#I think they only had to look at each other to have a conversation

[inkandapex]

Stream Madness

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary : To the world, Y/N had always been Lando Norris’ closest friend��before the fame, the podiums, and the roar of F1 engines. Their bond had always been well-known, shared through countless moments on and off camera. But as the months went on, something started to shift, and it wasn’t just between Y/N and Lando. It became apparent through streams, where their chemistry couldn’t be denied.

Words: 4.7k

Warnings: some swearing

Max's Cooking Stream

“Done! I think they came out quite well,” Max announces, lifting the pan toward the camera, showing off the results of two hours in the kitchen.

The chat is already flooded with reactions—compliments, jokes, and the occasional disbelief at Max��s culinary skills.

"I'll be the judge of that" Lando states as he steps into view "Like master chef" he continues

Pietra is chatting with someone just out of view, her voice light and engaged. The mic, which has been filtering most background noise throughout the stream, only picks up bits and pieces of conversation—muffled words, distant laughter. But this moment? This one, it catches perfectly.

Lando steps away from where Max’s mic is propped, moving slightly out of frame. He reaches for a fork, his attention focused on someone unseen. And then, clear as day, his voice carries through.

"Love, come here a sec. Try it with me."

The chat explodes. But all three were too busy to realize what had just happened

"LOVE?? did he just say love??" "Stop rn who is he talking to" "someone find out rn pls" "it might be y/n, she was seen with them around monaco yesterday" "yeaa he calls her love sometimes i think its just a normal endearment for them lol"

All three, oblivious to the brewing chaos, all continue with what they were doing. Because whether it was intentional or not, Lando just dropped something big.

"Y/N’s here too, everyone! The whole gang’s here—Y/N, say hello to the chat," Max finally acknowledges, glancing at the flood of messages. It’s clear he’s doing some damage control, but the chat is already too far gone.

With a small wave and an amused little smile, Y/N finally steps into frame, grabbing a fork as she inches closer to the pan of food her friends have spent the past two hours making.

"Doesn’t look half bad, to be honest," she muses, inspecting the dish. "P’s really doing wonders, getting you this far into cooking."

Pietra laughs in the background while Max rolls his eyes, but before anyone can add to the banter, Y/N is already taking a bite.

"You’ve gotta—"

"Bloody hell—"

Lando’s warning comes a second too late. Y/N’s eyes widen as the heat hits, steam practically pouring out of her mouth as she waves a hand in front of her face, trying to cool down.

"You muppet, that’s literally fresh off the stove—c’mere," Lando chuckles, already unscrewing a bottle of water. He hands it to her, shaking his head as she takes it gratefully.

The chat? Utterly unhinged.

"NOT THE WAY HE JUST—"

"‘C’mere’ HE SAID ‘C’MERE’ I’M GONNA SCREAM."

"I AM LIVING FOR THIS CHAOS."

And just like that, what was supposed to be a casual cooking stream has become a full-blown internet event.

------------------------------------------------------------

Lando's Annual Stream

Everyone teases Lando about how he’s practically become a Twitch relic, only gracing the platform with his presence once a year. A far cry from the frequent streams he used to do. Some argue that it makes his rare appearances even more iconic, like a seasonal event the internet gathers for.

On one of his rare Twitch streams, Lando found himself diving into Backrooms with Max and a few other friends. As expected, chaos ensued—shouting, panicked laughter, and the occasional unintelligible screaming into the mic. But one moment, in particular, sent the fans into an absolute frenzy.

The doorbell rings, making both Ed and Lando pause mid-game and glance at each other.

"Food’s here," Lando announces into the mic.

Ed, already taking off his headset, ready to stand up. But just as Ed moves, they both hear the faint sound of the door unlocking.

"Oh, I think Y/N’s grabbing it, mate," Ed says, blinking in surprise. He relaxes back into his seat for a second before standing up anyway. "I’ll go help her."

"SHES STILL IN MONACO" "i thought she went back to London with Max and P" "omg she's staying with lando" "loool stop reading into it guys ed's also staying with lando. theyre just friends" "my delusions are being fed"

Both Y/N and Ed return, arms full with bags of food and cutlery. Ed drops back into his chair, already digging into his meal, while Y/N pauses beside Lando, holding a box of food in her hands.

"Do you want yours transferred to a plate, or is the box good?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

"Like that is fine, thank you—oh, I’m streaming, by the way. They can see and hear you," Lando adds with a grin as he takes the box from her.

Y/N barely reacts, too used to this by now. Instead, she casually leans in slightly, scanning the chat as she asks, "Is Max here? Can you tell him to let P know I’ve been trying to call her?"

Lando doesn’t even look away from his screen. "He can hear you—he says sure. You wanna sit here and eat with us?"

She shakes her head, stepping back. "I’m good, got my own thing going on. I’ll see if I can join you guys later if you’re still on. Do you want water or anything?"

Lando glances up at her, smiling. "I’m good, I can grab some myself later."

"You know he’s lying, right?" Ed chimes in, chewing his food. "He’s just gonna wait until you leave so he can ask me to grab it for him."

"Shut up," Lando laughs, shaking his head.

Y/N only smirks knowingly before rolling her eyes. "Alright, whatever you say."

"Okay, okay, go back to doing your thing," Lando says, refocusing on his screen. "Connor’s complaining we’re taking too long."

The chat, meanwhile, is already in shambles.

"She’s literally taking care of him at this point." "Ed exposing Lando is my new favorite thing." "The domestic energy here is sending me."

"What is she up to now? Too busy to play with us?" Max teases as they dive back into the game.

"Nah, mate, she's busy building Legos in the other room," Lando replies casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Max snorts. "Another new hobby? You know she gave us a shit ton of air-dry clay stuff she made that one time. My apartment is literally full of it."

"No, Max, I stepped into the apartment today, and I genuinely thought I was in a Lego store. It’s insane," Ed laughs, shaking his head.

Lando chuckles. "Some of them are mine too, alright? They're not all hers. She’s been building some sets I’ve had lying around for ages."

The chat, of course, goes wild.

"Their apartment is a Lego store. I am crying." "WAIT SO THEY HAVE BEEN LIVING TOGETHER RIGHT??" "Domestic life with Y/N and Lando sounds like a fever dream."

Max just laughs. "Well, tell her to finish up and come scream with us in the Backrooms when she’s done playing with her bricks."

------------------------------------------------------------

Taking Lando's Seat

The stream opens with Lando and Max sitting side by side, each focused on their own PC as they prep for a game of Tarkov. There’s an easy banter in the air, Max teasing Lando about his gear while the two get things set up. But it’s the subtle detail in the background that catches the chat's attention—Lando’s racing rig.

It’s glowing softly in the background, the LED lights creating an almost otherworldly vibe against the dim room.

Max finally glances at the chat, giving a quick nod to thank some of his new subs. But his eyes stop when he spots a few of the comments scrolling by.

Max smirks, leaning into the mic with a grin. "The rig? Oh—it's Y/N. She’s playing F1 right now."

With that, Max casually moves his chair out of the way, revealing Y/N sitting just behind him. She's fully immersed, headset on, brows furrowed in concentration as she steers through a corner on screen, oblivious to the fact that she’s now in full view of the chat.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Lando’s lips as he turns back to look at Y/N, still fully engrossed in the game, unaware that both he and Max are watching her with amusement.

"She's prepping for the season too," Lando continues, keeping his voice casual, though there’s a playful edge to it. "Chat, I think she’s planning on taking my seat—she’s been on there for hours now."

Lando laughs, but the chat immediately picks up on the vibe.

"HE'S JEALOUS, LOOK AT HIM."

"Lando knows he's been replaced."

"Imagine Y/N taking his F1 seat. I’d pay to watch that."

Max, who’s been watching the scene unfold, looks back at Lando with a raised brow. "She’s putting in more practice than you are, mate. Maybe she is taking your seat."

Lando chuckles, shaking his head, though his smile lingers. "Nah, nah, she’s still got a lot to learn... but she’s getting there. I’m just here for moral support."

The chat, of course, has already spirals into chaos.

"Moral support? He’s just trying to hold on to his seat!"

"I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE RACE BETWEEN THEM. WHO’S GONNA WIN??"

"Lando’s literally her biggest fan and her biggest competitor at the same time. I love it."

Y/N, still completely absorbed in the game, lets out a frustrated grunt as she crashes into the wall during a tight turn. "I've fucking crashed—how is AI Lando also a little shit?"

The pair immediately burst into laughter, unable to hold it in. The moment is too perfect—Y/N, so focused on her race, completely unaware she’s been on stream the whole time.

Max wipes away tears, trying to calm down. "What?" Y/N finally takes off her headset after pausing her game, looking around in confusion, only to notice the commotion between the two.

"We’re on Twitch," Max manages between laughs, still struggling to breathe. "They heard you calling Lando a little shit."

Max, still grinning, leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying the moment. "I mean, I honestly don’t know if you should be more offended by the fact that she just called you a little shit... or the fact that she’s not racing as you."

Lando looks over at Max, a playful glint in his eyes. "Yeah, who are you racing as right now?" His curiosity gets the best of him, and he stands up, walking behind Y/N to peer over her shoulder at her screen.

Y/N barely notices him, still intensely focused on her race. "You’re racing as Max?!" Lando exclaims, his voice a mix of disbelief and amusement. "I feel so betrayed!"

Y/N doesn’t respond, grabbing her water bottle beside her, taking a sip.

But Lando’s eyes widen as he looks at her screen again. "Wait, you're were P3?!" he says, his voice rising in shock. "What the fuck, Y/N—this is on 110 difficulty—did you change it?"

"Yeah, well I was but you crashed into me you knob"

Lando's completely taken aback, mouth agape, staring at her settings in awe. Without thinking, he takes over the controls, fully inspecting her game setup. "This is... this is insane. You’re actually doing really well."

Y/N, now realizing the level of chaos happening around her, turns to look at him with a grin. "What? Like its hard?"

Max, who’s been watching this unfold, laughs. "I told you she’d be better than you at this rate. I’m not surprised."

The chat, of course, is losing it.

"SHE'S RACING AS MAX AND BEATING LANDO. WHAT A MOOD."

"Y/N: 1, Lando: 0."

"Lando looks like he’s seen a ghost. How did she do that?"

Y/N just laughs, clearly loving the moment. "I told you, Lando, I’m coming for your seat."

"Alright, we've got to put a screen time limit on you from now on, love—fucking hell," Lando says, still shaking his head in disbelief, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He ruffles her hair affectionately before heading back to his seat.

The chat explodes with excitement.

"Lando’s whipped for her. I can’t breathe.""The way he ruffled her hair? That’s the couple energy we’re here for.""Y/N just casually destroying him, and Lando’s still soft with her. I’m obsessed.""I can’t believe they’re just out here living their best life on stream. I’m living for this dynamic."

-----------------------------------------------------------

Gaming Trio

The trio can be seen in Lando’s usual gaming spot, the atmosphere relaxed but buzzing with excitement. In an effort to accommodate everyone, an extra table has been pulled into the room, holding the laptop they’ve set up for Y/N so she can join in on the fun. The new setup feels a little crowded, but it only adds to the chaotic energy that’s been building up since they all logged in.

"Y/N is right behind you!" Max shouts into the mic, pulling the same trick he did to Lando the last time they played Backrooms

"Max, shut up, oh my gosh—NO IT'S CHASING ME, WAIT—PAUSE IT, PAUSE IT!" The panic in Y/N’s voice is unmistakable, and it sends both Lando and Max into fits of laughter.

Max, already losing it, grins widely. "You’re telling me to pause, but I’m the one who’s not controlling it!"

Lando, equally amused, can’t help but tease, hiding comfortably from the monster "Didn’t know you were this scared of a game, love."

Y/N’s frantic clicking can be heard through the mic as she scrambles to escape whatever horror was chasing her in the game. "I can’t— I swear it’s going to catch me!"

A sigh of relief escapes Y/N’s mouth as she finally reaches the room, the monster stopping its chase just in time. “Right, so you two do all the work and I’ll run out when it’s time to escape.”

Max lets out another laugh, clearly amused. “That’s not how it works, Y/N. You've got to carry your weight”

“Come on then, let’s go. Just stay behind me and you’ll be fine.” Lando moves his character closer to hers, ready to lead the way.

Y/N, still a little nervous, responds with a grin. “I’ll keep my eyes closed.”

Lando laughs, shaking his head. “Y/N—darling, it’s fine. It’s not that scary. It’s not gonna jump out at you. You just die and respawn, it’s all good.”

Max joins in, teasing, “Yeah, but if you keep closing your eyes, you’ll miss the whole thing. We’ll be done before you even open them.”

Y/N scoffs but can’t help but laugh, her character hesitating slightly. “I’m not opening them. I’m just here to run when the time comes.”

Lando smiles at her, his voice light. “Alright, well, try not to panic. We’ve got your back.”

The chat erupts in excitement, fans loving the playful back-and-forth between them.

"Y/N’s already planning her escape route. Classic." "he calls her darling im sobbing " "Lando’s trying to act all calm but he’s lowkey making sure she’s okay." "Max is enjoying this way too much, lol."

Lando glances at Y/N with a grin. “Stay close, alright? We’re doing this together.”

-----------------------------------------------------------

Y/Ns Instagram Live

Y/N was live on Instagram, chatting with fans while showing off her latest air-dry clay creations. She’d been getting non-stop requests to share her work ever since Max mentioned it in one of his streams, and now here she was, crafting away on camera.

Sitting on the floor in front of a coffee table, Y/N focused on the delicate jewelry plate she was shaping. She was giving her followers a detailed look at her process, her hands moving skillfully as she explained what she was doing.

"See, then you build the sides and stick it to the plate part you just made," she said, carefully adding a border to the plate. "So it kinda has a nice little border around it, and that way, you can put your jewelry in the middle without it all rolling off."

"Who you talking to?" A voice, unmistakably Lando's, makes Y/N's head snap up to look at him, her concentration momentarily broken.

Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of him standing in the doorway, and she quickly responds, trying to maintain the calm vibe of her live stream. "I'm on Instagram live— you didn’t see my text?" Y/N says, her voice soft but carrying a hint of a warning as she tries to focus on her work again.

Lando, walks into frame to stand beside her, only half his body on screen. “I saw it, but I didn’t think you’d actually be live. What’s going on in here?”

"I'm doing a jewelry plate tutorial, see?" Y/N smiles up at him, gently lifting the plate to show him the progress she’s made, the edges perfectly formed and the design coming together nicely.

Lando leans in a little closer, clearly impressed. "That's actually pretty sick. Have you shown them the other ones you've done?"

"Mhmm," Y/N nods, setting the plate back down on the table and continuing to work on it. "I did earlier. I have a few that are dried, so once I'm done with this one, I'm gonna show them how I paint it."

"Cool, cool," Lando says, grinning as he takes a step back. "I’m actually pretty curious about the painting part."

Y/N shoots him a glance, arching an eyebrow. "You want in on this too?"

Lando looks at her, then at the camera, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Can I join you?"

Y/N pauses for a moment, clearly trying to keep a straight face. "You gonna try your hand at some clay art, Norris?" she teases, but her tone is warm.

"Gotta try to beat you in something after you've somehow managed to get close to beating me on the racing sim" a smirk on his face as he plops down on the floor beside her "Right what am I meant to do?"

The two sat mostly in silence, both deeply immersed in their work. Y/N’s focus was on finishing her jewelry plate, the soft clink of clay against the table the only sound as she shaped it carefully. Lando, on the other hand, was determined to paint one of the already dried plate, though it was clear his attention was divided between the task and watching Y/N work.

"Oh, I’ve messed up, bub," Lando admitted, his voice a little defeated. "I’m sorry, this looks horrific. I think I’ve ruined it." He leaned back dramatically, letting his shoulders slump as he rested his back against the foot of the sofa, casting an apologetic look her way. "This is a disaster."

"What? No! It's cute—you even painted flowers on it, it's nice!" Y/N exclaimed, her tone playful as she tried to hype him up, a grin tugging at her lips.

Lando looked at her with a raised eyebrow, clearly amused. "Those are strawberries, you muppet," he said, laughing as he gently nudged her with his elbow, clearly not buying her attempt to boost his confidence.

Y/N burst out laughing, her hands up in surrender. "Oh, I'm only kidding! Of course they're strawberries," she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

She quickly mouthed a playful I didn’t know to the camera as Lando became distracted with his painting again, a smirk creeping up on her face as she watched him carefully work on his next stroke.

"add bub to the list of names lando calls y/n" "theyre actually so cute im going insane" "not y/n gentle parenting lando" "im telling my therapist about this" --------------------------------------------------

I'm telling mom

Max’s loud voice cut through the quiet apartment, shattering the late-night calm. It was already past 10 PM, and he’d been streaming for over two hours, fully immersed in whatever chaos his Twitch chat had cooked up for him.

“Y/N! Get in here a sec!” Max’s voice carried from his gaming room, loud enough to startle Y/N from where she sat beside P, half-watching a Netflix show.

With a sigh, she got up, padding toward his room. She hesitated at the door, peeking inside carefully, mindful of the camera that might be angled her way.

“It’s almost 11 PM, Max. What the fuck are you yelling about?” she laughed, eyes landing on him. He stood in the middle of the room, VR headset strapped on, controllers gripped tightly like his life depended on it. "You look ridiculous by the way"

“Can you call Lando? He’s fucking with me,” Max huffed, shifting on his feet like he was bracing for something. “He told me to download this horror VR game, and now he’s in chat claiming he’s in bed. I swear to God—he set me up.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Y/N started, arms crossed. “You want me to call Lando—”

“Yep.”

“—to ask him to get out of bed and play a game with you—”

“Mhm.”

“—instead of letting him sleep, because it’s nearly midnight in Monaco?”

“Exactly.” Max stood firm, pointing a VR controller at her like this was a life-or-death situation.

Y/N blinked. “Oh, you’re serious—right.” She sighed, shaking her head as she leaned against the wall, already dialing.

“I swear, if he doesn’t hop on after I’ve set this up and put my contacts in—”

“Lan, you’re on speaker,” Y/N announced the second he picked up, barely giving him a chance to breathe.

Before Lando could even say hello, Max exploded. “You muppet! I’ve been standing here waiting for you for the past ten minutes!”

“Oh, piss off! I’ve been waiting for you for nearly an hour, Max! Can’t believe you actually made Y/N call me for this.”

“You weren’t picking up my calls!”

Y/N let out a slow, tired sigh and turned to the camera with a deadpan look, the exact kind of exhausted stare straight out of The Office.

“So you tell on me?! How mature,” Lando huffs

“Just hop on the game!” Max shot back, exasperated.

“This behaviour at 25 is diabolical,” Y/N muttered, dragging a hand down her face.

Through the speaker, you could hear Lando moving around. “Fine, fine! Okay, I’m on,” Lando said, voice muffled as he adjusted his setup. “Max, hurry up—I’ll send Y/N the code. Love, show him the code before you leave.”

Y/N sighed, holding up her phone as she walked over to Max. “Right. I’ve been dragged from my peaceful night just to moderate a sibling fight.”

Max squinted at the screen. “Got it. Thanks, Mom—right, I’m joining. You can leave now.” He was already fumbling with the game settings, barely paying her any attention.

Y/N rolled her eyes as Lando’s voice softened on the phone. “I’ll call you later, alright? Go watch your show with P. I’ll text you when we’re done.”

“Mm-hmm,” Y/N hummed in response, finally making her escape.

As soon as she was gone, Max turned back to chat, shaking his head. “Right, let’s go. See? He’s such a knob—I have to call Y/N every time he’s being an ass because he actually listens to her.”

The chat was loving this interaction

"Y/N staying with Max and P is actually so wholesome" "NOT Y/N BEING MOM" "LANDO LISTENING TO Y/N ONLY IS PEAK BF BEHAVIOUR U CANT CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE" " "i'll call you later" is so cute he's down bad for her"

--------------------------------------------------

Big Reveal

At this point, they’d practically exposed themselves. The subtle interactions hadn’t gone unnoticed—small moments that seemed insignificant alone but painted a clear picture together. The lingering looks, the casual slips of affectionate nicknames, the way their conversations always carried a certain ease.

Everyone had a general understanding that the two were a couple, but they’d come to accept that Lando and Y/N weren’t quite ready to make it official—at least, not publicly. But what really sealed the deal? Max’s most recent stream, just before the season kicked off.

“Right, chat, Lando and I are finishing up the download, and we’ll hop on as soon as it’s done,” Max said, scrolling through chat and tossing out quick thanks for subs and gifted memberships while they waited.

“Is anyone else joining us or nah?” Lando asked, finally looking up from his phone where he sat beside Max, his own setup in front of him.

“Nah, don’t think so. Connor just texted—he’s out,” Max replied, making Lando nod before going back to whatever he was scrolling through.

“Chat, I’ll be back—I’m gonna grab some water,” Max announced, tapping his mic to mute it before standing up.

Completely unaware, Lando reached over and tapped the mic again, turning it back on.

“Baby?! C’mere a sec!” Lando called out, sitting with his back to the camera, casually waiting for someone to walk in—completely oblivious to the absolute chaos erupting behind him.

“OH BOB, YOU’RE NOT MUTED!!” “HES HOPELESS.” “NOOOOOOO LN TURN AROUND!!!” “HE FULLY EXPOSED HIMSELF IM CRYING.” "baby??!"

A moment later, Y/N appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Hello my pretty girl, wanna come join Max and I?" “Aren’t you live with Max right now?” she asked softly.

“Yeah, yeah, I muted it—don’t worry,” Lando reassured her without a second thought. “Wanna join? Max is still downloading it, we can set yours up if you’re up for it.”

Y/N smiled. “Yeah, sure, I’ll go grab the laptop.” With that, she turned and left the room.

Max walked back in, settling into his chair. “What were you two chatting about?” he asked as he put his headset back on.

“Y/N’s gonna play with us,” Lando answered smoothly. “Oh—by the way, I muted your mic. Chat can’t hear you right now.”

Max blinked. “Well, yeah, I muted it before I left—” His head snapped toward Lando. “Did you fucking tap the mic again?”

Lando visibly paled. “…No, I muted it.”

Max hurriedly glanced at chat, eyes scanning the messages flooding in before exhaling sharply. “You fucking unmuted it, you idiot.”

Lando sat there, frozen. Then, with an almost comically slow realization, he sighed. “Damn… well. Secrets out.”

Y/N practically skipped into the room, excitement clear in the way she carried her laptop against her chest. But the moment she stopped behind the two, her smile faltered.

Max and Lando both looked at her with identical guilty expressions.

“…What?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Max didn’t hesitate. “Your dimwit of a boyfriend just exposed you two. He unmuted the mic.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “No...”

Lando was already reaching for her hand, pulling her close. “I’m so sorry, baby. I swore I muted it.”

Y/N groaned, running a hand down her face. “Oh my God. How bad?”

Max snorted, scrolling through chat. “Let’s see… ‘We’re witnessing a live trainwreck,’ 'my pretty girl', ‘Bruh did he just expose himself?’ ‘Send help, I can’t breathe,’ and—oh, this one’s gold—‘My parents are finally public.’

Lando groaned, burying his face in Y/N’s side. “This is your fault, Max.”

“My fault?! You tapped the damn mic!”

The two went back and forth, bickering like a couple of siblings, while Y/N just stood there, still trying to wrap her head around what was going on.

“Oh, Y/N, come on. Don’t worry. It’s not like it’s a big surprise. He hasn’t exactly been subtle about it either.”

“Yeah, but until now, it was all just rumors and whispers.”

Lando shot her a reassuring smile. “Aww, baby, it’s fine. They love you, you know.”

Max groaned, leaning back in his chair and teasing them both. “See? Now he’s gonna go full PDA mode, more than he already does. We’re all doomed.”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “I swear, I can already see it.”

Lando reached over to take her hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Yeah, it is,” Max teased, rolling his eyes. “Just wait till he starts calling you ‘babe’ every two seconds on stream.”

Lando grinned mischievously. “You love it, Max. Admit it.”

Max shot him a playful glare. “I’m really starting to think I’ve been cursed.”

“Right, come on then, let’s play before I get called for an impromptu PR meeting,” Lando chuckled, giving Y/N a wink as he pulled his headset on.

[alexlwrites]

𝐀 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥'𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥

✿𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Jungkook x Reader

✿ 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚:  The one where you hate your boyfriend's best friend. Lucky for you, your boyfriend's other best friend's girlfriend hates her too.

OR

Hoseok's girlfriend will not let you be disrespected.

✿ 𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔: Angst, Short.

✿ 𝐀/𝐍: this is Aera, btw. We all need one in our lives.

Anyway, very short and silly one shot. Maybe one day I'll write YN or JK's POV.

°•. ✿ .•°

(Fanfic masterlist)

(support me on my ko-fi <3)

°•. ✿ .•°

Aera had, as a personal rule, the habit of not meddling in other people’s businesses. Her own were already too much of a burden and she was not put on this earth to overwork herself with someone else’s problems. They could it either solve it on their own or fuck off, as far as Aera was concerned.

But everything had a limit and you, with your kind ways and pretty smiles that had sneaked your way into Aera’s very tight circle of friends, were just too nice for her to just watch you suffer. After all, she was a girl’s girl through and through.

Except when it came to Eunjae. That bitch could choke and no amount of girlhood talk would change Aera’s mind.

It all exploded on a cold Friday when the whole gang got together to meet at a bar, squeezing into a booth. There was Aera, her boyfriend Hoseok, his friends Jin and Yoongi on one side, sharing a plate of fries. On the other side, Namjoon, you, your boyfriend Jungkook and Aera’s number one public enemy, Eunjae.

Eunjae had been a childhood friend to the boys, knowing them for many years as they held on to her like a security blanket. And that would of course not bother Aera at all, if Eunjae had any sort of common sense or boundaries. She seemed to think there would never be another girl in the group and she would forever remain their collective girlfriend, leaving no room for anyone else.

But Aera, fearsome and outspoken, had cut that evil from the root at the very beginning, making clear to Hoseok that she would not allow herself to be antagonized. Either he spoke up or she would walk out. Not buts. 

Unfortunately, you were not as assertive as her. And even worse, Jungkook seemed to be Aera’s favorite target.

You and Jungkook had been dating for quite a few months and it was clear to anyone with eyes that you did really like each other: you looked at him as if he hung the stars in the skies and he brought you up in any possible conversation. 

And so, of course, Eunjae hated you. But men were way too simplistic to pick up on her veiled and nuanced aggression, so even though Aera could see clear as day how much Eunjae bothered you, Jungkook never seemed to notice a thing.

It was all in the way Eunjae seemed to drape over him anytime he showed up, throwing herself in a way that made him drop your hand in order not to lose balance. It was how she never allowed you to call him Kookie, as that was “my nickname for you, is it not, Kookie? That’s our thing!”. And, as if that wasn’t enough to trigger even the chilliest of girlfriends, it was the way that every time you had a date schedule, Eunjae suddenly had an emergency that only Jungkook could solve.

And he would go, leaving behind a teary eyed you and an awkward shuffling Aera that did not know how to console you without telling you that you should dump Jungkook’s ass and punch Eunjae on the tits.

So Aera said nothing. And she would stay like that, if that night Eunjae hadn’t pushed her luck a bit too far.

“Oh my God, Kookie!” she exclaimed in the over strident voice she always seemed to have, making your eyes roll in annoyance at the nickname “You’re never gonna guess what I just got!”

Aera exchanged a sympathetic look with you over the table.

“What?”

“Tickets to tomorrow’s baseball game! For all of us! Isn’t that cool?”

The boys whooped in celebration, crowding around Eunjae to check the tickets she had on her hand. But Aera was the one that saw you freeze and look at your boyfriend with the saddest eyes in the world.

He, of course, was too busy staring at the stupid piece of paper. But Aera could see the satisfaction in Eunjae’s eyes, and so she asked “How many tickets did you get?”

“Only six, sorry!”

Aera huffed “Yeah, what a bummer.”

But you were still focused on your boyfriend. “Baby” you called pitifully “but we had plans tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you guys can reschedule, right, Kookie?” Eunjae said and Aera never before in her life wanted to twist someone’s neck so hard.

Ok, there was that time that dude cut the line at Five Guys and she was really hungry. But this was a close second.

“Yeah, baby.” Your dumb boyfriend agreed and if heartbreak was audible the room would’ve exploded in sound at that moment if your expression was anything to go by “You can hang with Aera tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay” you agreed, eyes teary as you hid under a curtain of hair. “Actually, it’s getting late. I think I’m gonna go. I’ll see you all later” and before anyone could say anything, you picked up your purse and left.

And now Aera was furious, as no one seemed to notice nor know why you were so upset and you were way too nice of a girl to be disrespected like that and still manage to not make a scene. “What a saint” she mumbled.

Eunjae scoffed. And that was Aera’s breaking point.

“Yup, okay, I’m done” she raised her hands and stood up from the booth. 

“Baby?” Hoseok called, surprised by her sudden anger. 

(He shouldn’t be. Aera was always at least 5% pissed off, like the Hulk.)

“I really tried not to say anything out of respect for your truly dysfunctional friendship, but I had enough. You” she pointed at her boyfriend “if you pull half of this shit on me, just know I’m dumping your sorry ass and putting a curse on you. Like, your penis will actually fall off. You” she turned to Eunjae, who seemed only mildly bothered at her explosion and that pissed Aera even more “are the evilest bitch on earth to pull this stunt on a girl as cool as Y/N and I hope you know you’re lucky she’s so nice, cause if that was me you would’ve been bald in a ditch right now. And finally you” she at least turned to Jungkook, who seemed stupidly shocked at her outburst “that girl will dump you anytime now and although I truly love you like a brother, she deserves better than what you give her. Oof, that feels great to get out of my chest.”

The table was silent for a while before Eunjae screeched “Are you just going to let her talk to me like that?!”.

Hm, yes they were. No one wanted to lose their penis and Aera was fucking scary.

“W-what do you mean Y/N is going to break up with me?” Jungkookie asked, looking truly upset at the news.

“C'mon dude. You’re lucky you’re handsome cause clearly your head is just a hat rack if you can’t figure that out.” Aera looked around the circle of flabbergasted men “Really? No one? Ok, let me explain in a way y’all dumb dumbs can understand: Jungkook, how many times in the last few weeks did you and Y/N hang out just the two of you? Like a date?”

“Two times, maybe?”

“And how many times did you hang out with the wicked witch of the west right here?”

Jungkook winced and did not answer.

“It’s not his fault that I’m more fun to hang with!” Eunjae exclaimed.

“Ay, don’t say that” Jungkook tried to defend you but by then it was too late.

“And how many times were you hanging out with Y/N and this soon to be bald bitch called you and asked to see you?”

No answer.

“And did you go?”

Silence. Guilty silence.

“Yup. That’s what I thought. And finally, do you know what day tomorrow is?”

Jungkook frowned “Tomorrow? We had a date planned, I guess.”

“You guess, huh?” Aera let out a strangled laugh that made Namjoon slide under the table a bit “Tomorrow was your girlfriend’s birthday, dumbass. And you know how I know that? Cause I heard Eunjae ask her in the girl’s bathroom about her plans before she suddenly appeared with these magical tickets. So!” Aera clapped as Jungkook’s mouth opened in horror and other boys cast disappointed looks at Eunjae “I hope you all enjoy the game and I do hope the ball hits you bitch straight on the head and you get amnesia and forget what a terrible person you are. And finally I do hope Y/N finds herself some back bone and breaks up with you tomorrow because what a birthday gift would it be to be free of this clusterfuck. Anyway, good luck to you all.”

