Ollie leaned in, just a little closer but enough so you could feel the warmth of his breath along the shape of your lips. “I don’t know what you’ll be like in December, but I want to find out.”

It broke the pressure behind your ribs, only for the burn to rise behind your eyes instead. There was a need in his voice that you hadn’t expected, or maybe was it its intensity. Ollie wasn’t asking you to be better, he was just asking you to stay.

“I want to find out,” he repeated, quieter, in the shape of a promise.

You tried to blink back the tears forming on your lashes, failing miserably. “Okay,” you whispered. Your voice gave up in the middle. “Okay.”

Ollie kissed you tenderly and unhurried, a gentle, wordless reassurance in the movement of his mouth against yours in which you sank, a ship in a storm. Summer was ending, yes, but the world wouldn’t be. This could still be something, and maybe it would.

You couldn’t guess what December would bring, and you didn’t know who you’d be when the skies turned grey and the noise returned. Yet, you hoped.

And for now, hoping was enough.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

Alexa and Dev, 2008

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #373 )✅️

I hope you'll let me tell you a little bit about my home🇵🇸, Gaza🍉. It's a place where we're living through some very challenging times💔🥹. We're under attack from bombs, explosives, and warplanes, and we've had to endure many nights of sleeplessness. It's a difficult situation💔, but we're trying to stay positive🖤. This war has really taken a toll on us. It's destroyed our bodies, our lives, and our souls. It has been so sad to see our homes destroyed, our belongings taken from us, and our beautiful places ruined. It has also changed our situation for the worse. We were living a pretty good life, you know? Peaceful, loving, and full of life. But then, we found ourselves in a really tough spot. Hunger, fear, and terror have become our new normal. My kids and I, along with my extended family, are struggling to make ends meet. We don't have the basic necessities of life, and our living situation is pretty rough. We're in these old, falling-apart tents. It's so hard to know what to do when winter comes. We'll be soaked in the rain and wind, and I'll be at a loss as to how to keep my family safe, from the bombing and from the winter.🥹

I'm really hoping you can help me and my family to live through this awful war.💔

🥹❤️‍🩹https://gofund.me/ed6e9cb6🥹❤️‍🩹

@fancysmudges @brokenbackmountain @just-browsing1222-deactivated20 @mothblossoms @aleciosun @fluoresensitive @khizuo @lesbiandardevil @transmutationisms @schoolhater @timogsilangan @appsa @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriada @palestinegenocide @sar-soor @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @feluka @tortiefrancis @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @visenyasdragon @belleandsaintsebastian @ear-motif @kordeliiius @brutaliakhoa @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @theropoda @tamarrud @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural @northgazaupdates2 @skatezophrenic @awetistic-things @camgirlpanopticon @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @nabulsi @sygol @junglejim4322 @heritageposts @chososhairbuns @palistani @dlxxv-vetted-donations @illuminated-runas @imjustheretotrytohelp

god bless you

in my sleep

→ sum: waking up next to eli and being totally enamored with him, even while he's asleep.

→ contains: fluff, light teasing

→ length: 0.3k (short blurb)

-not proofread or edited-

the quiet chirp of birds wakes you, eyes blinking open as the daylight pours in. the dip in your bed and warm breath on the nape of your neck reminds you that you're not alone. you turn over to face him, watching as his eyebrows furrow as he nuzzles deeper into the pillow at the suddenness of your actions. the smell of cigarettes and the remnants of his cologne fills the air. you could stay in bed with him forever just admiring the sheer beauty of his features.

you know you shouldn't. you should let him continue resting after the long few weeks he's had but you can't seem to stop your hand from gliding up, cupping his face, and tracing the outline of his jaw. the feeling of his stubble rough against the soft pads of your fingers as you slowly trail them up to the bridge of his nose. you move them from one freckle to the next, drawing constellations with the small marks. his eyes begin to flutter and a small groan breaks the quiet atmosphere.

"how long have you been up?" he states, eyes still closed, the sleep still heavy in his voice. "not long, i just wanted to look at you for a bit" you whispered, pushing the hair out of his face.

he finally opens his eyes, a small smile stretching across his lips. he brings a tired hand to lace with yours, humming at your response. "you creep" he teases, dragging his thumb along your knuckle. you let out a soft laugh and lightly hit him on the chest with your free hand.

"it's not my fault you're pretty" he laughs with you and presses his forehead to yours. "not as pretty as you, my love." he brings his lips to your temple. he wraps his arm around you and pulls you into him, head on his chest as he lays back. "now let's go back to bed, alright?" you nod, closing your eyes and fall asleep to the beating of his heart.

a/n: there is a serious lack of writers for inhaler on this app so i decided to start posting my pieces here! please like and repost if you enjoyed <3

satellite → r. keating (b. skeetz)

pairings — robert keating x fem!reader

summary — what bobby skeetz would be like as your annoying boyfriend <3

spinning out, waiting for you to pull me in. i can see you're lonely down there. don't you know that i am right here?

i feel like you'd be a long-term relationship (like teenage years long term)

ik they went to some fancy all boys school so let's say you went to an all girls school near theirs that would often go on trips together (pls tell me that wasn't just my school that did that)

either that of you'd meet through extra curriculars or overlapping friend groups

EITHER WAY met when ye were young (13-14) and got together when ye were 16-17

tbh most people thought you'd only last a few months bcs it was a teenage relationship after all but you're so chill with each other that it became very clear very quick that ye were just different

major "my girlfriend's my best friend" vibes

because of that, every inhaler fan knows you

you're no longer referred to by your name

you're just "mother" now

it's low-key a problem

like in any of your instagram posts or cute little tiktoks, at least half of the comments have a silly little inhaler pfp and are calling you mother

anyways

he's so annoying

definitely a very playful relationship

mocking eachother and all that

telling anyone else (outside your friendgroup) to fuck off if they do the same

he himself wouldn't be very public with the relationship

like you wouldn't be the face of every instagram post but you'd be in a story every few weeks and you'd pop up in the middle of a photo dump here and there

the inhaler_on_tik account however....

fans play where's wally with you in the tiktoks

usually hiding in a window reflection or the hem of your jacket poking into frame

enough to know you're there

you'd be best friends with all the fans

gigs are your opportunity to make new friends

they all adore you

so many fan tiktoks from gigs just have you dancing away with them

they'd bring you flowers <3

but yeah even if bobby himself doesn't post you a lot, fans would get pictures of you two together and they'd be so cute 😭

most of them are taken before gigs when he's helping you out of the bus or ye're walking into the venue together

but someone got a picture of you two once at some silly little market in spain and you were looking at flowers and he was looking at you

they posted it to tiktok and you asked them to send it to you

it was your lockscreen for a bit x

BIRD BINGO!!!

