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tsunodaradio · 9 days ago

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i hope this finds you well ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“you’ll be bored of him in two years,” oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.” (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k (!!!) ꔮ includes: friendship, romance, angst. cussing, mentions of food & alcohol. references to greta gerwig's little women (2019), mostly set in melbourne, oscar's sisters are recurring characters. ꔮ commentary box: i've written way too much oscar as of late, so before i go on a self-imposed ban, i had to get this monster out. fully, wholly dedicated to @binisainz, whose amylaurie lando fic does this feeling go both ways? started all this. birdy, i love you like all fire. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ let you break my heart again, laufey. we can't be friends (wait for your love), ariana grande. cool enough for you, skyline. do i ever cross your mind, sombr. bags, clairo. true blue, boygenius. laurie and jo on the hill, alexandre desplat.

Oscar Piastri is not the kind of boy who usually finds himself at house parties.

Especially not the kind with balloons tied to banisters, tables laden with sausage rolls and buttercream cupcakes, and a Bluetooth speaker hiccupping out the tail-end of some pop anthem. But here he is, cornered into attendance by his sisters—Hattie, Edie, and Mae—who’d all dressed up for the occasion and declared, in unison, that he had to come.

So he had. Because he was a good brother and an unwilling chaperone.

And now he’s bored.

Oscar stands near the drinks table, nursing a cup of lukewarm lemonade and trying to look vaguely interested in the streamers above the kitchen doorway. Hattie had already been whisked off to dance by someone in a navy jumper. Edie had found the girl who always brought homemade brownies to school. Mae was giggling wildly with a trio of kids Oscar vaguely recognized from the street down.

No one notices him lingering by himself. That suits him just fine.

Still, he can’t quite shake the restlessness crawling up his spine. The noise is too loud, the lights too warm. With a quick scan of the room and a glance over his shoulder, Oscar slips behind a long, velvet curtain that cordons off what seemed to be the study.

Except there’s already someone there.

He realizes it a moment too late, nearly landing on top of you.

“Oh my God—sorry!” he blurts out, practically leaping backward. His foot catches on the edge of the curtain and he stumbles a bit, arms flailing before catching the side of a bookshelf. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t see you. I didn’t think anyone else—sorry. Again.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, legs curled beneath you on the armchair he had almost sat on. There’s a half-eaten biscuit on a napkin beside you, and your fingers are wrapped around a glass of ginger ale. Contrary to everyone else at this godforsaken event, you’re not a familiar face.

“It’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. Accented. Affirming Oscar’s theory that you’re not a Melbourne native. After a pause, you tentatively joke: “You didn’t sit on me, so that’s a win.”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Close call.”

The silence after is not awkward, exactly. Just shy. The two of you are tucked away behind a curtain, neither fully sure what to do next. Oscar takes the plunge first, figuring it’s the least he could do after intruding on your escape.

“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he adds unnecessarily. He gestures vaguely toward the chaos outside. “Dragged here by my sisters.”

“I figured you were with the girls,” you reply amusedly. “I’m new. Just moved here a few weeks ago.”

Oscar’s brows lift. “So this is your introduction to the madness?”

“Pretty much.” You offer a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really know anyone, and pretending to be cool isn’t really my thing.”

“Mine neither,” he says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “Hence the hiding.”

That earns him a soft smile. It’s a pretty smile, Oscar privately notes.

He gestures to the empty bit of couch beside you. “Mind if I sit? Promise to check for limbs first.”

You shift slightly to make room. “Be my guest.”

He sits, careful this time, knees bumping slightly against yours as he settles. The party noise feels far away behind the curtain—muted like a dream. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, curiosity bright beneath his awkwardness.

“Got a name, new kid?” he asks, because even though he had agreed that he doesn’t like feigning coolness, he’s still just a teenage boy with a god complex.

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, careful with the syllables like he’s folding them into memory.

A few more minutes pass, filled with idle chatter. You talk about your move, the weird smell of paint still lingering in your new house, and the fact that none of the cupcakes at this party have chocolate frosting, which is a tragedy. Oscar, in turn, tells you about his sisters. How Mae once tried to dye her hair green with a highlighter and how Hattie got banned from school discos after she snuck in a smoke machine.

The laughter between you is easy. Unforced.

Then you say it, maybe without thinking too hard. “We should dance,” you muse, finishing off the last of your biscuit.

Oscar freezes. His eyebrows shoot up, alarmed. “Dance? With me?”

“Unless you’d rather go back to pretending the streamers are fascinating.”

“I don’t dance with strangers,” he says, half-laughing, half-panicked.

“We know each other’s names now,” you point out. “That makes us not-strangers.”

With a beleaguered sigh and a scrunch of his nose, Oscar comes clean. “I’m bad at it,” he grumbles.

“Who cares?”

“My sisters. They’ll see. And I’ll never live it down.”

You purse your lips, tapping your glass lightly against your knee. Then, a spark lights in your eyes. It’s the kind that spells trouble; Oscar has seen it in his siblings’ faces, right before they do something so invariably stupid and reckless. “Come with me. I have an idea,” you urge.

He hesitates, a part of his brain screeching something like stranger danger! in flashing, neon lights. In the end, he follows.

You slip out through the back door, motioning for him to stay quiet as you lead him down the wooden steps and out onto the wrap-around porch. The party sounds are muffled here, only the faint thump of bass slipping through the walls.

“Out here,” you say, turning to him with an expectant grin. “Nobody to laugh. Just us.”

Oscar stares at you. “This is crazy.”