And with that, Aera left, going after you cause she would be damned if she left you alone. After all, she was a girl’s girl.

[aleskie]

EIGHTEEN | Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Oscar Piastri has loved you since he was eighteen. It just takes him a while to get to that point. Or so he thinks. This is Oscar's journey to realizing that maybe the girl he's always hated isn't so bad at all. In fact, she's actually...pretty loveable.

Warnings: None just Enemies to Lovers?? Or is it more Rivals to Lovers?? Also, the timeline is wonky with the irl events, so just pretend it makes sense. And also i had to look up the british school systems SO THEY MAY BE WRONG BUT PLEASE JUST PRETEND

♫ Listen: 18 by One Direction ♫

2016: Year 10 [15 years old]

He didn’t know why, but from the moment you two met at the headmaster’s office, Oscar Piastri knew he hated you. 

Maybe it was your posture—back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting politely on your lap—or maybe it was your voice, too polished, too proper, like you were reciting lines off a script. Or maybe it was everything else.

The way you barely acknowledged him as you both waited in the stuffy office, but flashed a smile so perfectly pleasant it had to be fake the second the teachers and headmaster walked in. The way your eyes flickered over him when he introduced himself, assessing, calculating, like he was a pawn to be placed, a connection to be measured. Or maybe—definitely—it was when you called motorsport, his life’s mission and passion, a hobby.

He tried not to let it get to him. He really did. But even he had to admit he could be a little petty.

“At least I have a hobby,” he muttered in your direction as soon as the faculty members were out of earshot.

For a split second, he thought you looked hurt—something in the way your lips parted, the slightest flicker of hesitation in your expression. But then it was gone, replaced by a scoff and a perfectly arched brow.

“At least I know my dreams have a higher chance of succeeding than yours do.”

Low blow.

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag. “You’ve got dreams?” He sneered. “Must be hard for a princess like you to have to be here and work for them then.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something sharp in the way you did it, like you were daring him to say more. “Don’t act like you know me, Piastri.”

He huffed out a dry laugh. “I could say the same for you.”

You turn your head away from him at the sound of light footsteps—faculty returning, this time accompanied by older students meant to be your guides. And just like that, the stupidly perfect, fake smile was back on your face, as if the last few minutes of exchanged barbs had never happened.

“I see you two have been conversing,” says the headmaster, smiling warmly. If only she knew about the jabs you’d taken at each other. Would she still be smiling?

“He’s been lovely company, Mrs. Berkshire,” you lie with effortless charm, your voice smooth as silk. “It’s been comforting to know I’m not the only transfer student.”

Then, as if to twist the knife a little deeper, you turn to him with a look so deceptively sweet it could almost pass as genuine—almost. “I’m glad Oscar feels the same.”

There’s a glint in your eyes, something smug and self-satisfied, and he wonders if anyone else in the room can see just how full of it you are. Probably not. Mrs. Berkshire certainly doesn’t. She beams, clearly pleased at the thought of her two new students becoming fast friends.

Oscar clenches his jaw. He could call you out, make it clear that you’re full of it—but what’s the point? Instead, he forces himself to nod, his voice tight as he grits out, “Yeah. She’s been great.”

He sees it then—that flicker of amusement, the way your lips almost twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. Almost. Couldn’t let your facade slip, not even for a second.

And it pissed him off.

You spend most of your first year at boarding school in different circles.

Oscar lays low, slipping easily into a group of laid-back boys who are effortlessly easy to be around. They play video games in dorm rooms until lights out, kick a ball around after class, and never demand much from each other beyond good company. They cheer him on when he leaves to compete and catch him up on everything he’s missed when he comes back. They’re great. Better than he could have ever imagined.

You, on the other hand, carve out your place at the top of the food chain. Academically untouchable, always two steps ahead. First in your class, a key member of the Debate Team and MUN Club, and well on your way to securing a prefect badge. Your uniform is always pristine, your headband perfectly in place, not a single strand of hair out of order. You have a small group of friends who he assumes are just as intelligent, uptight, and snooty as you are.

And yet—when he sees you laughing with them, head thrown back, completely unguarded—something about you seems softer. You don’t look like the girl who calculated every move, who smiled just enough to be polite but never enough to be real. In those moments, with that rare, genuine laugh, he thinks—begrudgingly—that you actually look quite…pretty.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know why he even notices. It’s not like he cares.

But sometimes, in the middle of a dull afternoon or while walking past the library, he catches glimpses of you—not the polished, picture-perfect version of you that you show everyone else, but something different. Unpolished. Real.

Like when you’re sprawled across a bench outside with your friends, books and papers in a chaotic mess around you, groaning about an impossible assignment—right up until someone cracks a joke that sends you into a fit of laughter. The kind of laugh that makes you cover your mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners, completely unguarded.

Or when, on those rare occasions, he catches you slipping up in class, head bobbing forward as you fight off sleep, fingers twitching as you try—and fail—to take notes.

Or when he walks past the debate team’s practice room and sees you in your element, arguing fiercely, hands moving with conviction, voice steady and sure. Confidence radiating off you in a way that has nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with certainty.

And for a second, just a second, he forgets to be annoyed by you.

But then you glance up, catch him staring, and arch a perfectly shaped brow in challenge—like you know something he doesn’t.

Right. He still hates you. Definitely.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking.

2017: Year 11 [16 years old]

Oscar was back at school regularly after the summer holidays and the season ending. He was pretty pleased with himself—2nd place wasn’t anything to scoff at. Sure, first would’ve been better, but it was fairly won. Besides, it had been a fun season, his best yet. More importantly, he hadn’t thought about you for months. Too busy with his Formula 4 campaign, too focused on climbing the motorsport ladder, too—

Well. That’s what he told himself.

He stepped through the iron gates of the academy, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his phone buzzing with check-up texts from his mom. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass and old stone filled his lungs, a quiet signal that summer was officially over. Students crowded the courtyard, reuniting after the break, voices overlapping in a chorus of excitement. His friends spotted him almost immediately, calling his name, pulling him into easy conversation—asking about his races, his wins, his losses, his plans.

And then—there you were.

Standing by the main building, perfect posture as always, chatting with one of your equally polished friends. Your hair was different, slightly shorter, but the headband remained, a signature piece of armor. Your uniform was just as crisp as it had been last year, not a wrinkle in sight, now complete with a new prefect’s badge that you wore with unmistakable pride. And when you laughed at something your friend said, it was that same light, practiced sound he recognized all too well.

It took exactly eight seconds for you to notice him.

Your gaze flicked toward him, assessing, calculating—just like it had in the headmaster’s office when you first met. Then—because you were you—your lips curled into a polite, almost saccharine smile, the kind reserved for faculty members and people you didn’t actually care about.

He scoffed. Typical.

“Piastri,” you greeted, voice smooth, just a little too pleasant.

“Princess,” he shot back, just to see if he could get a reaction.

And for a split second, he did—your brow twitched, barely noticeable, but he caught it. Then, just as quickly, you smoothed your expression, tilting your head ever so slightly in mock amusement.

“We’re in Year 11 now, and you’re still calling me that?”

“You’re still acting like one.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. But then, after a beat, you said, “I saw that you got second in the championship. Congratulations.”

Oscar blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Compliments from you were rare, practically unheard of. He studied your face, searching for sarcasm, but found none. Just a simple, matter-of-fact acknowledgment.

“…Thanks,” he said, accepting it before you could take it back. “Bet it was a little more interesting than your summer,” he added, smirking.

You raised a brow. “What, don’t tell  me you’re…curious about my summer, Piastri.”

His smirk vanished. His brain short-circuited.

And just like that, you had him cornered.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shut it. His brain scrambled for a way to recover, but all it did was replay the way you’d said his name just now—not in the usual clipped, disapproving way. No, this time it had been lighter, teasing. Maybe even…amused.

Suddenly, the two of you were locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to look away first.

Your friend cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. Oscar barely noticed. Because in that moment—standing there, the summer heat giving way to the crispness of early autumn, your eyes locked onto his with that same sharp, knowing look—he realized something.

He hadn’t actually stopped thinking about you at all.

The mere thought made his stomach twist, and before he could process it any further, he turned on his heel, raising a hasty hand in goodbye as he strode back to his friends. Fast. Like putting distance between you would somehow fix whatever the hell had just happened in his head.

“Okay, that was a little weird,” he heard your friend murmur behind him. “Is he alright?”

“Maybe the gasoline finally got to his brain,” you quipped. “A pity. He was a little smart, too.”

Oscar nearly tripped.

He wanted to say the comment about his "off attitude" annoyed him. He wanted to say that the gasoline remark made him dislike you more. He wanted to say that he had a cutting comeback ready to fire back at you.

But all he could think about was how you called him smart.

God, what was happening to him?

He knew something was going to go wrong last week when their teacher announced he’d be the one pairing up students for the project, taking matters into his own hands with a kind of cruel indifference that made Oscar’s stomach twist.

He knew something was going to go wrong when, at the start of class, the teacher gave both you and him a pointed look—sharp, knowing—before moving on like nothing had happened. You had shot him a confused glance then, your brow furrowing ever so slightly in a rare moment of shared uncertainty. He had stared back, just as lost. Neither of you had any idea what was coming, but for once, you were both on the same side of the battlefield.

And then the teacher started listing off partners.

It started harmless enough—his friends were getting paired with each other, easy matches. So were yours. Names fell into place like puzzle pieces, creating perfectly balanced, cooperative duos that wouldn’t cause trouble. And then—

“And finally, Oscar and...Y/N.”

Silence.

For a moment, he swore he misheard. But then he turned, and there you were, staring at the teacher like you were considering staging a full-scale academic rebellion. The slight tightening of your jaw, the way your fingers curled subtly against your sleeves—he could practically hear the calculations running through your head, weighing the pros and cons of outright protesting.

A second ticked by. Then another.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you muttered under your breath, but the teacher either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“I expect full collaboration,” they continued, already moving on. “This project is a significant portion of your grade, so I suggest you all put any personal differences aside and focus on the work.”

Oscar barely heard the rest. He was too busy glaring at his desk, resisting the urge to run a hand down his face. Of course, this just had to happen. Most teachers kept the two of you apart, aware of the silent war you had waged since the day you met. But not this one. No, this one was smarter—or crueler—ready and waiting to watch the fire combust.

Great. Just great. Out of everyone in this class, he was stuck with you.

By the time class ended, he had barely processed anything. He was about to make his escape when he felt a presence beside him.

“You.”

He sighed before even turning around.

You had stopped him just outside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the slight, irritated furrow of your brow. The usual superiority was absent—no smug glint in your eyes, no perfectly poised smirk. Just frustration, quiet but simmering.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” you said flatly.

Oscar let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Trust me, Princess, I’d rather fail.”

And then—you smiled.

Not the polite, school-perfect kind you used on teachers. Not the barely-there one reserved for acquaintances. No, this one was slow, sharp, and just smug enough to make his blood boil.

“Then I guess we have very different priorities.”

He hated that he had no comeback.

God, this was going to be a disaster.

“We should take a break,” Oscar says, hunching over the library table, rubbing his temples like the weight of academia is physically crushing him. “We’ve been at this for hours.”

You barely spare him a glance. “It’s been two hours and seven minutes.”

“See? It’s been so long,” he complains, dragging a hand down his face. “Let’s take a break. You’re done with your part anyway.”

You turn to him, assessing. “Are you finished with your part?”

He hesitates. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he sighs. “Give me like an hour, and I’ll be finished.”

You straighten, your posture sharpening into something unreadable, something that makes him feel like a student being reprimanded. “Piastri, this is due tomorrow. We need to get it done today.”

“And we will,” he argues, matching your intensity. “Just let me nap for a bit.”

You inhale sharply, clenching your jaw, and he already knows what’s coming. That calm facade. That practiced composure. That same tone you use when talking to teachers, the one that makes him want to throw his pen at the wall.

“The library closes in three hours,” you say evenly. “This is just the first draft, so we still need to revise. And not to mention we have to properly format our sources—thirteen of them, by the way. Do you know how long that’s going to take?”

Oscar groans, letting his head fall dramatically onto the open textbook in front of him. “Princess, we can afford not to revise this. It’s literally a first draft for comments. We can just start formatting the citations.”

You don’t budge. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “What page of the document are you working on?”

He blinks, suspicious. “…Why?”

“I’ll finish it.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“We need to finish on time, and I refuse to let my grade be pulled down because we don’t submit a good output.”

“You’re not doing my work.” His voice comes out sharper than he expects, but the idea of you just taking over, of you thinking you have to—he hates it. “It’s literally my work for a reason.”

“And you aren’t getting it done, so let me do it.” You nearly exclaim, only to catch yourself, voice lowering when you remember where you are. The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and distant whispers. You press your lips together like you’re trying to hold the rest of the argument inside.

It’s silent between you for a long moment.

And then—

“…Do you always end up doing the work?”

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your gaze flickers away, shifting toward the window. Anywhere but him.

Oscar watches you carefully, something tightening in his chest. “Y/N, what the hell? People have just been riding on your work?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, voice even. Practiced. “We get it done. And we get it done well.”

His brows furrow. He doesn’t know why he’s so upset. He shouldn’t care. It’s not his problem, right? It was your choice to take on the workload, to let people walk over you.

But still…knowing that people just expect you to pick up the slack, that they let you do it without even thinking—

It pisses him off.

And what pisses him off more is the way you look right now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just resigned.

Like this is just the way things are. Like you’re used to it. And he hates that more than anything.

“Give me like forty-five minutes,” Oscar says after a beat, exhaling through his nose. “We’ll start revising after, and then we can split the citations.”

You blink, eyes flickering with something unreadable—surprise, maybe. He can’t tell. But then, just for a second, he swears he sees the corners of your lips twitch upward, like you’re trying not to smile.

“Just…” You hesitate, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of your notebook. “Tell me if you need help. Or…y’know. If you have questions.”

Your voice is quieter this time, less clipped, lacking the usual sharp edge you use when you’re exasperated with him.

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. The library is quieter now, the golden hues of the sunset stretching across the wooden tables and casting long shadows over your open books. The light catches on your face—soft, warm—and for the first time, he gets a proper look at you up close.

You look tired. Not just from today, but in the way that lingers—faint bags under your eyes, a kind of weariness that no amount of perfect posture or crisp uniforms can fully hide. And yet, right now, there’s something peaceful about you. The way you rest your head against your palm, watching him work—not impatient, not irritated. Just…watching.

You must notice, because your brows furrow slightly. “Do I have something on my face?”

“What?” He blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he had fallen into.

“You were staring.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“It was nothing,” he says quickly, looking back at his laptop. “Just zoning out.”

You hum, unconvinced. But instead of arguing, you simply go back to flipping through your notes, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

“…Okay,” you say.

He exhales, forcing himself to focus. “Okay.”

Somehow, he feels like forty-five minutes is going to take much longer.

Three weeks into the project, Oscar realizes something: you’re actually kind of well-known on campus. 

Or, at the very least, you know a lot of people.

It’s not like he was completely unaware of it before. Your perfect reputation precedes you—your name carries weight in every class. Teachers mention you as an example of excellence, throwing your name around as if it alone should inspire the rest of them to do better. But working with you forces him to see it firsthand.

It seems like every five seconds, someone is coming up to greet you.

It doesn’t matter where you are—library, hallways, common areas. Someone always stops by.

Underclassmen ask for help on assignments—apparently, you tutor them sometimes, though Oscar doesn’t know how you find the time. Classmates ask about group projects. A girl from the debate team once yelled and waved from across the quad while you were in the middle of explaining a research point. Even the Year 13s, the ones Oscar barely interacts with, acknowledge you with nods and casual greetings.

And the weirdest part? You handle it all effortlessly.

He expected you to treat them the way you treat him—polite but cold, maybe even dismissive. But you don’t.

Instead, you smile. The fake one. The one he recognizes now, warm but not inviting. Like a wall disguised as a door, keeping people at a carefully measured distance. You don’t brush them off, but you don’t encourage them either. Your reactions are controlled, calculated. Just like everything else about you.

It’s impressive.

It’s annoying.

And it shouldn’t bother him. Not really.

But after three weeks of constantly being in your presence, after working side by side for hours on end, after getting into at least five arguments over formatting and research sources and the exact tone an introduction should have—he feels a little close to you. Not enough to like you, obviously. But enough that his respect for you has grown, just a little.

And with that, he’s started to notice things.

Like how you always twirl your pen when you’re deep in thought, but you never drop it. How you tap your fingers against your notebook in the exact rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head. How you drink tea instead of coffee and always wince at the first sip, like it’s too hot but you drink it anyway. How you use hair ties instead of your signature headband when you’re frustrated, tying and untying your hair over and over again only to fall back to your tried and tested headband after a while. How you let out a tiny sigh whenever you finish an assignment, as if mentally crossing it off a never-ending list.

He notices these things, and he tells himself it’s just because you’re working together. Because you’re spending time together. Because of course he’s going to pick up on small details when you’re stuck in the same space for hours.

That’s all it is.

Right?

Definitely.

And then, one afternoon, as you sit across from him at the library, books and notes spread between you, someone approaches.

"Y/N, hey."

Oscar looks up. It’s some guy—one of the Year 12s from the student council. He’s polished and confident, wearing the kind of casual smirk Oscar immediately finds irritating.

You blink in mild surprise before offering a smile—thankfully, the fake one. The one that’s polite, effortless, and just distant enough.

"Hello, Eric."

Eric leans against the table, his entire focus on you. He doesn’t even acknowledge Oscar.

"Haven’t seen you at any events lately. You’ve been busy?"

You glance at the open laptop in front of you, gesturing vaguely to your notes. "Yeah, the project’s been taking up a lot of time."

"Oh, right. This is for—" He finally gives Oscar a glance, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s only just realizing he’s there. "This is your partner?"

Oscar doesn’t like the way he says that.

You nod. "Yeah. We’ve been working on it together for a while now."

Eric hums, then—too casually—grins. "Well, don’t work too hard. Wouldn’t want you burning out before the weekend." His voice drops slightly, just enough to sound a little too suggestive for Oscar’s liking. "You should take a break. Come to the council’s seminar on Friday afternoon."

You hesitate, and for some reason, Oscar finds himself gripping his pen just a little tighter.

"It sounds fun," you admit, "But, with my schedule, I’m not sure—"

"You should go," Eric insists, tilting his head. "C’mon. You worked hard to help organize it—Thanks for the great speakers you found, by the way—I’ll even save you a seat next to me."

Something bristles in Oscar’s chest.

He doesn’t know why, but the entire interaction irks him. Maybe it’s the way Eric acts like he already knows you’ll say yes. Maybe it’s the casual confidence, the assumption that you’d drop everything just because he asked. Or maybe it’s the way you’re actually considering it.

Before he can stop himself, Oscar lets out a scoff.

Both you and Eric turn toward him.

"You good, man?" Eric asks, clearly amused.

Oscar leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Didn’t realize we were in the middle of a social hour, Y/N. Thought we were working."

Your eyes narrow slightly, but before you can say anything, Eric just laughs, pushing off the table. "Relax, Piastri. Didn’t mean to interrupt." He turns back to you, giving you an easy grin. "Think about it, yeah? It’d be nice to see you there."

You give a noncommittal nod, and just like that, he walks off.

The moment he’s gone, you exhale, turning to Oscar with a raised brow. "Was that necessary?"

He shrugs. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, muttering, "You’re so weird."

Oscar clenches his jaw, tapping his fingers against the table, suddenly annoyed.

Not at you. Not even at Eric.

Just at the fact that, for some stupid reason, the thought of you actually going to that seminar is really bothering him.

And he has no idea why.

He sneaks out of the dorms on Friday night, hands in his pockets, head low as he moves through the dimly lit pathways of the school. The night air is crisp, the kind that clears his mind if he lets it, but tonight, it does nothing to untangle the thoughts looping through his head.

It’s stupid. The fact that he even cares. That the idea of you and Eric sitting together, side by side, laughing at some dull student council joke, is bothering him.

It doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

Because he doesn’t like you.

He still thinks you’re stuck-up, overly competitive, and have a way of looking at him like you know exactly how to get under his skin. The faces you make, the way you roll your eyes when he so much as breathes the wrong way—it’s all infuriating.

But you’re smart. Intelligent. And your work ethic is something he respects, even if he won’t admit it.

And, yeah, you’re pretty. Even he has to acknowledge that much. But not the obvious kind of pretty. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that feels like a place you recognize, a feeling that lingers in the quiet spaces between conversations. It’s the kind that makes you feel at home.

The kind that—if he were the type to believe in this kind of thing—you’d find when you’re in love.

Not that he is. Obviously.

He shakes the thought away, sighing as he rounds the corner of the old courtyard. And then—

"It’s lights out, Piastri."

Your voice cuts through the silence, and he stops dead in his tracks.

You’re standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the dim glow of the campus lamps casting soft shadows across your face. You look unimpressed but not surprised, like you already expected to catch someone out of bed tonight.

He exhales, shoulders dropping. Of course.

"Then what are you doing here?" he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. "I’m a prefect, remember? Tonight’s my shift to make rounds before security does."

"Oh."

A beat.

"So," you say, tilting your head slightly. "What made you break curfew? You don’t seem like the type."

"Just needed to walk. Clear my head."

You hum in response, your gaze flicking over him, assessing. Then, after a moment:

"Well, the classrooms in the east wing don't get much attention. You can stay there and then sneak back out when the prefects and security switch shifts."

Oscar blinks. Of all the responses he expected from you, that wasn’t one of them.

He raises a brow, smirking. "And you know this…how?"

Your expression doesn’t change, but he catches the way your lips twitch slightly, like you’re holding back a smile. "I can be a little disobedient too. Sometimes."

That surprises him.

"You?" he says, skeptical.

You shrug. "It doesn’t happen often. Just when I need to clear my head." A pause, then, voice quieter, "Those classrooms are my spot, so don’t go there too often. I don’t need to see you when I’m stressed."

Oscar snorts. "Wow. What an honor."

"Exactly."

For a moment, neither of you move. There’s something odd about standing here, talking like this—like you’re two people who aren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Like, in this sliver of time, there’s something unspoken but mutual between you.

It doesn’t last long.

You straighten your posture, clearing your throat. "Now, get going before I change my mind and actually report you."

"Noted, Princess."

You roll your eyes and turn away, disappearing down the corridor.

And for some stupid reason, as Oscar watches you leave, he wonders if you ever feel as restless as he does.

2018: Year 12 [17 years old]

He’s been using the classrooms in the east wing as a secret place to clear his head since the night you told him about it. So far, he’s never run into you.

Maybe you use a different classroom. Maybe you come on different days. Or maybe—like everything else in your life—you have a system, a strict schedule he’s unknowingly managed to avoid.

Either way, he’s always had the classrooms to himself.

Until tonight.

The air is heavier than usual as he makes his way through the dimly lit hallways, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s restless. Frustrated. He tells himself it’s because of the season he’s just had. The Eurocup was brutal and he definitely wasn’t at his best. Every race felt like a battle he couldn’t ever win and every misstep made the weight in his chest grow heavier.

All he wants is to be home. Back in Australia, where everything is familiar—the streets, the skies, the people who don’t expect anything from him except to just be. But instead, he’s here. At fucking boarding school.

He exhales sharply as he pushes the classroom door open, stepping into the quiet. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights—he knows this space well enough now. The desks are still arranged the way they always are, the faint scent of old paper and dry-erase markers lingering in the air. It’s not much, but it’s his for the night.

At least, that’s what he thinks.

Not even five minutes later, the door swings open behind him, and he barely has time to turn his head before—

You.

You freeze in the doorway, hand still on the handle. There’s a flicker of something across your face—surprise, maybe even slight irritation. You definitely thought you were going to be alone.

He should’ve figured this would happen eventually.

Your lips part slightly before you collect yourself. “I’ll use a different—”

“You can stay.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

You hesitate, eyebrows drawing together slightly, like you’re trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. He doesn’t blame you.

But then, after a beat, you nod, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you, switching on one of the lights and dimly lighting up the room. Neither of you say anything as you move to opposite sides of the room, like unspoken rules are being established in real time.

Oscar exhales, rolling his shoulders back as he leans against one of the desks. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That you being here changes nothing.

So why does the room suddenly feel smaller?

He looks over at you. You’re scrolling through your phone, eyes scanning over messages he can’t see—but whatever’s on the screen has your jaw clenched tight. His gaze flickers down to your hands, the way your fingers tremble slightly over the glass. And then, in the dim light, he sees it. Faint but undeniable—tear stains trailing down your flushed cheeks.

His stomach twists.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice careful.

“Fine.” You don’t even look up.

He doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. “You sure?”

“Why do you care, Piastri?” You finally glance at him, but your expression is unreadable. “You don’t even like me.”

He stills. He wasn’t expecting you to be that blunt about your whole dynamic.

“Any decent person would care about someone who looks like they’ve just bawled their eyes out,” he says, crossing his arms.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, I’m fine.” Your posture shifts, back straightening as your expression smooths out into something eerily familiar. And then it’s there—the mask. The same sweet, practiced smile you wear around everyone else, the one he’s hated since the moment he first saw it in the headmaster’s office years ago. The one that hides everything.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say smoothly. “I have everything under control.” You turn to leave. “I’ll be off now—”

“Cut the bullshit, Y/N.”

The sharpness in his voice makes you freeze, hand hovering over the door handle.

“We both know you’re not fine.” His voice is lower now, steadier, but just as firm. “I know that face. I think I’m the only one who knows that face and how it’s not real. It’s never been real.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “For once in your life, just be fucking honest.”

You don’t turn around immediately. When you do, your face is unreadable. Then—so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it—you whisper,

“I’m not at the top of our class anymore.”

His breath catches.

“My grades are dropping—fast,” you continue, voice shaking despite how hard you try to control it. “My A-levels are harder than I expected. I thought I could handle it, but I—” You swallow. “I’m failing. And I’m letting everyone down.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

His chest tightens.

“My parents are pissed. My siblings are pissed because now my parents are pissed at them too. If I were just smarter, if I were better, none of this would be happening. Everything would be fine. Everyone would be happy.” You suck in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t stop the fresh tears from spilling down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away. You just stand there, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

“I’m just tired,” you whisper.

Silence.

It hangs thick between you, pressing against the walls, settling into the space between your feet.

Before he can think twice about it, Oscar moves. Slowly. Carefully. Until he’s standing in front of you. Not too close, but close enough that he can see the way your lashes clump together from the tears, the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still trying to keep yourself from breaking completely.

“I…didn’t think you could cry,” he mutters, before realizing how weird that sounds.

You blink at him, and for once, there’s no condescension in your expression—just something flat, unimpressed.

“You’re weird,” you say, voice hitching slightly from crying, “But you’re pretty good.”

His brows furrow. “Like, as a person?”

“Take it however you want.” You chuckle, a small, tired sound. You wipe your tears away, then, tilting your head, you ask, “So, why’d you come here?”

He hesitates. Looks down at his hands. Then, finally, exhales.

“I got ninth at the Eurocup this season.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightens. “I let everyone down. The team. The sponsors. My family.” His fists clench. “I did everything right. I trained harder than ever, I did my best, I gave everything—and it still wasn’t enough. I failed and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

The room is quiet again. Until—

You move.

Soft footsteps against the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing even closer to him. And then, hesitantly, you lift a hand and rest it on his shoulder. The warmth of your touch is unexpected, but grounding.

“Well,” you say, your voice quieter now, “I guess that makes us both failures.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, half in disbelief at the words that just left your mouth, half at the sheer irony of it all.

The girl he’s spent years hating is somehow the only person who understands exactly how he feels.

And when you laugh along with him—soft and real, no mask in sight—he thinks it might be the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

But just in an objective way. 

Obviously.

Something shifts after that night.

The jabs between you are still there, but they’ve lost their edge—less snark and spite, more playful banter. The kind that lingers just long enough to be amusing but never actually stings.

You smile at him when you pass each other in the hallway now. Not the polite, distant one you give everyone else, but a real one—small, barely-there, but real. You don’t avoid sitting with him anymore when the study hall is packed, and somehow, he swears people have started reserving a seat next to him for you.

He finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

It was weird at first—falling into this easy rhythm with you. He doesn’t quite know when it happened, only that it did.

Now, you help each other out when you can, despite having different A-levels.

You teach him how to organize his notes properly, finally getting him to admit that his system of stuffing everything into his bag “where I can find it later” is inefficient. In return, you steal scratch paper from him when you need to jot things down quickly, muttering a half-hearted “thanks” while he snorts and tells you to bring your own next time.

You ask him to explain things you don’t have the patience to reread, and he—after weeks of resisting—finally accepts your request to have a shared study playlist, since, for some reason, you two find yourselves next to each other so often.

It’s fun. Organic. Comfortable.

And then one day, in the middle of study hall, as he’s flipping through notes and barely paying attention, you look up from your work and—completely unprompted—ask:

“So, tell me about racing.”

He freezes, caught completely off guard.

“…Finally interested in my hobby?” He smirks, leaning back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers just like you’d taught him.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Ugh. Let it go, we were like fifteen.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Yeah, something’s definitely changed.

“So…” He watches you intently, trying to gauge if you actually want to know. “You really wanna hear about it?”

“Well, you won’t shut up about it,” you say, propping your chin on your hand. “Might as well figure out what’s so cool about it.”

He snorts. “Then sure, princess, let’s introduce you to motorsport, yeah?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but he catches the way you shift slightly in your seat, just a little closer, just a little more engaged.

“There’s a few types of it,” he starts, leaning back against the desk. “You’ve got the motorcycles and there’s even stuff where there’s two people in one car. But I’m in single-seater racing, so it’s just me.” His voice gains a certain ease as he speaks, his usual sharp edges softening. “I’m aiming for Formula One, which is like… the top of it all.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He always seemed most alive when he was annoyed at something—eyes sharp, jaw tight, voice lined with exasperation. But this? This is different. His posture is looser, his words flowing without the usual bite. There’s no frustration here, just passion.

You nod, and—true to form—pull out your notebook, flipping to a fresh page. The sharp click of your pen echoes in the room.

He stops. Stares.

“…Are you seriously taking notes?”

"Duh,” you reply, completely serious. “I need to keep up.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you. Then he huffs out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. But he doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Alright then,” he says, smirking slightly. “Most of us start in karting as kids. Like, literally kids. I was ten when I started—a little late, actually—but that’s where you learn the basics. Overtaking, defending, racing lines, racecraft—the whole lot.”

You hum thoughtfully, jotting something down. Then you glance up at him, the corner of your lips lifting. “Were you fast?”

“In karting?” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Obviously.”

You snicker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He shoots you a look, rolling his eyes before continuing. “Well, after that, you move up into junior divisions. It’s harder, more competitive, and way more expensive.” His fingers drum against the desk absently. “Talent alone isn’t enough there. There’s sponsors, funding, getting with a good team—and even with all that, nothing’s guaranteed.”