if you're ever traveling without him, you'd take pictures of any birds you pass and send them onto him

i really need to make sure it's known that he'd be annoying

like imagine you're just lying in bed, reading or on your phone, and he just bellyflops on top of you

no warning

no escape

you're trapped

i said the same in my eli headcanons but i don't really get spooning vibes from him

no matter what way you fall asleep, at least some part of him will be touching you

whether he's full on wrapped around you or just got an arm thrown over your torso

it helps him sleep better

you're best friends with the band ofc

i mean, you practically grew up together

you and rob never have a moment of peace with them on tour

you could be curled up in bed, and all of a sudden, elijah's busting down your door and lying down beside ye to tell you about a new song idea

you finally think you're free for a moment having a smoke by the back of the bus? nope, ryan's there now purely because he wanted to annoy ye

josh is nice on ye though (not really) (he makes fun of ye all the time) (he's my little pookie bear angel) (he can do no wrong)

they love having you around

and even if you leave the tour bus to get some snacks and come back to them trying on your dresses and robert doing josh's eyeliner you love having them around too

you're starting to get the mother thing

they do feel like you're hyperactive little children

bobby skeetz, the man that you are, you'd be a great boyfriend

EL COQUETO | FC43

an: welcome back as we write about my n.1 pookie, i've got some more works planned for him BUT i've just gotten to france so imma be very busy rip, based off of this request

summary: when franco catches feelings for a journalist who is persuaded he doesn't really want her.

wc: 7.6k

The paddock was alive with energy, buzzing with the hum of engines and the chatter of the press as they swarmed around the new driver. She watched him move through the crowd with ease, a slight swagger in his step and a dazzling smile that had already made him the focus of every camera. He was the story of the weekend: Franco Colapinto, the unexpected mid-season replacement, here to shake up the grid with his flashy driving style—and, evidently, his unapologetic charm.

He caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow in recognition, and made a beeline toward her with the confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcome, even if he hadn’t been invited.

“Hola,” he greeted, his voice carrying a thick, rolling Spanish accent that seemed to coat every word in warmth. “You must be my next question of the day. They warned me about the best journalist here—of course, I was told to behave.”

She gave him a practised smile, cool but polite. “Franco, welcome to the team. How are you feeling about joining mid-season?”

His eyes sparkled, unfazed by the businesslike tone. “How am I feeling?” He leaned in just slightly, as though sharing a secret. “Well, right now, very lucky. They said I’d get tough questions, but they didn’t say the interviewer would be… distracting.”

She fought the urge to look away, just barely managing to keep her composure. “So you feel ready for the pressure, then?” she asked, refocusing, though the tiniest hint of a blush warmed her cheeks.

“For the track? Yes, I am prepared to race anyone.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her a beat too long. “For the interviews? That remains to be seen. Perhaps you can teach me how to handle that part, sí?”

She could sense her colleagues nearby, some watching with open amusement as they caught his flirtatious energy. Franco was as smooth as they came, that much was certain. But she wouldn’t be the one to crack first.

“I’m sure you’ll learn quickly,” she said, tilting her head, her voice steady, though her heart raced. “Now, back to the race. What are your goals for this weekend?”

His grin broadened, but he played along. “Goals for the weekend,” he echoed thoughtfully, shifting back into the question. “Win a few hearts, break a few records—no particular order.” He winked, and she felt a laugh bubble up before she stifled it, opting instead for a brisk nod.

“Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for the competition,” she managed.

He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “With you here, qué competencia?”

She gave him a pointed look, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. “You know, charm doesn’t score you points on the track.”

“Ah, no?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Then I suppose I’ll have to win the hard way.”

Just then, a flash of cameras went off around them, the media eating up every angle of Franco’s arrival. He seemed entirely unfazed, even performing slightly for the flashes. The crowd around them surged with questions about his plans, about what his first practice would look like, about his last season in Formula 2. But Franco’s attention was still locked on her, and he hadn’t missed a beat.

“So,” he said, with that soft smile of his, “do you think I’ll be able to charm Formula One, or will they be immune to my Argentian ways?”

She gave him a dry smile. “You might have your work cut out for you. It’s not a stroll through Argentina, after all.”

He laughed at that, clearly enjoying her wit. “You’re tough,” he said, a touch of admiration sneaking into his voice. “I can see why you’re the best.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t distract me from the questions, Franco.”

“No? Not even if I try very, very hard?” he asked, drawing out the words with a grin. It was ridiculous, really—the way he leaned into every word, the way he seemed to shine in the spotlight. But there was something endearing about it too, something that felt… unexpectedly genuine.

“Not even then,” she replied, her tone light but steady. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s your focus for your first race?”

He sighed, shifting slightly but keeping that glint in his eye. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said with a sigh, straightening up to answer. “My focus is simple: get the car under me, push it to its limits, and aim for a strong finish. Maybe even a few surprise overtakes. I’ve been itching to get back on the track.”

It was the most serious answer he’d given yet, and she noted the shift in his voice—a hint of intensity breaking through the smooth, easy charm.

“And your teammate?” she pressed, sensing she’d found the thread to pull him out of his flirtatious veneer. “Are you prepared for the rivalry?”

Franco’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment, a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. “My teammate…” He paused, glancing away briefly before meeting her gaze again. “He’s William’s best. I’ll learn from him, give him the respect he deserves. But I didn’t come here to play second.”

She watched as someone next to her scribbled down his answer, though her mind wandered slightly, wondering at the complexity beneath his charm.

“Good to hear,” she said, offering a small nod. “We’ll all be watching to see if you live up to that confidence.”

“I live up to my promises,” he replied smoothly. Then he leaned in one last time, lowering his voice just for her. “One of them being to get at least one smile from you by the end of the weekend. I’ll start with that goal.”

Before she could reply, he gave a casual wave to the crowd, moving on to the next journalist as though he hadn’t just made her heart skip a beat with his easy, disarming confidence. She watched him go, flustered despite herself.

One thing was certain: Franco Colapinto was going to be a story.

When the time came, the race had barely begun, but her eyes were already glued to the screen, following the sleek white-and-blue car with Franco’s number emblazoned on the front. Despite her best efforts to stay neutral, to approach this like any other weekend, there was something magnetic about watching him. Franco Colapinto, the audacious rookie, who’d barely spent a week with the team and had taken to the grid without a single day of training in an F1 car.

From the start, it was clear he was playing it differently. He didn’t charge forward recklessly like other rookies might have, eager to prove themselves. Instead, Franco took a few cautious laps, feeling out the car, testing its responses. She noticed how his style evolved lap by lap, each one more aggressive, his moves sharper. He was adapting, learning the car right there in the thick of the race.

As the race progressed, he began to gain ground. Corner after corner, he squeezed every ounce of performance from his machine, edging closer to the pack with each lap. By mid-race, he was overtaking the backmarkers, slipping past seasoned drivers who had years on him, and the commentators were buzzing.

She caught herself smiling, feeling a strange, almost foolish pride as she watched. The memory of his easy, arrogant grin flashed in her mind, his voice low and teasing: “Do you think I’ll charm Formula One?” She’d laughed it off, but he had something special, didn’t he? That hunger for the track, the sheer nerve to go head-to-head with anyone in his way.

Then, as if her thoughts had summoned trouble, the camera cut to his car—a close-up on his visor as he fought for P12. Her heart caught as he made a daring move, threading his car through a razor-thin gap into the next turn. It was reckless, and yet somehow—somehow—he made it stick.

“P12!” The radio crackled through his team radio, their voice as surprised as she felt. For a rookie with zero F1 experience, it was practically a victory.

She exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The chequered flag fell, and Franco’s car slowed down, his voice breaking through the team radio with a triumphant laugh, half-sighing, half-cheering in disbelief at his own result.

