p1astr81

[p1astr81]

omggg you did my request heheh thank you😆🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

if this is about the steward!reader, I’ve been working on it for like a month and it was probably in my inbox longer than that😭😭 I’m sorry it took so long, and to the 30 other anons in my inbox, I promise you’ll get your request eventually😔

[p1astr81]

your blog is the best! i love your writing 😁

hi anon!!! thank you so much you have no idea how motivating this is to me😭😭💞💞💞💞

[p1astr81]

hehe kinda a weird request but it’s where like the reader is a steward and she always gives Oscar penalties and eventually he’s tired of reader and punishes her 🤭…

realistically I’m pretty sure stewards change every race but who cares about reality this is fan fiction

cw: smut 18+ fingering, mentions of dry humping, edging, and oral (all f receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it up), overstim twice, crying (not really dacry tho), rough sex

Oscar was really growing to hate the FIA building, and the stewards’ room in particular.

It’s almost every weekend he’d find himself there. Whether it’s a pit-lane infringement or an insignificant issue in parc ferme. He was even summoned once because Lando touched him before he got weighed. A slap to the ass was all it was, but it still caused a thirty minute discussion on whether or not it affected his weight. Of course, it didn’t.

And there he was again, in front of the same small group of people being scrutinized on whether or not he intentionally bumped wheels with Charles Leclerc. He hadn’t.

Oscar had noticed a pattern. Every time he paid a visit to the stewards, one steward in particular was always very adamant that he deserved a penalty.

You. Looking too put together—with your hair always neatly pulled back and your white polo free of any pesky wrinkles.

On that particular day, you were muttering to the girl next to you, and constantly writing in your small notebook.

When the final jurisdiction was that he didn’t deserve a penalty, you looked particularly upset—a small frown and a subtle roll of your eyes.

Coincidentally, when Oscar stepped into the hotel elevator later that night, you were also standing there. You didn’t acknowledge him. Not a wave, nor a head nod. Not even a glance in his direction.

On the other hand, he intended to make you suffer just as you forced him to suffer repeatedly in the stewards room.

“Shame you didn’t get your way today.” He said after a moments silence.

Your lips thinned into a small line, but you didn’t say anything.

He kept going. “Shame for you, I mean. It was pretty great for me.” He paused, waiting for you to even move. Still, nothing from you. “I’m assuming you’re the one who called attention to that small infraction in the first place?”

Again, nothing from you. You were better at keeping your composure than he’d hoped. However, he did notice how tense you were.

“You know, I’m beginning to think you’re obsessed with me. I mean, you notice every single little thing I do. It’s only-“

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just doing my job.” You muttered finally. But you still didn’t look at him.

“Is that what they call it nowadays?” He raised a brow. “I think obsessed is far more accurate.” The corners of his lips tugged into a smug grin. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You huffed. “I’m not-!“ you paused when you faced him. He looked down at you—pupils blown wide—like you owed him something. He tilted his head at you, tongue darting between his lips. You let out a shallow, shaky breath. “I’m not obsessed with you.” You hissed, turning away again.

His smirk grew. “Right.” The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. He stepped out, paused, turned. “When you decide to stop lying to yourself, I’m in room 604.”

You wish you could’ve said it was a lapse in judgment.

But deep down, you knew this was exactly what you’d been longing for.

You tortured him for months, handing penalty after penalty. You’d watch the races looking for a reason to get him in that stewarding room. To get him to glare at you because after the third penalty, he caught on that it was your fault he was there.

Now he was making you pay for it.

He’d edged you six times already. Three times with his fingers, twice on his mouth, and once by just grinding into you over your clothes.

Hot tears flooded your cheeks, so sensitive that every touch from him made your body jerk. “Osca-aah,” you moaned, gripping onto his arms as his fingers teased your clit—feathery touches, hardly even there but you felt it buzz through your entire body. “please,“ you whined, looking at him through half lidded eyes. He looked too pleased with himself, too cocky.

He laughed, mocking you.

“Stop- please, I need- hmm, need it. So bad. Stop teasing! Please!” Your hands tightened around his biceps, nails making their crescent-shaped impressions.

He slipped a finger into your hole, curling it, brushing that spot inside of you. A high pitched moan from you in response.

You were close again, he could tell.

Like routine, he pulled away.

“No! Fuck! Oscar, please! I need you!” You sobbed, squirming under him.

His thumbs wiped your tears away, gentle against your flushed skin. “Do you deserve it though? After all those penalties…”

“Please, god, please, I’ll never-“ he pinched one of your nipples. “Ah! I’ll never do it again,” you promised, eyes squeezed shut. “I’ll argue for you every time, just- fuck me! please!”

He grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. You felt his fingers dip back into your pussy. Slow strokes, gentle pressure. “Tell me you did it to get my attention.”

The tears were forming again. “I did it to get your attention,” you admitted, brain all fogged up with the need for a release to be remotely embarrassed.

Hearing that, his thumb pressed to your clit. Your body jolted again.

“Tell me you’re obsessed with me.”

“I’m- hmph- I’m obsessed with you.”

His free hand caressed your thighs, watching as you twisted under him, bucking into his hand as he pulled away. He sucked his fingers dry, humming at the taste. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this.” He breathed, stepping back to take his pants and briefs off.

And holy fuck, he was bigger than you could’ve imagined. You whined at the sight, another pathetic “please,” falling from your lips.

He’d flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your ass into the air. The tip of his cock teased your entrance. He’d planned to make you wait a little longer, but with your constant whimpers and how hard he was, he couldn’t resist.

He filled you inch by inch, groaning as you sucked him in and squeezed him tight. “Should’ve done this sooner, fuck,” he panted, moaning when he bottomed out. “you feel so good, squeezing me so tight.”

“So full, oh-” you whimpered, head turned so you could see him. He could still see the tears still flowing down your face.

He didn’t hold back, no building up to it. He thrust into you rough and fast, your whole body rocking with every thrust.

“Fuck, you’re huge,” you gasped. You got close embarrassingly quick. He realized it, but didn’t pull out. No, he kept going, fingers finding your clit.

“Shit! Please, please let me come! Need it so bad!”

“Come on, baby, come for me, let me feel you.” Hot, wet kisses trailed down your spine, his hands gripping into your waist.

You came screaming his name, full body shakes.

But Oscar didn’t let up, kept pounding into you, spurred on by how tight you were squeezing him.

A loud, drawn out whine cut through your sobs. “I can’t- can’t take it,” you whispered, shaking your head.

“Yeah you can. I know you can.” He rasped, holding you tighter. Your knees were slipping from beneath you, body going totally limp in his hold. “I know you’ve got another one in you,” he coaxed

Your sobs continued, broken up by occasional blabbering.

“You’ve only come once and you’re already blabbing nonsense,” He chuckled under his breath, groping your tits to get another sound out of you. “Fucked you stupid, didn’t I?” He boasted, controlling your hips to meet his thrusts.

You found a weak nod inside of you.

“I’d feel bad if you didn’t feel like fucking heaven around me.” He groaned, pulling out to flip you over. You whined at the loss, and yelped when he slammed back into you. He held your hips up, finding the deepest parts of you. He cursed, feeling the tension in his stomach hit its peak. “Gonna let me fill you?”

Too dumb to think, you nodded.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” He gasped, his thrusts losing all their rhythm. “Come with me, baby. You’re close, I can feel it.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locking together. “Need it,” you panted.

He leaned over you, sucking on your neck. “Then give it to me,”

It hit you fast and blindingly hard. Quiet moans of his name slipped from your mouth because you didn’t have the energy to be any louder.

He buried himself as deep as he could, moaning filthy nothings in your ear as he came and rode out his high.

Again, there came the point when you were too sensitive and the pleasure turned to pain. “Oscar,” you whined, weak hands attempting to push him away.

“Okay, okay,” he breathed, pausing inside you for a moment.

Still, that was too much. Your palms pressed into his chest, your feet pushed into his thighs.

He chuckled, out of breath. “Okay,” he pulled out slowly. Your face scrunched and you let out a small groan.

After, you turned onto your side, too tired to even open your eyes. Your arms wrapped around the pillow under your head, hugging it close to your chest.

The shuffle of his feat on the carpet reached your ears. The sound stopped right in front of you. “I think you should go to the bathroom.” He advised, awkwardly standing over you while you drifted off.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even flinch.

He called your name.

“I think my legs are numb.” You murmured, words slightly slurred.