You watch him carefully, catching the way his jaw clenches at that last part.

It’s subtle, but there. The briefest flicker of frustration—of something deeper—before he forces it back down.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you tap your pen against your notebook, tilting your head. “So, let me get this straight,” you say, holding back a smile, pretending to examine your notes. “You’re telling me that you just drive in circles really fast, and you need rich people to like you?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “It is not just driving in circles.”

"Of course." You grin. “You drive in different squiggles really fast."

“Oh my god—”

You both burst out laughing, your voices filling the mostly quiet study hall, and the tension lifts.

He finds that you've been doing that lately—smoothing out the tightness in his chest until there's nothing but left but peace.

The kind he realizes he only really finds with you.

The annual retreat was supposed to be a break—a chance for students to step away from deadlines and exams, breathe in fresh air, and pretend they weren’t slowly losing their minds under the weight of classes.

Traditionally, it was some wilderness training program, the kind where they’d be forced to build shelters out of sticks and start fires with nothing but sheer willpower. But this year, the school had gone easy on them.

Instead of roughing it in the wild, they were headed to a quiet camping site tucked away in the countryside. Cabins instead of tents, a scenic lake, and just enough planned activities to call it "team-building" without making it actual suffering. Oscar didn't mind. A few days away from campus, where he didn’t have to think about exams or sponsors or whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing with his life? Yeah, he’d take it.

By the time they arrived, the sun was already slipping lower in the sky, casting warm gold over the treetops. The air was crisp, cooler than the city, carrying the distant scent of pine and lake water. As he stepped off the bus, stretching out his limbs, he could hear his friends already making plans—who was bunking with who, what they were sneaking into the cabins, whether or not they could get away with "accidentally" skipping the reflection sessions.

And then, of course, he spotted you.

Standing near the second bus, arms crossed, listening to one of your friends ramble about something—probably the itinerary. Your uniform blazer was gone, replaced by a jacket, and for once, your hair wasn’t held back by your usual headband. Something about it made you seem different. Less put together, less perfect. More like a person, less like the image of one.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Not that it mattered.

Because when you finally noticed him watching, you raised a brow, expression unreadable for all of two seconds before you smirked—just slightly, just enough to mouth: Stop staring, you weirdo.

Oscar exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile as he shouldered his duffel bag.

Just his luck—two days in the outdoors with you.

Or so he thought.

He didn’t see you at all that first night, too caught up in settling into the cabin with his friends, planning out their excursions for the next day. The schedule was packed but perfect: kayaking in the morning, followed by a swim in the lake. Archery in the afternoon, right after lunch. Then they’d spend the evening holed up in their cabin, pretending to nap so they could conveniently "miss" the reflection exercises. After dinner, they'd break out the snacks and board games they’d smuggled in, playing well past curfew.

Between all that, he was sure he’d run into you at some point. The camp wasn’t that big.

And yet, as the new day unfolded, you were nowhere to be found.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did see you. But only in passing—too focused on organizing the next day’s team-building activities, pouring over notes with the other prefects to even notice him.

Which was fine. Totally fine.

You were busy, after all.

Not that it mattered.

Not that it should have mattered.

And yet, for some reason, it did.

If the first day at camp was a relaxed free period with a required meditation session, the second was the complete opposite. Designed as a full-day competition, the campgrounds buzzed with energy as different challenges ran simultaneously—relay races, strategy games, problem-solving tasks. Every student was assigned to a random team and a random event. When they said team-building, they meant it.

Oscar got assigned to the obstacle course.

Which would’ve been fine—great, even—if it weren’t for the immediate complaints from the other teams the second they saw his name on the roster.

“Oh, come on,” someone groaned. “How’s that fair? He’s literally a professional athlete!”

“We’re going against a guy who has an actual training regimen,” another muttered, crossing their arms.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, feeling an unfamiliar prickle of embarrassment as all eyes turned to him. Great. He didn’t even want an unfair advantage, but now he was public enemy number one.

And then, of course, you stepped in.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” you said, somehow managing to corral the complaints into grumbling silence. Then, after a pause, you turned to him, a slow smirk pulling at your lips. “How about we give him a handicap, then?”

Oscar narrowed his eyes immediately. He knew that tone. That was your I’m about to mess with you tone.

“What do you think, Piastri?” you continued, crossing your arms. “Up for the challenge?”

He wasn’t, actually. Not at all. But some part of him—some deeply irrational, definitely stupid part—thought you might be a little impressed if he pulled it off.

“Sure,” he said, tilting his head at you. “What’s the handicap?”

You grinned. Too pleased. “We’re adding some weight on you.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

Another facilitator stepped forward, handing you a backpack that looked harmless enough. That is, until you struggled just a little to lift it, adjusting your stance to keep from stumbling.

Oscar stared. Oh, hell no.

“You…” He sighed heavily, reaching for the bag. The second he strapped it on, he felt the weight drag at his shoulders, and he let out a quiet grunt. Okay. Yeah. That’s ridiculous.

“You,” he muttered, adjusting the straps, “Are so lucky I tolerate you.”

You just flashed him a teasing smile and—because you were the actual worst—blew him a mocking kiss before turning back to the rest of the group.

“Alright!” you clapped your hands together. “Now that we’re all happy with the arrangements, let’s go over the rules!”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, shifting the weight on his back as you explained the mechanics. A team-based obstacle course where every challenge had to be completed by every member. Fastest team wins.

His team shot him a look, somewhere between amusement and pity.

Oscar just rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Fine. He could do this.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d make sure to throw you in the lake after.

“Are we all ready?” you call out over the crowd.

“Yeah!” they cheer back, voices full of energy.

“On your marks!”

Oscar positions himself at the back of his team, muscles tensed, ready. He could’ve started at the front—probably should have, considering he was technically the athlete—but he stayed behind instead, ready to help if anyone needed it. Team-building and all that.

“Get set!”

You scan the group, making sure everyone is in place. Then, for the briefest moment, your eyes lock with his.

His fingers twitch. Yours drum against your clipboard.

And because he’s him and you’re you, he casually flips you off.

You grin, wide and smug, like you’ve already won.

“Go!”

Oscar takes off.

The weight of the bag is brutal, but he barely registers it. All he knows is that he is not going to let you have the satisfaction of messing with him too much.

He was so going to win this.

Okay, so he was a little disappointed that you weren’t at the awarding ceremony when they handed out medals to his team for winning—even with the practically evil handicap you gave him.

But you were probably just busy cleaning up after the competitions.

No big deal.

And, yes, he did get a little annoyed when he spotted you later—freshened up and back in your usual composed state—smiling and giggling with another prefect.

But you were probably just planning the bonfire for tonight.

Totally valid.

He was fine.

At least, he was. 

And then… 

“So, you wanna sit with me at the bonfire tonight?”

Oscar stops in his tracks.

He doesn’t see your reaction, but he hears it. That soft hum of consideration, the one he’s learned you make when you’re actually thinking about something.

You were actually considering it.

Before he can hear your answer, he turns and walks away, jaw tight, steps a little heavier than necessary.

He doesn’t know what pisses him off more—the fact that you might say yes, or the fact that he cares if you do.

As suspected, you’re nowhere to be seen the entire bonfire.

Not that it mattered.

Oscar spent the night exactly how he should—hanging out with his friends, caught up in the whirlwind of music, laughter, and an excessive, probably unhealthy amount of s’mores. Someone had smuggled in a speaker, blasting everything from classic rock to obnoxious pop songs that made everyone yell along. They danced, they joked, they reveled in the rare freedom of being away from school.

He had a blast.

Seriously. A fucking great time.

So why the hell couldn’t he shake the thought of you?

The question stuck to the back of his mind, clinging like sap, stubborn and impossible to ignore. It wasn’t like you had to be here. Maybe you weren’t a bonfire person. Maybe you were holed up in your cabin, exhausted from running the competitions all day. Maybe you were off somewhere with that prefect—

Oscar scowled, shaking the thought away as he stretched out on the wooden bench outside his cabin. The night air was cool, the distant crackle of the bonfire still audible from the main clearing.

It was supposed to be two days in the outdoors with you.

With you.

Late into the night, long after most of the camp had settled down, the thought hadn’t left him.

Annoyed—at himself, at you, at whatever this was—he exhaled sharply, pushing off the bench and shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. Without thinking, his feet carried him toward the bonfire.

The flames had burned lower, flickering embers casting soft orange glows across the empty clearing. Most of the students had already turned in for the night, only a few stragglers left chatting quietly at the edges of the fire.

And then—finally—he saw you.

Sitting alone on the other side of the fire, half-hidden by the flickering glow, arms wrapped around your knees as you stared into the flames.

His steps faltered.

Where the hell had you been all night?

More importantly—why did you look so…lost?

Oscar takes a deep breath before stepping forward, his footsteps quiet against the dirt. You don’t notice him at first, too lost in whatever thoughts have anchored you to this spot. He sinks down beside you on the makeshift seat—a sturdy log warmed by the fire—resting his arms on his knees.

The bonfire crackles, embers drifting up into the night, casting flickering light across your face. The voices of other students murmur in the background, distant and indistinct. Crickets chirp in the trees.

You don’t look at him.

Oscar watches you instead, studying the way your shoulders curve inward as you sit cross-legged, the way your fingers fidget absently in your lap. You look…small, in a way he isn’t used to seeing. Like you’re carrying something heavy and don’t know where to set it down.

It’s silent, but strangely enough, he doesn’t feel alone.

Then, after a moment, you break the quiet.

“Why do you hate me?”

It’s a sudden question, one that hits sharper than he expects. A question about feelings he decided he had when he was fifteen, feelings he had held onto tightly—until a few months ago, when you had sat in that quiet classroom and shared your struggles with each other.

Feelings he honestly forgot he had.

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t hate you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not anymore, at least. But you did. Once.”

Finally, you turn to him, firelight reflected in your eyes. “Why did you?”

“I…” He pauses, considering his words. “I thought you were kind of stuck-up when we first met. And fake. And…and you called racing a hobby.”

Your lips twitch, amused. “Well, at least one of those things is actually something I did wrong.” Then, softer, “I’m sorry I said that. About racing.”

You lift a hand, smoothing down his hair in a gesture so natural, so easy, that it catches him completely off guard. “It’s your passion, your life. You worked really hard for it.”

A small chuckle escapes you. “I was a little stuck-up though, wasn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.” Oscar smirks. “Though you were great at returning the attitude I gave you,” he admits, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes. “And yet you think I’m the fake one? I was very honest about how much I didn’t appreciate you disliking me.”

“I just think—”

“Not thought?” you interrupt. “Present tense?”

Oscar hesitates, then nods. “You don’t show what’s in your head…What’s in your heart. You have all these smiles and scripts practiced. And you always look put together—even now that we’re literally out in nature. And you’re never seen with bad posture. Your grades are perfect and so is your conduct, and you’re actually kinda nice to be with. By all accounts, you’re…perfect.” He pauses, voice softer now. “But no one’s perfect, Y/N. Not even you. No matter how much distance you put between yourself and everyone else so they can think that you are.”

At that, you finally look away, gaze dropping to the ground.

“You can say that because you’re all set, Oscar,” you murmur. “You don’t need to be perfect because you already know what you want. You have a path, and you work hard for it. You can take your mistakes and turn them into lessons because you have something you want to be great for. You can try again and again when things don’t work out because you actually have a dream.”

Your breath catches slightly, and you swallow hard before continuing.

“I don’t have that.”

The words are quiet but heavy, settling in the space between you.

“So, I need to be perfect, Oscar.” Your fingers tighten over your knee. “Because I don’t know where I’ll end up if I’m not.”

The fire crackles. The night feels impossibly still.

And for the first time since he met you, Oscar doesn’t know what to say.

He just sits next to you for a while, keeping you company as the fire crackles and burns lower. The murmured conversations of the last few stragglers fade one by one, until eventually, it’s just the two of you left.

The night air is cool, carrying the distant sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, the faint chirping of crickets. The firelight flickers, casting shifting shadows across your face, across the way your shoulders remain tense, like you’re still bracing for something unseen.

Oscar exhales, shifting slightly closer. “I don’t think you need to have everything sorted out yet,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “We still have next year. And there’s the year after that. And the year after.”

You don’t respond. Not immediately.

“Y/N,” he calls, softer this time. “We have a lot left to live. You’ll find your place. You’ll figure everything out.”

You finally turn to him, eyes uncertain, on the verge of overflowing.

“Do you mean it?” Your voice is shaky, fragile in a way he’s not used to hearing.

“I do.”

You look away, but before you can retreat entirely, Oscar moves without thinking—cupping your face gently with one hand, tilting your chin just enough to meet his gaze.

It’s foreign. Surprising.

But not…unwelcome.

Your breath catches, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. The air between you shifts, something unspoken stretching thin and taut, the space closing inch by inch.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

His thumb brushes against your cheek, just barely.

“Everything will be fine.”

And then the dam breaks.

A sharp inhale, then a quiet sob. The first tear slips down your cheek, then another, and before you can stop it, you’re crying—really crying, shoulders shaking as you press your face into his chest.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you in without a second thought, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from the weight of whatever’s been crushing you for so long. His hand rests at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair as you let yourself fall apart against him.

And all he can do—all he wants to do—is hold you.

It’s strange.

He doesn’t ever see you like this. Just once before. You’re so composed, always controlled, always held together by perfectly measured smiles.

But right now, you’re none of those things.

You’re just you.

You're real.

You're in his arms and you're real.

And it hits him, in the stillness of the moment, in the way the firelight dances across tear-streaked skin—You’re beautiful.

Not in the way he used to think, not just in the way everyone already knew.

But in the way that matters.

The kind of beautiful that settles in the quiet spaces, that lingers, that takes you home. The kind that isn’t just seen but felt—woven into the way you carry yourself, the way you fight so hard to hold everything together, the way you’re allowing yourself to not be perfect, just for a moment.

Even in your worst state, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.

And suddenly—too fast—he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more there. If there’s a chance he likes you. In that way.

If, deep down, he’s been falling this whole time.

2019: Year 13 [18 years old]

When autumn rolls around and he’s back at school again, Oscar Piastri is a Eurocup champion. Testing for Formula 3 is lined up, doors are opening, and for the first time, the dream that once felt impossibly distant is now right in front of him. He’s buzzing, electric with the thrill of it all.

And you’re the person he most wants to tell everything to.

Not much has changed between you two after the bonfire. You still bicker, still trade sharp remarks, but there’s a warmth underneath it now—something softer, something unspoken. Something that makes his stomach twist in a way he’s beginning to understand.

Because, yes, he’s finally realized it.

He likes you. In that way.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance you feel the same.

He runs into you in the hallway, where your hair is still neatly styled, your uniform still crisp, but there’s something new. The prefect’s badge you once wore with careful pride is gone, replaced by a Head Girl badge gleaming against your blazer.

“You’ve come a long way, princess,” he says, stopping in front of you, hands casually shoved in his pockets. “Congrats on being Head Girl.”

Your smile is wide, genuine—the kind he doesn’t see you give to just anyone. “Congratulations to you too, Piastri—Eurocup champion.”

The way you say it, like you mean it, like you’re proud of him, makes something tighten in his chest.

“Wanna walk to class together?” he asks, like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like the idea of just existing next to you isn’t becoming something he needs.

You tilt your head, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “I have study hall for most of the day, actually.” Then, as if to soften the blow, you brighten. “I’ll send you my schedule, though, so we can coordinate!”

Something about that—coordinating, making time for each other—sits so naturally between you.

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “See you later?”

“See you later, Piastri.”

You turn and walk away, and just the thought of syncing your schedules is enough motivation for him to get through the day.

Except…when he finally gets your message, his stomach drops.

Because there, glaring back at him, is one unavoidable fact:

Nothing aligns.

Oscar had always been good at adjusting. Racing taught him that—how to adapt, how to move forward, how to deal with losing things and making peace with it.

But this? This was different.

He wasn’t used to missing someone. Not like this.

Sure, he missed his mom and dad. He missed his sisters. He missed the Australian heat and slang. He missed his racing friends when he went back to school. He missed the tracks and his car. But never in his life did he think he’d miss you.

And maybe that’s why the switch was so jarring. He’d spent years wishing he was away from you, wishing for different classes, wishing to never see your face.

Now that he has that, he wants nothing more than to bring back the simpler days—when you were always classmates, always orbiting each other, always trying to avoid the other but never quite succeeding at staying away.

Ever since he’d gotten your schedule and realized that nothing aligned, it was like there was an empty space in his day where you were supposed to be.

It wasn’t like you’d disappeared. He still saw you, sometimes—passing glimpses in hallways, quick nods across the library, an occasional “Hey, Piastri” when your paths crossed. But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t like before.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because before, he didn’t think he’d need more.

Now, though? It was all he could think about.

Oscar had wanted a lot of things in his life, but rarely did he ever want something back.

He wants back the way you twirl your pen in between your fingers at a speed he still can’t match, no matter how many times you try to teach him. He wants the ever-changing rearrangement of your hair when you get stressed, never sticking to one style within the hour. He wants your study sessions and your stealing of his scratch papers. He wants your smiles and your quips and your banter. 

He wants you back.

So, like in racing, he strategizes.

He figures out which routes you take so he can walk by at just the right moment, just to get a minute of conversation before you scurry off to class. He starts showing up at the library earlier, knowing you’ll pass by on your way to study hall. He “accidentally” bumps into you at the cafeteria, acting surprised even though he knows exactly when you go.

He even texts you more, something he never used to do before. Just small things at first—jokes, complaints about assignments, links to articles about topics he knows will spark an argument. Anything to keep the conversation going.

And yet, it isn’t the same.

No matter what he does, it’s not enough of you.

At some point, it’s wasn't just missing you anymore—it’s something heavier, something that sits in his chest and refuses to leave. Because no matter how many stolen moments he squeezes into his day, no matter how often he “accidentally” finds himself in your orbit, it never lasts long enough.

And the worst part?

You don’t even notice.

Not in the way he wants you to.

You’re busy—busier than ever. Between Head Girl responsibilities, exams, and whatever future you’re silently trying to carve out for yourself, it feels like you’re slipping further and further away. And Oscar, for the first time in his life, hates the idea of being left behind.

He tries not to let it bother him. You’re just focused, that’s all. It’s not like you’re avoiding him.

Except maybe you are.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a mean way.

But in the way that means he’s no longer a priority.

And that realization hits harder than he expects.

Because before, if he wanted to see you, he could. If he wanted to talk to you, he’d find a way, and you’d let him.

But now?

Now, you’re harder to reach. Harder to catch. Harder to keep.

And the closer graduation gets, the more he starts to wonder—If he doesn’t do something soon, will you slip away completely?

It’s right as the holiday break approaches that he finally gets a moment alone with you again—on a random night, past curfew, when you both somehow end up sneaking into the same empty classroom.

It’s similar, but different.

The lights are still dimmed, casting familiar shadows against the walls. The air is still heavy, thick with exhaustion from exams and the looming uncertainty of the future. But this time, you’re standing closer together. This time, the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s something known, something safe.

Because this time, no matter how much is changing, you both know one thing for sure—You’ve got each other.

How’s life been for you, Oscar?” you ask, leaning against the wall, a warm smile on your face. “It’s been a while, so tell me everything.”

“I don’t think it’s been any different from yours,” he says, mirroring your smile. “Tests, papers…” He hesitates. “Graduation. The future.”

You exhale, the weight of that word hanging between you. “Well, those are definitely in my head.” A small chuckle escapes your lips. “Is it weird that I miss those early days here at the academy?”

“What, the ones where we hated each other?” He smirks.

You roll your eyes. “Yes and no.” Turning toward the window, you watch the campus lights flicker in the distance, the glow casting soft light across your features. Oscar should look away, but he doesn’t.  He can’t.

“I mean, things were simpler then,” you continue. “We had all the time in the world.”

He hums in response, watching the way your fingers trace absent patterns against the windowsill.

“I wish we could go back to then,” you say softly. “I’d be nicer to you. We could have been friends faster.”

You both giggle at this, the sound light and easy, but something in his chest pulls.

“What about you, Oscar? Would you change anything?”

He thinks for a moment. He thinks about the previous year—the late-night study sessions, the bickering that turned into something softer, the night by the bonfire when you let your walls down. He thinks about being paired with you for that stupid project in your second year, about meeting you in this exact room right around this time last year. He thinks about the very first time he saw you, sitting so perfectly poised in the headmaster’s office, completely unaware of the way you’d wedge yourself into his life, piece by stubborn piece.

He thinks.

Then—

“Nothing.”

You blink, turning back to face him. “Nothing?”

“I think…” He exhales, searching for the right words. “I think we’re where we’re at because it took a while to get to know each other. If we had been friends from the start, maybe things would’ve been easier—but I don’t think they would’ve been right.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting his weight slightly. “If we had been friends back then, I think I would’ve liked you the way everyone else does. The way people admire you from a distance.” His voice is quieter now. “But…I got to see you. Not just the perfect grades or the Head Girl badge. I got to see the way you actually think, the way you talk when you’re not putting on a front. The way you try so hard even when you don’t have to.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And then, finally, you smile. Not the polite kind. Not the practiced one.

The real one.

“Well,” you say, voice softer than before. “I’m glad you got to know me.”

He’s glad too. More than you’ll ever know.

You just bask in the silence for a while, letting the quiet settle between you like something warm, something known. The window glass is cool beneath your fingertips as you both watch the lights flicker outside, the campus stretched out before you, vast and unchanging.

Your fingers brush against each other.

It’s light—barely even there, just a whisper of a touch. But it burns.

Something inside him ignites, sharp and immediate, like the flick of a match against dry kindling.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

He doesn’t move his hand away. Neither do you.

“You should call me by my name more.”

You tilt your head slightly, raising a brow. “Tired of hearing your last name?” The corner of your lips lilts in amusement.

Well, you might have it one day, he thinks.

But instead, he just shrugs. “I like hearing you say it.”

The teasing look in your eyes falters for just a second—your lips parting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before your cheeks flush.

You blink at him, the weight of his words lingering between you.

And then—

“Okay, then,” you say softly, watching him just as intently.

“…Oscar.”

You still don’t see much of each other throughout the rest of the year.

Between exams, responsibilities, and the looming pressure of the future, time slips through your fingers faster than either of you can catch it. Even texting becomes rare—just the occasional Good luck on your exam or a late-night complaint about an assignment. Nothing deep. Nothing real.

But Oscar takes what he can get.

His comfort comes in brief meetings in the hallways—your rushed conversations between classes, cramming a day’s worth of thoughts into a handful of stolen seconds.

“Got a physics test after lunch,” you’d say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “If I fail, I’m blaming you.”

He’d smirk. “What did I do?”

“The playlist you gave me last time distracted me.”

“Hey, I have great taste.”

“You can keep telling yourself that.”

And then the bell would ring, and just like that, you’d be gone—your presence slipping through his fingers before he could even think about holding on.

Hearing you call out his name in the busy hallway became the highlight of his day. A moment of certainty in a year that felt anything but steady.

But the times your knuckles brushed, the moments your shoulders bumped in passing, those felt like something more. Like maybe, if things had been different, there would’ve been time for more.

Except there wasn’t.

And maybe that’s why the thought of you leaving hits harder than it should.

He isn’t expecting to hear it—not like this, not by accident. But as he’s passing the debate room on his way to class, your voice stops him in his tracks.

“The university there offered me a great scholarship,” you tell a friend, your tone measured, practical. “It would be stupid not to take it.”

There’s a beat of silence before your friend speaks, quieter, hesitant. “So, that’s it then? You’re just…leaving?”

Oscar freezes mid-step.

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

And then—

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s so final. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that settles deep in his chest, heavier than it should be. “I’m leaving.”

And suddenly, the ground beneath him doesn’t feel so steady anymore.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” The words slip out before he can stop them, raw and too loud, cutting through the quiet corridor.

You blink, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone, by the urgency in his voice.

“Y/N, what are you even talking about?”

The hurt is there, unmistakable, woven between the syllables. And maybe if he hadn’t spent so long trying to deny it, he’d understand it better.

No. He does understand.

Because there was so much he wanted to tell you.

Because you were supposed to have time.

You were supposed to figure this out together.

“Oscar,” you say cautiously, as if approaching something fragile, something breakable. You glance at your friend, giving them a small nod, a silent request for space. They hesitate before excusing themselves, leaving just the two of you.

You inhale deeply, as if preparing yourself.

“I got an offer from a university outside the country,” you say, voice steady, like you’ve rehearsed this before, like you’ve already convinced yourself that this is good. That this is right. “Full-ride scholarship with room and board and a possible slot in a master’s program after I get my undergraduate.”

It’s a perfect opportunity.

It’s everything you’ve worked for.

You should be thrilled. You are thrilled.

So why does your heart ache at the way he’s looking at you?

Oscar doesn’t speak right away, just stares, his lips parting slightly like he’s still trying to process what you just said.

And then, finally, he breathes, “It’s a great opportunity.”

You nod, stepping closer, reaching for his hand before you can stop yourself. You don’t know why you do it—maybe to reassure him, maybe to reassure yourself. His palm is warm, his fingers rough but familiar, grounding.

“I’m going to take it,” you say. And you mean it.

But when his grip tightens around yours, when his thumb brushes absently against your skin like he’s memorizing the feeling, something inside you wavers.

Oscar swallows, staring at your joined hands like they hold all the answers he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what he expected—that you’d stay? That you’d change your mind? That he’d still have more time to figure out what you mean to him before you slip away completely?

He thought he had more time.

He thought—

“I love you.”

It comes out before he can second-guess it, before he can tell himself that this isn’t the right time, that this isn’t how he was supposed to say it. But none of that matters now.

His grip on your hand tightens. His voice is softer the second time, but truer, like the words are settling into something real.

“I love you.”

The world tilts slightly.

Your breath catches.

Because of course he does. Of course this is what it’s been building up to—every argument, every stolen glance, every almost-moment that neither of you dared to name.

But now that it’s here, now that he’s standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, you don’t know what to do with it.

Because you’re leaving.

Because you’ve already decided.

And because some part of you wonders if maybe, maybe, you were waiting for him to say it sooner.

You look down, your eyes fixed on the floor because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than facing the way his voice cracks, the way his words hang heavy between you.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you whisper, and even that feels like too much.

“Do you feel the same?” he asks, his voice quiet but firm.

You close your eyes. “I’m leaving, Oscar.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice softens, but the urgency stays. “Do you feel the same?”

“It’s not going to work,” you say, your breath hitching. You hate how your voice shakes, hate the way your heart is pounding so fast it hurts. “We’re going in very different directions and—”

“Do you feel the same, Y/N?” he asks again, his voice breaking just slightly.

And that—that’s what makes you falter. Because you can hear it. The way he’s holding on so tight, the way he’s afraid of your answer.

“Just let me go,” you whisper, even though it’s the last thing you want.

“I can’t,” he says after a beat, and his voice is so soft when he says it, but there’s no mistaking the weight of those words. “I can’t because I know you. Because I know I’m not the only one who feels this.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m trying to be practical—”

“I’m trying to tell you I love you!” His voice rises, frustration and desperation bleeding into every word.

And then—

“So do I!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them, loud and broken and everything you’ve been trying to bury.

The silence after is deafening.

You look up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. “I love you too,” you whisper, like it’s a secret you’re only brave enough to say now. And when you step forward and press your forehead to his chest, his arms come around you without hesitation, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “But it’s too late, Oscar. I’m leaving.”

“It’s not too late.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks—wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling. His touch is so gentle it breaks you a little more.

“We’re right here,” he says, his voice quiet and steady. “So, it’s not too late.”

And then—slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—he leans in.

Your breath catches.

And when his lips finally meet yours, the world falls away.

It’s soft at first—tentative and slow, like both of you are afraid of pushing too far, afraid of what this means. But then your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and his hand slips into your hair, and the kiss deepens. It becomes something warmer, desperate—like making up for every second you wasted, every word you never said.

And for a while, there’s no leaving. No future pulling you in different directions. No goodbye waiting on the horizon.

It’s just you.

It’s just him.

The warmth of his hands on your skin, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. The way your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. The quiet, shared ache in every kiss—like you’re both trying to memorize this, to keep this, even when you know you can’t.

And maybe this is all you get—this moment, this kiss, this fragile space where neither of you has to think about what comes next.

But maybe…maybe it’s just the beginning.

Because when you finally pull apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads still pressed together, his breath still tangled with yours—you both know the truth.

This moment? It’s fleeting.

But his eyes—warm and steady—hold you there.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, and somehow, you believe him.

You nod, your voice barely more than a breath. “Yeah. We will.”

And even if the future is uncertain, even if the next steps take you miles apart—right now, this?

This is yours.

And for the first time, even with your heart breaking in the most beautiful way, it feels like enough.

2022: Epilogue 1

“I can’t believe you just did that!” you exclaim over the phone, your voice half-outraged, half-incredulous. “Oscar, you’re giving me a heart attack from like fifty thousand miles away!”

“Everything’s under control,” he says, grinning as he leans back against the wall of his hotel room, the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. “Trust me. It’s all in motion—you’ll see.”

“Honey,” you huff, and he can hear the dramatic eye roll in your voice, “I’ll believe you when you’re in that fucking Formula One seat, driving around squiggles for two hours.”

He chuckles, the sound low and easy, and God, he misses you. “You worry too much.”

“I have to worry,” you snap, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Because my idiot boyfriend decided to end his partnership with the team that made him their reserve driver by tweeting about it!” You huff. “I mean, listen to this: I understand that without my consent—”

“Okay, yeah, I typed that out,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t need to relive it, thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” you tease, your voice softening just enough to make him smile.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of your keyboard clacking in the background. “Anyway, experts are absolutely shitting on you online,” you inform him. “But don’t worry—I’m your biggest defender.”

“Please don’t fight with analysts on the internet,” he laughs, though the image of you going to battle for him is both hilarious and weirdly endearing. “They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Oscar, I had to deal with your attitude for years before we got together,” you shoot back, your tone sweet as sugar. “Trust me— some slimy little reporters are nothing to me.”

He laughs, the sound full and warm—the kind of laugh only you ever seem to pull out of him.

And as the miles stretch between you, the distance feels just a little smaller.

2023: Epilogue 2

The roar of the crowd was deafening — a steady pulse of noise that vibrated through the air, through the track, through Oscar’s bones. He could feel it, even from the garage, where the final checks were being made on his car. The smell of fuel and rubber mixed with the electric tension of the starting grid, and the weight of what was about to happen settled heavily on his chest.

Bahrain 2023. 

His first Formula One race.

Everything he had worked for, fought for—the years of training, the endless sacrifices, the victories and the failures—had led him here. To this moment. To this seat. To this dream.

And still, when his eyes flicked to the edge of the garage, searching through the sea of engineers and team personnel, it wasn’t the car or the track or even the starting lights that grounded him.

It was her.

Y/N stood just beyond the bustle of the team, arms crossed and wearing his team’s colors, her ever-pristine hair now tucked beneath a cap. But the calm, poised version of her he’d fallen for wasn’t here today. Today, her excitement cracked through the surface—eyes bright, smile wide, nerves barely contained.

Three years, and she were still his greatest victory.

As if sensing his gaze, she turned—and when she smiled at him, everything else faded away. The crowd, the noise, the pressure.