When she saw him back in the paddock, she managed to slip past the swarm of journalists waiting to pounce, positioning herself where he’d inevitably cross her path. She didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to hear his version of the race firsthand, to see if the adrenaline still sparkled in his eyes the way it had behind the visor.

When he finally caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Ah, my toughest questioner returns,” he said, the grin wide as he raked a hand through his hair, still tousled from the helmet. “So? Impressed?”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression composed. “Not bad for a first race,” she said, voice calm but betraying the slightest hint of a smile. “Though I have to say, you took some pretty risky moves out there.”

Franco laughed, that low, familiar chuckle that could disarm anyone. “You sound like my engineer. But I had to make it interesting, didn’t I?” His gaze softened slightly, the playfulness ebbing for a moment. “I did better than you expected, maybe?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, leaning in just a bit. “I wouldn’t let it go to your head, though.”

He feigned a wince. “Ah, so I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.”

With that, she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Perhaps,” she said, voice softer. “But you’ve made a start.”

She followed the rest of the press corps into the media pen, her notebook in hand, watching as Franco slipped into his role with practised ease. The other drivers, still catching their breath, answered questions in measured tones, clearly exhausted. But Franco was… well, Franco. He leaned back against the barrier, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips as he answered questions, some about his lack of training, others about his shockingly high finish.

She hung back at first, observing him as he effortlessly charmed each journalist in turn, flashing that disarming grin and making even the toughest questions seem like casual conversation. But when his eyes caught hers across the small crowd, he subtly waved her forward, his grin widening.

“Ah, finally,” he said, his tone playful as she approached. “I was starting to think you were hiding from me.” The other journalists shot her curious glances, some smirking at Franco’s obvious interest.

She managed to keep her expression neutral, clearing her throat and lifting her voice to a professional tone. “Franco, congratulations on P12. Quite a debut.”

“Gracias, cariño,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly take the most traditional route,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You had us all on the edge of our seats with those overtakes.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice to just above a murmur, his gaze fixed on hers. “I thought about what you said. ‘Charm doesn’t score points.’ So I had to give you something else to smile about.”

She could feel her cheeks warm under his steady gaze, and she fought to keep her expression cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, Franco. I’m just here to report the facts.”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, the fact is, I went from P20 to P12 on my first day. But somehow, I think I still haven’t impressed the person who matters most.”

“The person who—?” She trailed off, exasperated. “Franco, you were the story today.”

“Was I?” he asked, the innocent tone entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes. “Because if I’m the story, you’re the reason it’s a good one.”

Before she could protest, he glanced over her shoulder at the next journalist, nodding politely. Then, in a flash, he was back to her, clearly undeterred. “When can we continue our interview?”

She forced herself to keep her composure. “I think you’ve given me more than enough material for one day.”

“A pity.” He shook his head, though his grin was unmistakable. “Then maybe next time, you’ll be a little more impressed.”

She watched him walk away, shoulders loose and steps casual as he moved from one group of reporters to the next, answering their questions with the same easy confidence he’d shown with her. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering effect of his words making her pulse quicken.

“Wow.” The journalist next to her, a seasoned reporter with a wry smile, gave her a knowing look. “You okay there? He has that effect, doesn’t he?”

She blinked, quickly snapping out of her daze, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “I—yeah, I don’t know what’s going on,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to compose herself. But she could still hear his words ringing in her ears, his playful teasing, the warmth in his gaze. “The person who matters most.”

“Oh, I think I do.” The other journalist smirked, nodding in Franco’s direction as he laughed and clapped a fellow driver on the shoulder. “It seems Franco over here has a slight crush.”

She scoffed, though it came out more flustered than she’d intended. “Franco has a crush on every woman he talks to. It’s his… thing since he got here.”

The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe so, but I’ve watched him all day and that was different.”

Her colleague’s words only made her cheeks grow warmer. Was it that obvious? She was used to managing tough interviews, unflappable under pressure, and here she was, thrown off by a driver who hadn’t even been in Formula 1 for a full week. But somehow, Franco’s charm wasn’t just some casual game to him; it felt more… intense. And he’d directed every bit of that intensity straight at her.

The journalist chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the attention—it’s not every day a rookie looks at you like you’re the finish line.”

She glanced away, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. She didn’t want to admit it, not to her colleague, and definitely not to herself, but there was something in the way he’d looked at her, like she was more than just another journalist, more than just one of the many people crowding his spotlight.

“Well, let’s hope he stays focused on the real finish line,” she replied, aiming for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. But she couldn’t deny it—Franco Colapinto was becoming more than just the story of the weekend. He was starting to feel like her story, too.

Later that evening, she sat in her hotel room, trying to unwind from the chaos of race day. The lights of the city glimmered outside her window, but her mind was still caught on Franco—his effortless charm, that maddening smirk, the way he’d singled her out, even with half the media pen watching. It was absurd, really. She’d covered far bigger stories, spoken with veteran champions, and yet one rookie had managed to leave her feeling more flustered than she’d care to admit.

With a sigh, she scrolled through her phone, halfheartedly catching up on messages, until a notification popped up that made her heart skip.

Francolpainto has sent you a message.

She hesitated, a mix of curiosity and nerves swirling in her stomach as she opened it. The message was simple, casual—like he hadn’t already spent the whole day keeping her off balance.

Franco: Hola! Are you at the hotel?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a quick reply.

Her: Yes, I am.

The response came almost immediately.

Franco: Perfect! I’m downstairs in the lounge. Come have dinner with me?

She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was tempting—she’d be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t. But she knew his type all too well, didn’t she? The charming new driver who flirted with every journalist, every fan, anyone who would listen. She could already imagine him saying the exact same things to another reporter tomorrow.

No, she couldn’t let herself get pulled in. Not by someone who was probably just looking for a bit of attention.

Her: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Long day.

She set the phone down, hoping that would be the end of it, but a new message came through almost instantly.

Franco: Too bad. I was hoping I’d finally get a smile out of you without a hundred cameras around.

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t deny the small flutter his words sent through her. He was persistent, that was for sure.

Her: You’re very determined, Franco. But I have to ask—do you make this invitation to all the journalists?

A pause, just a few seconds longer than his usual quick responses. Then, his reply appeared, simple and direct.

Franco: No, just the one who keeps me on my toes.

Her: Pity, this one isn’t intrested.

She set her phone down after typing that, ignoring the little thrill that shot through her when he messaged her again almost immediately. Franco’s charm was undeniably effective, but she wasn’t about to let herself become just another name on his roster of admirers. He’d have to do a lot more than offer a casual dinner invite if he wanted her attention.

Franco: Really? You’re going to turn me down just like that?

She smirked at the screen. Of course he wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

Her: Really. I’ve seen you in action today, Franco. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you company.

A longer pause this time, as if her words had taken him off-guard. When he replied, his tone was more thoughtful.

Franco: That’s not what I meant. Today was… different. I don’t want to go to dinner with just anyone. I want to go with you.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay firm. She typed a quick reply, keeping it casual.

Her: Nice try. But I’ve seen the way you charm everyone you talk to. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to believe that.

A few minutes passed, and she wondered if maybe he’d let it go. But just as she was about to put her phone down, another message appeared.

Franco: Okay. Fair enough. How about this: tomorrow, after practice, let me show you what a real date looks like. No crowds, no cameras. Just you and me.