“Shut up and dance.”

And so he does.

Awkwardly, at first, because you start them off with wild moves and dance skills that are much more abysmal than his. It gives him the confidence to start swaying a bit, his laughter poorly stifled as he watches you flail like an octopus.

You take his hands, and he lets you spin him gently, sneakers squeaking against the porch boards. There’s no rhythm to it, not really. Just swaying and clumsy steps and the faint thrum of music in the background.

The porch light flickers above you, casting long shadows. Somewhere inside, someone cheers. But out here, it's just you and Oscar.

Two kids dancing badly and not caring.

“You’re a weird one,” he says with a smile that splits his face open.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, fingers squeezing his as you twirl yourself through his arm. It’s a gross miscalculation and you end up stumbling, the two of you cackling as you attempt to detangle from the mess of limbs you’ve entangled each other in.

For the first time that night, Oscar thinks he might actually like this party after all.

Christmas morning in the Piastri household always comes with a sort of chaos—the kind born of slippers skidding across hardwood, sleepy giggles, and the rustle of wrapping paper long before the sun climbs properly into the sky.

This year, however, there’s something new. A wicker basket sits on the porch, ribbon-wrapped and dusted in the faintest layer of frost.

It’s heavy with gifts, each one handmade and meticulously labeled in curling script. Hattie, first to spot it, gives a shriek loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Within minutes, the whole family is gathered in the living room, the basket placed like treasure at the center.

“It’s from the new neighbors,” their mum announces, plucking a card from the basket. Her voice is touched with surprise and delight. “The old man and his granddaughter. Isn’t that sweet?”

Hattie unwraps a pair of knitted socks, blue and gold. Edie lifts out a jar of spiced jam. Mae discovers a hand-bound notebook. Each gift is simple but exquisite, the sort of thing you only receive from people who notice details.

“She’s the one who doesn’t talk to anyone,” Hattie says knowingly, curling her legs beneath her on the couch. You were in the same level as her, it seemed—a year below Oscar.

“That house is huge.” Edie glances out the window, towards your home. “Do you think her parents are loaded?”

“I heard they aren’t even around,” Mae whispers. “Just her and the grandfather. He looks ancient, though. Like, fossil ancient.”

“Girls,” their mum cuts in sharply. “That’s enough. They were kind enough to send gifts. We will be kind in return.”

Oscar, perched on the armrest of the couch, stays quiet through the speculation. His hands toy with the tag on his gift—a simple wooden bookmark, engraved with an amateur sketch of a stick figure dancing. He doesn’t say anything about the study, or the curtain, or the ginger ale.

But the memory floats to the front of his mind: the soft hush of the party behind a curtain, the brush of knees, your laugh when he had called you weird.

“We should make friends with them,” Oscar says finally, looking up. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

The girls pause. Hattie raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about new neighbors?”

He shrugs, trying not to look too interested. “Just saying. It wouldn’t kill us to be nice.”

Their mum smiles, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”

Oscar glances back down at the bookmark, running a thumb over the edge.

He finds your family acquainting with his soon enough.

On a sunny afternoon, right as Edie is pouring cereal into a bowl and Oscar is elbow-deep in the dishwasher, the home phone rings. Hattie picks up, listens for a moment, then calls out, “Mae’s at the neighbor’s. She fell off her bike.”

There’s a rush of clattering cutlery and footsteps, and in no time, Oscar finds himself trailing behind his sisters down the sidewalk, toward the big house next door—the one with the sprawling lawn and mismatched wind chimes on the porch.

When they arrive, Mae is perched on your front steps, a bandage already wrapped around her knee and a juice box in hand. She waves lazily as Hattie and Edie fall upon her with a dozen questions. Your grandfather, white-haired and kind-eyed, stands nearby, looking amused by the commotion. He introduces himself and ushers them all inside despite their protests.

Oscar hangs back for a moment until he spots you just behind the door, barefoot and half-hidden by the frame. You glance up, catch his eye, and grin.

“You again,” you say, stepping out onto the porch. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, just scraped her knee,” Oscar replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks for patching her up.”

“We had a pretty solid first aid game back at my old school. I’m well-versed in playground accidents.”

He chuckles, leaning against the porch railing. “That so? Must be a pretty rough school.”

“Brutal,” you agree solemnly. “There were snack thieves and dodgeball champions. It was a jungle.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“It built character,” you say with mock seriousness, then flash him a grin. “Want to come in? I made too much lemonade.”

Oscar nods and follows you inside. The kitchen smells like lemon zest and fresh biscuits. Hattie and Edie are now harrowing your grandfather with questions about the old piano in the corner and whether the house is haunted. He answers everything with a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the attention.

You hand Oscar a glass and settle across from him at the kitchen table. He takes a sip. “You weren’t lying,” he says through another swig. “This is good.”

“Of course not. I take my beverages very seriously.”

“You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m starting to think it might be a compliment.”

You clink your glass against his in cheers. He smiles, and something warm unfurls in his chest. A startling kind of certainty. Like something’s taking root—a real friendship, honest and surprising and entirely unplanned.

Oscar is surprised to find that he doesn’t mind.

It happens gradually, like most real things do.

You begin spending Saturday afternoons with the Piastri bunch, lounging on their back deck with Hattie and Edie, gossiping about the neighbors or watching Mae attempt increasingly dangerous trampoline flips. You get good at knowing who takes how many sugars in their tea, when to duck because Edie’s chucking a tennis ball, or when Oscar is about to try and quietly leave the room.