It was just her. It was always her.

He lifted his hand in a small wave, and she grinned, mouthing words he didn’t need to hear to understand.

You’ve got this.

And just like that, the weight in his chest eased.

Because no matter what happened on the track today—win or lose, first place or last—she’d still be there.

And that? That was enough to make him feel unstoppable.

[writingwisterias]

Pretty boy

RE6! Leon Kennedy x AFAB!Fem!Reader Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, Dad-bod Leon, Sub leon, Hand Jobs, Overstimulation, Soft-dom Reader, Praise Kink, Body issues, insercurites, Leon needs a hug, Just a thought I can't get out of my head sorry it's shit! It's just a quick drabble lol - we will not discuss how long this has been in my head though. Forgive me but the next one will be breeding kink I promise!

These moments were always your favorite, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest. Your fingers tracing along the scars that littered his torso. Each one holding a memory of what he went through. The house was calm finally, the children were asleep long ago. Tucked away safely behind the doors. He loved this, the simplicity of it. Never fully thinking he deserved it, there were better people than him in the world. People that should still be here today, to experience their own moments of softness.

His days of service were far and few between nowadays, the children needed him more. You needed him more. He finally had something that gave him a reason to fight extra hard for time off. However now he faced a range of new challenges, some he would have never thought would effect him so badly. His lack of service had began affect his physical appearance, a light layer of fat surrounding his muscles making his once hardened physic softer. You didn't care, not at all. Why would you?

He was still the same man you fell in love with. The same person that buried himself deep inside of you. Giving you parts of him to nurture and grow into the children you can never imagine living without. Infact you loved the extra softness, the way you only saw the muscle that lay beneath when he lifted your children in the air or fixed his bike up in the garage. It was all worth it, giving him the slice of happiness he needed.

It didn't stop the longing looks in the mirror or the way he stared a little longer at old photos. The conversation tonight, the same one you would have every night, drifted into the topic of each other's insecurities. It wasn't a shock to you when he admitted he felt this way, why would it be?

Instead after his admittance, you both now sat in front of the floor length mirror. His back laid against your chest. Your hands spread on each of this thighs as you looked over his shoulder at his poor needy cock standing tall.

Pre cum decorated it, giving it a slight shine as it eagerly leaked out for you. The mushroomed tip glow red with it's need. Leon whimpered as you nipped at his neck, watching each mark that bloomed as you moved along his shoulder. It was intense watching himself falter like this but you told him to. Instructed him to watch how pretty he looked when he came undone so of course - he didn't dare look away.

"So pretty" you whispered in his ear, your teeth gently tugging at the lobe before you moved to suck just behind it. His sweet spot.

You chuckled as his hips thrusted in the air. His poor cock twitching and thumping against that small belly of his. His head leant back against your shoulder, his chest heaved with unspoken whines. "Can't you see how much I love this?" You whispered as your fingers finally ran over the slit in his cock; collecting the few droplets to spread along his length. His whimpers were cute when he was like this, reminding you of his younger years when you would spend time treating him after a hard mission. Always ready to give him the praise and relief he needed. "Please-" he begged quietly, the words barely audible if it weren't for him sat against you like this.

Your hand worked slowly, too slowly for what he needed right now. His body heated, his fingers gripping at the ground as you continued to squeeze his cock gently. He watched his tip disappear behind your hands before reappearing with new beads of pre cum. It was memorizing your actions, each pump you gave him faster than the last as you milked him.

Leon's cheeks flushed a pretty colour of pink, his whines now turning into breathless moans and small gasps. He watched every movement you made in the mirror, every subtle thrust of his own hips in desperation to finish. The heels of his feet digging firmly in the rug beneath you. "I love you Leon. I love you for everything you do and have done for this family" you spoke to him. Your eye met his as spoke, staring at him through the reflection making sure every word was taken in.

"So proud of you for being here today, being strong enough to carry the family. To fight for your chance to relax"

Each praise went straight to his cock. It twitched eagerly in your hands. Not soft in the slightest expect for the vein that ran along the length; now puffy and prominent waiting for his permission to cum. It didn't take long until the constant praise and kisses along his scarred skin that he felt his balls tighten. His thighs clench until finally he let go.

You felt him go limp against you with one finale groan. The vein now throbbing angrily beneath your fingers tips as his cum shot out in streams. You both watched as it decorated his small stomach. The translucent substance getting caught in the whips of hair that decorated the area. The final spurts spilling over the grip you still hand on him.

Your clean hand ran your fingers through the blonde strands, kissing his temple as he calmed down. " I love you" he whispered, his head finally resting backwards. The tension finally leaving his brows as his eyes fluttered shut.

[girlwhorizzed]

INNOCENT!READER X BBSF!JJ 𐙚

requested by anon :3 this ask!!!

a/n ፧  hahha first req . i think i went off the plot... i got lazy towards the end but here it is! :p

pairings ፧ boyfriend!jj ✗ innocentpuppy!reader

warnings ፧ unprotected sex , p in v , smut , language , i think that's all ...

jj— your best friend knew how innocent you were. he'd been the one by your side all throughout middle school to highschool and seemed to always keep you barricaded from any type of people or things that might corrupt you. which is what led to your ultimate innocence you still clutched within you, the blonde knew how weary and cautious you were when it came to showing to much skin or revealing clothing, being the odd one out in conversations that revolved around regular teenage stuff— drinking, partying, hooking up, the only one who furrowed brows whenever something inappropriate came up while everyone else brushed it off like it was ordinary.

jj always made it a mission to keep your pretty little head out of those types of conversations, growing creative with the excuses he made just for you to departure from whatever girl friend had her whole business out on display. he decided— as your best friend that he'd protect you from anything, and that meant everything.

he was your pillar. protecting you from the horrors of the world with a strong arm that was ready and raring to go — if any of his friends tried anything stupid around you. he was quite possessive over you, not really liking it when you got too close around any guy he didn’t know, or even the ones he did. but he couldn’t help it, you were so oblivious to most things, like a baby chick ready to follow whoever was willing to show you an ounce of affection. he was trying to keep you under his wing.

which is after highschool it isn't a surprise when you end up with him. he watched you grow into a beautiful woman in-front of his eyes, and you grew into the perfect partner. you knew him better than anyone, knew what he liked, what he didn’t and knew how to read the room when he was feeling off. it’s a natural progression, your sweet and innocent personality has made everyone around you feel incredibly protective of you, jj included. you’ve been around each other so much that it would be bizarre to all of your friends if you hadn’t begun dating each other, even after finally finishing school.

he’d always been the one to guide you, to look out for you. and you made him feel warm and fuzzy, like he was taking care of a puppy, except you just so happened to be a little vixen who’d grown into a gorgeous woman. so when it came to sexual things— it's not a surprise your inexperienced and lost on what to do, which is why jj is here, he does all the work anyway.. if you do end up complying with what he asks.

your looped back into reality by the sloppy kiss from your man landing on your cheek. he takes his time to trail his kisses down from your cheek to your jaw to your neck, a small moan leaving you when he sucks on a spot of your soft flesh — his hand sliding down the curve of your body to give your thigh a harsh squeeze. your on your back— the most intimate positions of all, face to face with unbreakable eye contact, skin-to-skin, your convinced that if you haven't made a soul tie with the blonde yet, you definitely have now.

he keeps his head buried in your neck, the rest of his body pressing against you in a way that makes you feel like you’re being completely consumed by his body, by his touch, by his smell. his large, hot hand on your thigh gives a little possessive squeeze, his thick fingers sinking into your flesh hard enough that you begin to whine. he grins into your neck, his teeth nipping the soft skin as he pulls away from where he’s making a mark. “you’re so beautiful, you know that?”

it's then before you can manage a sentence— a gut feeling of built of pressure began to form just below your waist, you tense your shoulders and body as your abdomen starts to feel like you need to pee, your sure if you press firm enough something is bound to come out. it's muscle memory as you look up to jj for guidance, your thighs were squeezing around his hips which should've been a dead give away you were close to your finish line, yet he still continued his steady pace of pounding you.

he lifts his face out of the burrow he built in your neck once he feels your thighs trapping around his hips, once he catches sight of your face, he knows exactly what’s happening. the way you tried to press your thighs together and how your eyebrows knotted gave him the reassurance he needed to confirm what he knew was happening. during sex you’re sweet and pliant, always willing to go along with whatever he says without question. just like a puppy, always going to listen to its owner. but he knows you get scared, get confused — and when that happens you’re all but a trembling, whimpering mess under him.

“i— i think i’m gonna-“ you whimper quietly, biting down on your soft bottom lip, your face all scrunched up. you look up at him, eyes all glassy and desperate. he sees the worry take over, the way you begin to look worried and concerned, scared even — but he won’t have this ending before it’s even started. he hushes you gently, “your alright mama, don't fight it, your alright..” he coos, his hand leaving your thigh to push your hair back before resting on the back of your neck, holding you steady.

your breathing picks up as you realize that jj hasn't stopped yet— he's still going. your arms wrap around his back, desperate for the comfort of his weight on top of you, your nails digging into his back as you try to pull him closer to you. you were whining, unable to form any proper words due to the intensity you were already feeling without any proper stimulation. he looks down at you, eyes soft as he whispers “shh baby, just- just hold on okay? lemme cum with you.” his free hand finding yours, gently taking it away from his back and bringing it up to where his mouth was. he left a light kiss on your hand.

you can feel yourself trembling and shaking violently as he holds your hand, bringing it to his mouth and letting his lips press down to give you a little kiss before he’s intertwining your fingers in his. the action is so affectionate — so out of place and so unexpected you can’t help but melt into it. it doesn’t last long though, the sweetness soon replaced by the sharp, intense pleasure and jj's sloppy final thrusts. you came undone around his cock, your hands quickly retreating back to his bare back as you dig your nails into his skin, you can't hold it back anymore— your eyes are squinted shut as you finally let the pressure out from your hole, meanwhile jj is finishing as well. inside you.

the blonde finally lets his body collapse onto you, his head resting in the crook of your neck as his heavy, warm presence blankets you. he’s panting as he comes down from his high, the sweat on his skin sticking to yours. you both take a minute to collect yourself, trying to even out your breathing. jj places a couple kisses onto your collarbone before he’s murmuring something against your skin.

once it’s all over, you’re left feeling both floaty and tired, your body feeling like jelly. it’s always so intense with him that you need a moment to catch your breath and collect your thoughts before things can go back to normal. your body feels sticky, but it’s something you’re used to by this point.

after moments like these, you always retreat into a place of dissociation, as if there’s a thick barrier surrounding you. it’s not that you’re ashamed or even regretful, but you just get embarrassed. you get a lingering, deep set feeling of feeling “dirty” afterwards and it sticks with you for a while afterwards, the heavy shroud of shame clinging to your shoulders.

you’d become more prone to dissociating after intimate moments, the shame and embarrassment weighing you down like a ton of bricks in your stomach. you knew you’d enjoyed it in the moment but afterwards you’d just end up feeling dirty. the blonde always took notice, knowing what was happening to you even though you’d never say it openly. jj would try and calm you by being extra affectionate with you, holding you against him and whispering sweet things into your hair.

jj’s noticed the way you withdraw, the subtle change in your behaviour, he doesn’t miss anything when it comes to you. the way you shy away from his touch, the way you try to shrink into yourself. he’s noticed, and he’s come to know that this just your way of coping in the aftermath. it makes him feel guilty, the fact that you never look him in the eye until the embarrassment of it all fades.

he hated seeing you suffer in silence, knowing the thoughts that were probably going through your head as you began to spiral again. he knew it didn’t matter how many times he told you to talk to him when this happened — you’d never listen so he just accepted it at this point. instead he focused on your body, on the way you felt against him, vulnerable and soft and sweet. he just hoped one day you’d learn to trust him properly. he whispers softly as he pulls you tight to his chest, his large body curled around you. “i got ya babe, i got ya.”

you cling to him, like a little koala as he wraps you up in his arms, your face buried in his bare chest. he continues to hold you close for as long as you need — his chin resting on top of your head. he’s trying to show you through his touch that there’s no need to feel shame, no need to be afraid — you’re safe with him. safe and sound in his arms, just where he wants you to be.

he never forced you to speak when you fell into one of your silent bouts. he’d learnt by now it would only make you worse. so, he didn’t give up. he continued to hold you, to gently caress you and pull you into him, until you were completely tucked away in his embrace, your face buried into his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart. it always ended like this, you’d cling onto him whilst he softly soothed your broken frame. it was a routine you’d both adapted to.

it'd been a couple minutes that you both began to doze off.

he felt the way your breathing had began to even out, a sign you’d finally managed to drift off to sleep. a small smile spread across his features, his face buried amongst the top of your head — inhaling the slight scent of your shampoo. he tightened his grip on you, pulling you even tighter against him as he closed his eyes and finally drifted off to sleep himself.. it didn’t matter that the sheets were still a mess from what had just happened, nor that the sun was still shining obnoxiously through the threadbare curtains. all he needed was to hold your body close to his to fall fast asleep.

[heeluvv]

sunoo showing his members that he’s not just a subby boy .. 💭

lowkey didn’t know how i wanted to play this out but i did it this way and im not mad at it so i hope you like it bb

𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐘 *ੈ𑁍༘⋆

pairing 〢bsf/close friend! kim sunoo x reader

genre 〢smut

warnings 〢pussy eating, unprotected sex, fingering, soft!dom sunoo, teasing, etc.

natty’s notes 〢mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

the room buzzed with laughter, the warm glow of the living room lights casting a cozy atmosphere over your small gathering. the idea of going out had been quickly shut down by your friends, who whined about the hassle and convinced you to just stay in. you didn’t mind—it was nice having them over, sprawled across your couch and floor, snacking on whatever was in your kitchen while exchanging playful banter. the energy was lighthearted, filled with inside jokes and teasing remarks that never failed to keep the mood alive.

amidst the usual chatter, a certain conversation piqued your interest—who among you was the most dominant? it started as a joke, with everyone throwing names into the mix, ranking each other based on their supposed presence and personality. unsurprisingly, sunoo kept ending up at the bottom of the list, a fact that only fueled the amusement of the group.

“you guys really think i’m not dominant enough?” sunoo scoffed, crossing his arms as he scanned everyone with a sharp gaze, his brows lifting in challenge.

“you just seem more like a submissive, sunoo,” you said casually, your voice laced with amusement as the others quickly nodded in agreement.

a brief silence followed before he clicked his tongue, an unreadable smirk playing on his lips. “you guys have no idea what you’re talking about,” he muttered, shaking his head.

the laughter only grew louder.

“i mean, we aren’t lying, sunoo. every time y/n gives you even the slightest compliment, you get so flustered,” jake teased, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back against the couch. “only submissive like to be called good boy…”

his words sent a ripple of laughter through the group, their amusement only growing as sunoo’s expression shifted. but he wasn’t embarrassed, nor was he angry. no—he saw this as a challenge.

his posture straightened, and the playful glint in his eyes darkened into something more serious. “you want me to prove it to you all?” his voice was smooth, almost daring, his confidence oozing through the sudden change in demeanor.

the room fell into a brief silence, the shift in his energy palpable. your eyes widened at the sheer duality, the effortless way he transitioned from lighthearted banter to something almost intimidating. it sent an unexpected chill down your spine.

jungwon, breaking the silence, tilted his head curiously. “i mean… how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

he glanced at the others for backup, but instead of answering, they simply exchanged amused looks before turning their attention toward you.

your breath hitched. why were they looking at you?

it was no secret that you felt completely at ease around them. there was an unspoken comfort in their presence, a familiarity that blurred the lines of personal space. you had never been the type to overthink things—changing in front of them felt natural, effortless, something you never put much thought into. it wasn’t like you were trying to make a statement; it was just how things were.

when you were home alone, the idea of throwing on extra layers felt unnecessary. walking around in just an oversized shirt, barely caring whether you had pants on, was second nature. so when they showed up unannounced—something they did often—you never felt the need to scramble for modesty. they had seen you like this before, countless times, and it had never been an issue.

but there was something about those fleeting moments that felt different. you weren’t oblivious—you noticed the way their gazes lingered, the way conversations would momentarily stall when you stretched or adjusted your clothes absentmindedly. they never said anything, never crossed a boundary, yet there was an undeniable weight in the air whenever it happened.

you never initiated anything, and neither did they. it was a silent understanding, an unspoken game where the tension simmered just beneath the surface. yet, even when their eyes betrayed their thoughts, you simply carried on as you always did—pretending not to notice, even though you always did.

“what?”

the single word left your lips before you could stop it, your voice laced with confusion, yet there was something else lurking beneath it—curiosity. this had caught you completely off guard. they were actually trying to initiate something now, and all for the sake of proving a point.

but was that really all it was?

a part of you should have been skeptical, maybe even hesitant. yet, deep down, you didn’t mind. because as much as you were aware of their lingering stares—the way their eyes would subtly (or sometimes not so subtly) trace the shape of your body in moments like these—you were equally guilty. maybe you hadn’t realized it at first, or maybe you had and just pretended otherwise, but the truth was undeniable.

your own gaze had a habit of betraying you. the way your eyes fixated a little too long on their lips when they spoke, how your focus would drift to the veins on their hands as they flexed absentmindedly. and then there were the times they stayed over, disappearing into the bathroom only to reemerge, steam still clinging to their skin, towel slung dangerously low on their hips, droplets of water trailing down their bare torso.

you told yourself it was nothing, just fleeting glances, harmless observations. but they noticed. every single time.

you weren’t the only one watching.

“i think you know what, y/n…” sunoo’s voice was smooth, deliberate, as he leaned back against the couch. the confidence in his posture was undeniable—his legs spread wider, his hands resting lazily on his thighs, fingers drumming against the fabric as he studied you. his gaze held something unreadable, something daring. “but of course… only if you let me.”

your breath hitched, your mind racing with endless possibilities. was this a mistake? would this change everything between you all? would it create distance or pull you even closer? the weight of uncertainty pressed against your chest, but despite all the questions, there was one undeniable truth—you wanted to know.

it was reckless, maybe even dangerous, but you couldn’t help the way curiosity clawed at you, the way something deep inside you itched for the answer. was it wrong to entertain these thoughts? perhaps. but could you really fault yourself for being human?

and then there was sunoo himself. was he truly as submissive as everyone assumed? or was this his way of proving you all wrong?

your throat felt dry as you swallowed down the lingering hesitation, your heart hammering in anticipation.

“o-okay…” you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice.

you felt the shift instantly, a change so abrupt it sent a shiver down your spine. sunoo’s entire demeanor had shifted, his usual playful, almost teasing nature now replaced by something much more assertive—something that left you momentarily stunned. his gaze, once filled with amusement, was now sharp, unwavering, laced with an intensity you weren’t used to seeing from him.

“come here.”

his voice was steady, almost commanding, as he patted his lap, the simple gesture sending a wave of anticipation through you.

your breath hitched, hesitating for only a second before your body moved on its own. your legs carried you forward, and before you knew it, you were settling onto his lap, straddling him with a mix of hesitation and something far more dangerous—curiosity.

his hands found your hips effortlessly, fingers resting firmly yet not forcefully, grounding you in place. the heat of his touch seeped through the fabric of your clothes, sending a subtle thrill through your body. he wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing—just waiting, letting you feel the weight of the moment.

his eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, but his voice was softer this time. “you can always back out of this, y/n.”

it wasn’t a warning. it was a reassurance. a reminder that despite the shift, despite the unknown that lay ahead, you still held all the control.

“no, it’s fine…” you murmured, your voice steadier than you expected. your hands found their way to his shoulders, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt as you nodded, reaffirming your words. “i want to…”

those three words seemed to settle something deep within sunoo, dissolving whatever lingering hesitation he might have had. this wasn’t just about proving a point anymore—he wanted to know if you were truly comfortable with this, if you were letting him in willingly. and, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to do this in a way that wouldn’t just satisfy his need to prove something, but would also leave you wanting more.

his hands glided down slowly, palms warm as they traced the curve of your waist before settling against your thighs. his touch was firm but not demanding, the heat of his fingers seeping through the thin fabric, igniting something beneath your skin.

his dark eyes never left yours, a silent exchange passing between you both, more powerful than any words he could offer. he didn’t need to say anything—his gaze alone told you everything. a question, a reassurance, and something deeper, something unreadable but undeniably there.

one hand remained firm on your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you hyperaware of his touch, while the other reached up, cradling the side of your face with a gentleness that sent a shiver down your spine. he guided you down effortlessly, his thumb grazing your cheek as he closed the space between you, his lips finally meeting yours.

the kiss started slow—steady and controlled, as if he was savoring the moment, testing the waters. his lips moved against yours with purpose, the pressure just right, his warmth enveloping you in a way that sent your mind reeling.

never in your life did you think this would happen. the thought alone felt almost surreal, the realization that you were kissing one of your closest friends sending a spark of disbelief through you. but any hesitation, any second-guessing, melted away the moment he deepened the kiss.

his grip on your thigh tightened slightly as his lips moved with more intensity, more certainty, pulling you in as if he refused to let you second-guess this moment. the soft, controlled movements gave way to something deeper, something more urgent, as if he wanted to prove himself with each press of his lips against yours.

and you let him.

because despite the initial shock, despite the blur of emotions crashing over you, there was one undeniable truth—you wanted this just as much as he did.

his lips wandered downward, leaving a burning trail along the sensitive skin of your neck. each kiss was deliberate, his movements slow yet calculated, as if he wanted you to feel every second of it. his lips parted slightly, the warmth of his breath fanning against your skin before he latched on, sucking gently at first before his teeth grazed over the spot, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body.

your breath hitched, fingers tightening against his shoulders, but he didn’t falter—not once. instead, his hands moved with purpose, fingers brushing against the hem of your shirt before he gripped it firmly, wasting no time in tugging it over your head. the fabric barely had a chance to hit the floor before you felt the weight of their stares.

there you sat, bare before them all—only your red lace panties keeping you somewhat covered. the cool air kissed your exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your body, the rush of vulnerability mixing with something far more intoxicating.

sunoo’s eyes darkened, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he took in the sight before him.

“fuck…” he muttered, his voice low, almost breathless.

the single word hung heavy in the air, thick with desire, with anticipation. and in that moment, you knew—this wasn’t just about proving a point anymore.

your hands instinctively move to cover yourself, a sudden wave of shyness washing over you under the weight of their heated stares. the intensity in their eyes—dark, unreadable, filled with something primal—makes your skin prickle with awareness.

but sunoo is quick to act.

his fingers wrap around your wrists before you can fully shield yourself, his grip firm yet gentle as he pulls your hands away. his gaze flickers up to meet yours, filled with something that makes your breath hitch.

“keep them down.”

his voice is steady, commanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

your fingers curl into the fabric of the couch, your pulse hammering in anticipation as his attention shifts downward. his eyes linger, drinking in the sight before him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as if restraining himself.

his mouth finds you without hesitation, lips wrapping around one peak as a sharp gasp escapes you. the warmth of his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin sends a shiver down your spine, your body reacting instantly to the sensation. he doesn’t hold back, sucking with just the right amount of pressure, his teeth grazing you ever so slightly before his tongue soothes over the spot.

a soft moan slips past your lips, your back arching slightly as your fingers dig into the couch, trying to ground yourself against the flood of sensation overtaking you.

he hums against your skin, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your waist.

he’s enjoying this—enjoying the way you react, the way your body responds so easily to him. and you? you’re completely at his mercy.

the room is thick with tension, the kind that settles deep in your bones, making every breath feel heavier. the others just sit there, too stunned to speak, their eyes locked onto you—onto the way sunoo’s mouth moves against your skin, claiming every inch of you with slow, deliberate sucks. the heat of his tongue flicking over each peak sends jolts of pleasure straight through your body, your back arching instinctively, seeking more.

the ache between your legs only grows, pulsing, desperate for relief. your hips move on their own, rolling forward, grinding against the growing bulge beneath you. the friction is intoxicating, making your breath hitch, a soft, needy moan escaping before you can stop it. the sensation is everything you’ve been craving, sending a sharp spark of pleasure right where you need it most.

but just as quickly as it comes, it’s taken away.

sunoo’s hands grip your waist, stilling your movements in an instant, his fingers digging in just enough to make his point. his lips leave your skin, glistening, his gaze meeting yours with a dangerous mix of control and amusement.

“you take what i give.”

his voice is low, firm, laced with authority that sends a shiver down your spine. his grip doesn’t loosen, his presence completely consuming, demanding your submission with nothing more than a look.

your breathing is uneven, your body still trembling from the denied pleasure, but the challenge in his tone makes your stomach twist in anticipation.

“please, sunoo…” you whimper, your voice barely above a breath, laced with desperation. your fingers dig into his shoulders, your body trembling as his fingertips lazily trace over the thin fabric covering your aching core.

he doesn’t rush—no, he takes his time, barely applying any pressure, just the softest, teasing flicks against your clothed clit. the sensation is maddening, sending tiny jolts of pleasure through you, but never enough to satisfy the throbbing need building inside you.

a low chuckle rumbles from his chest, his lips curling into a smirk as he watches you squirm beneath his touch. “you sound so pretty begging for me, baby…” his voice is smooth, laced with amusement, but there’s something deeper beneath it—something dark, something possessive.

his words send a shiver down your spine, a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs. you moan at the praise, eyes fluttering shut as the ache intensifies, your pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.

you need more—so much more—but sunoo just keeps up his agonizing pace, barely giving you what you want, dragging out every second, watching as your desperation grows.

“look at you,” he muses, his fingers pressing just a little harder, enough to make your breath hitch. “so needy, and i’ve barely even touched you.”

he moves before you can even process it. with effortless strength, he lifts you off his lap, his hands gripping your waist as he shifts positions. a startled gasp escapes you as he tosses you gently onto the couch, the plush cushions cushioning your fall.

your body barely has time to react before he’s kneeling between your legs, his presence dominating the space between you. his hands are steady, deliberate, as they hook into the waistband of your lace panties, dragging them down in one slow, tantalizing motion. the cool air kisses your exposed skin, sending a shiver up your spine as your underwear is discarded somewhere onto the floor.

his breath hitches, a low, appreciative grunt escaping his lips as he takes in the sight of you—completely bare before him. a moment of silence hangs in the air, heavy and charged, before you hear the sharp intake of breath from the others.

“i’m gonna make you feel so good, baby…” his voice is a smooth promise, dripping with intent, his fingertips brushing along the inside of your thighs as he spreads them wider, fully exposing you to his hungry gaze.

his eyes darken as he drinks in the sight of you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he groans at the sheer view.

“and while i do that,” he continues, his tone firm, unwavering. his gaze flickers up to meet yours, filled with something dangerous, something commanding. “i want you to look at them.”

your breath stutters.

his words settle deep within you, igniting something raw, something forbidden. your eyes flicker toward the others, who are still watching, still mesmerized by the scene unfolding before them.

the weight of their gazes only makes the heat between your legs burn hotter.

sunoo starts slow, his lips brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs, leaving a trail of delicate, teasing kisses. each press of his lips is unhurried, deliberate, like he’s savoring the taste of you before he even reaches his destination. the heat of his breath fans over your sensitive skin, making your muscles twitch in anticipation.

he inches up, closer and closer, until he’s face to face with your aching core. your slickness glistens under the dim light, coating your folds, an unspoken invitation that makes his breath hitch. his fingers move with purpose, spreading you open, exposing every delicate inch of you to his hungry gaze.

your body jolts at the sensation, a sharp gasp slipping past your lips. “s-sunoo…” you whimper, your voice trembling, thick with need.

but before you can say anything else, he’s on you.

his lips crash against your pussy with a fervor that makes your head spin, tongue immediately delving between your folds, collecting every bit of your arousal in his mouth. he groans at the taste, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you, making your back arch off the couch.

his tongue moves expertly, flicking and swirling, alternating between slow, teasing strokes and deep, indulgent licks. he devours you like he’s been starving for this moment, his grip tightening on your thighs as he pulls you closer, burying himself deeper.

the sounds—the wet, sinful noises of his mouth working against you, the soft gasps and moans spilling from your lips—fill the room, adding to the thick, unbearable tension that already lingers.

your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting as soft, breathy moans spill from them. the sensation of his tongue working against you is almost overwhelming, each stroke sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. your fingers tangle in the cushions beneath you, grasping for something—anything—to keep yourself grounded as he pleases you so effortlessly.

but just as you begin to sink into the bliss, a sharp sting blossoms across your thigh, the sudden smack making you jolt. a gasp rips from your throat, your eyes snapping open in shock as heat radiates from the spot where his hand just struck.

“what did i tell you?” sunoo’s voice is smooth, yet firm, holding an edge of authority that makes your stomach twist.

his dark eyes flick up to meet yours, his lips glistening with your slickness, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he watches your reaction. his fingers trail over the place he just struck, soothing the warmth left behind, before giving your thigh another sharp squeeze.

“keep your eyes on them.”

his words send a fresh wave of heat through you, your body responding instinctively, thighs trembling slightly beneath his grip. he waits, watching you expectantly, making sure you obey before diving back in, his tongue resuming its torturous, sinful pace.

you obey him without hesitation, your eyes barely able to stay open as pleasure crashes over you in waves. your expression is completely undone—lips parted, swollen from where you’ve been biting them, brows furrowed in pure, unfiltered bliss. every nerve in your body is on fire, every muscle tensed in anticipation of what’s coming next.

his mouth latches onto your clit with a sudden, intense suction that makes your back arch off the couch, a sharp moan ripping from your throat. the wet warmth of his tongue moves expertly, flicking and swirling before he sucks harshly again, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

just when you think you can’t take any more, his fingers press against your entrance, teasingly circling before slowly pushing inside. the stretch is delicious, his fingers sinking into you with ease, the slickness of your arousal making it effortless. he groans against you, the vibrations only adding to the unbearable pleasure as he starts to move—slow at first, testing, before curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that has your entire body trembling.

“fuck, s-sunoo..” your voice is broken, shaky, barely coherent as you clutch onto the couch for dear life.

he hums against your clit, clearly pleased with your reaction, his fingers picking up their pace, thrusting into you deeper, harder, his mouth never once relenting.

the coil in your stomach tightens dangerously, the pleasure building rapidly, threatening to consume you whole.

“sunoo—sunoo, please!” you cry out, your voice breaking between moans as his fingers continue their relentless pace, plunging into you with precision, each thrust leaving you breathless. the wet, sinful sounds of your arousal echo through the room, only adding to the intensity of the moment. your walls flutter around his fingers, clenching down instinctively as that familiar, burning heat coils deep in your stomach, warning you that you’re teetering on the edge.

“fuck, sunoo—i’m gonna cum! i—i can’t—” your words come out in desperate gasps, your entire body trembling as the pleasure builds unbearably.

but instead of giving in, he chuckles darkly against your skin, his breath hot as he murmurs, “aww, you wanna cum, baby?” his voice is smooth, teasing, completely unfazed by your desperation.

his fingers don’t slow—not even for a second. if anything, he moves even faster, driving them deeper, curling them just right until your legs are shaking around him. and then, just when you think you can’t take anymore, his thumb comes down on your swollen clit, pressing down before rubbing harsh, relentless circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. the sudden overstimulation makes your back arch off the couch, a sharp, broken moan ripping from your throat.

but just as your release is within reach, just as you’re about to fall over the edge, he suddenly tightens his grip on your thigh, voice dropping into a firm, commanding tone.