“Oh.” He breathed. “Uh, well,” he looked around the room like the walls had all the answers. “I could carry you?”

A quiet scoff. “Like you could lift me. You drive cars-“ your gasped softly, eyes shot open as you were lifted into the air. There wasn’t even a sign of struggle.

Your head rested on his shoulder. “I stand corrected.” Your airy breath feathered over his skin. Warm and a little ticklish.

After he had gotten you all cleaned up, he didn’t make you leave. Actually, he proposed that you stayed under the excuse of “you’re like two floors up and you can hardly stand on your own.”

You rolled your eyes, muttered something about it being his fault. But you collapsed onto the soft bed anyway, face in the pillows.

You heard shuffling, the sound of sheets rubbing together. You turned your head. Oscar was grabbing new sheets from the closet, but he’d already changed the ones on the bed. You raised a brow. “What are you doing?”

“Taking the sofa.” He said like it was obvious.

You sighed. “You’ve been inside me, but you’re afraid of sharing a bed?”

He glanced from the bed to the sofa. You had a valid point. The silence lasted a beat longer before he claimed a spot next to you.

Well, not really. Sure he was in the bed, but only right on the edge of it.

“If I had a disease you would’ve already caught it.” You deadpanned.

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“What else would you be social distancing for?”

“I don’t know.”

You smiled softly and reached for his hand. You tugged him closer, guided his arm around your waist. And then you leaned into him, your head finding a home in his warm chest.

“Frankly, I don’t think he’s done anything wrong.”

Even though Oscar was standing outside the stewards room, he could still hear your voice.

Oh how everything had changed in just a month.

“It looks more like a racing incident. Two guys pushing it to the limit. And if you wanna dive deep into it, why don’t we talk about how Leclerc didn’t need to run off. He still had plenty of room to stay on the track. Piastri was ahead. Leclerc had the option to back off.”

Oscar grinned to himself.

Turns out, you’re a very persuasive person inside that room. The incident was declared as precisely that—an incident. Neither driver was found at fault.

You snuck into his hotel room later that night.

He pulled you into the room. His lips found yours before the door was even closed. A quick peck. “I heard you defend me.” He teased.

“I’d never. I was holding up a sign and pitchforks demanding for the termination of your contract.” The sarcasm was potent in your tone.

He chuckled, kissing you again. Longer this time. Softer.

Then needier, hungrier. What started out as a cute little kiss had snowballed into a full on make-out.

And, well, since he can’t get enough of you, and you can’t get enough of him, you both ended up tangled under the sheets.

[p1astr81]

I also hate the word trousers bc it sounds too posh BUT THANK YOU this was reassuring

I just learned uk ppl say pants meaning underwear 😀😀😀 IM CRYING IM AMERICAN WHEN I SAY PANTS IN MY FICS IM TALKING LIKE TROUSERS LIKE PANTALOONS pls i hope ppl don’t think im talking abt underwear when i say pants omg💔💔

[p1astr81]

I just learned uk ppl say pants meaning underwear 😀😀😀 IM CRYING IM AMERICAN WHEN I SAY PANTS IN MY FICS IM TALKING LIKE TROUSERS LIKE PANTALOONS pls i hope ppl don’t think im talking abt underwear when i say pants omg💔💔

[p1astr81]

life is not worth living.

[p1astr81]

BUILT SO BROAD WHILE MEEPING OMG A MAN WHO CAN DO BOTH

[p1astr81]

Also I’ve been working on the same req for like 2 weeks but it’s gonna be like 9k words so hopefully it’s worth it😭😭

[p1astr81]

sometimes I read Peter Parker ff and then accidentally start imagining Oscar as Peter…

[p1astr81]

LIFE IS WORTH LIVINGGGG

[p1astr81]

OP81: never love an anchor

oscar needs safe passage out of the hell that is ketterdam. much to his dismay, you might just be his best shot.

pairing: grisha!oscar piastri x privateer!reader

contents: grishaverse au, reluctant allies to lovers, title from never love an anchor by the crane wives, violence, minor character death, bonus appearances from f2 and f1a drivers, implied sex. ft. the last shanty by the celtic connection

word count: 7.3k

Night falls on the island of Kerch like an expensive coat. Parlors and clubs with poor paint jobs glow underneath the dark sky, the dirty, corpse-ridden waters of the Geldcanal cascading like moonlight. Gambling dens with flashing signs. Pleasure houses. Taverns. It’s no wonder outsiders fall prey to the vicious animal that is the city of Ketterdam.

Oscar walks down the cobbled path with a steady stride. Sure, certain—like he knows where he’s going. He keeps his head down when he passes by a gambling den, avoids making eye contact when he walks past a pleasure house. When he crosses paths with a pair of stadwatch officials, he tucks his hands inside his pockets to hide his fidgeting.

In the six unrelenting months he’s been in Ketterdam—watching over his shoulder, heart thundering away in his ears every time he hears Ravkan being spoken—he’s picked up on a few things. 

Ketterdam is like a bucket with a hole at the bottom. Everything leaks—secrets are better kept if they’re never spoken.

It was only his second week in the country when he saw a Heartrender being dragged away from the shady place he’d been hunkering down at. A Heartrender—Grisha capable of manipulating a person’s internal organs, of bringing men to their knees, second in ranking only to the Black General back in Ravka. Taken away from the boarding house like a dog.

It was an easy lesson—the first one he learned. Ketterdam is a city where the only thing more dangerous than being a tourist is being Grisha. 

A definite complication considering Oscar’s situation. 

Kerch isn’t like other places, not like Fjerda or Shu Han. Being Grisha is not exactly a crime here—the silver lining being that, if he’s found, at least he won’t be burned at a pyre or have his insides tossed around by an overeager scientist. But the island nation is moved by greed and coin. A place carved from bricks upon bricks of sins and debauchery. And the line between legal indentures and slavery is kept vague. Terrifyingly vague.

Oscar did not escape his home country to become prisoner to another. 

The tavern he steps into is not a tourist trap, as far as he can tell. No flashing lights around the sign��just the curved Kerch script in an oak slab. 

The Gilded Maw. Not foreboding at all.

Oscar leaves any remaining hesitation at the door. The bar is not crowded—not as other establishments on East Stave are. If anything, it seems like it’s mostly dock workers and fishermen from Fourth and Fifth Harbor drinking the end of the day away. 

He sticks to what he was told. Reaches for the papers inside his pocket to ensure they’re still there, alongside with the last of his money. It’s reckless, he knows, walking around Ketterdam with an envelope of kruge on his coat. If anything, he’s begging for someone to steal it right off his pocket.

He made it though. Now, he just needs to find you.

Conversations are in an unintelligible mix of languages sewn together by the ocean. Kerch, Shu, Zemeni. Men of the sea that laugh loudly, voices hoarse with brine.

Sitting at the bar, he spots you. He thinks. Strictly speaking, he hasn’t met you. He wasn’t exactly in the business of befriending smugglers back in Ravka. Nonetheless, he has it under good authority that if he wants passage out of the island—something quick, something discrete, something he can afford—you’re the one to go to.

Oscar hesitates a moment too long. Stands just steps shy of the entrance uselessly, staring at the back of your head like you’ll stand up and greet him. He realizes a beat too late he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say. 

His legs move of their own accord as he takes a seat next to you. You barely raise your head, and before he can think on it again, Oscar hears himself saying, “I need passage out of Ketterdam.”

He’s not sure what he expects, exactly. He’s too aware that his back is too straight, that nerves are buzzing underneath his skin. His face is impassive, though. He makes sure of it.

You snort. “And I need a deck that stops stinking of rotten fish.” You raise your glass, a murky liquid that does not smell like it should be ingested sloshing around. “But hey, dreaming is free.”

“I have money,” Oscar says.

Your eyes brighten at that, ears perking up. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard you leave for Novyi Zem in the morning. Before sunrise. I want to be on your ship when you do.”

“You and many others,” you say casually, though Oscar isn’t too sure he buys that. He’s not Kerch, sure, but he’s not gullible either. You don’t exactly have people lining up to get on your ship. That, and—well. He doesn’t mean offense, but you’re not… you’re not what he had in mind when he was told there was a smuggler that could get him out. “Why should I take you?”

“…I have money?”

You huff a laugh. “I heard. The journey to Novyi Zem is long, though. At least two week’s worth. Have you been part of a crew before?”

“No.”

You raise a brow, and there’s a glint in your eye that unsettles Oscar, if only slightly. He gets the sudden, uncanny feeling that he’s being tested. It might still be all in his head—especially since your relaxed, uninterested posture hasn’t so much as shifted an inch. “Of any kind?” 