You’re there for board games on rainy days and movie nights on Fridays. You help Hattie with her French homework, braid Mae’s hair when her fingers get too clumsy with excitement, and lend Edie your favorite books. Their mum always saves you an extra slice of cake, and their dad asks how your grandfather’s garden is faring this season.

It starts to feel like you’ve always belonged there, wedged into the rhythm of their household like a missing puzzle piece finally found.

Oscar is often quieter than the others, but he’s still a constant. You and he become fixtures in each other’s orbit. Trading messages about school, tagging each other in silly videos, or sending one-word replies that only make sense to the two of you.

Despite being one year his junior, the two of you are close in a way that you aren’t with the girls. He swears it’s because he met you first, because the two of you have emergency dance parties and cricket watch parties that nobody else knows about.

He leaves for boarding school, and the absence sits awkwardly on both your chests at first. But he never really disappears. He always texts when he’s back. Always walks you home at least once before he has to leave again. Always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

And then—one summer—he comes home and something’s different.

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t swoon. He doesn’t speak in slow motion. It’s just... subtle.

Oscar stands taller. His shoulders are broader. His voice has deepened slightly. There’s a small scar at the corner of his lip you don’t remember, and when he grins, it strikes you—how he’s grown into himself, soft and sharp all at once.

You catch him staring at you too, once or twice. Like he’s trying to recalibrate what he thought he knew. Your hair is a little longer, and your skin is tanned from all the days in the sun. He remembers the freckles; he doesn’t remember when they became so prominent.

But it never becomes a thing. You don’t talk about it. You fall back into your usual rhythm.

Because even if your faces are a little older, your banter is still quick and familiar. You still chase each other down the street. You still squabble over the last biscuit. He still rolls his eyes at you, and you still prod him for his terrible taste in music.

Whatever has changed, whatever is beginning to, you both keep it tucked away. For now, it’s enough just to have each other nearby.

It’s a fact Oscar remembers as digs his toes into the hot sand. His jaw is tight; he watches the waves break in even swells. The sun’s beating down hard, but he barely feels it. Not with the way his chest still burns from the shouting match earlier.

Hattie had stormed out of the house with her towel clutched like a shield, and Oscar had followed, only because everyone else was pretending like nothing had happened. His sisters always expected him to be the reasonable one, and today—he hadn’t been.

He’d snapped. Something petty. A dig at her choice of music in the car. Then something sharper about her always having to be right. And before he knew it, she’d looked at him like he was someone else.

He hadn’t apologized.

Now, he sits beneath the shade of a crooked umbrella, arms wrapped around his knees. He watches the group scatter across the sand and into the waves. Hattie’s already out with her board, paddling strong into the break like she’s trying to prove something. Edie is further down the shore, half-buried in a sandcastle war. Mae’s running between them, laughing.

You drop into the sand beside him, skin glinting from seawater, hair tied back and still damp. “You two going for the title of Most Dramatic Siblings today?” you ask, unsurprisingly up to date. Hattie probably told you all about it while the two of you were getting changed.

Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was a bit of a tosser this morning,” he says dryly.

You nod, not offering him an out. Just letting the honesty settle.

“She’ll forgive you. Eventually,” you add. “You Piastris always find your way back.”

He tilts his head, watching you. The sunlight makes your nose wrinkle when you squint toward the water. Your shoulders have lost some of their shyness from when he first met you. You’ve become more sure of yourself, laughing louder, teasing easily. Comfortable. Confident. Certain.

He likes that.

The two of you sit in silence until Oscar stands, grabbing his board. “I’m going out.”

“Be nice,” you call after him, and he flashes a grin over his shoulder—tight but genuine.

In the surf, Oscar feels the tension bleed out with every push through the waves. The water’s cold and biting, salt sharp in his mouth. He catches sight of Hattie up ahead and paddles after her, trying not to let the guilt slow him down. Hattie notices him, grimaces, and rushes on.

Trying to prove something.

The waves pick up. Hattie catches one, standing briefly before wiping out. She resurfaces quickly, almost laughing, but Oscar watches her expression shift just moments later. There’s a sudden pull in the water, subtle but unmistakable. A riptide.

She paddles against it. Wrong move.

Oscar feels the fright hit like a tsunami.

He’s been scared before. Of course he has. He’s terrible when it comes to horror movies. He’s seen his karting peers fissure into pretty nasty accidents. But this, the fear of this, of his younger sister—

He starts shouting, but the wind carries his voice sideways. Instinctively, he glances to shore—and sees that you’re already running. Board abandoned, feet flying across wet sand. You make it to him in record time, that crazed look in your eyes mirroring his.

Together, you plunge into the surf. Oscar’s strokes are strong, slicing through the current. He reaches Hattie just as she starts to panic.

“Float! Don’t fight it!” you yell, coming up on her other side.

Oscar grabs her wrist, firm but steady. You’re on the other, speaking calm, clear instructions, guiding her body as the three of you angle sideways out of the current.

You’re the voice of reason; Oscar is the force that perseveres.

It’s slow. Exhausting. But eventually, the pull lessens.

You reach the shore heaving, salt-stung, and shaking. Hattie collapses onto her knees, coughing up seawater, and Oscar sinks beside her, heart hammering. His hands rest at her back, as if he’s scared she’ll go down under the moment he lets go.

Hattie says nothing at first. She just looks at him with wet, furious eyes.

It’s a look Oscar is used to seeing on Hattie’s face. They’re siblings. Of course they squabble, and they fight, and they know where to hit for it to hurt. Such was the curse and blessing of being a brother.