“you’re gonna hold it.”

your eyes widen in pure, helpless agony. “w-what?” your voice is a wrecked whimper, your body on fire, teetering dangerously on the brink of pleasure.

he smirks, amusement flickering in his dark eyes as he watches you squirm, your desperation only fueling him more. “you heard me. you’re not cumming until i say so.”

your body betrays you, clenching around his fingers, desperate for relief, but he gives you none. instead, he continues his ruthless pace, dragging you further into the agonizing high without letting you fall over the edge.

“fuck—no, sunoo! i can’t—please!” you cry out, your voice breaking into a desperate sob as your body trembles uncontrollably beneath his touch. your hands clutch at the cushions, fingers curling into the fabric like a lifeline, your entire body writhing under the intensity of his movements. your legs shake violently, barely able to keep still as he continues his merciless assault, his fingers plunging in and out of you at a brutal pace, stretching you, filling you, driving you to the very edge of insanity.

your chest rises and falls in frantic breaths, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the sheer overstimulation. every muscle in your body is taut, coiled so tightly it feels like you might snap at any moment. the unbearable pleasure surges through you in waves, an inferno burning deep in your core, desperate for release. but he won’t let you.

“aww, poor baby…” sunoo coos, his voice laced with mock sympathy, though the amusement in his tone betrays his true intentions. his dark eyes glint with satisfaction as he watches you unravel, drinking in the sight of your helpless state. he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs, “i don’t care.”

his words send a sharp jolt of heat straight through you, a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs despite the sweet torture he’s inflicting.

his fingers curl inside you again, hitting that perfect spot with unrelenting precision, his thumb still circling your clit in fast, ruthless strokes. your legs twitch, your moans turning into broken sobs as you shake beneath him, completely at his mercy.

he’s enjoying this—enjoying the way you fall apart in his hands, how utterly wrecked you are for him.

his movements halt abruptly, leaving you panting, teetering on the edge of a release he refuses to grant. before you can even catch your breath, he shifts you effortlessly, guiding your body to lay flat against the plush cushions of the couch. his touch is firm but careful, positioning you exactly how he wants—spread out, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

his hands move with purpose, fingers reaching for the hem of his shirt. in one smooth motion, he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside, revealing the toned expanse of his torso. his skin glows under the dim lighting, his prominent abs flexing slightly as he breathes. the sight alone sends another rush of heat pooling between your legs, your thighs instinctively pressing together in anticipation.

but he isn’t done.

his fingers work their way down, unbuttoning his pants with agonizing slowness, as if savoring every second of your hungry gaze trailing over his body. the fabric slides down his hips, along with his boxers, pooling at his feet before he kicks them away carelessly.

and then he’s bare.

his cock springs free, hard and thick, the tip glistening with arousal. the sight alone makes your breath hitch, your mouth going dry as your thighs clench involuntarily. he watches your reaction, his lips curling into a smirk, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

“like what you see, baby?” he taunts, his voice dripping with amusement as he strokes himself lazily, letting you take in every inch of him.

he moves over you with a predatory grace, his body hovering just inches above yours, the heat radiating from his skin making your breath hitch. his hands find your face, fingers cupping your cheeks with a gentleness that contrasts the hunger in his gaze. his thumb strokes your flushed skin before he leans down, capturing your lips in a deep, consuming kiss.

his lips move against yours with raw intensity, swallowing your soft whimpers as his tongue teases its way into your mouth. the taste of him, warm and intoxicating, sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through you, your fingers instinctively reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him even closer.

a low groan rumbles from his chest as he breaks the kiss, his breath fanning against your lips. without another word, his hand wraps around his cock, fisting it slowly, the slick head brushing against your soaked folds. the contact sends a jolt of electricity through you, a shaky gasp escaping as he drags himself along your slit, coating himself in your wetness.

“fuck…” he grunts, his voice low, strained, the friction making his hips jerk slightly. his cock slides against your clit with every slow stroke, the sensation making your thighs twitch as your body craves more.

he watches your face closely, drinking in every reaction, every flutter of your lashes, every soft gasp that falls from your lips. he’s teasing, taking his time, savoring the feeling of you beneath him, knowing damn well how much you need him to just give in.

before you can even process it, he pushes in—slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. the sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pressure that has your breath hitching, your fingers curling into the couch beneath you. your walls clench instinctively around him, the tightness drawing a deep, guttural groan from his throat.

“shit…” he breathes out, his voice strained, laced with pure pleasure as he sinks deeper, his cock disappearing inch by inch inside you.

his arms move beneath yours, caging you in, his hands pressing firmly against the cushions just above your shoulders. his body is flush against yours, the warmth of his skin pressing into you, grounding you in the moment.

he dips his head down, his lips ghosting over your neck before pressing soft, lingering kisses against your heated skin. each kiss is slow, almost tender, a stark contrast to the overwhelming fullness stretching you apart. his breath is hot against your pulse, his lips trailing up toward your jaw, as if whispering silent reassurances between each soft peck.

his hips still momentarily, letting you adjust, his thumbs stroking soothing circles against your skin. but the way his fingers tense against the couch, the way his breathing grows heavier, tells you he’s barely holding back.

his hips start to move, and though his initial thrusts are measured, controlled, it doesn’t last. the way your walls cling to him, squeezing him with every inch he sinks into you, has his restraint snapping almost instantly. his movements quickly become rougher, more urgent, each deep thrust slamming into you with a force that leaves you gasping for air.

the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, mingling with the heavy breaths and desperate moans that spill from your lips. the pleasure is overwhelming, each stroke hitting deep, sending shockwaves through your body. your legs react instinctively, wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer as your fingers claw at his back, nails digging into the firm muscles beneath your touch.

“sunoo!” you cry out, your voice breaking into a scream of pleasure as he angles his hips just right, dragging against that sensitive spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

his breath is ragged, hot against your ear as he groans, his grip on the cushions tightening as he pounds into you without mercy. “shit, baby… you’re so fucking tight…” his voice is thick with lust, raw and strained, as if he’s barely holding himself together.

his pace only quickens, his thrusts growing deeper, rougher, his body pressing you further into the couch as he loses himself in the way you feel around him. every roll of his hips sends sparks of pleasure coursing through your veins, building that tight coil in your stomach, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“look at you, taking my dick so well, baby…” sunoo groans, his voice thick with pleasure, eyes locked onto the sight of you beneath him. the way your body takes every relentless thrust, the way your walls squeeze him so perfectly—it has his head spinning. his hips don’t slow, not even for a second, driving into you with an unrelenting pace that has you seeing stars.

“fuuuckk—yes, sunoo!” you cry out, your body arching beneath him, the pleasure overwhelming, intoxicating. every thrust hits deeper, harder, sending waves of euphoria crashing through you, your fingers digging into his back in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.

his lips curl into a cocky smirk as he watches you unravel, completely lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. “love this dick already, baby?” he taunts, his breath hot against your lips, the teasing lilt in his voice only making the fire inside you burn hotter.

before you can even answer, his mouth crashes onto yours, stealing your breath, swallowing every moan, every whimper. his lips move with raw hunger, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, deepening the kiss as if he’s trying to consume you whole.

the way you taste—sweet, intoxicating—only fuels him more, makes him thrust into you even harder, his body completely consumed by the way you feel wrapped so tightly around him. he’s drowning in you, in this moment, in the way your bodies move together in perfect, reckless harmony.

he swears he’s never felt this high before—never felt anything like this. it’s addicting. and he never wants to stop.

“fuuuckk—sunoo, i c-can’t—i c-can’t…” your voice is a desperate, broken whimper, your entire body trembling beneath him. every thrust sends you spiraling further, the pleasure so overwhelming it’s almost unbearable. your nails dig into his back, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

sunoo groans at the sound of your voice, the way you’re falling apart completely for him. his hips snap forward with relentless force, each thrust pushing you closer and closer to that inevitable peak. he can feel it—the way your walls flutter around him, squeezing him tighter, your body begging for release.

“fuck, baby—wanna cum?” his voice is thick with desire, breathless as he leans in, his lips ghosting over your ear. “you wanna cum for me?”

your head tilts back, a sob of pleasure escaping your lips as your entire body quivers beneath him. you’re teetering on the edge, dangling between sweet bliss and unbearable tension, your mind clouded with nothing but him—his touch, his voice, the way he’s completely consuming you.

“p-please—please, fuck—please!” you beg, your voice wrecked, desperate, pleading for the release you so desperately need.

his fingers tighten their grip on your shoulders, his breath ragged against your skin as he thrusts into you harder, deeper, his own control beginning to fray. “cum for me, baby,” he growls, his voice dark, commanding. “let go.”

a loud, uncontrollable cry rips from your throat as the pleasure crashes over you in violent, overwhelming waves. your entire body tenses, then completely unravels, trembling beneath him as the intense release takes hold.

and then it happens.

the sharp, wet sound fills the air as your climax bursts forth, a powerful spray soaking both you and sunoo. the sudden gush makes your mind go blank, your vision blurring as your body convulses with the force of your orgasm.

gasps echo through the room—the others watching in stunned silence, eyes wide as they take in the sight of you, completely wrecked, completely undone.

sunoo freezes for a moment, his breath catching in his throat, before a deep, guttural moan tears from his lips. his jaw goes slack, his eyes darkening as he watches the way you squirt against him, your slickness dripping down his abs, coating his cock in a way that has his entire body trembling.

“fuck, baby…” he groans, his voice hoarse, filled with pure, raw hunger. the sensation of your release against him, the warmth, the wetness—it drives him wild, makes his hips jerk forward on instinct, as if chasing the feeling of you unraveling beneath him.

your legs shake violently, your hands grasping at anything—his shoulders, the cushions, his arms—as you sob out his name, your entire body still pulsing from the aftershocks.

“sunoo!” your voice is desperate, breathless, your head tilting back as you ride out the high, waves of pleasure still coursing through your veins.

and sunoo? he looks completely mesmerized—completely addicted to the sight of you falling apart just for him.

“fuck—i’m gonna cum, oh shit!” sunoo grunts, his voice rough, breathless, completely lost in the intensity of his release.

his movements grow erratic, hips stuttering as he pulls out at the last second, his hand immediately wrapping around his cock. his strokes are fast, desperate, chasing his high as his chest rises and falls in rapid pants.

a deep, guttural moan rips from his throat as he spills onto your stomach, thick ropes of cum painting your skin as his body jerks with each pulse. his grip on himself tightens, milking every last drop as his head tilts back, his mouth falling open in a silent moan, completely lost in the pleasure overtaking him.

“shit…” he exhales, voice raspy, his body still trembling from the force of his orgasm.

his dark, hooded eyes trail down to the mess he’s made on you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he watches his release drip down your stomach, glistening against your flushed skin.

without hesitation, his fingers dip into the creamy warmth, gathering his cum onto his fingertips before bringing them to your lips.

“suck.”

his command is firm, unwavering, his gaze locked onto yours, waiting. his fingers press lightly against your bottom lip, smearing the mess against your soft skin, teasing you—daring you.

his breathing is still uneven, his body still humming with the remnants of pleasure, but the hunger in his eyes hasn’t faded. if anything, it’s only grown darker.

you comply without hesitation, parting your lips as his fingers slide past them, pressing against your tongue. the warm, salty taste of him coats your taste buds, and a soft, involuntary moan escapes your throat at the sensation. your tongue swirls around his fingers, sucking lightly, savoring the way he watches you—his gaze dark, filled with something unreadable, something possessive.

his breathing is still uneven, his chest rising and falling as he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes. your lips wrap tighter around his fingers, your tongue pressing against the ridges of his knuckles before you slowly pull back, letting them slip from your mouth with a soft pop.

the room is thick with heat, the only sound filling the space being the heavy breathing between the both of you. your skin is damp with sweat, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, and yet the weight of what just happened lingers in the air.

then, sunoo smirks, breaking the silence with a breathy chuckle.

“am i subby now?”

natty’s notes 〢hoped you liked it !!

[emmyrosee]

Please for the love of all unholy don’t read this (also if you do read it, pls bear in mind I’ve only watched the anime PFFFFFF-)

———-

“Whaddya mean youre not dating!”

You’ve been at this argument for what feels like hours.

Drinks with adolescent friends shouldn’t be this… harrowing, especially not with the friends you’ve decided to pick. After all you’ve been through, after the trials and tribulations, them saving your ass more times than you’ve known, you’d assumed that now you’ve reached adulthood, you can have civil conversations about work, childhood memories, the weather, anything other than your relationship status of yourself and the one and only Umemiya Hajime.

“Please, Sakura,” you sigh, massaging your temples. “I think the neighbors heard what you said.”

“YOUR NEIGHBORS SHOULD KNOW THAT YOUVE BOTH FUMBLED EACH OTHER!” He quickly barks back.

Suo takes a sip of his water, “be careful, neighbors might think you’ve caught feelings yourself, Sakura.”

He sputters in indignation while Neiri leans over to you, “he’s not entirely wrong, you know? Of all of us, you both managed to stay the closest, and it’s not like either of you hid your crushes from each other well back in high school.”

You roll your eyes and groan at the memories of yourself and the former captain of Bofurin, who indeed played many a game of telephone about your crushes on one another, but that stopped once Kotoha got fed up with it, and forced you both to awkwardly confess to each other. The fact that your friends can remember the cringiness of your actions with Umemiya is detrimental enough to your mental health.

But right now, Suo is smirking at you. Knowingly. He’s quiet, characteristically so, but it’s clear there’s something brewing in his head.

“You, im ignoring- quit smirking at me.”

Without a moment to spare, the door opens swiftly, revealing the one and only Umemiya, dressed down casually with a bag of snacks dangling from his arm. As all heads whip to the new arrival, you feel your shoulders relax, butterflies fluttering around your tummy as he cards a big hand through his hair and sighs dramatically.

“Sorry to be late,” Umemiya sang, making himself comfortable around the coffee table, working his way between you and Suo; even in his youth, he’d always had a pinch of jealousy for you and the other man’s dynamic, a slight hint of possessiveness that came from the fact that you and Suo were close, even though you’d spent hours yapping in Suo’s ear about Umemiya constantly- not that you’d ever mention that to him, of course.

And judging by the way Suo is currently chuckling at you, it’s obvious he knows the jealousy lingers as well.

“Traffic was a nightmare, why do you have to live so far away, when I-“

“Now’s not the time!” Sakura hisses, hands flat on the table as he looks at Umemiya. “How the sweet hell did you friend zoned! For fucks sake, you’re the great Umemiya, what kind of dickhead like you gets friend zoned!”

You bury your face in your hands as Umemiya slowly turns his head to look at you, “why’s he yelling at me?”

Sou shrugs, “that’s kind of what he does. Apologies.”

Umemiya returns a pleasant, nostalgic sigh and nods, “ah yes, I recall from back in high school.”

“DONT TALK ABOUT ME LIKE IM NOT HERE!”

“Why’re you still yelling in my house?” You hiss.

Amidst all the commotion of Suo’s sass and Neiri’s feeble attempts to quiet your mutual friends down, Umemiya leans closer you, his voice low and raspy as its whispered in your ear, “you told them we weren’t dating?”

You start to smirk. In your peripheral, his face morphs from his casual smile to return a cheeky smirk.

“They’re not ready for that kind of news,” you whisper.

“That’s fair.” He gently shifts his knee to nudge against yours, a symbol of secret affection to hide the true status of your relationship with Umemiya:

That being, absolutely smitten with each other.

[helvegen-s]

do I wanna know?

Hozier's version

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: Oscar Piastri wasn't looking for love when he met Amélie in a Monaco nightclub. But their undeniable chemistry sparks a passionate connection that quickly becomes something more. As their secret relationship deepens, her surname, Vasseur, becomes the real problem.

Word count: 12k (stoppp, so long but so worth it)

TW: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, sexually suggestive content, alcohol, strong language...

A/N: I DID IT. Another day, another one-shot. I love Oscar with all my heart. I swear I’ve done everything to make this as little angsty and as least sad as possible. I hope you enjoy it <3

My previous one-shot, Step by step, has received so much love. I adore you all, and thank you for the reblogs, for the comments and the likes!

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

Monaco at night had a different glow. It wasn’t just the shimmer of lights reflecting on the sea or the lingering echo of engines that still seemed to vibrate in the air. It was the luxury, the exclusivity—the feeling that anything could happen in a city that never truly slept.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t the kind of guy who frequented nightclubs. Not because he didn’t like having fun, but because the idea of being surrounded by strangers, with deafening music and alcohol flowing freely, wasn’t exactly his scene. But a couple of friends had come to visit him at his new apartment in Monaco, and after a few beers and plenty of teasing about how boring he was, they had managed to drag him there.

The club was a chaos of strobe lights and moving bodies. The music, a heavy, immersive beat, pulsed through the floor and into his chest. Oscar stayed in a corner, a drink in his hand, pretending to enjoy himself while his friends disappeared into the crowd.

That was when he saw her.

She moved with an almost insolent confidence, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even realizing it. She was dressed in black, her loose hair falling in soft waves, her smirk suggesting she already knew something the rest didn’t. Oscar wasn’t the type to stare at just anyone, but there was something about her that kept his gaze locked.

When their eyes met, she didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled, amused, as if she could read exactly what was going through his mind.

And then she walked over.

"You don’t look like someone who enjoys places like this," she said, leaning in just enough for her voice to be heard over the music.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"And what kind of person do I look like?"

"Someone who’s already calculating how much longer they need to stay before they can leave without looking like a buzzkill."

Oscar let out a laugh.

"And what about you? Are you the life of the party?"

She shrugged, her expression shameless.

"Could be."

Oscar couldn’t help but smile. There was something about her attitude, the way she didn’t give him a break, that had him completely hooked.

"Are you always this quick with words?"

"Are you always this easy to throw off?" she shot back.

He laughed again, more at ease than he expected to be. He wasn’t usually like this with strangers. He didn’t usually let himself go this fast. But with her, it felt inevitable.

They stayed like that, challenging each other with words and smiles, until conversation was no longer enough. He wasn’t sure who made the first move—if it was her or him. Maybe, in the end, it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the exact moment their lips met in the middle of the dance floor, with the music pounding around them and the world shrinking to that single instant.

Oscar didn’t know her name. He didn’t know who she was or where she was from. All he knew was that the night had just become a lot more interesting.

The kiss tasted like gin and danger. The kind that arrived without warning, set skin on fire, and became impossible to ignore.

Oscar wasn’t thinking too much when he had her this close. He wasn’t thinking about the loud club, his friends, or anything other than the way she smiled against his lips, as if this were a game she already knew she was going to win.

His hand instinctively slid to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the way her body fit against his like they’d done this before, like it was meant to happen. She didn’t pull away—on the contrary, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, just to tease him.

"Do you always kiss strangers like this?" she whispered when they pulled apart just a fraction.

Oscar smiled, still holding her.

"No. Do you?"

"Neither do I." She leaned in again, barely grazing his lips with hers, tempting him. "But today seems like a good day to start."

Oscar chuckled lowly, unable to resist the effect she had on him. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t what he usually did. But something about her made him want to play along, to fall helplessly into the pull of her presence.

The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. She took advantage of it, letting her hands trace the edges of his shirt while looking at him with that wicked amusement.

"Do you dance, driver?"

Oscar frowned, half amused, half confused.

"How do you know I’m a driver?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think.

"The way you move. Besides, this is Monaco. Everyone’s a driver here."

"That sounds like a very well-crafted lie."

"Could be." She leaned in again, her lips brushing against the curve of his jaw. "Does that bother you?"

No. It didn’t. Not when he had her this close, the dance floor spinning around them, and the feeling that this was all a mistake—but the kind worth making.

Oscar took her hand and spun her effortlessly, making her laugh. They danced without a plan, without thinking too much about the rest of the world. Her body felt light against his, her laughter vibrating against his skin every time they pushed the limits a little further.

Until, in a moment of clarity, Oscar leaned in and whispered in her ear,

"You haven’t told me your name."

She stopped, looking at him with a spark in her eyes.

"Do you really need it?"

Yes. Probably. But the way she said it, the way she smiled afterward, made him hesitate.

Because maybe, just for tonight, he didn’t need it at all.

Oscar watched her, waiting for an answer. She only smiled, stretching the silence just enough to keep him on edge.

"Amélie," she finally said, savoring each syllable of her own name.

Oscar nodded, repeating it in his mind, making sure not to forget it. Amélie. It suited her.

"Nice name."

"I know."

Oscar laughed. God, she was unbearable. Unbearable and utterly fascinating in equal measure.

They kept dancing, though the music no longer mattered. What mattered were their hands gliding over each other’s skin, the whispers in their ears, the way their lips brushed together, turning into something more. The attraction between them was like an electric current, a dangerous game neither of them seemed willing to lose.

Amélie leaned in, her lips just a breath away.

"Let’s get out of here."

Oscar didn’t think twice.

The Mediterranean breeze was warm as they walked through the streets of Monaco, away from the noise of the club, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

"Your place or mine?" Amélie asked, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket.

Oscar hesitated for a second. His friends would be crashing at his apartment, and the idea of going back with her only to find a couple of drunk idiots passed out on the couch wasn’t exactly appealing. His mind also flashed to the countless unopened boxes, unpacked suitcases, and unassembled furniture piled up in his new place.

"Yours."

"Good choice." She smiled but didn’t say anything else. She simply started walking, knowing he would follow.

Her apartment was in an elegant building near the port, with massive windows and a breathtaking view of the illuminated city.

"Nice place."

"It’s not bad." She shrugged off her jacket with a swift motion, letting it fall onto a chair. Then she turned to face him, that same defiant look in her eyes. "Do you want something to drink or…?"

Oscar didn’t let her finish.

The tension that had been simmering between them all night exploded the moment their lips met again. It was different from the kiss at the club—more urgent, more desperate. Like every second they had spent holding back had only been a prelude to the real moment of the night.

Amélie smiled against his mouth and, in one swift move, pushed him back until his spine hit the wall.

"Are you always this easy?" she murmured, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Oscar let out a low chuckle.

"Are you always this bossy?"

"When necessary."

"I like it."

This time, he took control.

They stumbled through the apartment, kissing and laughing, too caught up in each other to care about bumping into furniture. Clothes disappeared along the way, leaving a trail neither of them bothered to follow.

The way Amélie moved was hypnotic, as if she was in charge without even trying. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath warm against his lips.

"If at any point you want to stop—"

Oscar cut her off before she could finish, kissing her again, deeper, more desperate. Amélie grinned against his lips before pulling him further into the apartment.

There was no rush, yet no hesitation either. They moved with an absurd level of synchronicity for two strangers, as if every touch had been rehearsed a hundred times before.

When the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, he took the opportunity to flip their dynamic, pinning her beneath him with ease.

"So, you like competing off-track too?" she teased, fingers tracing down his back.

Oscar lowered his head to her neck, pressing slow kisses against her skin.

"Always."

Amélie exhaled softly, letting the heat of the moment consume everything.

That night was one to remember.

Because, even though neither of them knew it yet, it was a night that would change everything.

Oscar woke up to sunlight filtering through the curtains.

He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. It took him a second to remember where he was—the spacious bedroom, the messy sheets, the lingering scent of perfume and warm skin in the air.

And then, the body beside him.

Amélie was lying on her stomach, her hair a tangled mess on the pillow, the sheet barely covering her back. Her breathing was soft, completely oblivious to his wakefulness.

Oscar rested his head on the pillow and watched her for a moment. He remembered every detail of the night before—the taste of gin on her lips, the way she laughed against his skin, how they had lost themselves in each other without holding back. It had been wild and sweet at the same time, like they were on the edge of devouring each other yet somehow knew exactly how to touch.

Definitely, one of those nights you don’t forget.

But now came the tricky part—the mornings.

It was never exactly awkward, but it was never simple either. There was something about waking up in an unfamiliar bed, with the faint haze of a night too good to regret, that always brought the inevitable question: Now what?

As if sensing his gaze, Amélie shifted slightly and murmured something unintelligible before cracking her eyes open.

"Mmm… you’re still here," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Did you expect me to sneak out in the middle of the night?"

"I didn’t take you for a coward," she said, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.

Oscar chuckled. He propped himself up on his elbow, taking her in properly for the first time without the dim club lights or the haze of lust clouding his perception. He noticed new details—the way her skin caught the morning light, the faint scar on her collarbone, the relaxed yet mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Do you always analyze people this much when you wake up next to them?" Amélie asked, meeting his gaze.

"Do you always have a comeback ready?"

"I warned you last night."

Oscar smirked, shaking his head. He couldn’t help it. There was something about her that intrigued him. It wasn’t just that she was stunning or that the sex had been incredible. It was the way she carried herself, the confidence, the effortless way she set the pace without him even noticing.

She stretched lazily before sitting up, letting the sheet slide down to her waist.

"I’m making coffee," she announced, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Does that mean you're inviting me to stay?"

Amélie turned around, giving him a defiant look.

"It means that if you touch the coffee machine before it's done, I'll throw you out of my apartment shirtless."

Oscar let out a laugh and fell back onto the bed, arms resting behind his head.

"You're trouble."

"And you walked right into it with your eyes wide open, driver."

With a satisfied smile, Amélie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Oscar with the certainty that this night wouldn’t be something he could forget so easily.

He lay there for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling with a small smile. He couldn’t remember the last time a night had been like this. Not just incredible in the physical sense—because it had been, no question—but fun.

There was something about Amélie that kept him hooked, and that worried him a little. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like any other girl he’d been with before.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before getting up.

Gathering his clothes scattered around the room, he pulled his pants halfway up as he walked out toward the kitchen.

The apartment was modern and spacious, with a spectacular view of Monaco from the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the distance, Amélie’s silhouette moved effortlessly between the coffee machine and the shelves, wearing his shirt—barely buttoned.

Oscar leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms.

"Nice shirt."

Amélie didn’t even turn around.

"Nice coffee machine," she shot back. "Which you still can’t touch."

He chuckled, stepping closer until his hip brushed against hers at the counter.

"And what if I need caffeine to function?"

She turned her head just enough to give him a look filled with teasing amusement.

"You're an F1 driver, not an office worker with a coffee addiction."

"We all have our weaknesses."

Amélie smirked, as if considering his words for a moment, before focusing back on her coffee.

The coffee machine bubbled softly as the rich aroma filled the kitchen. Amélie, arms crossed and feigning exasperation, watched Oscar stir the scrambled eggs he had insisted on cooking—with infuriating ease.

"Seriously, you don’t have to cook," she repeated for the third time.

"And yet, here I am."

"This isn’t your house."

"No, but it’s not a restaurant either, so if I want a decent meal, I’d rather make it myself."

Amélie huffed, leaning against the counter with her coffee cup in hand.

"Are you implying that I can’t cook?"

Oscar shot her an amused look.

"I haven’t seen any evidence that you can."

"You're incredibly arrogant for someone cooking with my pan in my kitchen."

"I call it survival," he said with a shrug.

Their dynamic was captivating. Amélie fired off comebacks at lightning speed, but Oscar kept up, responding with dry, precise remarks. There was no tension, no awkward pauses. It felt as if they had known each other for years, as if this was a routine between them.

As the eggs finished cooking, Oscar glanced toward the living room. From the kitchen, he had the perfect angle to see the main wall, and that’s when he noticed it.

Above the TV, hung proudly, was a massive painting.

It wasn’t a photograph, but a stunningly detailed painting of Monza’s circuit, featuring the faces of Michael Schumacher and Rubens Barrichello, dressed in their iconic Ferrari red suits, holding their trophies with beaming smiles.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Is that Monza?"

Amélie, mid-sip of coffee, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Mhm."

Oscar set down the spatula and turned fully toward the painting.

"It’s incredible."

"It is."

"Did you buy it?"

"No."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, noting how she didn’t elaborate.

"Are you a Formula 1 fan?"

"Mmm… not actively."

"You have a giant painting of Schumacher and Barrichello in your living room, Amélie. I find that hard to believe."

She sighed, as if she had been expecting this conversation.

"It was my father’s. He gave it to me when I bought this apartment."

Oscar tilted his head.

"Is your father a fan?"

"Let’s just say he’s very involved in motorsport."

A small alarm went off in Oscar’s head. Something wasn’t quite adding up, but before he could ask more, Amélie set her cup down and crossed her arms.

"And yes, I know who you are."

He tensed slightly.

"Oh."

"I didn’t sleep with you because you’re famous."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, surprised by her bluntness.

"I didn’t think you did."

"Good. Because I didn’t."

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Amélie’s expression was calm, but with that ever-present challenge in her eyes that made her impossible to ignore. Oscar felt there was more to this, something she wasn’t saying.

But for now, he let it go.

"The eggs are ready," he said, serving them onto two plates.

Amélie gave him a small smile and took hers.

"You’re a decent driver. Let’s see if you’re a decent cook too."

Oscar shook his head, chuckling as they sat down to eat.

Breakfast carried the same strangely effortless energy as the rest of the morning. Oscar couldn’t recall the last time he’d shared a moment like this with someone he’d just met. Maybe never.

They talked about everything and nothing. Amélie teased him about how meticulous he was with the scrambled eggs. Oscar told her the coffee was so strong it could wake the dead. She told him that if he couldn’t handle it, he probably wasn’t man enough to be in her kitchen.

Oscar could only laugh.

And then, it was time to leave.

"I’d stay longer," he said, leaning against the counter, "but I left my friends at a club, and I still don’t know if they’re alive or if one of them ended up in a ditch."

Amélie chuckled.

"I’d say there’s an 80% chance they’re sleeping on your couch and a 20% chance they’re in jail."

"That’s exactly why I need to check."

She set her cup in the sink and nodded.

"Alright."

But neither of them moved.

Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up.

"Want to exchange numbers?"

Amélie raised an eyebrow, as if she hadn’t expected that, but didn’t hesitate for long before taking her own phone and typing her contact into his.

"Call me if your friends are dead. I can help you hide the bodies."

"I’ll keep that in mind," Oscar joked, saving her number.

And then, the real problem arose: how to say goodbye?

A simple “bye”? Too cold.

A hug? He wasn’t sure if that was right.

A kiss? Maybe too intimate for what they really were—two strangers who had just spent the night together.

But when their eyes met, the decision made itself.

Oscar leaned in slightly, and Amélie didn’t step back. Their lips barely brushed—a short kiss, nothing like the intensity of the night before, but charged with something else. Something harder to define.

When they pulled away, Amélie smiled, that mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Don’t let it get to your head, Piastri."

Oscar laughed, shaking his head as he stepped toward the door.

"See you around, Amélie."

"See you."

And with that, he left.

Though, as he walked out of the building, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before he saw her again.

Oscar entered his apartment in Monaco, his body exhausted and his mind scattered. The weekend's race was still buzzing in his head, memories of the paddock and strategy meetings blending with the roar of the engines. He knew he should take a shower, eat something decent, and, most of all, sleep.

But the moment he crossed the threshold, he thought of her.

It had been weeks since he last saw her. Neither of them had written, not even a casual message, as if the night they spent together had been nothing more than a fleeting moment, not something strong enough to leave a mark.

Oscar dropped onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. He had no reason to text her. No excuse. But before he could think too much about it, his fingers were already moving over the screen.