Oscar considers it just for a split second. “I was in the army. Does that work?” It’s more truth than lie, anyway.

You narrow your eyes. “Stadwatch?”

He doesn’t know what the right answer is. “Um.” Oscar hesitates a second too long.

“You’re Ravkan, not Kerch,” you say finally, conclusively, and Oscar promptly realizes that he’s failed whatever test you had laid out for him. Your eyes drop across his frame, lips setting into a line. “I don’t transport Grisha.”

“I’m not,” he responds a beat too quickly. Even when the tavern is brimming with laughter and loud conversation, Oscar’s voice drops. “I am Ravkan, but I have papers.” Either for emphasis or justification, he adds, “I’m not Grisha.”

You raise an unimpressed brow, but extend your hand nonetheless. Oscar reaches inside his pocket, a yellowed page neatly folded into a rectangle. Your eyes barely skim over it, reading over his name and dropping below. The corner of your lips twitching upward into an amused smile.

“I’ve seen better forgeries scrawled on napkins,” you say with a laugh that scratches against the back of your throat. “I hope you didn’t pay good money for that.”

“It’s not fake.”

You seem to tire of this dance. You turn to look away from Oscar once again, flagging down the bartender as he serves you another glass of something cheap. He wonders, not for the first time, if this whole thing would’ve gone differently had he been born a Heartrender. He could’ve made you bend the knee with a flick of his wrist, hold the beat of your heart within his reach. Maybe being a Heartrender would’ve meant he never would’ve left Ravka in the first place. 

Alas.

“Oscar, yeah?” You ask, though it’s not much of a question. You meet his gaze evenly, and even when you’re sitting down, even when he’s taller, there’s something off-putting about you. Intimidating. “You have a particular brand of desperation to you. Only Grisha and indentures have that in Ketterdam. Saints forbid, maybe you’re both.” You take another drink from your glass. “I make a living off jobs from Fourth Harbor, so I’m not about to break the law for a stray like you.”

Oscar decides it then—just as he had the first week he stepped foot in this Saints-damned country. He hates this city. “But you’re a pirate.”

You scoff. “Privateer. There is a distinction.”

Oscar blinks uselessly. “Which is?”

“Important to take into consideration, of course.”

Exasperation starts showing in the crease of his brows. “And you don’t break the law?”

“Not all of them,” you say flippantly. “Especially the laws that could land me a seat on the Council of Tides’ bad graces. Getting my ship ran aground is not exactly great for business.”

“Then—let’s say, hypothetically, that I am…” he trails off, the word lodging inside his throat. Six months, and it’s the closest he’s come to saying it out loud. 

You tilt your head, amused. “Uh-huh.”

“I can make myself useful.” 

“Cute,” you say with a shrug. “But you’re not my type.”

He furrows his brows, before realization dawns on him and his ears turn pink. “That’s not what I—” he tries, but you’re already standing up.

“It’s been fun,” you shrug on your jacket, “but I have people waiting on me.”

“Wait—”

Oscar doesn’t think then—not rationally, anyway. Not when his last ticket off the country is already turning her back on him. He doesn’t think. His hands move of their own accord, and before he can blink, you’re stopping dead on your tracks.

Bare inches away from your face, you watch as Oscar’s envelope of cobbled together kruge drifts in the air—floating, suspended, but never quite falling.

Even with your back turned to him, he watches as you consider it for a beat. He can see it in the tilt of your shoulders, how you weigh the pros and cons. It’s a beat, barely a moment, and Oscar dreads finding out whether the risk was worth it.

“You said it takes two weeks to Novyi Zem—at best,” he says, keeping his voice steady. Like he knows what he’s offering. “With me on your ship, you can make it in one.” 

You pick out the envelope mid-air as you turn to him, pirate frock coat billowing slightly behind you. Caught in an invisible breeze that has no clear point of origin. No windows open. No doors left ajar.

Just Oscar. 

“Would you look at that,” you say, mischief in your eye. “A spot just opened up.”

You were right. The deck of the Driftmoor stinks of rotten fish.

“Oi, Captain,” one of the crewmen calls out from near where Oscar stands. Kerch seems to drift further away into the ocean, the coasts shrouded in fog as the ship is steered into the True Sea. Oscar can feel the deckhand lingering near him. “Your new friend is looking green in the face.”

“He’ll get used to it,” you call back, unbothered. “Just give him a bucket, Arvid.”

The man—or boy, really—side-glances at Oscar, before promptly shoving a wooden bucket into his arms. “Do us all a favor and aim inside it.”

Oscar’s certain he does not look green. He’s been on ships before. Just not ones that reeked of rotten carcasses. He’s much fonder of land travel. Carriages. Horses. Walking.

“Eyes on the horizon, Piastri,” he hears you call out.

He chose this, he tells himself. This is his own doing.

The laughter that follows grates at his ears. Waves rock the boat, the sleek deck tilting from side to side.

Oscar vomits into the bucket.

It’s during the second night that Oscar hears noise from his not-so comfortable hammock in the underbelly of the Driftmoor. Unintelligible voices speaking phrases he can’t make out. Among them, though, he recognizes one—yours. And tangled between sentences he can’t string apart, there is one word that stands out. Grisha.

Oscar stands up from his hammock in a blink. No hesitation, no second-guesses. Just regret. Pungent. Bitter. His mind is already deciding the worst. Of course he shouldn’t have trusted a smuggler. Of course a smuggler would sell him out.

He should’ve stayed in Kerch—risked his future as an indentured servant. He’s long been told what they do to people like him in countries like Shu Han. How they cut Grisha open to figure out what makes them different. Or Fjerda—where their sacred drüskelle hunters take pleasure in lighting pyres under their feet and watch their skin splinter into charred flesh.

Oscar’s footsteps are light. Careful. Practiced. He’s already trying to chart a plan in his head. He’s in the middle of the True Sea—the closest strand of land being the very place he only just left. He’s not sure how many people you have in your crew—but it could be anywhere from seven to twenty. How is he supposed to take twenty people on his own?

The main deck is illuminated by oil lamps. You stand at the center of it, unsurprisingly, with a handful of your crewmen around you. Cast in the flickering glow of the lamps, Oscar sees the shadows dancing on your faces—human, then monstrous. Waves and foam kiss the hull of the ship.

He’s still considering his options when your voice rises. “Well, look at that,” you say, and Oscar freezes on his spot. He turns, and although he’s sure you can’t see his face, he schools it into something impassive. Neutral. Not terrified. “Our guest of honor has decided to grace us with his presence.”

You haven’t drawn your sword, even when it sits by your belt. Firm. Too sharp. Neither does the rest of the crew. Oscar steps down from the quarter deck, only to realize a handful of barrels have been set up as tables, salted meats and rum at the center.

“Have you decided to join us?” you ask, voice deceivingly light. In lieu of a response, Oscar reaches for one of the bottles offered to him and takes a long drink. It tastes awful.

As he sets the bottle down, he hears Arvid say something to you in Zemeni. He doesn’t speak the language—though he picks up two words. Little Palace.

“What did he say?” Oscar asks, an attempt to sound relaxed that doesn’t quite sound like it should. His voice has too sharp an edge—paranoid. 

You snort, and Arvid grins in response. He tilts his head towards Oscar. “I said you must be too accustomed to the luxuries of the Little Palace. Do we not meet your standards?”

“I never said that,” Oscar responds, shoulders drawn tight.

“Lay off,” you tell Arvid, not unkindly. “Tomorrow Oscar’s gonna be taking up half your job.”

Arvid raises a glass to that, though he suspects the boy shouldn’t be drinking in the first place. 

“In fact,” you say, emboldened. “Here’s to Oscar—who will fill the sails of our beloved Driftmoor from dawn to dusk.” There’s a twitch of your lips, something amused, devious. He can’t place it. 

Then, louder, “Grisha of the year!” you mock, and the rest of your crew cackle and crow in unison. 

Heat crawls up Oscar’s neck. Deckhands raise their bottles under the flickering glow of the oil lamps. His face feels hot. The insult is there—he knows it is. And yet, there you stand. Drink in hand and lips curved into a grin. Moonlight casts shadows on your face. You tip your bottle in his direction, and make a mockery of a bow.

Oscar’s jaw ticks. He looks away.

The sun hasn’t quite risen over the horizon, the dark color of the sky progressively fading into a lighter shade of blue. The ocean, for once, feels calm. Peaceful.