Underneath all that, though, Oscar goes back to two cardinal truths: Being the eldest, he made his mum and dad parents—but when Hattie came around, they made him a sibling.

And a sibling he would always be, come hell or high water.

“You didn’t even say sorry,” Hattie sputters, like that’s still the worst thing that has happened this afternoon.

Oscar can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh. You hover nearby, giving them space. But not too much.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s I’m sorry for picking a fight, and I’m sorry for being a bad brother sometimes, and I’m sorry I never taught you about riptides.

Hattie sniffles, then swats at him. “You better be.”

And that’s how they make up.

Later, as the sun begins to dip, casting everything in amber, Oscar finds you rinsing your arms at an outdoor shower.

“Hey,” he says, stepping close with your towel in his hands.

You look over your shoulder. “Hey.”

He shuffles awkwardly. With salt in his hair and gratitude tangled in his ribs, Oscar thinks there’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when the tide pulls under.

But there’s something deeper, something closer to guilt gnawing at him.

You sense it, in the same way you know when Oscar’s about to have a bad race weekend or when he’s overwhelmed with schoolwork. Stepping out of the shower, you take your towel, wrap it over your shoulders, and gesture at Oscar to follow you.

The two of you walk along the shore, away from where Edie is snapping photos of her sandcastle and Mae is reading some trashy romance novel. Hattie is passed out on a beach blanket, the excitement of the near-drowning taking the fight out of her.

“If she had died,” Oscar tells you, his tongue heavy as lead, “it would’ve been my fault.”

It’s the kind of thought he figures only you will understand. Not because you have any siblings of your own, not because you had been there, but because you’ve always read Oscar like he was a dog-eared book you could keep under your pillow.

“She’s fine, though,” you say delicately, but he’s started and he can’t stop.

“What is wrong with me?” A laugh escapes Oscar—the self-deprecating kind, one that grates more than the sand beneath your feet. “I’ve made so many resolutions and written sad notes and confessed my sins, but it doesn’t seem to help. When I get in a passion—”

A passion. A fit. With his siblings, with his mates, with you. He can’t count the amount of times his sarcasm has offended you. The instances where he’s made you cry, intentionally or not.

And when he’s racing. God, when he’s racing.

In a couple of months, he’s slated to join Formula 4. He has a stellar karting career behind him, one he can barely even remember—because he had seen red throughout it all. Oscar was clinical and cutthroat and cruel the moment he got behind a wheel, and a part of him worries that’s who he’ll always be.

A man who would stop at nothing to be at the top step of any podium. A boy who would insist on being right like his life depended on it.

“When I get in a passion,” he tries again, “I get so savage. I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.”

It’s a damning confession. The kind that could absolutely ruin and unravel Oscar. But he knows, he trusts that it’s safe in your hands. You hum a low sound like he hadn’t just bared his heart out for you to sink your claws into.

“I know what that’s like,” you say, and he has to do a double take.

“You?” He studies the side of your face, as if checking for insincerity. “You’re never angry.”

You’re annoyed with him often and you’ve got a hint of fire in everything you say. But there’s never been rage, never been the sort of flame that could incinerate. And so it shocks him all the more when you confess, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life.”

“You are?”

“I’m not patient by nature. I just try to not let it get the better of me,” you offer, glancing up at Oscar.

The two of you have come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline. Soon, you’ll have to get back to his waiting sisters. For now, though, he surveys your expression and finds nothing but the truth.

He files the facts away in that mental cabinet he has containing what he knows about you. Angry, nearly every day. And then he takes to heart the rest of your words, the roundabout advice of not letting it consume him.

The blaze in him stops roaring for a minute. With you, it’s like a campfire. Inviting and warm.

Better. You make him better.

“Look at us,” he says, tone almost awed. “After all these years, looks like I can still learn a thing or two from you.”

There’s something in your eyes that Oscar can’t quite place. You’ve always looked at him a certain way, but he could never really put a word to it. It’s tender and pained all at once; subtle, ultimately, buried underneath whatever he needs you to be at the moment.

“It’s what friends are for,” you respond, your voice catching on the word in the middle. He pretends not to notice.

Friends.

Oscar’s Formula 4 debut is everything he thought it would be.

The pressure, the lights, the nerves so sharp they buzz under his skin—it’s all there, and then some. He tries to soak in every second, from the chorus of engines roaring around him to the feel of the wheel under his gloved hands. But even with everything happening so quickly, even in the blur of adrenaline and pit stops, there’s still time for his thoughts to drift back home.

More specifically: To you.

It starts small. Just a notification that you’ve made a new post. A photo.

You with your boyfriend.

A guy Oscar’s met once, maybe twice. The sort of guy who plays guitar at parties and wears cologne that smells like department store samples. He isn’t bad—just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t match the version of you Oscar has always known. The one who once danced on a porch, hair a mess, daring him to keep up.

He doesn’t know what to do with the bitter feeling that curdles in his chest. You’re not his, per se. You’ve never been. But surely you could do better than this Abercrombie-wearing, Oasis-playing asswipe.

Summer arrives like it always does—hot and sprawling, with cicadas humming in the trees and long days that stretch lazily into nights. Oscar is home for a few weeks between races.

You’re still around, too. A little less, though, because your boyfriend is a demanding thing who insists he “doesn’t like Oscar’s vibe.” You fight for the friendship, citing it as a non-negotiable, and when Oscar finds out, he doesn’t even try to hide his smugness.