🟠 Oscar: "If you want to see me, come over. I'm exhausted."

The possibility that she wouldn’t reply crossed his mind. It was late. And if he hadn’t bothered to reach out before, why would she now?

But against all odds, his phone vibrated instantly.

🔴 Amélie: "What kind of invitation is that? Doesn't sound very tempting."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

🟠 Oscar: "It's the best I can offer in this state."

This time, Amélie took longer to reply. He pictured her with her phone in hand, debating whether to accept or keep playing along a little longer.

🔴 Amélie: "Alright. But I’m bringing dinner."

🟠 Oscar: "No objections here."

🔴 Amélie: "You should have some. I might bring something terrible just to see your face when you try it."

🟠 Oscar: "If you poison me, you’ll pay for it."

🔴 Amélie: "I love a man who takes risks."

Oscar shook his head, and as he wrote his address in the chat, he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

Whatever this was, he liked it.

The doorbell rang about forty minutes later.

Dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, Oscar made his way to the door unhurriedly. When he opened it, Amélie stood there, a paper bag in hand and a half-smile on her lips.

“Don’t ask what’s for dinner,” she said before he could say a word.

Oscar arched an eyebrow as he stepped aside to let her in.

“That sounds concerning.”

“Come on, trust me.”

She took off her jacket and tossed it over the couch with a familiarity they probably shouldn’t have yet. Oscar didn’t comment on it, but his gaze flickered to the jacket for a second before he shut the door behind her.

“I hope you’re not expecting anything gourmet,” she warned, pulling containers from the bag.

Oscar leaned against the counter, watching her.

“Honestly, as long as I don’t have to cook, I’ll take anything.”

Amélie pulled out two boxes of pasta from an Italian restaurant.

“Not much effort, huh?”

She shot him a sharp look.

“You wound me. This is from one of the best places in Monaco.”

Oscar opened one of the boxes, and the second the aroma hit him, he had to admit—it looked amazing.

“Alright, point for you.”

They sat on the couch, legs crossed casually, no rush. They ate in a comfortable atmosphere, filled with sarcastic remarks and glances that lingered just a little too long.

“So,” Amélie said at some point, twirling her fork in her pasta, “how does it feel to be home after the races?”

Oscar shrugged.

“Quiet. Maybe too quiet.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Does that mean you missed the chaos?”

Oscar watched her for a second before replying, amusement in his voice.

“I think it means I missed the person who brings it.”

Amélie smiled but didn’t reply right away. Still, in her eyes, Oscar saw something—a flicker of recognition, of acceptance.

This game between them was far from over.

Amélie held Oscar’s gaze for a few seconds before flashing a lazy smile.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an accusation,” she said, taking another bite of pasta.

“A bit of both.”

She let out a low chuckle.

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

They kept eating, their conversation flowing as easily as their playful jabs. There were no awkward silences, no need to fill the gaps with unnecessary words. It was strange. Strange because Oscar wasn’t usually this comfortable with someone he barely knew.

But Amélie wasn’t just anyone.

And that’s what kept him hooked.

When they finished eating, she set her takeout container on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch with the ease of someone who had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to text me,” she said suddenly.

Oscar glanced at her while finishing his last bite.

“Oh yeah?”

“No. You seemed like the type of driver who disappears after one night.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what you think of me?”

Amélie tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t know. I’m still deciding.”

Oscar licked his lips, amused.

“And how’s my evaluation going so far?”

She pretended to think about it for a moment before answering.

“A solid seven out of ten.”

Oscar let out a laugh.

“Just a seven?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What would get me a ten?”

Amélie turned her head to look at him, and Oscar caught the subtle glint of challenge in her eyes.

“You’ll have to figure that out.”

The air between them shifted, almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. Amélie kept him right on the edge of what was safe and what wasn’t, and Oscar wasn’t sure which one tempted him more.

He studied her in silence for a moment.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked finally.

Amélie smiled.

“Only if you have decent wine.”

Oscar stood up, shaking his head.

“Picky.”

“Always.”

He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine he had stashed away. He wasn’t exactly a wine connoisseur, but he hoped it was good enough for his guest. When he returned to the living room with two glasses, Amélie had already changed positions on the couch, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her.

“I’ll give you an extra point if it’s good,” she remarked as Oscar poured her a glass.

“Then you’d better lie if it’s not.”

She laughed softly before taking a sip.

Oscar watched her as she did, surprised by how much he enjoyed having her in his space.

“Approved,” she finally said, handing him back the glass with an amused look.

“Great. So am I at an eight now?”

Amélie tilted her head.

“That depends on how the night ends.”

Oscar leaned back against the couch, smirking.

“Interesting.”

And somehow, they both knew the night was far from over.

Eventually, the wine was forgotten on the table.

He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. One joke led to another, a smile turned into a fleeting touch, and now Amélie was straddling him, her legs tangled with his, her lips caught in a kiss that had no intention of ending anytime soon.

Oscar’s hand slid down her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her shirt. Amélie let out a laugh against his mouth before pulling back slightly, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

“For someone who was so tired, you have an impressive amount of energy,” she teased, not bothering to hide the playful lilt in her voice.

Oscar chuckled, his fingers still tracing lazy circles on her waist.

“Must be the high-quality dinner you brought,” he shot back with equal sarcasm.

Amélie arched an eyebrow.

“Then I should feed you more often.”

“Good idea. But, to be fair, it’s not just the food.”

“Oh, no?”

Oscar tilted his head, his lips grazing the skin of her neck.

“Let’s just say the company helps, too.”

Amélie smiled, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“You’re more charming than you let on, Piastri.”

“And you’re more dangerous than you look.”

She let out a soft laugh before kissing him again, her fingers tangling in his hair. And for the second time in his life, Oscar let himself be swept away by Amélie without a second thought.

Somehow, between laughter, sharp comebacks, and hands growing bolder by the second, they ended up in Oscar’s bedroom. It was a whirlwind of discarded clothes, breathless whispers, and a crackling electricity that filled every inch of space. Amélie was a storm—unpredictable, defiant, impossible to ignore. And Oscar surrendered to her without hesitation, without caring that they barely knew each other, without worrying about what it meant.

Because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.

The first thing Oscar noticed upon waking was the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. The second was the warmth beside him—the shape of Amélie beneath the sheets.

For a moment, he simply lay there, watching her in the dim light. Her breathing was slow and steady, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. She looked peaceful, nothing like the woman who challenged him with every word when she was awake.

Oscar smiled to himself before stretching slightly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in his muscles.

"Do you always stare at people when they’re sleeping?" Amélie’s voice, husky from sleep, pulled him from his thoughts.

Oscar blinked, a little surprised to find her awake.

"Only when they try to kill me with their sense of humor," he replied, smirking.

Amélie cracked one eye open, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Don't blame me if you can’t handle it."

Oscar let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

"I might need some intensive training."

"I doubt it. You handled yourself pretty well last night."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Pretty well?"

Amélie shrugged, feigning indifference, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

"I don’t know... I might need a second evaluation to be sure."

Oscar studied her for a second before rolling over, pinning her beneath him once again.

"That can be arranged."

And before she could say anything else, he kissed her, swallowing the breathless laugh that slipped from her lips.

They weren’t exactly sure how they made it work, but every time Oscar returned to Monaco, somehow, they ended up together.

It wasn’t planned. They didn’t text ahead of time or make promises to see each other again. It just happened—Oscar would come home after a race weekend, drop his bag, sink into the couch, and before he could think too much about it, he was already typing out a message to Amélie.

And she always answered.

Some nights, she was the one who showed up at his door with takeout, her hair tied up, a playful smirk on her lips, as if the last thing she wanted to do was admit she’d been waiting for that message too. Other times, he was the one crossing the city, ringing her doorbell with some vague excuse about ordering too much food and not wanting to eat alone.

Either way, the outcome was always the same.

An accidental touch on the couch that turned into something more. Oscar’s hands finding their way to her waist, tangling in her hair as he kissed her with the same intensity as the first time. Amélie murmuring something teasing against his lips before pushing him onto the mattress, or him pulling her into his arms, refusing to let her get too far. The feeling that every night with her was an inevitable spiral, a pull neither of them could resist.

It was easy. Natural. As if it couldn’t be any other way.

But there was something—something Oscar couldn’t quite figure out.

Every time he mentioned the idea of going out, Amélie’s answer was always the same.

"Go out? For what?"

Sometimes, she said it with a smirk. Other times, just a simple shrug, as if the thought of walking through Monaco together or going to a restaurant was unnecessary. And in the end, they always stayed in, watching a movie neither of them really paid attention to.

Oscar swore it didn’t bother him. It really didn’t. They didn’t need to go out to enjoy each other’s company. They didn’t need formal dates or candlelit dinners to keep doing whatever this was.

And yet, there was something about the way Amélie avoided it that didn’t quite sit right with him.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask.

At least, not yet.

Until one day, in a surge of something he couldn’t quite name, he decided to push back.

"Why don’t you ever want to go out with me?"

It was blunt, direct. They were in her living room, a movie playing in the background, a half-eaten pizza between them. Amélie, her legs draped over his lap, looked up, caught off guard by the question.

"Where’s that coming from?"

Oscar held her gaze.

"From the fact that every time I suggest it, you dodge it."

She picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite, far too calm.

"Because I don’t like going out."

"That’s not it." He shook his head. "It’s going out with me that you don’t want."

Amélie chewed in silence, eyes locked on his. For a second, Oscar thought she’d throw back a sarcastic remark, a joke to deflect the conversation. But instead, she just sighed and set the pizza down.

"I don’t want you to take this the wrong way," she finally said. "I like what we have. I like you. But I’d rather keep it… like this."

"Like this?"

"Private."

Oscar frowned.

"Private or secret?"

She didn’t answer immediately.

And that was enough for Oscar to understand the difference.

"I’m not saying we have to make our… whatever this is, public—nothing like that," he said, trying to keep his tone steady. "I just want to understand why the idea of going to a damn restaurant with me bothers you so much."

Amélie crossed her arms, her expression hardening.

"It doesn’t bother me. I just don’t see the need. We’re fine like this, aren’t we?"

"Are we?" Oscar let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Because, honestly, it doesn’t feel like it."

She clicked her tongue, as if the conversation was testing her patience.

"Oscar—"

"No, seriously. I like being with you. I don’t know what this is, and I don’t care about putting a label on it, but… I feel like I only exist within these walls. Like I’m a secret you’d rather keep hidden."

The atmosphere in the room shifted in an instant.

Amélie parted her lips, as if to respond, but said nothing.

Oscar let out a slow breath, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Look, I don’t want to be the guy who makes a big deal out of this. We’re not together, I have no right to demand anything from you, but—"

"Exactly." Her voice was sharper than usual. "You have no right to demand anything from me."

Oscar blinked, taken aback.

"It’s not a demand, Amélie. It’s a conversation."

She shook her head, exasperated.

"There always has to be a problem, doesn’t there? We can’t just enjoy what we have without overanalyzing it."

Oscar felt something inside him tighten even more.

"I’m not questioning what we have. I’m questioning why we have to keep it hidden."

"Because it’s easier that way."

The answer came instantly. But the way she said it… Oscar saw something in her eyes. Something she was trying to hide.

"Easier for who?" he asked quietly.

Amélie clenched her jaw, looking away.

And there it was. The confirmation he didn’t want.

Oscar felt a weight in his chest, an uncomfortable knot in his throat.

He stood up from the couch.

"Okay," he said, his tone colder than he expected.

Amélie frowned.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, if that’s what you want, I won’t push."

She got to her feet too, watching him closely.

"I’m not saying you matter less to me just because I don’t want to be seen with you in public."

"No, but it sure feels like it."

Anger flickered in her eyes for a split second, but she said nothing.

Oscar grabbed his keys from the table.

"I’m gonna go."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

Amélie looked at him, a mix of confusion and wounded pride in her expression.

"I thought you weren’t the kind of guy who walks away in the middle of an argument."

Oscar turned to the door.

"I also didn’t think you were the kind of person who was afraid to be seen with me."

He didn’t wait for a response.

He walked out, closing the door behind him.

And even though he tried to shake it off, tried to convince himself he had no right to feel this way, the truth was that the idea of being just a secret to her burned more than he was willing to admit.

The days turned into weeks.

Oscar fell back into his routine, throwing himself into the world of F1 with an almost obsessive intensity. More hours in the simulator, more technical meetings, more training until exhaustion. Anything to keep his mind off her. But no matter how hard he tried, Amélie always found a way to creep back in.

He saw her in the most absurd moments. In the reflection of a window when he least expected it. In a woman’s laughter at a restaurant that sounded too much like hers. In the damn jasmine scent that had once lingered on his pillow. And he hated it. Hated it because she was the one who walked away. Because she was the one who put up walls between them. And yet, he was the one paying the price.

He swore he wouldn’t reach out. Told himself he had his pride. But every time he landed in Monaco after a race, the battle started all over again. He turned off his phone before temptation could win. Repeated to himself that she wasn’t worth it, that if she wanted him out of her life, he wasn’t going to beg to be let back in.

But, fuck, it was getting harder.

Amélie, for her part, stood by her decision. But with every passing day, it became more difficult.

Meetings with investors and networking events became her escape. She made sure her schedule was packed, leaving no room for solitude—no chance for her mind to wander where it shouldn’t. But the problem was that even in a crowded room, her thoughts always found their way back to Oscar.

Every time she saw a headline about him, every time his name came up in a passing conversation with her father, her chest tightened. She wasn’t searching for him, but the world insisted on reminding her.

And the worst part? At night, when she closed her eyes, guilt consumed her.

She had fallen for him more than she ever wanted to admit. More than she should have. And by the time she realized it, it was too late. Because she knew that if she had stayed with him, she would have dragged him into a scandal, into a shadow he’d never escape.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

She let him go to protect him.

So why did it feel like she was doing the wrong thing?

And then, the invitation came.

Monza. Ferrari’s home turf. The race that electrified the entire country.

Her father’s voice had been calm, expectant, as if he already knew what her answer would be before she even said it. "It’s been years since you’ve been to a race," he had remarked casually. "Come. Enjoy yourself for once."

She knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was a reminder of where she came from, of the legacy she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried.

And more than anything, she knew Oscar would be there.

He would see her. He would learn the truth—who she really was, who she had been all along. And maybe, just maybe, he would hate her for it.

But what did it matter anymore?

They weren’t together. They never had been.

She told herself that as she accepted the invitation, as she packed her bags, as she prepared to step into a world she had spent so long keeping separate from him.

For once, she wouldn’t think about consequences. She would let herself breathe. Even if it meant standing face to face with the one person she had tried so hard to forget.

The roar of the engines filled the air, vibrating through her chest as Amélie stepped into the paddock. Monza was alive, electric with anticipation, and the sea of red surrounding her was almost suffocating.

She had been here as a kid, too many times to count, but this time was different. This time, she wasn’t just the daughter of a powerful man in motorsport. She wasn’t just another face in the Ferrari hospitality suite.

This time, Oscar was here.

And at some point, he would see her.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her nose, letting her expression settle into something unreadable. She had no reason to be nervous. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for her father, for Ferrari, for the world that had shaped her long before Oscar Piastri had stumbled into her life.

And yet, as she moved through the paddock, as she exchanged polite greetings and forced smiles, she felt the weight of it pressing against her chest.

Would he be angry? Confused? Would he even care?

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But then, she saw him.

Oscar was walking towards the McLaren garage, deep in conversation with an engineer, his expression serious—focused. But as if he could sense her presence, as if something in the air had shifted, he suddenly glanced up.

Their eyes met.

For a second, everything around them faded. The noise, the people, the flashing cameras—it all disappeared.

Oscar’s face didn’t betray much. There was no immediate reaction, no flash of surprise or recognition. But there was something in the way he held her gaze, something unreadable and sharp, that sent a shiver down her spine.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, he looked away.

And continued walking.

Amélie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

So that was it.

Oscar didn’t understand why seeing her there had shaken him so much.

It wasn’t like she had no right to be in Monza. After all, she had once mentioned that her father was a big F1 fan. Maybe she had simply come to enjoy the weekend, like any other fan with the right connections to wander through the paddock without restrictions.

That had to be all.

And yet, something inside him twisted with discomfort.

He had spent weeks suppressing any impulse to look for her, forcing himself to bury her deep in his mind. But now, with just a single glance, she was back—settled in his head as if she had never left.

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she affected him.

So he did the only thing he could. He forced himself to look away, to keep walking as if nothing had happened.

But while his body moved forward, his mind stayed behind.

Because seeing her there, in a place so intimately tied to his world, made everything he had tried to forget resurface with even greater force.

The last time they had been together, she had looked at him with sadness before pulling away. Now, however, she seemed calm, indifferent, as if nothing between them had meant enough to leave a mark.

And for some reason, that infuriated him more than anything else.

The day of qualifying unfolded like any other. Oscar was focused on his team, on preparations, on lap times, on making sure his weekend in Monza was solid.

Or at least, that was what he was trying to do.

But every time he moved through the paddock, his eyes searched for her.

Not on purpose. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

And then, he saw her.

She was in the Ferrari garage, surrounded by mechanics in red overalls, laughing with them as if she were part of the family. One of the engineers handed her a water bottle with the same casualness as if he were passing it to a driver. Another whispered something in her ear, and Amélie rolled her eyes with a smile, giving him a light shove on the arm.

That wasn’t the attitude of a mere spectator.

But what truly made something tighten inside Oscar was when he saw Charles Leclerc approaching her.

The Monegasque driver greeted her with the familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time—an embrace that lasted too long, a kiss on each cheek. He spoke to her calmly, comfortably, with that ease that wasn’t shared with just anyone. Amélie responded just as naturally, with that half-smile Oscar knew all too well.

The same one she had once given him.

And suddenly, something twisted in his stomach with rage.

He didn’t know what hit him first.

How did she know Leclerc? Why had she never talked about him? She knew about Formula 1, she knew who Oscar was—why had she never mentioned she knew Charles? Especially when, in front of the Ferrari garage, they spoke like lifelong friends.

Or maybe it was something more.

Oscar’s mind began to spiral, to descend into the worst possible explanations.

Had Amélie done to Charles what she had done to him? Seduced him, lured him into her bed, had her fun, and then tossed him aside like nothing?

Maybe to Amélie, it had all been just a game.

Maybe he had never been more than a fleeting adventure, just another amusement in her world of luxury, connections, and opportunities he hadn’t even realized she had.

Maybe, while he burned inside trying to understand what had happened between them, she had already forgotten him completely.

Oscar could feel the anger building in his chest like a bomb about to explode. His jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists, and no matter how hard he tried to focus on something else, his gaze kept drifting back to the Ferrari garage.

Back to her.

He didn’t know what infuriated him more.

The thought gnawed at him. Was there something between her and Charles? Had there ever been? Had he just been a passing distraction?

"Alright, mate, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Lando appeared beside him, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between concern and exasperation.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Lando scoffed. "Come on, Oscar. You’re standing there looking like you’re about to murder someone. I’ve seen that face before, and honestly, I’d rather you not make a scene right before qualifying."

Oscar let out a sharp breath, running a hand over the back of his neck.

"It’s just…" He pressed his lips together, struggling to find the right words. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to say it out loud because that would make it real. But Lando was watching him with that look—the one that said I’m not leaving until you tell me—and Oscar knew there was no way out.

"It’s complicated."

Lando snorted.

"When is it not with you?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare but continued anyway.

"I met someone. In Monaco. We… saw each other a few times. Okay, not a few, a lot. But we ended it. Or she did. Doesn’t matter. The point is, she’s here. In the Ferrari garage."

Lando blinked, processing the information.

"Okay… Wait. Are you telling me all this rage is over a girl?"

"She’s not just ‘a girl,’" Oscar growled before realizing he had just given himself away.

Lando raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes gleamed with the excitement of someone who had just stumbled upon something juicy and wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, alright. She’s not just a girl. She’s her. And what’s the problem with her?"

Oscar shook his head.

"It doesn’t make sense for her to be here. I mean, she told me her dad was an F1 fan, but this… This is something else. She moves around that garage like she lives there. Like she knows everyone."

Lando tilted his head, studying him. His gaze flickered toward the Ferrari garage, and suddenly, something in his expression shifted.

"Hold on a second… Are you telling me that the girl you were seeing is Amélie Vasseur?"

The surname hit Oscar like a sledgehammer.

Vasseur.

Ferrari’s team principal.

A hollow feeling settled in his stomach, quickly followed by a wave of fury that made his teeth clench so hard his jaw ached.

Everything clicked into place.

That’s why she was so comfortable in the garage. That’s why everyone treated her like family. That’s why Charles Leclerc knew her as if they had grown up together.

She had played him.

She had never told him the truth. Never even given him a hint of who she really was. And while he had spent weeks agonizing over what had happened between them, wondering if it had meant anything, she had simply moved on with her life like it was nothing.

His blood boiled.

If he had been angry before, now he saw nothing but red.

Lando was silent for a second before bursting into laughter.

"Wait, wait…" He leaned slightly toward Oscar, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. "Are you telling me you didn’t know who she was? Seriously?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare, but that only made Lando laugh harder.

"Mate!" Lando exclaimed, still chuckling. "How the hell did you not recognize Vasseur’s daughter?"

"Because I’ve never seen her before. And she never told me" Oscar growled, feeling the anger rise in his throat like fire.

"But it was right in front of you! The French accent, the ‘I’m going to destroy you but with elegance’ sense of humor, the way she never shuts up—" Lando shook his head, grinning. "Damn, now that I think about it, it’s so obvious."

Oscar, however, wasn’t amused.

He was furious.

Not because she was Vasseur’s daughter. Not because she had been surrounded by the world of F1 her entire life.

But because she had never told him. Because she had kept everything from him. Because she had walked away without even giving him a damn chance to understand.

Because he, like an idiot, had thought that what they had mattered.

And now he realized that, to her, it had probably just been a game.

Qualifying had been one of the best of his career.

Second place, right behind Lando. An incredible result for McLaren, a statement in Monza—Ferrari’s territory. But while the mechanics celebrated in the garage, while his team congratulated him, while the cameras captured his serious expression during the post-qualifying press conference, Oscar could only think about her.

About the last name she had never told him. About the laughter she had shared with Ferrari’s mechanics. About the way Charles Leclerc looked at her with the kind of familiarity that only came from having someone in your life for a very long time.

The anger still boiled inside him, pulsing with every breath, with every damn image his mind replayed.

He went straight to the hotel after the interviews, not lingering with the team, not responding to the congratulations with the enthusiasm expected of him. Locked in his room, he paced back and forth, replaying every moment, every conversation, every fucking lie disguised as omission.

Why?

Why had she never told him? Why had she let him make a fool of himself, thinking she was just another girl, when in reality, she belonged to this world even more than he did? Was it a game to her? Had she laughed at him once he was gone?

Every time he tried to sleep, his mind dragged him back into the same spiral. He tossed and turned, shifting positions over and over until finally, when the clock hit 3:00 AM, he made a decision.

He had had enough.

If he couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t either.

Throwing on whatever clothes he could find, he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel without a second thought. Anger, frustration, and the need to confront her pushed him forward, stronger than reason. He walked through the rain, not caring that the water seeped into his clothes, not caring that his breathing was uneven from the fury coursing through him.

He knew where the Ferrari team was staying.

And when he arrived, soaked to the bone, he asked for Amélie Vasseur’s room at reception and went up without hesitation.

He didn’t even think before raising his fist and knocking.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

There was movement on the other side.

Then, the door opened, and there she was.

Amélie blinked, still groggy, her hair a mess, wrapped in a sweatshirt far too big for her. It took a second for her to process what she was seeing—Oscar Piastri, drenched, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury, his eyes burning with something far more than just anger.

“Oscar?” Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but mostly, from sheer surprise.

He stared at her, silent for a moment, as if he needed to remind himself why he was there.

Then, with his jaw clenched, with the storm still raging inside his chest, he said,

“Tell me the truth.”

Amélie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She knew exactly what he meant.

She sighed, casting a quick glance down the hallway before stepping aside to let him in. Oscar crossed the threshold without hesitation, dripping onto the floor with every step, shoulders tense, eyes locked onto her as if she were an enemy, not someone he had once spent entire nights with.

“Let me explain,” she started, closing the door behind her.

“Explain what?” Oscar let out a dry, humorless laugh. “How you played me this whole time? How you laughed at me while I thought—” He stopped abruptly, like saying it out loud would hurt even more.

Amélie felt the pang in her chest, but she kept her composure.

“I never laughed at you.”

“Oh, come on.” Oscar scoffed, running a hand through his wet hair. “Do you have any idea how fucking stupid I feel right now? The entire goddamn paddock knew except me. Lando knew, the engineers knew—Jesus, Amélie.”

Amélie clenched her jaw.

“Oscar—”

“And meanwhile, I was here wondering why you never wanted to be seen with me in public, why you always seemed like you were hiding something.” His words were sharp, cutting, like he wanted to hurt her just as much as he felt she had hurt him. “Was it fun? Did you enjoy watching me, completely clueless about who I was actually sleeping with?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Amélie snapped, her voice louder than she had intended.

Oscar fell silent for a second, taken aback by her reaction.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

“I didn’t do it to laugh at you. I didn’t do it to play with you. I did it for you, Oscar.”

He let out a bitter laugh.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain to me how lying to my face for months was for me, because, honestly, I’d love to understand.”

Amélie felt her own anger rise.

“Because if people found out about us, if it got out that we were together, the first thing they would do is question you.” She pointed at him, her voice firm. “They’d say you were with your rival’s daughter, that Ferrari was favoring you, that your seat at McLaren was in jeopardy. You don’t need that kind of shit on your shoulders.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

“And who decided that was your problem?”

“It became my problem the moment this turned into something more. The moment it stopped being just a fling,” she shot back, her gaze burning into his. “Do you think it was easy? Do you think I wanted to walk away from you?”

“I don’t know what you wanted, Amélie. You never said anything, you never explained anything.”

Silence fell between them like a heavy wall.

For a moment, Amélie saw something in Oscar’s eyes beyond the anger.

Something that hurt even more than his words.

Disappointment.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Oscar was breathing heavily, water still dripping from his hair, his clothes clinging to his skin. He didn’t care. Not when anger burned in his chest, when confusion suffocated him.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rougher than he intended. “Did you have something with Charles?”

Amélie blinked, surprised by the question, but her expression remained unchanged. There was no trace of guilt or nervousness. Only exhaustion.

“No,” she said firmly. “Never. Ew”

Oscar let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. She took a step toward him, but Oscar remained rigid. “Charles and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s like a brother to me. Nothing more.”

Oscar stared at her, searching her face for any sign of a lie, anything that would reveal she was hiding the truth. But all he found was sincerity.

And yet, it wasn’t enough to ease the knot in his stomach.

“Then explain it to me,” he murmured, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. “Explain why you did what you did. Why you never told me who you were. Why it felt like you were trying to hide me.”

Amélie pressed her lips together, looking away for a moment. When she met his gaze again, there was something vulnerable in her expression.

“Because I never thought this would go this far,” she confessed. “I never thought I’d fall in love with you.”

Oscar felt the air ripped from his lungs.

Amélie swallowed hard and continued. “At first… I thought it was something fleeting. Something fun. But then I realized that every time I saw you, I wanted to see you more. That when you left, I missed you more than I should have. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, trying to process her words.

“I was scared,” she whispered.

He watched her, his chest rising and falling with every restrained breath. “Scared of what?”

Amélie exhaled in frustration, running a hand through her hair. “That if people found out, they would use it against you. That my last name would harm you. That this would stop being ours and turn into a scandal.”

Oscar let out a bitter laugh. “So you chose to push me away? You made me feel like I meant nothing to you?”

Amélie clenched her fists, her gaze burning. “Oscar, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before! I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do—you can’t expect me to have all the answers to my life.”

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve figured it out. We could’ve found a way to make this work. Together.”

The pain in his voice hit her harder than any shout could.

For a moment, she said nothing. She just looked at him, eyes glistening, chest rising and falling as if her words weighed too much.

Finally, in a voice so soft it sounded like admitting it would break her, she whispered:

“I think I love you.”

Oscar felt his world shift beneath his feet.

Amélie swallowed. “And that terrified me.”

The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t the same.

It was broken. Uncertain.

One that only Oscar could decide if he wanted to fill with something else.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, as if trying to release all the anger, frustration, and pain built up inside him. But something still remained stuck in his chest.

“Amélie…” His voice was no longer sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. It was caught somewhere in between—that thin line between anger and understanding.

She didn’t look away. She faced him, vulnerable but steady, as if ready to take whatever response, whatever emotional blow he had to give.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Do you know what hurted me the most?”

Amélie didn’t answer, but the tension in her shoulders was telling.

“It’s not that you’re Vasseur’s daughter.” He shook his head. “It’s not that you were in the paddock, in Ferrari, with Charles, with all those people who always knew who you were and I didn’t.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, as if confessing something he never wanted to say out loud.

“It’s that you made me feel like I didn’t matter.”

Amélie’s eyes shone with an emotion she couldn’t hide.

“Oscar…”

“You made me doubt everything,” he went on, his voice rough. “Whether what we had meant anything or if I was just a distraction. Whether everything I felt was real or if I was the only one feeling it.”

Amélie closed her eyes for a second, as if his words cut through her. When she opened them again, her expression was softer, more open.

“It wasn’t just a distraction.”

Oscar let out a dry laugh.

“It wasn’t,” she insisted, stepping closer. This time, Oscar didn’t move away. “It never was.”

He looked at her, searching for something in her eyes. Something that told him he could believe her. Something that said all the anger in his chest could finally start to fade.

Amélie let out a nervous laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only uncertainty.

“I’m not good at this,” she murmured, running a hand through her tangled hair. “At… feeling things so quickly. At not being in control.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, watching her more intently.

She sighed. “I always thought it was better to keep my distance. Not get too attached. But then you came along.”

Oscar felt his heart pound harder.

“I didn’t expect to feel this,” she continued, a small, resigned smile forming on her lips. “And when I realized I was already too deep, I got scared.”

Oscar’s anger didn’t disappear all at once, but something inside him started to loosen.

Because he understood.

God, he understood her more than he wanted to admit.

Amélie looked at him with a silent plea, as if waiting for him to tell her that it wasn’t too late.

Oscar lowered his head for a second, exhaling slowly. Then, without a word, he reached out and took her wrist, his touch barely there.

Amélie trembled at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

Their eyes met again, and this time, the anger between them had softened.

“And now?” Oscar asked quietly.

Amélie swallowed. “Now…”

She took another step closer, until only inches separated them.

“Now I don’t want to keep running.”

Oscar’s heart skipped a beat.

She wetted her lips, and with almost fearful softness, slid her hand over his.

Oscar looked at the gesture—the warmth of her skin against his, the way their fingers fit together like they had done this a million times before.

And without thinking too much, he intertwined his fingers with hers.

Amélie let out a breath, as if she hadn’t realized how much she needed that touch until now.

Oscar lifted his gaze and met hers.

There was no fear anymore.

Only them.

And with the slightest movement, Amélie leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss so slow, so sincere, it seemed to erase everything else.

Because in the end, love always won.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if they both needed to make sure it was real. There was no urgency, no desperation—only a mutual need to find each other again, beyond the anger, beyond the doubts.