Oscar is not the first to rise that day. He spots Arvid up on the crow’s nest, a boatswain by the name of Chloe climbing down the ropes of the main mast.

Brine is heavy in the air—very nearly hiding the scent of rot. And Oscar doesn’t quite understand where it comes from. As far as he’s aware, they haven’t been fishing—and it stands beyond reason that the smell only stinks on the deck, but seems to fade underneath it. Like the floorboards themselves refuse to let it contaminate the rest of the ship.

A boy with curly hair nudges against Oscar, uncaring. It severs his train of thought, reminds him of the task at hand. 

He stares up at the sails—wide, not as worn as he’d expect. If anything, they almost look brand new. Not full, though. His feet fall into stance like second nature, sleeves rolled up, his left palm positioned diagonally over his right. 

The ocean air kisses his cheeks, salt cleansing his lungs. Reaching for his power is a steady thing. Familiar. And even when he hasn’t truly summoned how he was intended to for months…

Wind picks up in a sudden, ferocious manner. Coats billow and flap, pressure dropping on the main deck as stray hairs fall into Oscar’s eyeline. He closes his eyes, allows himself to hear the steady thrum in his veins over the whistling and howling of the wind. He outstretches his hands, guiding the stream and filling the sails of the Driftmoor.

He hears a loud whistle from the side. Oscar glances, if only momentarily, and catches you besides Arvid. The boy tilts his head appreciatively, last night’s jeering nowhere to be found. “Etherealki are always so impressive,” Arvid says, eyes wide with amazement as he watches Oscar guiding the current. “I’ve never met a Squaller before.”

“And not just any Squaller,” you say, tone undecipherable. “One from the Little Palace. You might as well be meeting royalty, Arvid.” There’s a barb there, sharp. For the first time since you’ve met, Oscar briefly wonders if your jabs are less about him being Grisha, and more so about where you suspect he was brought up. He supposes he hasn’t denied it.

The Driftmoor cuts through the tide, faster than it has for the past two days. Something like pride swells in his chest. When he turns to face you, though, he finds you’re already looking at him.

Wind brushes against Oscar’s hair and cheeks. Cold. Sharp. This time, you’re the one to turn away first.

Oscar gets the chance to properly approach you late in the afternoon. His arms feel sore, his body spent, but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let it show. 

Instead, he approaches you once he’s relieved from his post. You sit on one of the crates, back leaning against one of the outside wooden walls of your quarters. Even when there’s an open spot next to you, he chooses to stand. 

“I never said I was from the Little Palace,” Oscar says, in lieu of a greeting.

You shrug, body still angled towards the horizon. No land in sight—just endless waters. “Didn’t need to,” you say, tilting your head in his direction, “you reek of it.” 

His brows furrow, jaw tensing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The way you hold yourself,” you say, and Oscar catches the moment your gaze sharpens with something he can’t name. “Even in Ketterdam. You still stand straight. Proud. Like you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” You take a drink of the blue-glass bottle in your hand. 

Oscar thinks it’s ridiculous, your assessment of him. He has spent the past months terrified out of his mind, looking over his shoulder so often it became second nature.

You continue, uninterrupted. “In a world so openly dangerous for Grisha, only those from the Little Palace carry themselves like that. ‘Suppose it’s easy, when you grow up between gilded walls.” You meet Oscar’s gaze evenly. He straightens. “So. Were you?”

There’s no purpose in lying—not when they’re already beyond a point of return. Literally. Ditching him in Kerch would be a waste of time.

Oscar nods once.

“The Little Palace,” you hum, and you tap the crate next to yours. Oscar isn’t sure why he follows the quiet command—why he chooses to take a seat next to you. “Safe haven for all Ravkan Grisha.” You pause, just for a beat. “I didn’t think Grisha ever left the Little Palace.”

“It’s not common,” Oscar finds himself saying. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion. He knows it won’t show on his face—it never does for people like him. Grisha that hone their talents age slowly, their faces taking a natural, beautiful glow after using their powers. Glossy hair. Brighter eyes. Soft skin. Even so, it doesn’t mean he can’t feel the weight of the day on his limbs. “And Little Palace has four syllables, not ten,” he says, words sharper than he should’ve let them. “You don’t need to say it like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, turning your gaze away from the horizon and towards Oscar. He watches as your eyes catch on his features for a split second. Just long enough for him to notice.

“Like it’s some grand title,” he responds, a huff scratching at the back of his throat. “It’s meant to be demeaning. The Grand Palace for the royal family, and the Little Palace for their attack dogs.”

You hum again, more thoughtfully this time. If any resentment had slipped into Oscar’s voice, you neglect mentioning it. Even so, you don’t respond immediately, so he takes it as a sign that the conversation is over. Until—

“Does leaving the Little Palace make you a deserter?” 

Oscar bristles at that. Deserter. It catches him off-guard, not the word itself, but the weight of it. It lodges inside his chest, an odd feeling. Deserter.

It takes him a beat. Two. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quiet. Small. 

“Ah,” you say. The ocean rocks the Driftmoor, evening wind picking up. The sun sinks over the horizon, painting the sky with threads of gold. “I’ve met deserters in the past. From Shu Han. From the Wandering Isle.” You meet his gaze again, and Oscar is surprised by his breath catching in his chest. Waiting. “You should know, it’s all the same at sea.”

Oscar can feel himself lingering then, not just on your eyes, but on the slope of your nose, the angle of your jaw. He nods, once, before he forces himself to turn away. The ocean bleeds into a molten color. Rose, then tangerine. His gaze flicks down to the floor of the quarterdeck, the handrails that seem to glow in the sinking light, a glossy sheen over the wood of the railing and floor alike—the sort of quality that has no place in a pirate ship.

“If you were in the Second Army, then,” you start lightly, “does that mean you used to wear a kefta?”

He turns to you, with a raised brow and an unamused expression. He finds you tampering down a grin. 

“Fox fur lining everything?” you continue, mirth lively in your tone. “Etherealki are blue, right? I could see that looking good on you.”

“For a pirate captain, you are awfully unserious.”

“Privateer,” you correct with a grin. “And I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Oscar snorts. You tilt your head, thinking. “I’ve always found it a bit ridiculous—this hierarchy you have in Ravka.”

That piques Oscar’s interest. “How so?”

“Well, you divide Grisha into Orders. Corporalki. Etherealki. Fabrikators,” you list. “So, what? Corporalki are soldiers. Fabrikators are workshop workers?”

“Etherealki are also soldiers,” Oscar says, his voice tinged with a defensiveness he should’ve forgone the second he left the Little Palace. 

“Of course,” you say, faint amusement dripping from your words. “But you don’t think it’s arbitrary?”

He leans back against the polished wood. “I suppose there is reason to it. Corporalki can manipulate your organs. Etherealki summon elements. It’s no surprise they make better soldiers than Fabrikator metal workers.”

You nod once, as if considering it. “Yeah, maybe,” you say, offering him a drink from your bottle. His knuckles brush against yours, a spark of something Oscar can’t seem to place running down his spine. He takes the bottle into his hand and brings it to his mouth. 

Days bleed into one another, and Oscar can feel the change in the air. Nights are warmer, wind currents tinged with something fresher. If he closes his eyes, he can nearly make himself believe that he’s smelling the scent of Zemeni jurda flowers.

By the time night falls, the rest of the crew seem to have noticed the shift as well. Twilight feels lighter aboard the Driftmoor, with a handful of wine bottles somehow making rounds, passing from hand to hand.

In the midst of it, a couple of deckhands take out a concertina and two fiddles, the rest of the people aboard stringing words together into a sea shanty. Sitting down against the hard floor, Chloe and Arvid sing along.

Don’t haul on the rope, don’t climb up the mast.

If you see a sailing ship, it might be your last.

Across the main deck, Oscar catches you singing the words, smiling a grin that is not quite a grin. Something foreign—something softer.

A sailor ain’t a sailor, ain’t a sailor, anymore.

It doesn’t take long for the music to grow louder, more vivid with more people jumping in. Someone pulls out a pennywhistle, another drums hands against the barrels. The melody picks up into something less slurred—notes upon notes, clear as ice.

Two girls he doesn’t know the names of—sisters, by the looks of it—sing the words as they pull each other onto matching crates, laughing and smiling.

Oscar watches from his spot as members of the crew pair off into couples, dancing along to the lively music. He rests his feet on an empty crate, looking up at the starry night sky. Constellations stare back at him—the same ones he could see back home.