She hesitated, feeling the pull of curiosity mingled with doubt. She knew he could be as persistent as he was charming, and there was something intriguing about his willingness to push past her refusal.

Her: Why should I believe this isn’t just a game to you?

His response came quickly this time, almost earnest.

Franco: Because no one else makes me want to try this hard. I’m not playing around here, cariño. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.

She smiled, a little thrill rushing through her. For the first time, he seemed genuinely off-balance, unsure, and she couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Her: We’ll see if you mean that. Good luck tomorrow, Franco.

Franco: Gracias. And just so you know… I’m not giving up that easily.

The following week, she found herself in the bustling paddock of the Baku, her eyes catching sight of Franco’s car parked in the paddock. She had to admit, he’d stayed true to his word since their last exchange, staying out of her messages—though his lingering glances and smiles across the paddock hadn’t exactly disappeared. If anything, he seemed more determined, more focused. It was all part of his act, she reminded herself. And yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

She was busy gathering notes when she felt a familiar presence beside her. Franco had sidled up, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket, his easygoing grin making her pulse quicken in spite of herself.

“Back to cheer me on, sí?” he asked, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

She held back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m here to cover the race, Franco. Your cheering section is back there.” She nodded to the growing crowd of fans waving his name on signs with Argentinan flags just a few metres away.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “They’re great, sure, but I was looking for one particular fan. The one who told me I’d have to work harder if I wanted to impress her.”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of the nearest camera. “Oh, you remember that, do you?”

“Every word,” he said, his gaze steady. “I thought about it all week.”

A small thrill ran through her, though she kept her voice steady and her tone cool. “Well, if you’re serious, you’ll have to do better than last week’s P12. Otherwise, it just looks like more talk.”

His expression shifted, his easy grin giving way to a flash of determination. “If it’s a higher position you want,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “then I’ll get it. Just keep watching.”

She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll be watching, Colapinto. Don’t disappoint me.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that felt genuine, earnest. “I don’t plan to,” he murmured, stepping back with a wink before heading toward his car.

As he disappeared into the garage, her heart raced. Franco Colapinto, the rookie charmer, was setting out to prove himself to her. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing if he could keep his promise.

She sat in the media centre, eyes locked on the screen as the race unfolded. Franco’s car was easy to spot, weaving its way through the pack with a precision she hadn’t expected. He was starting further up this time, P18, but it was still a long shot to even think he’d break into the top ten. Yet as the laps ticked by, he held his ground, pushing, clawing his way forward with a tenacity that had everyone watching in awe.

“Impressive for a rookie,” she overheard another journalist mutter, and she felt a strange pang of pride.

Halfway through the race, Franco made a daring overtake, squeezing past two midfield drivers into P10. She sat forward, barely breathing. He wasn’t just hanging on—he was gaining, going after every single opportunity on the track with a fierceness she hadn’t seen before.

He’d promised her he’d finish higher than last week, and she’d thought it was just talk, maybe a little playful charm. But here he was, proving her wrong lap by lap.

By the time he made it to P9, she was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her notebook tightly. And then, with a bold move on the final few laps, he passed another driver, slipping into P8. Her heart raced as she watched him hold his ground, fending off the competition, determined to keep the position he’d fought so hard for. The chequered flag dropped, and Franco crossed the line in P8.

She exhaled, a rush of surprise and admiration flooding through her. She’d known he was talented, of course—he wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this? Climbing ten positions in a single race, all for a chance to prove himself to her? It was more than she’d expected.

As the race ended, she moved through the paddock, her mind whirling. Franco Colapinto, the charming rookie who flirted with everyone, had just delivered one of the most impressive drives of the day. For her. And she wasn’t sure if she was more impressed with his skill or his determination to keep his word.

She barely had a chance to catch her breath before she was back in the paddock, microphone in hand, ready to take on the post-race interviews. As she waited for Franco, she replayed his climb through the ranks in her mind—his nerve, his timing, the way he’d handled himself on the track. It wasn’t just impressive; it was astonishing. And as much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill that ran through her at the thought that he’d done it, in part, for her.

Finally, Franco appeared, still in his race suit his face glistening with the sheen of hard work. There was a slight glimmer of triumph in his eyes as he spotted her, a grin spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the other cameras and reporters, his gaze focused squarely on her.

She raised her microphone, keeping her expression as neutral as she could. “Franco Colapinto, P8—your second race in Formula 1, and already a massive improvement from last week. Can you walk us through it?”

He took a quick breath, then leaned in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Well, you know, someone told me I had to get higher than P12 if I wanted to impress them,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady on hers. “So I did it for them. Great motivation.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to stay focused. She could feel the eyes of the other journalists and team members on them, her colleagues probably smirking at his obvious attempt to fluster her, but she managed to hold her ground.

“Impressive,” she said, keeping her voice level. “And this ‘motivation’—I assume it’s the same one who’s kept you on your toes all week?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, unabashed. “Absolutely. Turns out, when someone challenges me, I take it seriously.” He shifted his stance, his gaze softening just a fraction. “And if they ask, I’ll do it again.”

A few people around them chuckled, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn’t the usual post-race banter, and he didn’t seem interested in giving anyone the typical driver answers. He was speaking to her as if they were alone, and for a brief moment, she almost forgot the cameras.

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” she replied, finally letting a small smile slip, “it seems to be working. P8 is no small feat.”

He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Then maybe next week, you’ll set the bar even higher for me?” His voice was low, just enough for her to hear.

She felt her resolve waver slightly, but managed to maintain her professionalism. “We’ll see, Colapinto. For now, let’s just focus on how you plan to keep this up.”

He chuckled, shifting his grip on his helmet. “Oh, I think I have all the motivation I need right here.” With one last grin and a wink, he turned to greet the other journalists, leaving her to process what was easily the most disarming post-race interview she’d ever conducted.

Later that night, she was back in her hotel room, unwinding with a cup of tea, trying to shake off the lingering thrill of Franco’s performance—and his audacity in the post-race interview. She still couldn’t believe how he’d shamelessly directed half of his answers at her, leaving her just as off-balance as he had on the track. But as much as she tried to dismiss it, her thoughts kept circling back to his determination, his promise that he’d push harder just because she’d challenged him.

Her phone buzzed with a message, and she glanced down to see it was from the William’s Instagram Account.

Team Rep: Hey, what’s your room number?

She frowned for a moment, surprised by the casualness of the message. But teams occasionally followed up with journalists for clarifications or comments, especially after high-profile performances like Franco’s. Assuming they needed to drop off some post-race press notes or team statements, she quickly typed back her room number.

Her: Room 914.

Team Rep: Perfect. Thanks.

Not even a minute later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time, wondering if the team rep had come by himself. But when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. Instead, resting on the floor in front of her was a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant, unruly, and charmingly imperfect, wrapped with a small card slipped between the stems.

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t have to check the note to know exactly who had left them.

Still, curiosity got the best of her, and she crouched down, carefully lifting the bouquet to pull the card free.

“To my motivation: thank you for the push. Let’s raise the stakes again soon. — F.

A soft, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She felt the warmth creeping up her cheeks, aware that Franco Colapinto had managed to surprise her again. It was a move so bold, so unexpected—and, somehow, more genuine than any casual dinner invitation could have been.

She sighed, shaking her head but unable to fight the smile any longer. As she placed the flowers on the table, their vibrant petals catching the soft light, she couldn’t help but wonder what Franco would pull next to prove himself. Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to.