Neither of them moved. Amélie still had her fingers intertwined with Oscar’s, her forehead nearly touching his, breathing the same air.

It was Oscar who broke the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well… that was intense.”

Amélie let out a breathy laugh. “The kiss or the fight?”

Oscar tilted his head, thoughtful. “Both. Though if I had to choose, I think I’d rather keep the kiss.”

She smiled, playing with his fingers. “Good, because the other thing was exhausting.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle. “Tell me about it. I literally walked through the rain like some dramatic movie idiot.”

Amélie burst into laughter. “You did.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “If this were a romantic cliché, someone was definitely watching us from a window with sad music playing in the background.”

“Let me guess,” Amélie said with a teasing smile. “In the movie of your life, who would play you?”

Oscar pretended to think. “Mmm… obviously someone handsome. Ryan Gosling, maybe.”

Amélie raised an amused eyebrow. “Gosling? That’s ambitious of you.”

“Excuse me?” Oscar looked at her, feigning offense. “Are you saying I don’t have Gosling-level attractiveness?”

Amélie shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re not handsome, but…” She rested a hand on her chin, analyzing him. “I see you more as… a Tom Holland with a boyish face.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “I feel both flattered and offended at the same time.”

She smiled and, in a spontaneous gesture, ran her fingers through his damp hair. “But seriously, you didn’t have to come all the way here soaking wet. You could’ve just texted me and avoided looking like a stray puppy outside my hotel door.”

Oscar looked at her in mock indignation. “How disrespectful. This was a romantic gesture, obviously, not a tantrum.”

Amélie laughed, but soon her smile softened. “Do you really want to try?”

Oscar sighed, looking at her directly, all traces of humor gone. “Of course I do. But I don’t want you to disappear again. I don’t want to be a secret. I don’t want you looking at me like you’re about to run.”

Amélie lowered her gaze for a second, biting her lip, before meeting his eyes again.

“Okay,” she finally said, with a small smile.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “‘Okay’? That’s it?”

Amélie huffed in amusement. “Okay, let’s try. I won’t run, I won’t hide, I won’t play mysterious—well, maybe a little, because it suits me—but I promise not to run from you.”

Oscar studied her with a half-smile, as if making sure she was serious.

“So that means I can take you to dinner in public without you throwing a smoke bomb in the middle of the restaurant?”

Amélie rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”

Oscar grinned. “Perfect. But I warn you, if this gets too romantic, I’m going to assume we’re in a cheesy rom-com and start calling you ‘my love’ out loud just to annoy you.”

Amélie playfully shoved his chest. “If you do that, I’ll be forced to pretend I don’t know you.”

Oscar leaned in slightly, his smile turning mischievous. “And if I kiss you in public? Will you pretend not to know me then too?”

Amélie looked at him, her eyes shining with that same ever-present challenge. “Depends on how good the kiss is.”

Oscar let out a laugh, and without wasting another second, kissed her again.

Because if there was one thing they knew for sure, this game between them was far from over.

Amélie pulled away, a peculiar light shining in her gaze, a foolish smile stretching across her lips. “This is going to cost us a fortune. McLaren and Ferrari are going to have to spend a ridiculous amount on PR to manage this scandal and the press.”

The Monza sun filtered timidly through the curtains, but neither of them had any intention of moving.

Oscar had no idea what time it was, and honestly, he didn’t care. The only thing he knew for sure was that Amélie’s bed was much more comfortable than his and that the warmth of her body against his made any other thought irrelevant.

Amélie stirred slightly beside him, her breathing still steady. She half-opened her eyes just enough to look at him and smile—that lazy, satisfied smile that made Oscar feel a small tug in his chest.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

Oscar, still with his face buried in the pillow, huffed.

“No idea. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so don’t worry.”

Amélie let out a soft laugh and stretched before snuggling against his chest again.

“We can stay like this a little longer.”

Oscar slid a hand down her back, pulling her even closer.

“Sounds like a perfect plan.”

And so they stayed. Letting laziness wrap around them, the distant sounds of the hotel waking up nothing more than a faint murmur. For the first time in months, they weren’t in a hurry.

Until someone knocked on the door.

Both of them froze.

“Were you expecting someone?” Oscar whispered.

Amélie frowned. “No…”

Another knock, this time more insistent.

And then, a voice unmistakably cut through the silence.

“Amélie, open the door.”

Oscar felt his soul leave his body.

Amélie went completely still. Then, without moving a single muscle, she slowly turned her head toward Oscar.

They looked at each other as if they had just seen a ghost.

Frederic. Freaking. Vasseur.

Still in bed, all Oscar could murmur was:

“Oh, shit.”

Amélie covered her face with her hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Oscar darted into the bathroom with the reflexes of a driver avoiding a crash. He shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it, taking a deep breath as if that would make him invisible.

From the other side, he heard the hotel room door open, followed by the unmistakable voice of Frederic Vasseur.

“Amélie,” her father greeted, his tone casual—the same tone he used right before ruining someone’s day. “Bon matin.”

“Dad,” Amélie replied, trying to sound natural, but with a slight hint of panic. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I was passing by and thought, ‘I’ll check in on my daughter, have breakfast with her, make sure she’s not getting into trouble…’”

Amélie watched him cautiously. If she was lucky, this would be a short visit.

But then, her father stilled.

His gaze drifted toward the window.

More specifically, to Oscar’s clothes—a pair of pants, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt with the McLaren logo—strategically draped over a chair to dry.

Amélie followed his gaze.

Shit.

Very slowly, Vasseur turned his attention back to his daughter.

She tried to think fast. “It’s—”

“Don’t.” Vasseur raised a hand to stop her, his face the very picture of paternal disappointment. “Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

He turned, crossing his arms. “Amélie,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Who’s hiding in the bathroom?”

Silence.

Amélie looked at the bathroom door.

Then at her father.

She tried to smile.

“…No one.”

Vasseur closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and then, without hesitation, walked straight toward the bathroom door.

Oscar’s eyes widened in horror.

Amélie sighed dramatically. “Dad, please. Don’t assume things.”

“Oh, I’m not assuming anything,” Vasseur said, clearly amused. “I’m just analyzing the evidence. Let’s see: wet McLaren clothes. A nervous daughter. A locked bathroom door. Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire.”

Oscar felt the doorknob move.

He held his breath.

Then, three firm knocks.

“Knock, knock,” Vasseur said, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

Oscar closed his eyes. “Shit.”

“Oh! He speaks.” Vasseur’s voice sounded even more entertained. “What a surprise! I wonder who it could be.”

Oscar felt like he was living a nightmare.

He sighed and rested his forehead against the door. “I’m in my underwear, and I’m coming out, okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Vasseur replied, in the tone of someone having the time of his life. “Whenever you’re ready, champ.”

Oscar slowly turned the doorknob and stepped out like a prisoner about to receive his sentence.

Vasseur looked him up and down with a lazy smirk, crossing his arms.

“Piastri,” he greeted, as if they were old friends.

Oscar tried to maintain his dignity. “Mr. Vasseur.”

“Tell me, son,” the Ferrari team principal said, tilting his head. “How desperate does one have to be to show up here in the middle of the night, soaking wet?”

Oscar felt Amélie stifling her laughter beside him.

"I…"

"I mean, your hotel must not serve a good breakfast. Did you come here just for croissants, or did my daughter offer a more interesting menu?"

Amélie burst out laughing and immediately regretted it when Oscar shot her a glare.

"Sorry."

"What was your plan if I caught you?"

Oscar blinked. "Hide in the bathroom?"

Vasseur looked at him with absolute disappointment. "Terrible strategy. Verstappen, at least, would have jumped out the window."

Amélie let out another laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.

Oscar sighed. "Sir, with all due respect, is this going to last much longer?"

Vasseur grinned. "Oh, absolutely. I'm enjoying this way too much."

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment. "Great."

Vasseur patted him on the shoulder. "Relax, Piastri. This could have been worse."

Oscar looked at him skeptically.

"Oh yeah? How?"

Vasseur’s grin widened.

"My daughter could be fucking Lando Norris. At least you're the good half of McLaren."

Amélie burst into loud laughter.

Oscar just dropped his head into his hands, accepting his fate.

The sun was slowly setting over Monza, painting the sky in golden hues as the tifosi roared, celebrating the victory they had longed for. Charles Leclerc stood at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, carrying the love of Ferrari on his shoulders while the Italian anthem echoed with an almost sacred intensity. Beside him, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri completed the scene, their smiles shaped by the effort of the race, by the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins.

But Amélie wasn’t looking at Charles. She wasn’t even truly paying attention to the podium as a whole. Her eyes were fixed on Oscar.

From where she stood, surrounded by mechanics, engineers, and Ferrari executives, wrapped in her father’s embrace, she felt something strange in her chest. It wasn’t just happiness, nor was it simply pride. It was something deeper. Something far more terrifying.

Because she had never thought she would care so much about someone outside of this world of engines and strategy, beyond her surname, beyond the pressure of Formula 1.

And yet, here she was.

Oscar was searching for her in the crowd.

She swallowed hard as their eyes finally met.

Words weren’t necessary.

They understood each other in an instant, as if they had already had this conversation a thousand times before.

And in that gaze—laden with everything they had been through, the arguments, the fears, the secrets, the doubts—they made a silent promise.

They wouldn’t run anymore.

Amélie felt her heart pounding too fast, as if she were running her own race.

Without realizing it, she clung a little tighter to her father’s arm.

Vasseur, who had been watching in silence, let out an amused huff.

"Looks like someone has extra reasons to celebrate today."

Amélie turned sharply, frowning.

“Dad, please…”

“No, no. Don’t look at me like that,” he replied, raising his hands in feigned innocence. “I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you this focused on a podium before.”

She rolled her eyes, but the small smile that slipped through betrayed her.

“Whatever.”

Vasseur chuckled, giving her a pat on the back.

"You know, if Piastri has already survived breakfast with me, maybe he’s not entirely useless after all."

She shot him a glare, but he only shrugged, clearly entertained.

"I say this for his own good, you know? I wouldn’t want him to get run over by everything that comes with being with you."

Amélie narrowed her eyes.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

Vasseur smirked.

"It means I come with the package."

She scoffed, but a laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

Her gaze returned to the podium.

Oscar was still there, trophy in one hand, champagne glass in the other, but his eyes were searching for her again.

The noise, the crowd, the madness of Formula 1—it all faded into the background.

They had found each other.

And for the first time, Amélie had no desire to run.

@smoooothoperator

if you want to be part of my permanent taglist, just let me know! <3

[utilitycaster]

I can't find the tags where someone said this so apologies for not crediting but they were to the effect of "EXU Divergence is very good and we don't need to compare it to Campaign 3 to point that out" and the thing is, I agree. Speaking only for myself I think my intent is, admittedly, to some extent less about pointing out how good EXU Divergence is and rather using the contrast to back up the point that Bells Hells were often self-absorbed, utterly uninterested and even scornful of any meaningful collective action until maybe the epilogues, and indecisive in a way that felt as though it should have been lethal but somehow wasn't; and that a story where every choice has a terrible clarity and potentially dire consequences is instantly compelling whereas no amount of screen time can save a story where this isn't true.

But also: I think, as many have, and EXU Divergence underscores this, that the attitude the PCs had towards the gods in Campaign 3 not only fails to be backed up by C3 itself but also fails to be backed up literally anywhere else. It's not a subversion; it's an aberration. The ending of Campaign 3 and the beginning of Divergence serve as fairly obvious parallels; the gods becoming mortal and unable to speak to followers (who, in the case of clerics, do still have all their powers, as we see with Lieve'tel and Deanna) vs. the gods departing the material plane. We see how this does not end the fight between Prime and Betrayer nor does it stop their followers from trying to take over (and indeed, we know that the lower Rifenmist peninsula does still ultimately fall, in the long term, to the Strife Emperor loyalist Iron Authority). We also see very directly what faith means to people who cannot under any circumstances be defined as the privileged few; for all I have no taste for trauma Olympics, it is difficult to look at Garen, under tyranny and forced labor for a century, powerless but for a hammer and sheer force of will, express a sense of hope and faith and argue that Bells Hells are simply following the logical path of someone who has suffered. We see the gods expressly state that mortals must care for each other, something which Deanna echoes in one of the strongest scenes in the Campaign 3 finale. We see a gift given without expectation of devotion nor worship nor even understanding, just in gratitude of someone fulfilling a tenet to its utmost. Which is refreshing after a campaign where multiple characters resented gods simply for not favoring them, without ever putting in effort towards this relationship.

I've seen the phrase "in a vacuum" pop up a few times in terms of defense of Campaign 3 in terms of "in a vacuum, I am happy with it", and while I happen to think it fails on many levels even within that airless confine, the fact is, this all is unavoidably part of one canonical overarching narrative. To look at how the gods are portrayed in every single other work - yes, even Downfall, and frankly, even Campaign 3 itself - and to come to the conclusion that Bells Hells acted with the desire for a better and more just world, and not simply a world that favored them more, is, frankly, to ignore every word that did not come from the lips of three or four ignorant people over the course of a decades-long story.

EXU Divergence is very good. I think it would be very good even if it were not coming out during our current political situation, or if it had come out following a radically different and better-executed Campaign 3; that is to say, it would succeed in a vacuum. But I don't think that's a valuable way to assess fictional works, and I think it's a disservice not to consider the canonical Exandria-set Critical Role works in conversation with each other. You can praise Divergence on its own terms, and indeed, you should, but it helps to show specifically how it succeeds (in terms of consequence, in terms of characterization, in terms of worldbuilding consistency) by pointing to how something else has failed.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: The Sweetest Surprise

Pairing: Caroline Ducharme x Reader

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: everyone knew but you

🏷️: @yailtsv

My sweet, sweet Carol. The strong beauty you are welcome back to the court baby🏀💙

February 22, 2025

Hinkle Fieldhouse – Indianapolis, Indiana

[Group Chat: Ducharme’s #1 Fanclub: no y/n allowed]

Sister #1: You think she’s gonna cry?

Sister #2: Oh, 100%.

Sister #3: We’re taking bets? I got her tearing up the second she sees Caroline at the scorer’s table.

Sister #1: I got full waterworks once the final buzzer sounds.

Sister #2: We’re evil for this, but I love it.

I frowned at my phone, as I texted Carol before the game started; side-eyeing my sisters as they tried—and failed—to look innocent. They had been acting weird all day, whispering to each other and exchanging looks like they were in on some inside joke I wasn’t a part of. It was annoying, but I chalked it up to them just messing with me.

After all, I had a lot of emotions running through me already.

Caroline had been out for over a year. I had been at that game against Minnesota on November 19, 2023, when she went down. I had been there for the rehab, the surgeries, the nights when she didn’t think she’d ever step on the court again. Every conversation, every setback, every time she tried to put on a brave face even when she was hurting—I had been there.

And as much as I wanted to see her play again, I knew better than to get my hopes up.

“She’s getting close,” was all she told me this morning when I asked how she was feeling. I thought that meant she was aiming for a return sometime in the next couple of weeks.

So here I was, sitting in the stands, watching UConn vs. Butler with my sisters, just happy to support my girl from the sidelines like I had for the past year.

4th Quarter – 2:21 Remaining

UConn was up by 37 points, coasting to an easy win. The game was all but over. I was half-watching at this point, clapping whenever something good happened, but mostly talking with my sisters.

Then the crowd started buzzing.

It was subtle at first, like a ripple in the water before a wave. I noticed the UConn bench suddenly get louder. Players were grinning, slapping each other’s arms, eyes locked on the scorer’s table.

And that’s when I saw her.

Caroline.

Standing at the table.

Checking in.

I froze. My brain short-circuited. My heart stopped.

“No,” I whispered.

My sisters burst into laughter.

“YES,” one of them cackled, shaking my arm. “It’s happening!”

I couldn’t process anything. The roar of the UConn fans grew as the announcer called her name.

“Checking in for UConn… number 33, CAROLINE DUCHARME!”

Tears burned in my eyes before I could even think about stopping them. My hands flew to my mouth as my head shook in disbelief.

I turned to my sisters, betrayed. “Y’all knew?!”

“Of course we knew!”

“And you didn’t tell me?!”

They only laughed harder.

On the court, Caroline adjusted her jersey, pulled at her shorts, and stepped onto the floor for the first time in over a year.

I stood up, clapping furiously, still crying. “That’s my girl! LET’S GO, CAROLINE!”

She glanced toward the stands—toward me.

And she smirked.

Oh, she was so lucky I loved her.

4th Quarter – 13.1 seconds Remaining

It was surreal seeing her out there again. She moved cautiously, but her form was still so familiar. The way she ran, the way she positioned herself—it was Caroline.

She wasn’t forcing anything. Just getting into the rhythm, moving through plays. Butler wasn’t pressing, so she didn’t have to do much defensively.

And then—

A shot went up. The ball bounced off the rim.

Caroline rebounded it.

It wasn’t much—a simple defensive board—but the entire UConn bench exploded.

The fans cheered like she just hit a game-winner.

Even the Butler players smiled a little, recognizing the moment.

And me?

I was sobbing.

Not even a little bit. Full-on ugly crying in the stands.

The final buzzer sounded. UConn won, but that wasn’t the story of the night.

Caroline was.

My legs could not move fast enough. I shoved past my sisters, ignoring their giggles, and sprinted toward the court. The team was still celebrating, but I didn’t care.

She saw me coming.

And she grinned.

“DUCHARME!” I screamed, launching myself at her.

She barely had time to brace before I crashed into her arms.

Her laugh rumbled through her chest as she caught me. “Hi, baby.”

I pulled back just enough to grab her face, my fingers tangling in the edges of her sweaty hair. “You—” My voice cracked. I was still crying. “You didn’t tell me.”

She smirked, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

I swatted at her arm. “That was evil.”

“You love me.”

I glared at her. “I do. Unfortunately.”

She chuckled, kissing my forehead. “Worth it.”

I sniffled, shaking my head. “I’m so proud of you.”

Her eyes softened. “Thank you.”

My hands slid down to her waist, squeezing gently. “How do you feel?”

She exhaled. “Tired. Overwhelmed. But… happy.”

I kissed her—soft, lingering, full of every emotion I had been carrying for over a year.

She smiled against my lips.

“I got a rebound,” she whispered.

I laughed. “Yeah, you did.”

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[universalrainbow]

The mask = muted player idea is so funny to me for some reason.

Like

Poppy: "did you really think I was just ignoring you the entire time?"

Player, casually: "idk, I just kinda thought you hated me."

Poppy: [suddenly looks very sad]

Player: "oh. Oh no, please don't be sad, I didn't mean it like that-"

Also, with how chatty player is now, imagine the others wondering just how much they missed out on. Player always seems to have something to say, be it a quickwitted joke, an inquisitive remark, or an exclamation of delight.

Given the grab pack, I assume there wasn't much hand gesturing to convey conversation (and the mask probably obscured eye movements), but there still would have been some moments. Player looking and tilting their head, jerking their chin at something as if making a comment, rapid nodding or shaking.

Thinking back, the others now recognize one sided conversations.

Player is still (playfully) sad their witty commentary went unheard, but it might be for the best. Now any impulsive dumb comments are unknown, and any angry or startled swearing has gone undetected.

(I feel like Player would have been spitting the foulest swears and threats for the doctor after the first freeze incident with Doey. Seeing the poor guy in obvious pain awakens vengeful, protective rage in them. That kind of cruelty Will Not Stand)

Poppy: "did you really think I was just ignoring you the entire time?"

Player, casually: "idk, I just kinda thought you hated me."

Poppy: [suddenly looks very sad]

Player: "oh. Oh no, please don't be sad, I didn't mean it like that-"

doey: "wait so did you think all of us hated you?"

player flinches a bit knowing where this was going: " well..... kinda? its nothing against you guys I swear! its just from my point of view.....no matter what i said, did, or tried to explain. Nothing was really acknowledged. I mean despite only working on the first level as a gift shop employee-"

doey : "wait hold on gift shop?? You weren't a scientist or idk a caretaker??"

player confused: " no? I was a broke newly orphaned 18 year old with no college degree. I was paid dirt wages, while getting yelled at by parents. I wasn't really qualified for either. let alone morally corrupt enough to go along with it."

Toys: newly orphaned....

player casually: oh yea my mom died a few months before my dad, heart disease. Then dad didn't take care of himself and just went in his sleep. Thankfully I was legally an adult at the time.hehe

Toys squeaking to each other: ....Are they more traumatized than us at this point???

player oblivious: Anyway wanna hear about the time my coworker tried to push me into a toy machine because i accidentally ate their sandwitch?

toys squeaking to each other: yep they definitely are.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the factory, players responses.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

mommy long legs explaining the wack a huggy game.

player: Dear god, they just had kids wopping these things without a second thought? What the F**k?! why were the supposed brightest people alive testing fate! This is how you get killed in horror movies. This is what horror shows and games warn about! the warning is dont be a massive D**K for no reason to things clearly more powerful than you!"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

player on the first train, scared S**tless: "WERE GOING ON A TRIP IN OUR FAVORITE PEICE OF S**T GOING 95! IM GONNA F**KING DIE!!!!!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Player falls into pianasorous pit

pianasorous notices them

player full of dread :"clever girl"

Doey appears and eats pianasoros.

player : "OH WHAT THE F-"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

player going to fight the prototype

player: Im sleep deprived, hungry, and all out of F**ks! You think YOUR SCARY! I EAT PIZZA WITH PINEAPPLE ON IT!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

player after winning against the prototype: huff........huff i have made the metal one pay for his crimes.

[natalicss]

kwon ji-yong x american popstar!reader headcanons

summary: just a bunch of random lore drops about reader & g-dragons relationship with american popstar!reader

warnings: tbh i don’t think there’s really any but if im wrong lemme know. just chaotic random nonsense. if this sucks it’s cause i wrote most of it half awake at 4am soo SORRYYY

nat’s notes: hey y’all!! i just wanted to put out random fun facts about jiyong & american!reader. i thought it’d be funny and unserious and i think yall might enjoy this!! if you don’t…don’t read it and don’t tell me LMAO. if yall want more of these lemme know??? i guesss???

“it’s hard to say who fell first—“ it was jiyong. you’d been hanging out together during your first time in seoul. you two talked about music, art, the industry, and every conversation jiyong found himself more and more fascinated. the way you shared so many of the same views as he did, the way you carried yourself so beautifully and confidently, the way you truly listened and hung onto every word he said. it all intrigued him, and by the end of your visit in seoul jiyong knew he was crushing and crushing hard.

you two didn’t get together right away, tho. no you two stayed good friends for a solid 2-3 months before any romance even started. and neither of you really know who initiated it. seemingly both? you two were at a dinner together as you were visiting seoul again (claiming to be working, but your truly wanted to see him). you both kept staring at each other. the tension was thick. you didn’t even know who kissed who first. one minute, you’re staring at each other like the rest of the restaurant wasn’t there, and the next you two were kissing softly under the dim lights.

taeyang is the first person who finds out about your relationship. not on purpose either. it was like he manifested it. he’d discovered your music and was listening to it. you two ended up having mutual friends, and you were visiting seoul for ‘vacation’, so you two had ended up meeting. you loved him and hyo-rin. but you struggled acting like you had no idea who they were. acting like you weren’t dating his group member. taeyang mentions his group to you, how he should introduce you to daesung and jiyong, how you’d love them. you try not to freak out.

how he found out is fairly simple (but he found it to be hilarious). he was heading to jiyongs home to hang out, something that they’d planned weeks before (it was hard with their schedules), but jiyong had completely forgotten about it. taeyang walked in, only to find you standing in the kitchen wearing jiyongs pajamas and drinking a glass of water. the two of you stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide and completely silent. then, taeyang bursts out laughing. the sound causes jiyong to come out from wherever he’d been, his face dropping in realization. “this makes so much sense!” taeyang exclaims. “i was wondering why you were traveling so much.” he points at jiyong, and then he looks at you. “and you! you kept telling me you were here for work! hyo-rin called it! we knew you were dating someone! we just didn’t know it was each other!”

you and daesung are jiyongs worst nightmare. the way you two become instant chaotic besties. at first, jiyong is even a little jealous. the two of you became friends so easily and so quickly it gave him whiplash. he gets over it pretty easily (after all, you are absolutely obsessed with your man & remind him of that), but he still partially regrets introducing you to daesung because you two are now both menaces in his life and constantly give the other new ideas.

jiyong loves visiting you in america. sure he’s famous over there, obviously, but it didn’t feel as intense as it did at home. plus, you had mastered the skills of avoiding the paparazzi. the two of you always going on trips to more rural areas to spend time together without anyone noticing you

he loves spoiling you. sure, he knows you have plenty of your own money. but he can’t help himself! when he sees a cute jacket that he knows would look good on you, he can’t help it but snatch it for you.

but its a mutual exchange. you can’t help but grab him gifts too. whether it’s fun scarves, or a one-of-a-kind sweater, you’re always getting him things. you never tell him, either. you tell a person on his team that he’ll be receiving a gift from you in the mail, and they keep it a secret until he’s opening the package. both of you complain about the other getting you things, but neither of you stop either

the first time a dating rumor spiked about you, the two of you were constantly waiting to see who. you were hardly seen in public anyways, so who in the world could they be conspiring you were with? when it turned out to be a famous musician who had recently asked you to feature on their album, jiyong felt both slightly jealous and relieved. relieved because he didn’t want you facing the wrath of knetizens & the media for dating him, but slightly jealous because he wasn’t blind to the comments shipping you and the other musician. talking about how cute you two were, how he was so talented, your babies would be cute, the couple made so much sense blah blah blah. dare i say he was a little bit of a pouty baby about it, which you teased him for relentlessly

you had your own jealousy moments! the two of you were at a chanel event, neither of you interacting or acknowledging each other at all as it was very early in your secret relationship. you couldn’t help but overhear as a woman asked jiyong if he was single. of course, he said yes. that part didn’t bother you. what bothered you was the way the woman’s face lit up as she continued to talk to him. jiyong, on the other hand, was completely unaware. he was usually attentive and noticed things like that, but in this particular moment he was far too aware of you to think about the woman’s advances. when he did eventually catch on, he kindly shut her down and excused himself. he didn’t miss the way you glared at her. and he certainly commented on it when you got back to your hotel room. “were you jealous, baby?” he’d say with some smirk that makes your entire body blush. “it’s a good look on you, but you know i’m in love with you.”

you offered to dye his hair, and the first few times he said no. when he started dying it around the time of the comeback, you were begging at that point. he lets you dye it mint<3 and you did a damn good job too

you don’t comment on his posts or on the 8lo8lo8lowme posts, but you DOOOO text him like a crazy person. “WHO LET YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE LOOKING SO FINE” “booking a flight back there rn. quitting the tour, quitting my entire career so i can come be your trophy wife. setting back feminism by 400 years” “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME???” “hope you’re okay with being a dilf”

how he reacts depends. he’s either confused as fuck, flustered as fuck, or laughing at his phone and getting weird looks from his friends.

i feel like it wouldn’t be very often he’d match your energy, but when he does you get even more excited and probably up the insanity by a million. if he ever one-ups you you probably reply with something blunt like “👁️👄👁️ alright get back here rn cause we’re about to have the craziest sex-“ PFFFTTTT

when you two go public, you still keep the relationship private!!! you post him once or twice, you get featured a couple times on 8lo8lo8lowme’s instagram, but otherwise fans get crumbs from paparazzi & yall liking each others posts

however i definitely could see jiyong liking edits or posts about you because mans is always on there let’s be real

he joins you on tour & it’s definitely different for him. it’s not often he’s at a concert where he’s not one of the main focuses. but he does love it, watching you in your element. it helps when the crew doesn’t know who he is, and just knows he’s with you somehow. watching you get ready, watching you warm up, helping you with your hair and your wardrobe, he loves it all. what he loves most is watching you perform. sometimes he was backstage, but other times he’d find a spot in the VIP section and watch with the rest of the crowd. he thinks that might be when you’re most beautiful, doing things you love most.

overall yall are probably the fluffiest couple to ever exist it’s sickening. daesung reminds you of that every time yall act flirty in any way.

[hyperfixatorofweirdthings]

My take on a "You save all the toys" fanfic (Part 2)

Chapter 2: A story about the reader (you) is shared

As you watch the toys eat you feel a hand touch your shoulder. You turn around and to your surprise see Kissy Missy. Poppy was no where to be found but you assumed she was eating or walking around. Kissy Missy hands you a small notepad with a message written in a sloppy childish manner: Aren't you gonna eat? The question hit you hard, you knew everyone was gonna ask you. You look at Kissy her usual smile on her face. You take a minute to reply, going over your words carefully in your head before saying, "I'll find something later you don't gotta worry about me Kissy." She gives you a look, almost... suspicious but walks away to go join the others.

As you slowly cleaned up after each toy that finished eating more toys realized you hadn't eaten since they have been up. Some younger ones assumed you ate before they were up. Others knew you better than that. Dogday walks up to you Doey slightly behind. You groan knowing you were about to be lectured. Doeys face was easy to read. He had that same expression he gave you when you suggested leaving the facility. Dogday had his usual smile but his eyes held concern. Dogday walks up to you his arms crossed as he looks you up and down stopping at your bloody leg. The blood had soaked through the bandage, you let out a curse. "LANGUAGE!" Doey and Dogday say at the same time. You drag a hand down your face as you go to walk away and clean up your now very much bleeding scratch. But Doey grabs you and sits you down firmly on a chair.

You cross your arms like a little kid. You hated being treated like a kid. You were 18 now. You practically have been an adult since you were 9. You were about to imply this before realizing it would just bring a whole lot of questions you didn't wanna answer right now. So you cut it down to the fact you were an adult. "I'm 18 I'm not some scared and hurt 9 year old, guys." Neither respond for a moment just staring at your leg. Doey pats Dogday on the shoulder they lock eyes as if having a whole conversation before he walks away. Dogday turns back to you not sure what to say. You instead take the lead. "I survived the freaking prototype don't you think I can handle a scratch?" Dogday shakes his head before pressing, "You BARELY survived had it not been for Doey you would have been...gone." You shrug, knowing very well Doey was the only reason you sat here today.

You try to get up again before Dogday grabs you pulling you back in the chair. You realize Doey wanted Dogday to keep you there. You look Dogday deep in his eyes. Having a determined look on your face. He adjusted himself prepared for whatever you decided to pull. But instead you grab your phone from your pocket and looked at the time, "10:00" how was it already ten!? You hadn't realized you'd been up so long. The second you noticed this it almost seemed like your body wanted to turn off. You were exhausted and sleep deprived. But you pushed yourself to stay awake. You sit cross armed staring at Dogday before you hear Doey. "Hiya, pal come over here, let's fix you up." You see the medic looking at your leg with a look of horror and Doey giving you his smile. You get up slowly before wobbling and almost falling. You felt like a toddler learning how to walk, this thought made you angrier. Your face set in stubborn determination.

You eventually make your way over to medic, still horrified. Doey had found a medkit in the bathroom and handed it to medic as he continued to stare at your leg. All of Doey was worried about you. You looked..awful. you glance at Doey as the medic deals with your wound. You lock eyes as he quickly looks away. You couldn't help but let a chuckle escape you. You couldn't tell if he was scared of you or just didn't wanna feel like he was staring, either way you still found it funny. You realize how awful that must sound as you turn your head and look down at your lap. You felt a sting of pain go up your leg as you yelp. You look at the medic who was sewing up your leg, it was worse than you thought.