The two of you steal away one evening, climbing onto the roof of the Piastri house with cans of lemonade and a bag of sour candy. It’s tradition by now. The tin roof is warm beneath you, and the stars blink faintly above, a faded scattering against the navy sky.

You sit close, your shoulder brushing his every so often.

“You’ve changed,” you say, head tilted toward him.

“Have not.”

“You look taller.”

“I’ve always been taller.”

You laugh, a soft sound. “Okay. You’ve changed in a good way.”

Oscar bumps your knee with his. “So have you.”

The two of you are older, now, more accepting of the facts of life. Time is not your enemy. It’s just time. You’re still in school, and Oscar is still racing. Your paths have diverged, but the road home is one you both know like the back of your hand.

You go quiet, fiddling with the tab on your lemonade. He watches you closely, trying to read what you’re not saying. You’re nervous. He figures that much out from the fiddling. Nervous about what, though, he can’t—

“I want to run away with him,” you say suddenly.

Oscar stiffens. He wants to call you out for making such a stupid joke, for not having all your screws on straight. You go on, eyes fixed on the dark street below. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Eloping,” you muse. “I’ve never been one for big weddings, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t I like big weddings?”

“No, stupid. Why the sudden plan of eloping?”

“Because I love him.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, the slope of your cheek in the half-light, the determination behind your words. It doesn’t sit right. This isn’t you. You make rash decisions, but none so life-altering. Not anything that would give your grandfather grief, and most especially not anything that would disclude Oscar.

“You’ll be bored of him in two years,” Oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the words hang between you. Those two things could co-exist. Your love for this loser (Oscar’s word; not yours), and the fact that there was nothing in the world that could electrify quite like your friendship with Oscar Piastri.

He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He hadn’t realized this would be so serious, that he’d been away long enough for you to start considering marriage with what’s-his-face.

“I don’t expect you to know what it’s like, Oscar,” you say eventually. “To want to be shackled.”

And there it is.

You’ve always supported Oscar’s career. You have years worth of team merchandise for all his loyalties; you’ve been there for every race that mattered, each one that you could make.

But you were also selfish in ways that his family wasn’t. You got moody whenever he had to go away after breaks. You made snide comments about him always being the one who leaves. He’s grown to tolerate that petulance, to take in stride your fears of him failing to come back in one piece.

For the first time ever, Oscar feels what you do. And, God, it doesn’t feel good.

“I just hate that you’re thinking of leaving me.” The words are past his lips before he can reel them in.

It sounds desperate, so unlike him, that he understands the shock that flits across your face. There’s a split-second where he sees a hint of anger, too, like you’re mad at Oscar for being honest, for saying all this after his redeye flights and janky timezones.

He goes on, because what’s the point of backing down now? “Don’t leave,” he presses.

“O…”

You’re the only one who calls him that. O. OJ, when you’re feeling playful—Oscar Jack. He’s teased you time and time again about not falling back on Osc, as if you were desperate to carve out a nickname that belonged to you and you alone.

“God,” he interrupts, eyes turning skyward, as if the stars might hold answers. “We’re really not kids anymore, huh?”

You were kids together. Now, you’re teenagers—young adults. Complicated, messy. Entangled in more than limbs and waves.

“Our childhood was bound to end,” you say, and then you reach out to put a hand on his knee. He considers joking something like Careful, your boyfriend might try to pick a fight and you know I have a mean left hook, but then you might come to your senses and pull your touch away.

He doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. You just sit there on the roof, side by side, listening to the quiet hum of summer and the distant echoes of who you used to be.

You break up with your boyfriend sometime in early spring, citing incompatibility in a text that Oscar reads while lying flat on the floor of his hotel room in Baku.

He blinks at the message, reads it twice, and then tosses his phone across the bed. The relief that floods through him is disproportionate, almost unsettling. He chalks it up to instinct. Or something like that.

He tells himself it’s just the same feeling he gets when Edie starts seeing some guy from her literature elective, a summer not too long after you joked about eloping. Maybe it’s the older brother in him, wanting to be protective of the women in his life.

That’s what he’s muttering to himself when you catch him scowling at Edie’s date from across the local food park. He was chaperoning once again, though this time Edie had banished him to hang out with you while she was making heart eyes at this lanky transfer student.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” you tease Oscar, popping a chip into your mouth.

Oscar doesn’t look away from where Edie is laughing at something the guy just said. “At the idea of anybody coming to take Edie away? No, thank you.”

You smirk. “You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”

He finally glances at you, one brow raised. “I’d like to see anyone try.”

“So would I!” you shoot back, grinning as you sip your soda. Oscar’s withstanding singleness was something the two of you joked about often, even though he always reasoned that he was busy. Busy with racing, busy with family, busy with you. “That poor soul wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Oscar opens his mouth to reply, but then you pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. It’s a thing you picked up since you got to uni, and Oscar’s frown deepens at the sight of it. At your audacity. Before you can light it, he snatches it from your fingers.

“Oi!” you protest.

He waves it out of your reach. “None of that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

You lunge for it, but he’s already up and jogging backward, the cigarette held aloft in triumph. You chase after him with a string of cusses, half-laughing, half-serious, and Edie and her date pause to watch you and Oscar bolt down the street like kids again—legs flailing, shouts echoing against the sidewalk.

“Are they—?” Edie’s date asks, and the Piastri girl only heaves out a sigh.

Oscar doesn’t stop until he hits the corner, chest heaving from laughter. You skid to a halt beside him, hair wild in the wind, eyes bright. The cigarette’s long gone, tossed in a bin somewhere behind them.