She couldn’t resist. Picking up her phone, she sent a quick message, keeping it light, casual.

Her: Cute.

It didn’t take long for his response to pop up.

Franco: Oh? You find me cute?

She rolled her eyes, though her heart skipped a beat as she typed back.

Her: No, the flowers were a cute move.

A beat passed, and then came his reply, playful but edged with a hint of something more.

Franco: Well, then… would you let the guy behind the cute move take you out for dinner?

She hesitated, fingers hovering over her phone. She knew what this looked like—a line blurred between work and something personal, maybe too personal. And for him, a rookie who’d just broken into the sport, one misstep could easily become a distraction he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just her reputation, but his too, and the stakes felt higher than either of them probably realised.

Her: I don’t know, Franco. There’s too much on the line.

A pause, longer than his usual quick responses, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d let it go. Then his reply came through, brief and simple.

Franco: Okay.

She stared at the word, an unexpected pang of disappointment catching her off guard. Franco, usually so persistent, so bold, had accepted her hesitation without a fight. But as much as she wanted to push away her own reservations, she knew she was right. Still, the thought of him backing off now left her feeling… unbalanced.

Setting the phone down, she let out a sigh, glancing over at the flowers resting on her table. A small part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she’d made the wrong choice.

Four weeks later, they were back at the track, Austin, the usual energy humming through the paddock as teams and drivers prepared for the weekend ahead. She found herself scanning the garages, a little spark of nerves in her chest that had nothing to do with work. Franco had kept his distance over the past few weeks—well, as much distance as someone like him could manage. He was still his playful, charismatic self with the press, charming everyone in sight, but there was something different. He hadn’t followed up on his dinner invitation, hadn’t tried to push beyond her boundaries. She told herself it was for the best. Still, a small part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been too cautious.

Just then, she spotted him near the team’s garage, leaning against the wall in his race suit around his hips, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up, a grin breaking across his face as if no time had passed. She felt a little of that old thrill in her chest as he walked over.

“Hola, stranger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets of his team jacket, his voice as warm and casual as ever. “Miss me?”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “You were just here four weeks ago, Colapinto. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, giving her that familiar, playful look. “Four weeks is a long time, don’t you think?”

She shook her head, feeling a bit of the tension from the past month melt away. Whatever her own doubts, Franco hadn’t let her brush-off change him—he was still here, as charming and persistent as ever. And somehow, that lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“Have you been behaving?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I be prepared for more unexpected flower deliveries?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, his eyes flashing with that spark she was growing dangerously used to. “Depends. You miss them?”

She laughed softly, looking down to avoid letting him see her smile. “I’d hardly admit that if I did.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Good thing I’m a patient man, then. Because I’m not done yet.” There was a softness to his tone, a hint of something genuine beneath his usual confidence, and it made her heart skip a beat.

Despite herself, she found comfort in his persistence, in his way of toeing the line between serious and playful without putting any pressure on her. For all his charm, he hadn’t crossed any lines. He was waiting, leaving the door open if she ever wanted to step through.

As he turned to head back toward his car, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her a wink. “You know where to find me if you change your mind, cariño. I’ll be around.”

And with that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving her standing there with a soft smile, feeling just a little lighter, a little braver.

She found herself glued to the screen as the race unfolded, Franco’s car darting through the pack with all the finesse and raw determination she’d come to recognise in him. Starting from P17, he had a long climb ahead of him, and as the laps ticked down, he kept gaining ground, his timing sharp, his decisions bold. He was relentless, working his way through the grid with an intensity that kept her at the edge of her seat.

By the halfway mark, he was already up to P12, and she could feel the anticipation building among the journalists and crew around her. Franco wasn’t just driving; he was fighting for every single position, taking advantage of each moment with an almost calculated risk. And he was doing it with the confidence that had both frustrated and charmed her from the start.

Then, in the final laps, with a daring overtake on the inside line, he claimed P10. A top ten finish. It was almost too perfect—his words from the last race echoing in her mind as he crossed the line: “If they ask, I’ll do it again.”

The paddock was buzzing with excitement as she made her way toward the media pen, preparing herself for the post-race interview. She tried to tamp down the flutter of nerves, reminding herself that he’d been charming his way through interviews with her for weeks now. But there was something different this time, a spark of pride mingled with her excitement, and she couldn’t wait to see him walk in.

When he finally appeared, the smile on his face was brighter than she’d ever seen. Still in his race suit, a towel on his head, he strode over to her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. She raised her microphone, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Franco Colapinto,” she began, her own smile betraying just a hint of the thrill she felt. “P10 from P17—congratulations. Tell us, how did you manage such an impressive climb?”

He grinned, leaning casually into the microphone. “Well, you know me. I like a good challenge,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a second longer than necessary. “And I couldn’t let down the one person who told me I had to keep improving.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone listening, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes slightly, playing it off as best she could. “Seems like you’re making a habit of climbing positions to impress,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

Franco’s smile softened, turning almost genuine. “For some things,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “it’s worth the effort.”

She swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, but managed to pull herself together, keeping the interview rolling. “Well, you’ve certainly earned that P10. What’s the plan for next time? Any more surprise performances in store?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replied, flashing her a grin. “But let’s say I’ll aim higher than P10 next time. If someone out there is willing to set a new challenge for me, I’ll be ready.” His words hung in the air, a subtle invitation that made her heart skip a beat.

She couldn’t hold back her smile as she wrapped up the interview, his gaze lingering on her with that same unspoken promise. And as she watched him walk away, her heart raced with the thrill of what might come next, realising that maybe—just maybe—she was ready to see where this challenge would lead.

As Franco walked away, she felt the lingering warmth of his gaze, that same thrill coursing through her that she’d tried so hard to brush off. But now, it seemed, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. The interview had felt like more than just a casual exchange; his words, his look—there was something real beneath the flirtation, something she found herself wanting to chase.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of post-race coverage and media duties, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes had held hers, steady and genuine, as he’d promised to aim even higher. It was only when she caught herself looking around the paddock, almost instinctively, that she realised she was seeking him out. By then, her professional caution had faded, replaced by something far less reasonable but far more enticing.

She knew she was violating so many unspoken rules as she made her way around the paddock, ducking out of the more crowded paths and slipping past the occasional lingering crew member. A pang of guilt buzzed at the back of her mind, but it was no match for the magnetic pull drawing her toward his driver’s room.

She stopped outside the door, exhaling a shaky breath as her pulse raced with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The hallway was quiet, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading away. Before she could second-guess herself, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

The door opened, and there he was, in a grey tracksuit and plain black top, his expression shifting from surprise to that warm, familiar smile that had always managed to disarm her.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I didn’t expect my motivation to show up in person.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding her smile. “I figured I’d come to make sure you’re planning to keep your word. That climb to P10 wasn’t exactly a small feat.”

His smile softened, and he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise and pressures of the paddock slipped away, leaving just the two of them. The look he gave her—warm, unguarded, and almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.

She’d broken so many of her own rules just to get here, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single one.

Taking a moment to look around, she noticed his bags were packed and ready for the triple header and that there was nowhere to sit.

She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to look at ease despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Franco stood in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his legs. The room felt charged with his presence, the quiet intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, leaning down a bit. The way his dark eyes lingered on her, sweeping over her face and holding her gaze, sent a rush of warmth through her.