The dancing is drunken and uncoordinated, a tangle of limbs more often than not. Oscar follows it with his gaze, hiding a smile behind a bottle. As he searches the crowd, though, he finds himself looking for you.

His brows pinch together when he doesn’t spot you. Not until he feels the air shift beside him—silently. Near imperceptibly. 

You sidle up beside him, hair pulled back by a worn piece of cloth tied around your head. You swing your legs, nudging him to the side and sitting next to him on the crate. 

“Didn’t expect you to join us,” you say, voice lighter than it was when he first met you. Less guarded, maybe.

“It seemed like a good night to make questionable decisions,” Oscar responds easily.

“Is it, now?” You raise a brow, the corner of your lips curving upward. “Did it reach your standards?”

“Surpassed them,” he says, fighting off a smile, “definitely.”

You hum, tilting your head towards the rest of your crew dancing to the music. He blinks, and you’re hopping off the crate, stretching your arms above your head.

“Well,” you say, a glimmer in your eye. “It’s not a celebration if we’re not dancing.” You offer your hand out to Oscar, who cocks his head slightly. “You feeling up to making more questionable choices?”

Oscar gnaws at the inside of his cheek, biting down a smile. “What are we celebrating?”

“The end of your first week at sea, of course.” And with that, Oscar takes your hand, your fingers interlacing with his. You guide him into the crowd, the upbeat tune of the fiddles leading the way. Bodies spin around the two of you, laughing and singing along.

Oscar takes one of your hands and spins you once, before you return to him with a grin. He lets go of your fingers to steady you by your waist, a smile curving onto his lips.

Moonlight paints shadows on your face, though your whole expression seems to be cast aglow. The two of you dance, narrowly avoiding each other’s feet, sharing laughs that seem to quiet into something less loud. More intimate.

Your hands brace themselves against Oscar’s shoulders, and you accidentally tip forward like you might fall. Oscar steadies you, but when he looks up, his face is a breath’s away from yours. He could count your eyelashes if committed to it. His breath catches in his throat. You search his face, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes briefly drop to his lips. If the wind picks up then, neither you nor Oscar mention it.

The song ends, claps and cheers erupting from around the deck. But Oscar lingers a moment too long. Just a second. Maybe two. It’s noticeable nonetheless. Up until you pull away, and he follows suit.

Moonlight frames your features. The ocean air makes Oscar feel different—bolder, perhaps. And when your gaze returns to him, you’re looking at him questioningly. 

“What are you grinning about?” you ask.

“You’re blushing,” he says, failing to hide how pleased he sounds. 

“What?” you say, alarmed. You look away, clearing your throat. “You’re mistaken.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, noncommittally. And, for once, he’s delighted to find you’re the one looking flustered for a change. Oscar ducks his head slightly, his index finger tilting your head towards him. “Don’t worry, Captain,” he says, quietly, teasingly. A secret. He leans closer to your ear, lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. “It suits you.”

You freeze on your spot for a beat. Two. You blink up at him, watching as the corner of his lips curves up, amusedly. Then, unexpectedly, you reach up for his collar, tugging him down towards you and meeting him halfway.

It takes him a moment to react—but when he does, he responds in kind, his tongue swiping against your lip. Distantly, Oscar can hear a different song picking up again. 

“I thought I wasn’t your type,” he hums against your lips.

“Arrogant,” you murmur, and Oscar has the inexplicable urge to bite down on your smile, feeling it pressing against his mouth. He tugs at your bottom lip before you pull away, featured flushed. Something flutters in his stomach. He likes the sight of it more than he’s willing to admit. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you say, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther away from the crowd with you.

The skies are clear, the moon’s silvery reflection casting an ethereal glow across the True Sea. The celebration—for what, no one can be sure—aboard the Driftmoor doesn’t end until the sun is rising over the horizon, painting the landscape a molten gold. In the midst of dancing and laughing, no one notices Oscar and you are gone for the better part of the night.

The music resumes, loudly, brightly. No one hears the sound of clothes falling in your cabin. Of skin on skin, of lips on lips, like it’s a competition of who can make the other moan first. Of books and trinkets falling from your table in disarray. Of breathless pleas and whispers of Oscar, Oscar, Oscar—

The Driftmoor cuts through the waves. Onwards.

The arrival to Novyi Zem is imminent. According to Amna—the ship’s navigator—they should only be three days from Eames Harbor. The approaching end of the journey is palpable on the deck of the Driftmoor, with conversations about Zemeni trinkets and spices becoming a recurring topic among crewmates. 

His last days before what might as well be his new life are heavy. A noticeable weight. Still, Oscar is adept at pushing things away, deep into the back of his mind. Your lips are a good distraction, too.

He feels like a teenager again. Sneaking around, tugging at your hand when you’re distracted, pulling you closer to him. Sealing kisses against your neck—grinning when he pulls those pretty sounds from you. You smile—sharp, dangerous—when you make him fall apart, too. Tousled hair. Flushed faces. Moments tucked into the ridges of the Driftmoor like stitches on the sail.

On the second to last day, a thick fog settles on the horizon—salty, metallic. Oscar is already on the quarterdeck, bringing his hands together to clear the view, when he feels you step beside him.

“Don’t,” you say. Cautiously, perhaps too sharply.

Oscar drops his hands, brows furrowed. Your gaze is glued to the horizon like a magnet, a compass.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer—not immediately. Instead, you tilt your head up to the crow’s nest, where Arvid stands with a spyglass in hand. 

“What do you see?” you ask, and it’s only then that Oscar picks up on the ghostly silence that has settled over the ship. Floorboards creak. Gray waves brush against the hull.

Arvid turns the spyglass towards the direction you’re gesturing. The fog is too thick, and Oscar doesn’t understand why you won’t let him clear it with a flick of his wrist.

“Nothing in sight, Captain,” Arvid calls back, though it doesn’t seem to ease you in the slightest. If anything, your back looks tenser—strung with wire.

“Captain—” Oscar tries, before Arvid lets out a shrill whistle.

“Avast!” Arvid calls. “There’s a ship ahead!”

Two orange lights come into view amidst the dark gray fog like two predatory eyes. Then—too close for comfort—a ship sails through the cloud. Armored. Commanding.

Oscar recognizes the ship immediately. Fjerdans.

You whistle loudly, calling out, “Kerch rules apply! Keep to your stations and your pistols!”

Oscar watches as deckhands move around with practiced speed, though it’s impossible to miss the unease that seems to grip every boatswain and crewmen.

Dread crawls into Oscar’s chest like a spider. Before he can spiral, though, you press a pistol into his hands. He looks up, only to find your jaw tight and your eyes clouded with a glint he can’t place.

“Under no circumstances use your powers, understand?” you say, before you’re hurrying down the stairs, calling out orders as the rest of your crew prepares. Oscar doesn’t even get the chance to say that he doesn’t know how to use a gun. 

Distantly, Oscar hears something being called out in heavily-accented Zemeni, then near indiscernible Kerch. You shout something back, and by the time you reach the main deck, Chloe and Arvid are holding onto the boarding ladders as three Fjerdans stride onto the Driftmoor.

Oscar freezes on his spot. Ice cold dread seeps into his bones, threatening to splinter them in half. The three men—light-skinned, light hair, icy gazes—wear black and silver uniforms armored with metal, a club and a whip attached to their belts, a medallion hanging from each of their necks. These are not just Fjerdans—they are drüskelle. Oscar’s mouth runs dry. Grisha hunters.

“Fjerdans,” you say casually, airily. Even when the rest of your crew are locked in position. Even when your sword sits at your hip, visible for the drüskelle to see. Even when they have all but boarded your ship. “You’re a little far west. Out of your jurisdiction, some might say.”

One of the drüskelle tosses you a leather pouch, gray eyes sweeping across the vessel. He scrunches his nose in disgust, getting a lungful of that rotting fish stench. You open the bag, only to find coins inside. 

You arch a brow. “Now, where would a pair of dashing witch hunters like yourselves stumble upon this amount of kruge?” You raise your head, grinning, almost eager. And perhaps it would’ve fooled Oscar before—but he can see now how it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I thought your lot hated Kerch.”

“Your country is built on sin and depravity,” the taller one says, voice thick and accented. 

Your eyelashes cast crescent shadows on your cheeks. “Don’t forget lust and greed.”

“We look for drüsje.” The Fjerdan scans the deck, eyes flicking over Oscar. He watches as you remain impassive, unflinching. Drüsje. Witches. Grisha. 