“That was expensive,” you whine.

“More incentive for you to quit it, then,” he responds.

You glare up at him. He rubs a knuckle into your hair, his free hand snaking to your pocket to grab the rest of the pack. You screech profanities as he bins it, but he makes it up to you with a meal of your choosing. It takes a sizable chunk out of the racing salary he sets aside for leisure, but you’re unrepentant and he’s wrapped around your finger.

You’re both older now. But sometimes, it still feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Albert Park is golden in the late afternoon.

The sun spills through the treetops, casting shadows across the path as Oscar kicks absently at a stray pebble, hands buried in his jacket pockets. You’re walking beside him, careful to match his pace even as his strides grow longer with whatever is bubbling up inside him.

A new year. A new contract. A new team, new plan, new person he has to be.

“It’s all happening so fast,” he mutters. “The Renault thing. Tests. Travel. They said it’s everything I ever wanted—and it is, it is—but I can’t stop feeling like I’m coming apart.”

You glance at him, brows furrowed. “Coming apart how?”

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, but you’ve always had this philosophy that helped him be more honest around you. Say it first, you’d say. Backtrack later.

“I’m just not good like my sisters,” he blurts out, reaching and settling for a familiar comparison that might make him more comprehensible. “They’re—Hattie’s top of her class, Edie’s already talking uni offers, Mae’s got that whole ‘brightest light in the room’ thing. And me? I’m angry, and I’m restless, and I drive fast cars because I don’t know how to sit still.”

“You don’t have to be, O.”

He lets out a dry laugh. "Why? Are you about to tell me that I’m patient and kind, that I do not envy and I do not boast?"

You stop walking. He does too, when he notices.

You’re just a step or two behind him, the afternoon sun bathing you in a light that practically rivals the warmth you radiate. But there’s something so utterly stricken on your expression, something so undeniably raw that Oscar feels everything click into place.

The look on your face is one his parents sometimes give each other. He’s seen it in movies, seen it in the photos of his mates with long-term relationships. It’s the expression you’ve given him for years, and years, and years, and he feels like the world’s biggest fool for missing all the signs.

“No,” you say softly, denying him of his cruelty, of his failures. You think of him like that—patient, kind, humble.

The makings of a person who deserves—

Oscar begins to shake his head, saying, “No. No.”

“It’s no use, Oscar,” you say, your fingers curling into fists at your sides, and that’s his first sign that this is really about to happen. Not O, not Piastri, not any of the dozen annoying nicknames you’ve assigned him over the years.

“Please, no—”

“We gotta have it out—”

“No, no—”

Your conversation overlaps. It’s a twisted kind of waltz, as if the two of you are out of tune and out of step for the first time in your lives. Oscar starts pacing. Like he might somehow be able to run from what’s about to come.

You barrel on. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Oscar,” you breathe, following his panicked steps. “I couldn’t help it, and I’ve tried to show it but you wouldn’t let me, which is fine—”

“It’s not—”

“I’m going to make you hear it now, and you’re going to give me an answer, because I can’t go on like this.”

He flinches, takes a half-step back. Tries to say your name with more of those despairing please, don’ts, which fall on deaf ears.

You step toward him like the whole park is tilting and he’s the only thing keeping you upright. The words pour out too quickly now, too long held back. Years worth of yearning, bearing down on an unassuming Saturday.

“I gave up smoking. I gave up everything you didn’t like,” you say. “And I’m happy I did, it’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I—”

You stutter, swaying on your feet like the weight of your next words was too heavy for you to shoulder. You soldier through like a champion; that’s why Oscar listens, hears them out, even though they rip through him as if he’s crashed right into a wall.

“You know, I figured you’d love me, Oscar.”

A damning confession. The kind that should be safe in Oscar’s hands, but his fingers are shaky and his eyes are wide and he thinks he’s going to die, then and there, over how absolutely heartbroken you look that he’s not agreeing with you immediately. That his love was something vouchsafed, a promise for a later time.

“And I realize I’m not half good enough,” you whimper, “and I’m not this great girl—”

“You are.” Helplessness wrenches the words out of Oscar’s chest. It’s the same emotion that has him surging forward, his hands darting out to hold your shoulders and keep you upright, keep you looking at him. “You’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you and I’m so proud of you. I just—”

He falters. You gave him your honesty, so he fights to give you his.

“I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to,” he confesses. “I don’t know why.”

Your voice gets impossibly smaller. “You can’t?”

His eyes close, just for a moment, before he answers. “No,” he says slowly, each word measured against your frantic ones. “I can’t change how I feel, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so desperately sorry, but I just can’t help it.”

You step back; his hands fall to his sides. The distance opens like a wound.

“I can’t love anyone else, Oscar,” you say dazedly. “I’ll only love you.”

“It would be a disaster if we dated,” Oscar insists. “We’d be miserable. We both have such quick tempers—”

“If you loved me, Oscar, I would be a perfect saint!”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed.”

And he has. He’s had sleepovers with you, wondering what it might feel like to wrap his arm around your waist. He had once contemplated holding your hand during a movie. He figured it would be a given; no one would bat an eye. You and Oscar.

Except his heart had never fully gotten the memo, and now he pays the price for only ever being able to love the thrill of a race.

Your voice catches on your next words. “Everyone expects it,” you say in a ditch attempt to change his mind. “Grandpa. Your parents, your sisters. I've never begged you for anything, but—say yes, and let’s be happy together, Oscar.”