She felt a smile tugging at her lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “Figured I’d make sure you’re holding up after all that hard work.”

He chuckled, his voice low, with just a hint of playfulness. “Oh, I’m holding up just fine.” He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger just a moment too long against her skin. “In fact, I think I’m doing better than fine.”

Her cheeks flushed even deeper, but she held his gaze, determined not to let him throw her off-balance—at least not completely. “You know,” she said, trying to match his tone, “you don’t have to turn everything into a line, Colapinto.”

Franco tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Only with you, cariño.”

She let out a soft laugh, her heartbeat picking up as he moved closer, until he was standing right between her legs. She felt his fingers trace gently along her jawline, his thumb tilting her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes.

“Not used to being flirted with, cariño?” he asked softly, his voice smooth and teasing.

She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen as her usual composure slipped. “No… not like this.”

“Shame,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek as his eyes searched hers, warm and intent. His voice softened, and the playfulness gave way to something more genuine. “Because I’m just getting started.”

She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing as his words sank in, leaving her both disarmed and impossibly drawn in. And in that moment, she realised that every wall she’d put up around him was slipping away, piece by piece.

For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the air between them thick with anticipation. Then, she noticed the small silver chain dangling from his neck, glinting faintly against the fabric of his black top, and without thinking, she reached up, wrapping her fingers around it gently.

Franco’s gaze flickered in surprise, his breath catching as she tugged on the chain, pulling him just close enough that their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through her that made her heart pound. His hands settled on either side of her hips as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, soft and exploratory, but the warmth in his response was immediate. His hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she felt his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his touch gentle yet confident.

She didn’t realise how tightly she was gripping his chain until she felt his hand cover hers, his thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles as if to say, I’m here.

When they finally parted, both of them slightly breathless, Franco looked at her, hand caressing her cheek, his smile soft and real, devoid of his usual playfulness. He looked at her with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.

“You know," he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, charming tone, “I thought I never had a chance with you. You made me work for every single look, every smile…” He shook his head, his hand still resting against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. “I was convinced you’d never actually let me get this close.”

She felt a warm, amused smile tugging at her lips as she listened to him, his words genuine but tinged with that familiar, playful charm. Watching him, her heart surged with an undeniable impulse, one she didn’t want to ignore any longer. In one fluid motion, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his again with a fierce, unrestrained intensity that sent sparks through her.

Franco’s surprise melted instantly, his hands slipping from her cheek to either side of her hips, matching her passion. The kiss deepened, turning slower, almost reverent, as if neither of them wanted the moment to end. She could feel his pulse racing under her hands, his warmth overwhelming in the most exhilarating way.

Without breaking the kiss, she leaned back, drawing him down with her onto the bed. She felt his weight settle gently over her, his hands bracing on either side of her as he kissed her with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable. When he finally pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his voice was breathless, a bit dazed.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his fingers tracing down her arm as he held her gaze, a vulnerable softness there she hadn’t seen before.

“Good,” she whispered back, her own voice unsteady, feeling as though her walls were completely gone now. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned down, his mouth finding hers again with an eagerness that left them both completely lost in each other, as if the rest of the world had faded away.

Maybe he was worth the wait.

the end.

shot by jason nocito for homme girls

don't blame me | j.potter [part three]

note : having the worst week of my life but at least I can write ficitonal scenarios about dead gay wizards from the 70s, sigh

warnings :more james potter annoying you, like the usual , holidays with the Potters - yay? , a short moment of angst, jealousy jealousy

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 - 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 3.6k

Patrols with James Potter had been . . . exhausting.

Weeks of late-night rounds patrolling empty corridors, always with him trailing two steps behind or two inches too close. Always with his voice slinking into the silence like it belonged there, like you were supposed to be comfortable with him. And somehow, he made it his mission to use every moment to chip away at your patience with all the grace of a blunt axe.

Lovely.

He was determined, though. You had to give him that. Determined to get under your skin, to make you smile, to tease you until your eye twitched. His favourite hobby lately was whispering “Wife” every time you reached for your wand. You hadn’t hexed him yet - but not for lack of desire.

Still, despite his relentless antics, there had been moments - rare, fleeting ones - where you forgot to hate him. Where he’d say something unexpectedly kind, or remember something about you he had no business remembering, and it felt like you might be on the edge of. . . something.

You always walked away before you could fall.

And then, mercifully, the holidays arrived. Which meant no more late-night patrols, no more being cornered by James Potter in dimly-lit corridors, and no more having to pretend you weren’t flustered when he said something that made your chest ache.

You’d barely shared any classes with the Gryffindors this term anyway, and now, with the castle slowly emptying for the break, it was easier than ever to avoid him. You packed with care, meticulously folding your robes, grateful for the distance the train ride would provide.

Until, of course, it didn’t.

You’d just spotted your roommates and were about to slip into their compartment when a hand grabbed your wrist.

You barely had time to yelp before James bloody Potter was dragging you away, all boyish charm and zero respect for personal space. Right through the train halls.

“Come along, darling,” he said with a smirk, ignoring how you perked at the designated nickname. “Reserved you a seat in the madhouse.”

“I’m reporting you to the authorities,” you hissed, wriggling uselessly as he tugged you toward the Marauders’ carriage. “Kidnapping is a crime.”

“Betrothed privilege,” he said smugly, as if that were an actual law.

The carriage door slid open, and Sirius Black greeted you with a roguish grin and a dramatic flourish of his hand. “Our lady of misfortune has arrived.”

You gave him a look which he was unfazed by, charming as always. “Get a haircut, Black.”

Remus smiled warmly and offered a casual nod. “Good to see you, ____.”

“Hi, Remus,” you said, already angling toward the empty seat beside him. Safe. Calm. Not James Potter.

If the boys noticed how you called him by first name, they failed to comment.

Peter gave a little wave. “Hey.”

You slid in next to Remus with a grateful sigh, already launching into a discussion about Ancient Runes - anything to keep your thoughts occupied, anything to avoid looking across at James.

Remus was, as ever, a good conversationalist - sharp, observant, gentle. He asked questions about your last essay and even jotted down a mental note when you mentioned a reference book he hadn’t read yet.

And James . . . frowned.

Sirius leaned in close to him, voice low. “You’re glaring, mate.”

“I am not.”

“You are. That’s the face you made when Evans talked to that Ravenclaw bloke - Klove, was it?”

James swatted him. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re so jealous it’s making me jealous,” Sirius muttered, biting back a laugh as to not let you in on their whispered exchange.

James only responded when you glanced up, mid-sentence with Remus, and he spoke over you without remorse. “So. About the engagement dinner.”

You stiffened at the sudden mention, all words about Ancient Runes falling off your tongue. “What about it?”

“The others’ll be there,” he said casually, gesturing at the boys, Sirius nodding at you. “Whole family’s been invited.”

You groaned, already picturing the social chaos that would ensue and just how you'd be front page on the Daily Prophet.

“My mum doesn’t want to go,” Sirius said cheerfully. “She hates the Potters, obviously. Calls them blood-traitor filth. But it’s two pureblood houses uniting, so she’ll show up to save face. Probably poison the wine, but she’ll be there - the rest of the noble house of Black too.”