“You waste your time, then,” you say simply. “We don’t deal with Grisha.”

The drüskelle on the left—not as tall, but bigger—narrows his eyes at you, before adding something in Fjerdan to the leader of the three. 

You tilt your head at him. “This is not a slaving ship. The only cargo we have are exports from the Merchant Council.” You blink, smiling a chilling thing. “Should I show you our papers as well?”

The silence that befalls the Driftmoor is stifling. He can’t imagine why you’re deciding to be so civilized in the face of intruders—even when he knows more drüskelle await on their ship.

The drüskelle on the left glares at you, lantern raised in hand. The orange glow casts shadows on Arvid and Chloe’s faces, who still linger close. His icy gaze scours the deck, and Oscar keeps his spine pin-straight, pistol still within reach. It’s useless in his hand—maybe as convenient as a large rock to hit someone in the back of the head with. 

Oscar blinks, and the drüskelle lunges forward towards Arvid, hands reaching out like wolf claws. Arvid—wide-eyed, startled, with no time to react—raises his hands to attack.

You raise your pistol a fraction of a second too late, and your lookout’s windpipe is trapped under the steel grip of the drüskelle, his wrists seized together.

Oscar sees the test then. A crewmate reaches for their weapon. A crewmate doesn’t raise their hands, weaponless—Grisha do.

Your pistol clicks. The drüskelle grins like a wolf baring its teeth. “Drüsje,” he says, unmoved by Arvid struggling against his grip. Witch.

“Release him. Now.” Your voice is a knife. Sharp. Cutting. Any false pretenses are long gone. “I don’t take kindly to stowaways. Much less those that threaten my crew. Now, release him.”

The drüskelle laughs, a scratching, hoarse sound. The wind shifts then, violently—and Oscar watches as the drüskelle starts coughing. Retching. His face starts to turn blue.

It’s not Oscar’s doing.

The two other drüskelle turn. Disbelieving, Oscar sees it. The metallic chord of his medal snaking around his neck, silvery—a noose. 

Your hands are outstretched before you. The drüskelle drops to his knees, eyes bulging—but his hands don’t let go.

“I said,” your voice is metal, a sword, a blade. Deadly. “Release. Him.”

All hell breaks loose. The two remaining drüskelle lunge, weapons drawn and snarls carved into their faces. Swords clash and bullets ricochet—bolas are thrown, entangling limbs of your crewmen.

Oscar doesn’t blink—he just springs into action. More drüskelle try to board the ship, hungry, smelling blood in the water. Oscar brings his hands together and casts them into wide arcs; Fjerdans fall into the water like raindrops. Still, a few more hunters make it onto the Driftmoor.

He feels fire flash near his face, nearly burning his skin off. He whips his head around, only to find Arvid’s fingertips engulfed in flames. He casts a fireball onto the opposing ship. Oscar twists his hands and pushes them out, fanning the fire. 

The flames overtake the Fjerdan vessel, eating away at wood like kindling. Oscar hears a hissing sound, too close, too quick—and by the time he turns around, he manages to catch the exact moment Arvid’s arms are entangled together by tight leather chords. Oscar shifts his stance, before he’s taken by the sudden slap of a whip across his face. He stumbles back, momentarily disoriented. By the time his vision clears, an elbow collides against his jaw, knocking his head to the side. Oscar blinks and he’s falling—so he does the best he can do, and drags the drüskelle down with him.

Oscar’s head slams against the deck with a loud thud. His vision swims, before he feels the press of leather against his throat. Oscar struggles against the Fjerdan—the irony of being a Squaller about to die from asphyxiation is not lost on him.

Oscar thrashes, freeing his hands and trying to draw from his power. He could pull the air out of the drüskelle’s lungs—he recalls George doing that once, back in Ravka. But he can’t focus, can’t reach deep enough—not with black dots shrouding his vision.

Suddenly—inexplicably—he breathes. Deeply. Fully. As his sight returns, he sees you mere paces away. Hands outstretched, features cast aglow. Beautiful. Deadly.

“You should’ve listened to me while you had the chance,” Oscar hears you say, his ears ringing. You close your hands into a fist, and he can feel the drüskelle’s uniform—the same uniform that had metal lining—shifting. Tightening.

The body of the drüskelle topples over him. Someone—he can’t be sure who, not with shapes and silhouettes still blurry around him—hauls him up, pulling his arm over their shoulder.

Grisha aren’t magic. They are extensions of the natural world—he’s been taught that since he was a child. They don’t practice sorcery, they practice Small Science. 

His vision focuses around you. Sharpens. And as Oscar’s eyes roll back and his consciousness ebbs, his last thought is that he may not be magic, but you certainly are.

Oscar wakes up feeling like someone has drilled a hole into his head. Stuffed him with cotton. And drilled again.

The world still doesn’t feel steady around him, dipping like waves. He feels seasick—again.

“Ugh,” he groans, holding up his head, like that will ease the pain.

“Welcome back, sunshine.”

He squints, wills the colors into shapes. Finally, he recognizes his surroundings as your quarters. Table. Lamp light. Shelves with books and trinkets.

Oscar wants to slump back against your pillow. Close his eyes. He wants to ask how long it’s been—how long he’s been out. If they’re in Novyi Zem yet. If everyone is okay.

Instead, like sand scratching against his throat, he says: 

“You’re a Fabrikator.” He blinks a few times as his eyes adjust to his surroundings. Then, they narrow, voice accusing, “You lied to me.”

You breathe out, like you’d been expecting it. You tilt your head at him, watching him from the corner of your room, by the window. Sunlight warms your skin. “I never said I wasn’t Grisha.”

“But you said—” His voice is hoarse, unused. A consequence of being strangled, probably. “You said you didn’t transport people like us.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t know who you were,” you retort. “You were a stranger, in Kerch, asking me if I would smuggle you out of the country.” You drop something onto your table, and Oscar realizes you’d been holding a bullet. Not a pistol—just the bullet. “How could I know that wasn’t a trap? That I wouldn’t be leading the enemy onto a ship of Grisha?”

Oscar furrows his brows at that. Pauses. “Are all your crew…”

You shrug your shoulders softly. “Not all of them. Some.” You turn your head, meeting his gaze evenly. “Most.”

Oscar nods. Or he thinks he does, at least. The world still feels unsteady around him. Quicksand—in more ways than one.

“So, Arvid is an Inferni,” Oscar says slowly. You murmur a quiet Yeah. “And you’re a Fabrikator.”

“There are others,” you start. Gently, cautiously. “Chloe is an Alkemi. Hamda and Amna are Tidemakers. It was true, though—that you’re the only Squaller aboard.”

It starts clicking—slowly, progressively—like gears sliding into place. Why the ship is so well kept. Why the handrails and floors are always polished, the sails new and the underbelly intact. Why the fading scent of rotting fish sticks to the main deck and there only—a deterrent.

“It’s gonna bruise,” you add, unprompted. A way to change the subject. You point to your own left eye. “Depending on how it heals, it’ll either look like a gnarly battle scar or like you got into a bar fight and lost.”

“Great,” Oscar says with a small groan that scratches his throat. He tilts his head to you; however, and finds the corner of his lip curving upward. “What are my chances?”

“Toss of a coin, really,” you say, a lighter lilt to your voice. You clear your throat. “You’ll be pleased to know we’re half a day away from Novyi Zem. Maybe you’ll find a decent Healer there.”

A weight settles on his gut. Odd. Out of place. This is everything he’s been waiting to hear—a new start, beyond Ravka, beyond Kerch, beyond everything and everyone. It’s what he’s been working towards for months.

The disappointment in his stomach almost feels tangible. Bitter.

“Are you staying?” he asks foolishly, hope tucked between his heart and his ribcage.

“Not for long,” you say, carefully walking towards him. He sits up, stifles a wince. “A week. Maybe less.” Your tongue swipes across your lip. “You’ll like it there.”

“Maybe,” Oscar says, slowly. “Maybe I won’t.” His head pounds, his arms ache, his body is begging for him to lay back down again. Still, he leans closer to you. “Perhaps I’ll have to find a new place.” Your eyes search his face, before landing on his lips. “Perhaps I’ll need a talented pirate to take me back around.”

This time, Oscar is the one that meets you halfway. He feels you smiling against his lips. 

“Privateer,” you correct, and Oscar swallows the word without complaint.