“I can't," he repeats, each syllable heavy. “I can’t say yes truly, so I’m not going to say it at all.”

The evening light keeps on glowing. The world doesn’t end. But you feel like it might've anyway, and he’s right there in that boat with you. You’re willing to settle for scraps, while Oscar refuses to give you half-measures. The silence between you stretches taut, pulling thinner and thinner until it threatens to snap.

“You’ll see that I’m right, eventually,” he says. Like he believes it will make the truth hurt less. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

You laugh bitterly. “I'd rather die.”

He looks like you slapped him. “Don’t say that.”

You’re walking, now, your pace quick as you hurtle down the park pathway with the vengeance of a woman scorned. He calls your name and follows, keeping a sizable distance between you should you not want him too close.

“Listen, you'll find some guy who will adore you, and treat you right, and love you like you deserve,” he pleads, skidding in front of you and forcing you to do a full stop. “But— I wouldn’t. Look at me. I’m homely, and I’m awkward, and I’m mean—”

“I love you, Oscar,” you say, as if you’re savoring the first and last times you will get to say the words.

He goes on. He can’t answer that, can’t say anything to those words. “And you’d be ashamed of me—”

“I love you, Oscar.”

“And we would always fight. We can’t help it even now!” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll never give up racing, and you’ll have to hide all your vices, and we would be unhappy. And we’d wish we hadn’t done it, and everything will be terrible.”

He gasps for air. You blink back the sting in your eyes. “Is there anything more?” you ask.

He meets your gaze, and finds nothing there but rightful heartbreak. “No,” he murmurs. “Nothing more.”

You shoulder past him. He tilts his head back and eyes the sky for a moment, praying to be struck down by any higher power that exists. “Except that—” he starts, and you turn around so fast.

You turn, retracing your steps, and the guilt wells up in him like a faucet that had burst. He realizes—you think he’s going to take it back. You think it’s going to be a … but I love you instead of an I love you, but…

“I don’t think I'll ever fall in love,” he manages. “I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up.”

Your expression crumples. “I think you’re wrong about that,” you sigh.

“No.”

You shake your head, slowly. “I think you will care for somebody, Oscar. You’ll find someone, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way and your will.”

Oscar’s way. Oscar’s will. Two things he’s believed in wholeheartedly, until they’ve both failed him. Failed you.

You take a step back. The anger you once claimed to always have is somewhere, there, beneath all the hurt and the love. Oscar sees it, now. All of it; all of you.

“And I’ll watch,” you add.

Oscar will love someone— and you’ll watch.

The wind rustles the leaves above. A bird sings somewhere in the distance. But all you hear is the sound of something breaking open, and bleeding between you.

The deep and dying breath of the love you’d been working on.

Oscar doesn’t see you much after that night in Albert Park.

You’re still around, still next door. He hears you laughing with Hattie, helping Mae with a school project, or chatting idly with his mum over the fence. But it’s not the same. Something fundamental had shifted.

He tries. God knows he tries. He greets you when he sees you on the street. Makes light jokes. Keeps it easy, breezy, friendly. But every conversation feels like a performance, a pale imitation of what it used to be.

He’d broken both your hearts. He knows that too well.

Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, not even Hattie, who always had a sixth sense for these things. He lets you control that narrative; he’s sure you’ll tell his sisters, and they’ll all have something to say. Surprisingly, none of them bring it up. He wonders if that’d been your condition with them, and he is grateful, and he is angry, and he is so, so sorry.

He channels everything into racing. He throws himself into his training, enough that it gets him trophies and podiums and a contract with a frontrunning team.

His dream—the one he’d chased his whole life—is here.

And it’s everything he ever wanted. Almost.

A few days before he’s due to fly out for testing with McLaren, he finds himself in the backyard, watering the garden with Mae. She’s picking mint leaves with the same dramatic flair she does everything. He doesn’t notice when she says your name until the silence that follows makes him realize he’s been staring blankly at the hose.

You have a part-time job now, Mae had said. Oscar knows. Not from you. Rarely does he know anything about you from you nowadays. He watches your life in fifteen Instagram stories, in the Facebook posts of your grandfather. He hears about you from his parents and whichever of his sisters is feeling particularly brave that day.

It’s so sudden, his urge to be honest. And so, for the first time since what happened in the park—he lets himself speak his mind.

“Maybe I was too quick in turning her down,” he says, voice low. Contemplative.

Mae looks up from the mint. She looks a bit surprised, like she hadn’t expected to be the one to get Oscar to finally crack after over a year of dancing around the topic.

“Do you love her?” she asks outright.

He fucking hesitates.

His throat feels dry.

“If she asked me again, I think I would say yes,” he says instead, his gaze fixed on the poor tomato plant now drowning in water. “Do you think she’ll ask me again?”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Mae straighten. She brushes her hands against her jeans and stares straight at him, willing him to look at her. “But do you love her?” she repeats, and he knows it’s not a question he’s going to escape.

“I want to be loved,” Oscar admits. The words taste like copper.

Mae doesn't flinch. “That's not the same as loving. If you wanted to be loved, then get a fucking fan club,” she spits.

Her voice is firm, but not cruel. It lands with the weight of care disguised as exasperation. And Oscar feels so much, then, but above all he feels gratitude that his sisters love you like one of their own. Their fierce protectiveness of your welfare—in the face of Oscar’s indecision—knocks some much-needed sense into him.

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

“She deserves more than piecemeal affection, Oscar,” Mae adds, softening. “You can’t go halfsies with someone like her.”