He glared up at you, he was not happy you didn't come to him sooner. You could've gotten an infection. You smile nervously down at him as he shook his head and kept working. He eventually sews your leg up nicely and wraps it in a sort of cast/bandage to make sure it can't bleed and can't be touched. He pats your leg before saying, "Next time come to me I can patch you up quickly ok?" You smile, "Thanks, and yeah next time I'll come by." He walks (rolls?) away before you stand up. You grab your crutch you had set next to you as you stood up wobbly. All the toys seemed to stop playing as they stared at you. You suck in a breath. You hated being stared at, being watched. But you make sure to hide the fear on your face as you hobble over to your room. Everyone seemed to go back to what they were doing. You let a sigh of relief out.

You sat on your bed staring at a picture of your parents a frown clear on your face. You hear someone knock on your door and jump slightly almost throwing your phone across the room. You turn you phone off and are shoving it in your pocket when Dogday walks in. He notices you putting your phone in your pocket when his eyes travel. On your bedside table he notices a picture of two adults, a mom and dad with a small child. The kid couldn't have been older than 10. He looks at you, the resemblance from you to the kid was funny. That's when it hit him. It is you! He couldn't help but wonder where your parents were now. He thought he should ask you about it but before he could even muster up the courage you look up at him. You tilt your head slightly wondering what he needs. He notices and is drawn out of his thoughts as he looks at you.

"Doey told me to come check on you. He would've but..." He let a giggle come out before continuing "he's a bit preoccupied." Another giggle escapes him. You wonder what was so funny so you decide to get up. Dogday knows exactly what your doing and leads the way. You eventually walk put to the living room. Laughter takes over. You see Doey laying on the floor colored marks and small pictures covering his whole body. He gives you a sharp "I'll kill you" look as you kept laughing. You then say, "What you could find the colors but not the paper?"

He let's a groan escape him before a smiling critter hits him for doing so, "You're gonna mess me up stay still!" You laugh harder than before at the situation he was in. The Crafycorn who had hit him really focused on what she was drawing. You walk closer getting a better look at the drawings covering him. Kevin was just completely shocked by them coloring on him, all they said was for him to lay down. He was slightly annoyed but let them continue to do it. Matthew thought it was the sweetest thing ever laying completely still so as not to mess them up. Jackie couldn't help but let giggles escape him as it did tickle slightly.

You continued to look over all the colorful pictures most being self portraits or pictures of you or even Doey. You smiled everytime you saw one of yourself. The Craftycorn stands up admiring her work before gesturing for you to come over you look at her art. Immediately you fell apart as ifna button was pressed. It was of everyone. Doey, you, Kissy, Dogday, Poppy, and every other toy here. You take your phone out taking a picture. At first everyone was confused what you were doing, you realized these kids hadn't seen newer technology. You couldn't help but be confused how Play Co had the tech to turn kids into toys but not mobile phones. You shrug it off as you explain what it is. You then move back taking a picture of Doey on the floor. He couldn't help but gasp as he realized what you did.

"Did you just do what I think you did.." He says sharply. You give him a playful shrug, "Maybe." He sits up when everyone backed away from him. He turns around looking at you. "Sooo you think it's so funny I got colored on?" You giggle slightly as Kevin shone through, "Maybe a little.." He stands slowly as you back away, not because you are necessarily scared but because he needed the space. You back up so far you run into Dogday. You turn around and apologize. He accepts your apology as he continues to back up with you. It's hard to tell what Doey will do.

You had your phone in your hand still. You tucked it into your back pocket before stopping and looking at Doey. He was looking at you a mischievous look on his face. He starts reaching his hands for you covered in green, blue, purple, and more colorful marks. You realize what he's trying to do and squeak. " Hey..hey..now. Come on Doey how about I answer some questions instead? Yeah does that sound good? ANY question you have I'll answer!" You say it a sort of squeak to your voice.

He thinks for a minute deciding whether or not he should. "Any question?" You sigh, " You get one question." He gathers the toys around him whispering on what question they should ask you. Some say they should ask your favorite color or animal, but you'd answer those anyway. So they dig deeper. Before deciding on their question. "How was your childhood?" Everyone was burning to know this but never had an appropriate time to ask.

Your face changes from relief to pure terror. Your heart starts hammering against your chest, but you had to answer it, you promised and everyone was waiting. You breath in and out slowly, trying to calm yourself. You start talking softly but loud enough for everyone to hear you. "What about my childhood are you guys curious about?" They ponder this for a minute before deciding, "What your family was like?" You shake your head before responding, "My dad passed away when I was.." You take a shakey breath before continuing, Doey was starting to worry they were pushing you to far giving you a concerned look. You shake your head pushing yourself to keep going. "...he passed away when I was 9. My mom fell into a deep depression, she passed away just last year. That's the reason I even went to the factory, I didn't have much left." You pause looking at everyone's face. Lots of the toys had broken expressions, they didn't expect that coming from their parent figure who had taken care of them so long. Doey seemed the most torn about it. You stare at him for a moment seeing the regret slowly grow on his face.

You walk over to him before placing a hand on his shoulder. Which is harder than it sounds because he's about 2-3ft taller than you. He looks down at you his normal smile a frown. You frown back at him wondering what was going on inside him little did you know. Kevin felt awful he couldn't stop blaming himself, he didn't know what to do. Matthew was thinking of saying they were sorry but he didn't have the guts to do it. Jackie was just sad, he never knew you were an orphan and dealt with so much.

You decide to speak up, "Hey buddy it's fine you all were bound to ask eventually." You give him a big smile of reassurance, before you continue, "Ya know I feel a lot better now that I told you all." This was true you felt like a rock was lifted from your back making your load easier to handle.

He looked down at you expressionless. You stay there for a little longer not yet wanting to walk away. He didn't say anything so your smile disappears. You hang your head as you walk away. You decide to tell the other toys/kids you were fine, really. Poppy came up to you and said she was sorry, sorry for everything. You gave her a smile before patting her on the head before she walked back to Kissy.

Dogday makes his way over to you a sad look in his eyes. "Hey Angel, I just wanted to check how you were doing?" You think for a minute before speaking, "I'm fine Dogday thanks for the concern." You try to get the other toys to get back to playing bringing out old toys you used to play with, you lightened the room quickly. Doey was still in the same spot, you started to worry about him you walk over to him before hugging him. He's shocked at first but hugs you back. He almost let tears slip from his eyes. Almost.

You look up at him as he looked down at you. His normal smile was back. You couldn't help but smile as well. You untangle yourself from him before letting out a grumble. "Hmm what's wrong Angel?" You tried to keep your smile painted on your face but it flickered dangerously. "I gotta go to the store all my food is bad or not enough for full meals." Doey gives you a scared look, you start talking quicker this time. "No no no! Doey it's fine I won't be gone long! I just need you and Dogday to keep everyone else busy while I'm gone. I'll be quick I promise!"

His look of fear is still clear on his face as he looks at you. "Fine. But if you aren't back in 3 hours we will be coming to find you." He says hastily. You chuckle "How about you just call me?" You point towards a phone on the table. You grab a sticky note writing your number down on it. "If you are worried about me. Or need me just call me using this number with this phone. Ok?" He shook his head reluctant to let you leave but knew you had to. You walk away going to your room to get ready. You didn't exactly need the crutch anymore you just had to walk slower than before. Once you were ready you walked out the door. You assume the toys will be fine, right?

[matteglaze]

love is blind au with shouto...

I think that Shouto actually isn't that popular in the pods— sure he has a really, really nice voice (so most of the women try to hold a conversation with him) but in the end they have nothing in common

Conversations probably go like this:

"So.. what's your favorite movie?"

"I don't have one" Shouto replies.

"Oh, that's fine, me neither! But if you had to choose something to watch for the rest of your life what would it be?"

And Shouto doesn't think too much about the answers he gives, he's just being himself, but it's not really working. He isn't up to date with most things, and he had a pretty sheltered childhood so he can't relate when people say that the thing they loved the most was memories from when they were younger.

And in comes reader!!! You're looking for something totally different than what you're used to. So you ignore the flirtatious guys (even if it pains you), and focus more on Shouto; the cold, blunt stranger.

The more the two of you speak to one another, the more you find out that, hey, this guy is pretty fucking hilarious. Even when he tries not to be.

"So, when do you plan on breaking down this wall and running off with me?"

"I'm not too sure producers would like that, but if you'd really like, I'd do it."

You're pretty sure he's joking, so you just laugh.

(He is joking, right?)

You guys end up becoming a fan favourite. You're a very cheerful person, and you don't mind talking while Shouto just listens. You don't really mind how blunt he can be, and Shouto seems to like how straightforward you are. He doesn't have to guess how you're feeling, or read in between the lines when you both talk.

It's just honest conversation.

I also think that in the pods, you're a bit more confident because you can't really see Shouto, so you have no idea that there's a hunk of a man sitting behind a wall, talking to you.

"What type of ring are you interested in?" Shouto asks you one day, laying down on the couch as he awaits your answer.

"Ooh.. Does this mean you're planning to propose already? There's no other girl that catches you're interest?" You smirk on the other side, toying with the plushie Shouto brought for you.

It isn't long before Shouto replies, "Yes."

Because really, if he can feel this way about you— just your voice and personality— then surely this is worth exploring. It's nice to know that you feel the same, that you like Todoroki for who he is.

"Mm okay.. Get me a really cute one, like, medium. Probably."

This is my personal opinion, but I don't think reader came on the show for love— maybe to promote her business (definitely to promote her business), so she isn't really taking this too seriously, but then she meets Shouto and there's no way she can just pass up such a unique person. It's not like they'll actually be getting married at the end of this. They've only known each other for a few weeks.

That would be crazy.

Really crazy.

[heliosunny]

badly craving for some Fyodor fics & your writing is good asf 😩 I would like to humbly request an arranged marriage au with Fyodor where the reader has a big fat crush on him but he finds their affection disgusting. After the wedding, they try to woo him and get him to fall for them but to no avail. Until one day he gets sooo sick of it and essentially yells at the reader to stop which causes them to lose all hope and start to secretly hate him because he's actually cruel. On the other hand, Fyodor notice how the reader is not the same affectionate spouse anymore and gets uncomfortable. He realizes how he has become fond of their tenderness of him. Basically, (yander-ish) Fyodor tries to win their love back after noticing how they're falling out of love with him.

(feel free to ignore this request, hope you have a wonderful day <33)

Bittersweet

Yandere!Fyodor x Reader

The morning after your wedding should have been a dream. Instead, it was a cold, unfeeling reality.

You woke up early, your heart fluttering at the sight of your husband still asleep beside you. Fyodor Dostoevsky looked almost peaceful in his slumber, his dark lashes resting against pale skin, his lips slightly parted. You wanted to reach out, to brush a strand of his hair away from his face, but you refrained. He had barely tolerated your presence the day before; you doubted he would welcome your touch now.

Still, you couldn���t help but admire him, your heart aching with the depth of your affection. So, as the sun cast its first golden rays through the curtains, you slipped out of bed and set about preparing for the day. You instructed the servants to make his favorite tea (or at least what you had learned was his favorite), and you carefully arranged a breakfast tray, making sure everything was just right. You wanted this to be a good start.

When Fyodor finally emerged from the bedroom, his loose white shirt hanging carelessly off his frame, his eyes flicked toward you—and immediately away.

"Good morning, Fedya" you greeted with a hopeful smile, setting the tray down on the table. "I had breakfast prepared for you. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, but I made sure to—"

"Unnecessary" he interrupted flatly, walking past you without so much as a glance at your efforts.

"I just wanted to do something nice for you. We are married now, after all."

Fyodor turned to you then, "Yes, we are." He stepped closer, and for a brief, foolish moment, your heart leaped in anticipation. But then he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he murmured, "Try not to make a nuisance of yourself, dear spouse."

And with that, he pulled away, seating himself at the table without touching a single thing you had prepared.

Your chest tightened, but you swallowed the disappointment down, forcing yourself to remain composed. It was only the first morning. There would be other chances.

The rest of the morning was much the same.

You tried. You truly did.

After breakfast, you attempted to engage Fyodor in conversation, asking about his work, his interests—anything that might spark even the smallest hint of warmth. Each attempt was met with silence or vague, uninterested responses. His gaze barely lingered on you, his words clipped and dismissive.

By midday, you were accompanying him through the estate’s grand halls, trying to match his slow, measured steps. He had business to attend to, you knew that, but you had hoped he might spare you a moment—just a fleeting second of genuine attention.

Instead, he stopped in his tracks, exhaling a sigh of barely concealed irritation.

“Do you intend to follow me all day?”

“I only wished to spend time with you. We’re married now, aren’t we?”

Fyodor let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Ah. A dutiful spouse. How sweet.” He tilted his head, a mockery of affection glinting in his dark eyes. “You think that if you play the devoted partner, I will fall at your feet? That I will somehow return the affection you so desperately throw at me?”

Your heart sank. “That’s not—”

His presence, his words, his very existence—it was all razor-sharp, meant to cut you down.

“I find your affections revolting.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, and somehow, that made it worse. “A pitiful display of misplaced devotion. I agreed to this arrangement, but do not mistake compliance for desire.”

It was a knife to the chest.

He didn’t wait for a response. With a final, disinterested glance, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, leaving you standing there, hollow and trembling.

That night, you didn’t wait for him to return to bed. You didn’t linger by the door, hoping he would speak to you.

For the first time, doubt began to seep into the cracks of your foolish, hopeful heart.

Maybe love wasn’t something you could earn.

For a month, you tried.

You woke before him each morning, ensuring his tea was prepared exactly the way he liked it. He never drank it. You arranged quiet dinners, hoping to share a meal with him, but he rarely showed. On the rare nights he did, he barely acknowledged your presence.

You tried to touch him—just a brush of your fingers against his sleeve, a hesitant hand on his shoulder—but he recoiled each time, his eyes flashing with something between disgust and boredom.

Yet, you persisted.

Because you loved him.

Because you had convinced yourself that if you just showed him enough warmth, enough care, enough devotion, he would soften. That the walls around his heart would crack, even just a little, and he would see you.

But they never did.

And then, one evening, it all crumbled.

It had been a long day. Fyodor had returned home later than usual, his coat damp from the rain. Still, you greeted him at the door, reaching out instinctively to take his coat.

“Welcome home, Fedya” you murmured, offering him a small smile. “You must be tired.”

“And?”

“And… I thought perhaps we could spend some time together?”

“You never stop, do you?” he said, “This pitiful game of yours.”

“Game?”

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” He continued “A desperate, clumsy attempt to win my love. Do you think I don’t see it? Every lingering gaze, every pathetic offering of affection.”

Your hands trembled at your sides, but you forced yourself to stand your ground. “I just wanted us to be happy”

“You are a fool” he murmured, “Stop embarrassing yourself.”

It was then that something inside you shattered.

Something in your chest grew cold.

That night, for the first time, you did not wait for him to come to bed. You did not look for him in the halls or seek his company at breakfast. You no longer lingered in his presence, no longer tried to win a single scrap of his affection.

----

For the first time since the wedding, Fyodor felt… unburdened.

The mornings were quiet. He no longer had to brush off your eager greetings or ignore the tea you so carefully prepared. The nights were peaceful. You no longer waited for him, no longer tried to share hushed conversations as he undressed for bed.

Yes. This was better.

A week passed. Then another.

He still saw you, of course. You lived under the same roof. You still crossed paths in the grand halls of the estate, still shared the same dining table on occasion. But you no longer sought him out.

You were distant but polite, reserved but not cold. You still addressed him as "Fyodor" still fulfilled your duties as his spouse, but there was no warmth behind your words.

He had gotten what he wanted.

One evening, as he returned to the estate, he realized you no longer greeted him at the door. You used to wait for him, no matter how late, a soft smile on your lips. Now, you were nowhere to be seen.

The first time, he dismissed it. The second time, he noticed. The third time, he lingered in the entryway for a second too long, waiting for something—someone—that never came.

Then, it was the meals.

You used to insist on eating together, always trying to engage him in conversation. He had found it annoying, an intrusion into his silence. But now, you simply took your meals at a different time.

It was convenient, really. He no longer had to deal with your chatter.

And yet, when he sat alone at the grand dining table, his food untouched, he found himself staring at the empty seat across from him.

It was quiet.

He told himself he should be pleased. That this was what he had wanted all along.

But if that were true… why did he keep noticing your absence?

Fyodor didn’t have an answer.

And for the first time, the uncertainty unsettled him.

It happened over dinner.

For the first time in weeks, you and Fyodor sat at the same table. Not because you sought his company, but because it was simply convenient. A mere circumstance, nothing more.

You ate in silence, your gaze lowered, your movements graceful but detached. You did not speak unless necessary. You did not try to meet his eyes.

And Fyodor hated it. He hadn’t intended to say anything. He wasn’t sure why he cared. But as he watched you calmly cut your food, as if he were just another person sharing the space instead of your husband, the words left his lips before he could stop them.

“You no longer prepare meals for me.”

You didn’t pause, didn’t even flinch at his sudden remark. You simply finished chewing, set your fork down, and responded with quiet indifference.

“You never ate them.”

He hadn’t expected that response.

“You used to try regardless” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “You no longer do.”

This time, you did pause, tilting your head slightly as if considering his words.

Then, you shrugged.

“I suppose I grew tired of wasting my efforts.”

“You’re different.”

“I learned my place.”

For some reason, that did not sit well with him.

For some reason, he found himself watching you more closely as you returned to your meal, eating in the same quiet, unshaken manner.

For some reason, he didn’t like this calm, distant version of you.

You set your utensils down with deliberate care, wiping your mouth with a napkin before speaking.

"You don’t have to worry, Fyodor." You met his gaze, but there was no desperation, no lingering hope in your eyes anymore. Just something steady. "I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"That my presence is of little consequence to you." You leaned back slightly, your posture relaxed, as if you had long made peace with this truth. "You have your work, your plans—things far more important than indulging a foolish spouse’s affections."

His grip on the glass tightened, but he said nothing.

"You can focus on those things" you continued, "I won’t get in the way. I won’t bother you with unnecessary affections or expectations anymore." You glanced down at your plate before pushing it aside. "I’ll be here. Silently."

This should have been a victory.

This was what he had wanted—what he had forced you into. You were finally the ideal spouse. Quiet, undemanding. A presence that did not intrude upon his world.

Yet, as you sat there, distant but composed, something gnawed at him, something he couldn’t place.

It was unsettling.

He no longer understood you.

And he didn’t like that at all.

Days passed, and it only grew worse.

He found himself noticing the spaces you had left behind.

The library, where you once sat curled up in the corner, reading quietly as he worked, was empty now. The garden, where you used to walk, humming softly to yourself, now held only the sound of the wind. Even at night, the room felt colder.

---

It was at a gathering—one he had little interest in attending, but one that required his presence nonetheless. You had accompanied him, as expected, standing by his side as poised and composed as ever. But unlike before, there was no subtle shift toward him, no gentle touches, no warmth in your eyes when you addressed him.

You spoke with others, smiled at their words, laughed at their stories. Not in a way that was inappropriate, not in a way that brought disgrace to him, but in a way that made something in his chest coil unbearably tight.

Because it was a smile he had not seen in weeks.

Because it was warmth you had stopped giving him.

You were fine.

You were content in this new distance, unaffected by the void that had begun to gnaw at him.

It unsettled him.

More than that, it infuriated him.

He had expected bitterness. He had expected resentment. Those, he could have understood—controlled. But instead, you had done something far worse.

You had let him go.

You had truly accepted the reality he had forced upon you, had adjusted, had thrived without the need for his affection.

He was the only one suffering now.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

----

Fyodor had never asked for your assistance before.

Not when he was drowning in paperwork, not when his workload was unbearable, never. He was a man who preferred solitude, who functioned best in his own world without distractions.

Yet, tonight, he had called for you.

And so, you sat beside him in his study, your presence unobtrusive, your role simple—double-checking documents, ensuring nothing was overlooked. It was quiet work, but for the first time in weeks, conversation flowed easily between you.

You spoke of your days, of the things that occupied your time now that you no longer wasted it on him.

New books you had taken an interest in. The musicians who played in the town square. People you had met—acquaintances, staff, fleeting faces in the estate.

And him.

"The garden’s been lovely lately" you mused, absently flipping through a page. "All thanks to Mikhail."

His pen halted mid-stroke. Mikhail?

"The new gardener" you continued, unaware of the shift in the air. "He’s been doing wonderful work. The roses have never looked better."

"You seem fond of him."

"I suppose I am. He’s good at what he does. Very passionate about it." A small chuckle. "He talks about flowers the way some poets talk about love."

"And you enjoy such conversations?"

You only shrugged. "It’s interesting to listen to. He has a way of making the simplest things sound beautiful."

How… irritating.

A man who spoke of flowers as if they were poetry.

A man whose name had no business being spoken so fondly from your lips.

A man who had stolen your attention that had once belonged to Fyodor alone.

His gaze dropped back to his papers, but the words blurred, his thoughts elsewhere.

You had moved on.

You had let go.

And now, for the first time, Fyodor realized—

He did not want you to.

Mikhail disappeared without a trace.

One day, he was there—trimming the hedges, tending to the roses, greeting you with his easy smile. And the next, he was simply gone.

At first, you assumed he had left for personal reasons. Perhaps he had fallen ill, or maybe he had found a better opportunity elsewhere. But no one seemed to know.

The other staff whispered about it. His belongings were left untouched in the small quarters he had been provided. There was no resignation letter, no farewell, nothing.

It was as if he had simply vanished.

You tried not to think too much about it. People left all the time, didn’t they? There was no reason to assume the worst.

And yet, a strange unease settled in your chest.

Still, life moved on. The estate remained, the garden still needed tending. And when no one stepped in to fill the role, you did what you could.

At first, it was manageable. Watering the plants, plucking weeds—simple things. But soon, it became overwhelming.

Some flowers began to wither.

The roses that Mikhail had so carefully cultivated lost their vibrancy. The once-thriving vines grew untamed, the flower beds dulled, lifeless.

You needed a new gardener.

You had to hire one.

You mentioned it one evening, seated once again in Fyodor’s study as you absently flipped through a household ledger.

“I need to find someone new for the garden” you mused. “It’s been difficult keeping up with it alone.”

Fyodor barely glanced up from his work. “Is that so?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Some of the flowers have already started wilting. It’s a shame. The estate looks so much livelier when it’s well-maintained.”

A quiet hum from him. Nothing more.

“It’s strange, though. How Mikhail just disappeared like that.”

This time, his quill paused—just for a second.

“I suppose some people are simply unreliable” he murmured, dipping the quill into ink.

An odd feeling stirred in the back of your mind.

It was silly, wasn’t it? The thought that Fyodor—

No.

You shook it off. Ridiculous.

There was no reason to think he had anything to do with it.

Yet, as the days passed, as the flowers continued to wither, as the space Mikhail had once occupied remained empty, you couldn’t quite shake the thought.

And worse—though you did not yet realize it—Fyodor knew you couldn’t.

And he was waiting.

Waiting for you to understand.

That no matter how far you tried to move from him—

He would never let you go.

It started with the flowers.

No matter what you did, they wouldn’t bloom.

Some parts of the garden thrived as they always had, but a particular patch—right where Mikhail had once worked the most—remained barren. The soil was wrong, dense and damp in ways it shouldn’t have been.

One day, curiosity got the better of you.

You knelt down, gloved fingers sinking into the earth as you began to dig.

A few inches deep, the soil darkened. The smell turned foul, pungent.

Your fingers grazed something.

Something not stone. Not wood. Something soft.

You swallowed, heart pounding, and dug further—until a shape began to take form beneath your hands.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A hand.

Pale, lifeless, limp. The fingers were stiff, the nails caked with dried blood.

You jerked away, scrambling back, your vision blurring with disbelief, with horror. And as you sat there, trembling, staring at the thing that should not have been there, your mind whispered the truth before you could stop it—

Mikhail.

You should have screamed. But before the panic could fully seize you, before you could even process the implication of what you had just unearthed—

The bells in town rang. Loud. Urgent.

And the news spread like wildfire.

Another body. Another victim.

The serial killer had struck again.

Suddenly, all thoughts of Mikhail’s shallow grave were drowned beneath something bigger, something that seized the town in terror.

The killer had been targeting people in the area. And now, they had claimed yet another life.

The estate became a sanctuary, a place of safety. Servants whispered in fear, locking their doors at night, avoiding the streets unless absolutely necessary.

And Fyodor—Fyodor had never looked calmer.

One evening, as the news spread and the fear settled into every home, he turned to you, “You should stay close to me.”

“What?”

His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair. “It’s dangerous out there.”

You hesitated. Of course it was. That much was obvious.

You nodded.

And Fyodor smiled.

Because you had no idea, did you?

No idea that the real monster was sitting right in front of you.

And now, you had walked right into his arms.

At first, Fyodor simply remained close—never overbearing, never forceful, just there.

You didn’t even question it.

After all, it made sense, didn’t it? The town was in fear, a murderer lurking in the shadows, and you lived in a secluded estate. Of course, you would stay near him. Of course, you wouldn’t wander too far.

And Fyodor?

He played his role perfectly.

One evening, as you read by candlelight, a cold breeze drifted through the room. Without a word, Fyodor draped a shawl over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your skin just briefly before pulling away.

When you thanked him, he only gave a quiet hum, as if it was nothing.

Then, the meals.

He had never cared about your routines before, had never paid attention to whether you ate or not. But now, he would casually remind you.

“You’ve hardly touched your plate” he’d murmur during dinner, tilting his head slightly. “You should eat more.”

And when you did, he looked pleased.

Then, conversation.

You had spoken freely before, of course—but now, Fyodor engaged.

He listened intently when you spoke of your interests, made thoughtful remarks, even encouraged you to continue.

And perhaps it was just because you were lonely, because the house felt emptier, because the world outside was dangerous—

But you found yourself enjoying his company.

He simply filled the spaces that had once been empty.

And soon, without realizing it, you began to trust him again.

You laughed a little more around him. You lingered in his presence longer. You sought his thoughts on things you never would have before.

And Fyodor?

He watched.

He waited.

Because it was working.

You didn’t even realize, did you?

That he had pulled you back in.

That, piece by piece, you were becoming his again.

It was gradual—so gradual that you didn’t even notice.

Little by little, you returned to how you once were.

At first, it was just habit. You had always been warm, always been affectionate. And now that Fyodor was allowing it, even reciprocating in his own quiet way, it felt natural to fall back into those patterns.

You started making tea for him again.

Not because you expected anything, but because it felt right. Because he drank it now, without a word of complaint.

You sought his company more.

Not in the desperate, longing way you once had, but comfortably. You’d sit in his study, flipping through a book while he worked, just as you used to.

And most importantly—

You trusted him.

You felt safe with him.

The world outside was dangerous, filled with unseen horrors, and Fyodor was steady. Reliable. A pillar of protection in the growing storm.

Of course, you didn’t realize that it was he who had created the storm in the first place.

And Fyodor?

He knew better than to be careless.

Yes, you had come back to him—had settled back into his grasp—but he wasn’t a fool.

Affection was fickle. Trust was fragile.

And he had no intention of letting you slip away again.

So, he tightened his hold.

"You should stay in today" he murmured one morning, glancing toward the window. "I have a bad feeling about the town."

You hesitated—but he was rarely wrong, was he?

So you listened.

Then, it was the staff.

Servants who used to chat with you now avoided meeting your gaze, as if afraid of something unseen. People you once trusted left without a word.

Slowly, the house became his entirely.

And then, it was you.

One evening, as you prepared to retire to bed, Fyodor’s voice stopped you at the doorway.

"Come here."

You turned, confused, but something in his tone left no room for argument.

So you stepped closer, and he reached out, his cold fingers brushing over your wrist.

"You forgot your necklace" he murmured, fastening it around your neck.

You blinked. "I… I don’t remember taking it off."

He only smiled. "Perhaps you shouldn’t take it off at all."

You didn’t notice the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

Didn’t notice how pleased he looked when you nodded, murmuring, "Alright."

You didn’t see it—

The slow, delicate strings that bound you to him.

By the time you realized, it would be too late.

Because now, he had you.

And he would never, ever let you go.

[truelotus]

could you do some shinji relationship headcanons?

Close the world ᢉ𐭩 Shinji Hirako X reader head-canons

𓂃۶ৎ warnings: none!

𓂃۶ৎ content: How’d it be like being in a relationship with Shinji Hirako

𓂃۶ৎ a/n: I’m so happy someone requested Shinji! Thank you so much for this anon <3

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ He’d be a very touchy partner to have! He’d want to have his arm over your shoulder in public or even in private.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ He’s very supportive in whatever you do, he’ll be your number one fan and if you were to fail at whatever you’re doing at, he’d comfort you by telling you the many times he messed up or failed.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ He wants everyone and I mean everyone to know that you’re in a relationship with him, he’ll somehow bring you up in a conversation just so they could ask “oh is that your partner?” and if they didn’t he’d bring you up again but this time he’d go “Oh yeah my partner” emphasizing the word partner.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Shinji would want to show you off to the whole world, he’s a lucky guy of course so why wouldn’t he want to flaunt you around like you were his prize possession—which you are <3

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ He’d ask for your opinion on how he should cut his bangs or hair next, if this certain hairstyle would look good on him or not, because only your opinion matters to him. He wants to stay on his toes with his looks, just for you <3 he doesn’t want you to have a bad looking partner.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ One day he’d cut his bangs, immediately regretting how he cut them. He’d come to you, showing you how short or how bad he cut them, saying that he was ruined. You’d laugh at first but then comfort him, saying that it looks better than he thought and that it suited him. That would immediately give him a boost of confidence, thanking you. You could see how his face flushed up when telling him that <3

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ If he were to have a bad day, he’d want nothing more than to lay on your chest while his favorite music played in the background as he rambled on whatever had happened during the day.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ I feel like he listens to spanish music, so whenever he’s in a good mood, he’d play that specific music—the love songs!— he’d grab you, making you dance with him to the song as he sang the lyrics to you, doing his best to get the pronunciations right.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ This one is a bit corny, but he’d definitely love to have his head rest between your thighs when relaxing. To him, it’s like two soft pillows squishing him.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ He loves picking out clothes or outfits for you, you’re like his own doll that he could customize. And sometimes you’d be a little unsure on what he picked out but when you finally tried, you’d absolutely love it and he’d be so proud of himself then say “See, you should never doubt me”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ When he sees you all dressed up, he’d worship you all day long, he’d get on his knees in a joking manner just to make you laugh.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ When you both just want to have a peaceful day together, he’d take out his earbuds and give you the one he wouldn’t be using, listening to each other’s favorite songs as you both laid together, holding onto each other as if one would disappear.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ If you guys were at a party together, he’d watch you from afar, making sure that nobody was going up to you and being weird—I don’t see him much as a party guy, I feel like he’d want to look cool lol

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ If you were to scold him, he would not take you serious. He thinks that you look cute all riled up. So while you’re yelling at him, he’d just be smiling/smirking at you then he’d kiss your lips after you were done.