Life at sea. He could get used to that.

a/n: hope you enjoyed!!! i have a few more grishaverse au ideas in store so stay tuned <3

[p1astr81]

Can you do an Oscar fic where’s its smutty, not wayyyy too much but like.. y’know? Basically reader finds out he has a praise kink(esp. good boy, doing so well, ect), we are in direeee need of some sub!Oscar content

If it makes you uncomfortable obviously you don’t have to write it, after all it is your platform 💓

we are in dire need of sub!oscar

I IN PARTICULAR am in dire need of sub!oscar

Smut under the cut!! 18+

The roles were reversed tonight. You were on top, feeling his heavy breaths and beating heart beneath your hands.

You only proposed switching the dynamic because you noticed something the other night.

How quick he flushed after you told him that he made you feel so good.

Once his cock was buried in your tight pussy, you rolled your hips slowly. You wanted him desperate for you. And he was getting there quicker than you anticipated. His hands adjusted on your hips, gripping harder, trying to control the roll of them.

You stopped completely, earning a small whimper. You cupped his cheek gently. “Did you forget your role tonight?” You asked quietly. His eyes were wide, shining up at you, apologizing, begging. He shook his head. You leaned over, lips hovering over his, forming into a small smile. Your nails grazed over the stubble growing on his face. “Then be a good boy for me, yeah?”

He obliged immediately, nodding with haste. You smiled, kissed his face, muttered, “pretty baby, making me feel so good,” as you started rolling your hips again.

his quiet gasps and stifled groans got louder—evolved into moans and whimpers—when you started to really ride his thick cock. He fisted the sheets, eyes screwing shut.

You tutted, nails grazing his chest. “Eyes on me, baby.” Not a second later, and his glassy eyes were wide, focused solely on you, hardly blinking. “Good boy,” you panted, quickening your pace.

He was whining under you now, trying his best not to thrust up into you. “Doing so good for me,” you kissed his face, hot and wet. “So pretty like this, when you listen so well,” you cursed, “gonna come with me? Fill me up like the good boy you are?”

He was nodding before you even finished speaking. “Please, please- ngh- Wanna be your good boy.” His hands flexed in the sheets like he was trying to find some ground. You took his hands in yours, brought them to your tits. That was permission enough for him, tweaking your nipples and squeezing your tits, treating them like his own personal stress balls.

“Then be good and come for me, come on, I need it.” You panted, moaning his name.

Filthy. That’s all it was. Every word from your mouth. Every whimper from his lips, every moan from yours. Every slick sound echoing around the room.

You came first, his name on your lips, and your pussy squeezing him—triggering his own orgasm. He spilled into you, filling you with every drop of his hot cum.

Sighing, you laid against his chest. “Did so good for me.” You muttered, kissing his face. He replied with a tired smile, and held you tight, wanting to be as close as possible.

[p1astr81]

omg i loved your spiderman osc au!! are you considering doing more when you're ready or was it just a one-off idea?

I love love LOVE spideyosc like that’s literally him (ugh especially the your friendly neighborhood spiderman one like THATS HIM)

I’ll absolutely write more of him if I get the inspo or requests for it!!

I also have already written a mini series some time ago (which was heavily inspired by homecoming) if you want to read it and haven’t yet I’ll link it here!!!

[p1astr81]

꩜ i never break my promises ـــــــــﮩ٨ـ

spiderman!oscar piastri au

Oscar dove in through your window, rolling onto the floor. He groaned in pain, chest heaving, clutching his stomach.

You jumped up from the couch, scolding him immediately. “Jesus, Oscar! I have a front door-“ you paused, seeing the blood seeping through his suit. “shit, shit, shit.” you ran your hands through your hair as he yanked the mask off his head. “Shit!” You gasped, seeing the gash across his cheek. His face was screwed up in pain, eyes squeezed shut. “Okay. Stay- stay there I’ll- fuck,” you breathed, already off to the bathroom. You made a mess of the cabinet under the sink, fumbling to find everything you need.

When you returned, he’d pulled himself to sit up against the wall.

“I need you to take your suit off.”

Oscar managed a breathless laugh. “No foreplay?”

You glared. “Don’t try and be funny. I’m trying to stop you from bleeding out.”

He grinned despite his body thrumming in pain. “Feisty.” He quipped. The suit was peeled from his body until it hung loose around his hips.

Leaning in closer to inspect the wound, you poked and prodded at the surrounding skin, earning a hiss. “Jesus christ,” you breathed. “Lay down for me, yeah?” You were up and off again, running a hand down your face.

He groaned with every moment, pain igniting throughout his entire body with every shift.

You returned just as he settled.

“Is that a sewing kit?”

“A suture kit.” You corrected.

“What? Why?”

“Because my idiot boyfriend gets into fights and then refuses to go to a hospital when he gets hurt.” You weren’t looking at him, but the annoyed smile on your face was meant for him. Though, he could see right through it—right to the fear and concern in your eyes.

Another weak laugh, followed my a loud hiss as you poured saline solution over the wound. “Good thing I have a doctor at home.”

“I’m a med student. It’s not the same thing.” He knew the irritation in your voice came from a place of love.

“Close enough.”

You just shook your head. “Okay, this is going to hurt.” You warned him before stabbing the needle through his skin.

Every time he hissed or cursed or flinched, an apology would follow right after.

He was panting by the time you were covering the wound in ointment and bandages.

The gash on his face wasn’t as bad. All it needed was a bit of ointment and a bandage.

“‘M sorry.” You apologized again once you were done.

He sat up, wincing as he did. Grabbing your face with his hands, he forced you to look at him. He kissed you, soft and slow like he was reassuring you that he was okay. “The only person who should be apologizing is me. I’m the one who keeps getting blood on your floor.” His laugh wasn’t so breathy this time. “And I scare the living shit out of you every time, and don’t try to argue, because I know you and I know I’m right.”

You sighed, eyes dropping to the floor. “I just wish you weren’t so reckless. and I know you try not to be, but every time you leave I can only think of the worst, and I hate that every time come through that window bloody and bruised it’s a fucking relief because the alternative is-“ you couldn’t even finish, too choked up. You just collapsed into him.

His hands were tangled in your hair immediately. “I know.” His dull nails scratched your scalp. “I think the worst part about doing this is that it scares you.”

It was your turn to give a weak laugh.

“But I’ll always come home to you. I promise.” He grinned. “And I never break my promises.”

[p1astr81]

I’m having mega writers block rn I’m sorry guys😭😭😭

[p1astr81]

Sigh, Oscar who doesnt choke you in public but will slide a hand to grip the nape of your neck to keep you close or as a silent sign for you to stop being a little shit UHGHHH

him leaning down with a simple

"Behave."

THE WAY I KUST JHFBWICHOWNXOC I NUST GASPED OUT LOUD HEA DIN MY HANDS. IM ELABORATING ON THIS WHEN I GET HOMEEEE FUCK U!!!!!!!! GOD PLEASE!!

okay i hope u like this. i need him so badly.

oh god. okay. oh god okay… im gonna say smth probably controversial (depending on who u are) but to ME. to ME!!!! oscar i dont think is much of a brat tamer. he doesn’t really get into that side of D/s often. keyword being often. you’ve dabbled in it, definitely. a little orgasm denial here, a little overstimulation there. you’ve switched a hundred times, played with titles in bed. oscar’s down for anything at least once, if i’m honest. but he doesn’t really have a thing for taming. stay with me here.

oscar is a patient man. it takes a lot to get him riled up. to get him to the point of snapping, putting his hands on you in public. but, when he does, it lands like slap. like thunder and lightning crackling around you everywhere. his hand is heavy, like a weight to remind you of who you are. more importantly, what you are.

he’s shy, for the most part. in public, the most you’ll get is a hand on the knee under dinner tables or gently intertwined fingers while you walk somewhere. he’s not a huge pda person, preferring to keep it to a minimum and save all of his love for when the two of you are alone.

but today, you’ve tested everything you knew oscar to be.

it’s some sort of dinner event. sponsors, alcohol, fancy outfits. the whole 9-yards. you both would rather be anywhere but there, but y’know. oscar does kinda have to show face if he wants to be employed. it’s literally in the job description.

oscar was busy talking with a few people, offering polite smiles and hearty laughter when the joke skewed just the right side of comical. and boy, did he look good. fitted suit, dress shirt done up all the way with a cute little bowtie. his pants were tailored perfectly around his thighs and his watch glittered under the lights. you had no idea what he was talking about. stocks, shareholdings. who gives a shit, you thought, eyes stuck on oscar. how could you care about anything except for how good he looks?

your mouth waters as he reaches up to ruffle his hair a bit, grown long and soft, just how you like it, lithe fingers flicking a long strand from his eyes. his hands. all thin fingers and knobby knuckles. they’re always so soft, despite the calluses on his palms. he’d just trimmed his nails that morning, too. you’d been begging him to let you do it.

suddenly, the open bar is a little more appealing than before…

you saunter over, passing oscar. he glances at you, a short, subtle check-in as if to ask, “you good?” you nod back, smiling and making the motion of taking a sip with your hand. he lets you go. on your way, you’re not at all subtle about how your hand grazes his ass, giggling when he jumps. who could blame you? it was just… there!

your drink is cool in your hand. some specialty cocktail the bartenders were making for the event. it was a shade of blue you couldn’t pronounce, but it went down easy as you sat back down at your table. oscar had made his way back, too, smiling fondly at you when you pressed to side once more.