You groaned louder, face in your hands. “There really isn’t a way to get out of this?”

Sirius tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You could marry me instead.”

You snorted at his suggestion, like hell you'd marry into his crazy purist family. “If I had to choose between the four of you, I’d pick Remus.”

That earned a low whistle from Sirius and a quiet, pleased hum from Remus. He knew your words held no ground, so he neglected reacting much.

James didn’t say anything. But his jaw clenched, and he looked out the window like it had personally offended him.

The silence lingered until a loud bang shook the carriage.

“Was that . . .?” you asked.

“Dung bombs,” Peter said, grinning - you drank in the boy's mischievous glint that the four of them seemed to have. “Slytherin carriage.”

You stared. “Seriously? You couldn't have let it rest, spirit of Christmas and all that?”

“I told him to set a delay timer,” Remus said with a sigh, there it is. He really isn't the squeaky clean Gryffindor Prefect everyone thought he was, questioning his validity as a Marauder. “Did you?”

“Ten minutes,” Sirius said proudly. “Perfect.”

The door burst open with an angry thunk. Evans.

Her angry green eyes swept the room, nostrils flaring. “Who’s responsible?”

No one spoke. It was a beautifully choreographed silence.

Then her eyes locked on you. He had expected the boys, the moment she caught sight of James through the compartment door - but you were an odd addition.

She briefly remembered the offer James made her over the summer, which she agreed to.

“What’re you doing here?”

You blinked, deciding not to answer that. “We’ve been mostly well-behaved. While I’ve been here.”

You left out the bit where you hadn’t been in the carriage for the first few minutes of the journey, giving them enough window to set up their prank.

Evans narrowed her eyes, but sighed. “I’ll let it slide. Because it’s you. And I don’t think you’d lie to me, ____.”

She turned on her heel and left, hair swinging like a blade behind her. Those gorgeous red locks that one would recognize from a mile away.

Peter leaned in, eyebrows raised. “Think she’s jealous?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Not of me.”

James didn’t laugh. He was staring out the window again, entirely unreadable.

At the station, the boys peeled off one by one.

Sirius gave you a wink and a mock bow before strolling toward his reluctant mother.

Peter mumbled something about his mum hating delays and hurried off. Remus gave you a small, reassuring smile, bidding you a polite goodbye before walking off.

James stayed.

You spotted your parents before they saw you - dressed in their best travel robes, standing beside the Potters as if this were already a done deal. Mrs. Potter was beaming, saying something animated to your mother, who looked politely engaged.

Your father was shaking hands with Mr. Potter like they were discussing ministry business instead of their children’s future.

You gulped.

James came to stand beside you. “Ready?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for this.”

“Too bad. Train’s already stopped,” he said with a grin.

Then, just loud enough to reach only your ears: “Did I mention we’re staying at my place for the whole break?”

You whipped your head around. “What?”

He beamed. “Didn’t you hear? My mum’s idea. Think she wants us to bond.”

Your expression must have betrayed every drop of horror in your soul, because James just kept smiling. You couldn't muster a reply, not even to retort at the shock.

“I’ll save you the room next to mine.”

You groaned.

He offered his arm with mock chivalry, you knew your parents were watching but decided against playing along. “Shall we?”

You didn’t take it, but you didn’t run either. You were already walking toward the wolves. What was one more step?

Next up: The Potters’ home. Preparations. Chaos. And an engagement party you weren’t sure you’d survive without throttling your fiancé.

But for now, you squared your shoulders and forced a smile.

Let the holiday nightmare begin.

Potter Manor was exactly as you remembered it, nevermind it hasn't been long since your last visit. That was the worst part.

The same winding staircase you used to race James up two steps at a time. The same enchanted portraits that used to cheer you on. The oak banister still bore the scratch marks from when you and James attempted to slide down it on a tea tray - and spectacularly failed. And the smell - cinnamon, broom polish, and whatever potion Euphemia Potter always had brewing - hit you like a ghost to the ribs.

It wasn’t unfamiliar. It was haunting.

Because you used to belong here. Before Hogwarts, before the forgetting, before everything fell apart. You used to run barefoot through these halls, laughing with the boy who now called you wife just to see you flinch.

And now you were back.

Not as a friend. Not even as a guest. But as the future daughter-in-law.

Euphemia Potter regarded you with a warm smile the moment you step through the threshold of Potter Manor, as though it’s been years instead of just four months since the last time you were here.

Her arms wrap around you in a motherly hug, and she smells of ginger tea and old parchment, just like always. She beams at you like nothing has changed, like you’re still ten and sleeping over in James Potter’s room with a blanket fort between the beds so you wouldn’t accidentally kick each other in the night.

But everything has changed. More like, nothing has remained the same - not even you did, you grew out of your dirty robes thanks to playing in the mud with James and he's outgrown the little boy that clung to you.

Because now you’re here not as James’s childhood friend, but as his betrothed, and every memory you once thought was yours alone is being dragged out into the light and repackaged for an entirely different future.

The Manor hasn’t changed much - same grand portraits, same ticking grandfather clock in the hall, same scent of cedar and magic in the air. But it feels like something inside you curdled on the walk up the gravel path. Maybe it’s because only you, and your parents, and the Potters remember what this place meant to you once.

James certainly doesn’t. Not in the way you do. Not in the way that matters.

“James, sweetheart, would you be a dear and show her to her room? It’s the same one from the summer,” Euphemia says with an airy smile as she leads your parents and her husband into the drawing room, already slipping into talk of tea and travel and wedding colors.

“Gladly,” James says, far too quickly, turning toward you with that irritating sparkle in his eye. You curse your rotten luck.

You groan under your breath as he falls into step beside you. “Don’t start.”

“What? I haven’t said anything yet,” he replies innocently. “But since you’re clearly in such a cheery mood, I’ll just skip straight to the part where I invite you to sneak into my room later if you get too lonely.”

You don’t even flinch as you mutter, “Try it and I’ll kick you so hard your grandkids will feel it.”

James clutches his heart in mock pain. “Merlin, and here I thought you would be caring to our grandkids!”

You roll your eyes as he pushes open the door to your room - same as last time, same rich emerald curtains and vintage vanity, same bed that used to feel like a dream when you were younger, when this place was magic instead of a distant memory.

“Feel at home, darling,” James sing-songs as he retreats, and you don’t bother with a retort. You’re already shutting the door on him, not minding if it slammed right on his face.

Dinner is practically déjà vu.

The Potters and your family sit at the long mahogany table, wine glasses glinting in the candlelight, laughter echoing too easily around you. Euphemia compliments your dress. Your mother beams with pride every time James says something even mildly charming.

Fleamont asks your father about business, and all of it feels like a play you’re being forced to star in, only you didn't rehearse your lines just yet.

What makes it worse is James, who can’t seem to sit still. Halfway through dinner, you feel it - the subtle nudge of his foot under the table. You glare at him. He grins and taps your ankle again, continuing to dine like he wasn't bothering you through mouthfuls of steak.

You dig your heel into the top of his shoe, he stiffled the groan that threatened to escape him.

“Darling,” your mother says suddenly, drawing your attention -Merlin, that nickname is ruined for you thanks to James. “We were thinking, maybe as part of the engagement party, the two of you could do a little performance. A dance!”

You nearly choke on your pumpkin soup, a fucking dance with James Potter? you'd rather not, he'll surely pull some shit to make you trip.

“It’s not a coming-of-age ceremony,” you blurt, denying the suggestion before it could blossom.

They laugh it off, but James’s brow furrows. “Wait a second - when is your birthday?”

“In two weeks,” you mutter pretending how it didn't sting that he doesn't remember.

Back when you were kids, he'd owl you non-stop the full week leading up to it as he also begged your parents to let you celebrate at the manor.

Euphemia claps her hands, your Mother already caught the idea and was nodding enthusiastically. “Perfect timing, then! The engagement party will be both a celebration of your union and your birthday.”

You smile tightly, your thoughts bitter. Great. Now no one will actually celebrate your birthday. They’ll be too busy celebrating the inevitable.

James goes oddly quiet after that. Which should have been a relief. But instead, it unsettles you. Because if James Potter wasn’t talking, then he was definitely thinking.

And James Potter thinking is a very dangerous thing.

Sleep is an elusive thing that night. You toss and turn, too warm under the thick blankets, your mind racing with everything unsaid. You finally shove off the covers and open your door, planning to sneak into the library or just pace the halls until your thoughts tire out.

Except as soon as you step out, you nearly crash into someone in the dark halls of the Potter Manor.

James.

He blinks at you, hair even messier than usual, shirt wrinkled and collar loose. “You too?”

You consider turning around and shutting yourself back in your room, as if seeing the gears turn in your head - he grabbed your arm.

“Nope. You’re coming with me,” he says before you can escape, already tugging your arm with a firm, familiar grip - man, those Quidditch practices really sculpted him well.

“I was planning to walk alone, thanks,” you say dryly, pulling your arm from him but to no avail as he wouldn't budge.

“Too bad. I’m feeling generous.”

He drags you down the hall, past darkened paintings and sleeping portraits, all the way to the kitchens, where a single house elf pops in to greet him.

“Young master, James - sir - may I - ”

“It’s alright, Winky, I’ve got this one,” James says, waving her off. “Go on, enjoy your break, it's late.”

The elf vanishes with a pop. You bid the familiar elf goodbye which she smiled at.

“Please tell me you’re not about to burn the Manor down trying to make toast,” you mutter, remembering how he'd almost done just that.

“Have a little faith,” he says, already pulling out ingredients and fiddling with the stove. To your surprise, he’s. . . not terrible. He makes sandwiches. Cuts up fruit. Even remembers you like your tea a little sweet - though you doubt he'd actually remembered, it was probably just muscle memory.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.

“We used to do this,” you say quietly, breaking the silence.

He glances at you. “What?”

“Sneak around. Late nights. Kitchens. You always got crumbs in your hair.”

James chuckles, then falters. “Yeah. . . I think I remember that. Vaguely.”

You look away, heart twisting. “Doesn’t matter, it's been years.”

“Hey.”

You don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “I’m sorry.”

You swallow thickly, still turned toward the wall - scared to show him the expression on your face. You could only guess you looked pathetic.

“It’s not your fault,” you say, despite yourself. You hoped the shake in your resolve did now show in your voice. “We were kids. I guess it just mattered more to me.”

There’s a pause. Then he says, “If we do end up shackled to each other - ”

“Romantic,” you deadpan and he pointedly ignored that.

“ - I’d treat you well,” he finishes. “You’d be the happiest wife in all of Britain. Or at least the most well-fed, I am very rich, you see.”

You turn just in time to see his stupid wink, your tears blinked away and they failed to cascade down much to your delight.

“You’re such an arse.” you tell him but this time, there was no bite to it, a smile even tugging at your lips.

“And yet, here you are, sharing a midnight snack with me. So what does that say about you?”

You snatch a slice of apple from his plate and lob it at his head. He catches it in his mouth with infuriating ease, bloody Quidditch.

You don’t even give him the satisfaction of a goodbye. You slip away before he can see the flush rising up your neck, before he can notice how your heart is pounding in a way it hasn’t since you were ten years old and thought that maybe - just maybe - he’d always remember you.

Maybe not in his head, but his heart.

You were somehow comforted by the talk tonight, he’s starting to try.

Preparations for the engagement party take over the manor in the days that follow. The adults are swept up in an endless flurry of guest lists and menus and floral arrangements, and you and James are pulled apart before you can even properly register it.

You're ushered off to endless dress fittings and hair trials while James is fitted for his formal robes in another wing of the house. It’s necessary, of course. With the wedding scheduled shortly after graduation, this is the only time left to get things sorted.

They were making the best out of your holiday break.

You’re glad for the space. The distance gives your heart time to settle, to remember that this engagement isn’t real - not in the way you once hoped. Meanwhile, James seems disappointed by the lack of time together. He even pouts when he thinks you’re not looking.

You ignore it.

On the day before the engagement party, you spend most of it in rehearsals. A stern but kind dance instructor leads you through the steps again and again, correcting posture, instructing turns.

Your mother watches proudly from the corner, beaming at how lovely you’ll look twirling across the reception floor.

Except you’re not dancing with James. The parents insisted it would be more romantic if you waited until the wedding day to share your first proper dance together.

So instead, you dance with the instructor while your mind drifts to the boy you’ll be expected to smile at all night. The boy whose name you'll take.

Midnight is close by the time you finally collapse into bed, limbs sore and eyelids heavy. You drift off after practise, only to be jolted awake by an abrupt knock on the door.

You stumble up and open it - and there he is.

James stands in the hallway, grinning like a child with a secret. He’s holding a small cake, clumsily decorated but clearly well-meant. The icing is in your favorite colors - ____, and your heart trips at the sloppily-written greeting.

“What - ?”

“I baked it with the elves,” James says proudly. “They were very excited to help, they like you a lot.”

He steps inside without waiting for permission and places the cake on your desk. Then he lights a single candle in the center, making your heart do cartwheels.

Before you can say anything, he begins to sing.

His version of happy birthday is terrible - off-key, full of dramatic vibrato, and entirely too cheeky - but you laugh anyway, despite yourself.

“Happy birthday, ____,” he says softly when he finishes, voice warm and real in a way that makes your chest ache.

You stare at the candle for a moment, you're now of-age. An adult in the eyes of the law.

“Well?” James nudges you. “Make a wish.”

You shake your head but close your eyes anyway, blowing out the flame. When you open them, he’s looking at you in that way again - quiet, unguarded.

“What’d you wish for?” he asks.

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

He grins. “It better be something dramatic. Like me getting hexed in the Great Hall.”

You smile, soft and fleeting. For a moment, it feels like you’ve got him back. The boy who used to race you down the hallways of this manor. The one who knew every secret passageway. The one who always remembered your birthday.

And then he leans in.

He’s so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes. His breath ghosts across your cheek. You almost lean forward -

Almost.

But then you remember. Lily.

You pull away sharply, eyes fixed on the cake.

James blinks, hurt flashing briefly across his face before he masks it with a lopsided grin. “Well. Better try this or the elves might get offended.”

You force a laugh. “The cake better be edible. I’m only trying it because I’m starving.”

“Please. It’s only edible because the elves did ninety percent of the work,” he admits.

You chuckle at that and take a bite. “Sixty percent.”

“Forty,” he argues, taking a bite himself

“Ten.”

You both laugh.

But your heart still aches.

to be continued. . .

part four | masterlist