“try this,” you coo, holding the drink out. he raises an eyebrow, but takes the drink at your insistence. his face screws up, nose wrinkling.

“that is so tart,” he grouches, making you giggle. the drink is set on the fancy, white table cloth, oscar’s hand find your knee under the table. he gives it a soft squeeze, loving. fond. you reach down to hold his hand, offering the same squeeze.

the event drones on as marketing executive after social media manager after shareholder sits next to oscar, talking his ear off. you grow bored.

thinking nothing of it, you lift your hand, catching a stray curl that’s fallen into oscar’s face. he startles, eyes glancing at you. you just smile, shrugging as you pull your hand away. “sorry. looked soft,” you tell him. the wife of the man he’d been talking to just laughs.

their conversation carries on, oscar doing his best to pay attention when you’ve now got your hand on his knee. it’s innocent at first. tentative, a grounding pressure. he smiles when you first rest your hand there, covering it with his own. it’s beneath the table cloth, he’s relaxed. there’s no harm done.

his shoulders hunch immediately when your hand slides up, just the slightest. your fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, gently. his eyes go just the slightest bit wide, imperceptible to everyone but, well, you. you knew him best. better than anyone in the room. the muscle under your fingertips tenses, a slow breath leaving through oscar’s nose.

giving him a few more teasing squeezes, you release his leg, sitting up a bit. a sip of your drink, a polite smile at the couple across from you. you’re as innocent as ever. no one would be none the wiser.

oscar’s eyes dart toward you when you shift. “all good?” he mumbles, voice a bit stiff. he cracks a bit on “all”, making you grin.

“‘m fine,” you breathe out, reaching for his hand, resting under the table on his leg. he was rubbing his palms against the material of his pants. you tsked, taking his hand and bringing it to kiss his knuckles. the couple cooed at the two of you, but you saw the flicker in oscar’s eyes.

as the couple dismissed themselves, smiling and offering soft, parting pleasantries, oscar turns to look at you.

“what are you up to?” his eyebrow raises, lips parted as he waits for an answer.

“nothing, osc. just enjoying the event,” you sigh, letting your eyes trail over the room. the gaudy curtains hanging from the ceiling, the obnoxiously orange inflatable in the corner, meant for taking photos with #ad in the caption.

he opens his mouth to say something when lando comes over, clapping his hand down on oscar’s shoulder. “oscar, boy!” he cheers, squeezing through the suit jacket. “alright, mate?”

oscar nearly jumped out of his skin, hand clutched to his chest. your eyes trail over it, tongue darting out to wet your lips.

“jesus christ, lan!” oscar laughs, shaking his head. “was good til you almost gave me a heart attack.”

their conversation fades in your ears, too busy tracing the lines of vein on the back of your boyfriend’s hand. imagining the way those deft fingers wrap around the neck of a trophy. how they look when he’s lifting weights. when he’s got them shoved in your—

“honey?”

you blink. once, then twice. you swallow, jaw clicking with it as your brain practically reboots itself. “sorry, did you say something?”

lando looks at you, amused, while oscar’s eyes widen, then narrow with faint recognition. he knows that look. the way your pupils are a little bit bigger, the way your lip is tucked away between your teeth. the way your eyebrows relax into this expression of want.

oscar’s voice is a little bit lower, words slowed down. “lando asked if you could check the name card next to you.”

you process the question, before you’re reaching for the small card. it’s a pretty cream color, with black calligraphy and golden embellishments. in thick ink, sure enough—“it’s got lando’s name on it,” you mutter, glancing up at the two. he smiles, easy as he sits next to you, letting go of a heavy breath.

“i tell ya, osc. these things never get any easier,” lando grumbles, leaning back in the chair. it creaks under the weight. “seven years and you’d think you’d be used to this shit by now, but no.” he waves his hands around, flapping them as he speaks.

and, of course, you take notice.

lando’s hands are like baseball gloves. he could probably palm a basketball, easy, you think. his palms are wide, fingers thick and long. completely different to oscar’s. oscar didn’t have small hands, not necessarily, but they certainly weren’t whatever bear paws lando norris was working with.

and oscar, your oscar, who knew you just as well as you knew him, caught the way your breath stuttered in your chest. he caught the way your mouth parted, just barely. your eyes followed his hands as they moved, explaining something that he’d had to cancel to be here tonight.

oscar’s hand lands on your thigh, heavy and grounding. at first, you don’t really think anything of it. really. it’s just oscar being affectionate. then, he squeezes. it isn’t hard. there’s no harshness to the way his fingers dig in, but it certainly does catch your attention.

and, oh. oh.

“lando,” you say, snapped out of whatever reverie you’d fallen into.

he quiets immediately, turning to glance at you. “mhm?”

“do you have to have custom gloves made?” his eyebrows furrow, visibly confused. he opens his mouth, trying to speak, but you cut him off. “it’s just—your hands. they’re huge. there’s no way the fit in a standard racing glove.”

you watch the flush that tinges his ears with some unbridled glee. he pinches the tip of his ear between his fingers, a clearly nervous tic. he’s flustered. oscar’s hand tightens around your thigh. you spread your legs just a bit, feeling a low, warm curl through your gut.

“i mean, they’re not that big?” lando’s voice pitches up, soft giggle leaving him. “are they? i don’t think my gloves are any different from oscar’s. are they?” he looks past you and at oscar. and, oh, the look on oscar’s face is more gratifying than flustering lando could ever be.

his jaw is set tight, biting down on his molars like it’ll keep him from doing anything crazy. his nails dig into your skin, despite how you’d clipped them earlier.

lando makes a motion with his hand, asking for oscar’s. “here. l-let’s see,” lando stutters, taking oscar’s hand. not the one that had been firmly pressed to your thigh, but his left one. they line their palms up, and there’s a very clear winner. lando’s fingers span nearly an entire knuckle past oscar’s, and his palm is wide and boxy, where oscar’s is thin and rectangular. that low curl in your gut twists.

“me next!” you say, sitting up. lando, confused, looks between the two of you before he does the same, lining your palms up. his hand practically dwarfs yours. your head spins, mouth dry. opening your mouth to say something else, you’re startled by that warm, heavy again. this time, it sits on your shoulder.

it starts there, fiddling with the strap of your dress, before it slides up, up, up, fingers tangling into your hair. he plays it off like he’s just being a loving, doting boyfriend, massaging your head a little.

for a moment, you think you’re in the clear, hand falling to your lap as lando, flustered and flushed turns to talk to someone else that has taken a seat at the table. he’s sipping his water, ears pink. pride would claw at you if not for the way oscar’s hand weighs down on the nape of your neck. it’s solid and hot. you squirm in your seat, able to feel his thumb against your heartbeat, pressing in just slightly. it makes you gasp.

“oscar—“ you start, but it’s cut off by a honeyed voice, thick and low, kissing your ear.

“behave.”

you’d crossed a line. pushed too far. you could feel it in the curl of his fingers on your tense muscle.

oscar was a patient man, a benevolent man. someone who didn’t get into jealousy and insecure feelings. he wasn’t possessive nor boastful. but that… seeing the way your eyes locked onto lando’s had been enough. seeing the way your fingers practically trembled against tan skin and ocean-wide palms? well… oscar couldn’t have that. he needed to remind you exactly who you were there with, bring you back from whatever little cloud you were on.

your breath hitches, eyelids fluttering closed, submissive under the weight of that palm.

and oscar? he knows he’ll have you exactly where he wants you when you get back to the apartment.

[p1astr81]

aw naw my goat gay as hell wtf he lookin down there for😭