Oscar knows his sister is right.

Something aches in his chest, then. He can’t tell if it’s loneliness or the shape of losing you, still carved somewhere in his chest. Beneath the ache of what he turned away is the terrible fear that he never really understood what he was saying no to.

“I won’t do anything stupid,” he promises Mae.

Later that afternoon, Oscar is pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when movement catches his eye through the window. He turns and sees you biking past with Hattie. Your carefree laughter carries across the breeze, light and familiar. Your hair catches the sun.

You glance up and see him. There’s a pause. Beyond the cursory small talk, the two of you haven’t really talked much this break. He understands why you need your space., and so he never presses, never pushes.

Even though he can’t help but think of how a pre-confession you might have reacted. How you would’ve ditched your bike and slammed into the house, demanding he pour you a drink, too. Or how you would’ve goaded him into a race until the two of you were spilling onto the pavement, all breathless laughter and skinned knees.

As it is, all Oscar gets is a polite smile and a half-wave. He doesn’t know if it’s a hello or a goodbye.

He raises his hand, waves back. He watches until you disappear around the corner.

And then he keeps watching, long after you’re gone.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Stupid stupid stupid

I hope this email finds you well.

Actually, I hope it never finds you. This is a bit stupid. A lot stupid. But I’ve just had my first proper testing and I wanted to text you about it, except I wasn’t sure how you might feel to hear from me. I reached for my phone, opened our text thread, and then decided to fake an email to you instead.

You’re right. It’s definitely more orange than papaya.

And Lando Norris is not so bad. I think you’d like him. But not like like him. I’m not sure, actually. We could find out. Or not.

This is stupid. Bye.

— O. (McLaren Technology Centre)

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: I don’t know what to call this one

Hey,

Doha's airport smells like cleaning chemicals and tired people. I watched a family fall asleep upright on a bench. The dad had his hand curled around the kid's backpack like he was scared someone would run off with it. I don't know why I'm telling you this.

Maybe because it's 2AM and I'm tired and I can't sleep on planes unless you're next to me. Which is stupid, because you were never on that many flights with me. But the ones you were? I slept like a rock.

I hope you're well. I hope you're sleeping.

—O. (Doha International Airport)

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: New Year

Happy New Year.

I watched the fireworks from the hotel rooftop. I wish I was back in Melbourne, but stuff made it not-possible.

It was cold. Everyone had someone to kiss. I had a glass of champagne and a view.

You came to mind. You always do when things start or end. I'm starting to think that's what you are to me. The start and the end.

Love, O. (Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo)

Edited to add: It was midnight when I wrote all that stuff. I’m rereading it now, hungover at the breakfast buffet. Guess I can be a bit of a romantic too, huh? Although I think it’s only ever with you.

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: You're in my dreams

I dreamed about you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jacket you got on sale for $5, the one you claimed made you look mega. You did not look mega. You looked like someone lost a bet.

You hugged me and told me everything would be okay. Then I woke up and it wasn’t.

I know I don’t get to tell you this anymore, but I miss you.

—O. (Tokyo Bay Ariake Washington Hotel)

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Hahaha

I heard someone with your exact laugh. Turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

It wasn’t you.

You’d tease me for how dramatic that sounds. You always said I was a little too sentimental for a boy who liked going fast.

Still thinking of you.

—O. (Silverstone Circuit)

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: If I had said yes…

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes that day in Albert Park.

I don’t know if we would’ve worked. Maybe we would have burned bright and fast and hurt each other in the end. Or maybe we would’ve grown into each other like roots. I don’t know. I just know I still think about it.

And that’s not fair. And I would never tell a soul. I just

wonder.

Sometimes.

Always your O. (Yas Marina Circuit)

The glitch hits sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. local time.

Oscar doesn’t notice at first. He’s still jet-lagged from the flight from Abu Dhabi, half-awake on his phone in bed, replying to a team manager's message. It's not until he opens his inbox to forward a document and sees the string of outbox confirmations—all with your name in the recipient line—that he realizes something is very, very wrong.

His breath catches.

He stares at the screen for a long, stunned moment before scrambling up from bed, heart in his throat. He checks the Sent folder. It’s all there. Every last one. The emails he never meant to send.

They'd been his safekeepings. His way of getting through the ache without adding more weight to yours. Some were barely a few sentences; others pages long. And all of them, every last word, are now sitting in your inbox like little bombs waiting to go off.

He Googles it with trembling fingers. Gmail glitch sends drafts.

He sees the headlines flooding in. Tech sites confirm that a rare global sync error had triggered thousands of unsent drafts to be sent automatically. They call it “an unprecedented failure.” Users are up in arms. Memes are already spreading.

Oscar wants to fucking hurl.

He’s home for the winter holidays. Back in Melbourne, back in his childhood room with the familiar creak in the floorboard by the desk. And you—you’re just next door.

You. With those emails.

He covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms down slowly.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself.

There’s no escape to this. Just the silent, inescapable weight of every unsaid thing now said. Every truth, every maybe, every I thought of you today signed off with hotel names and airport codes and times when he was still trying to figure out how to stop missing you.

And now you know. Every word of it. Every selfish, unfair thought that he didn’t deserve to have about you, not after he’d ripped your heart right out of your chest.

He peeks out the window before he can stop himself. Your lights are on.

For some reason, Oscar is reminded of the book you had been so obsessed with as a child. The classic Great Gatsby; the millionaire with his green light at the edge of the dock. Oscar never really cared much for the metaphor of it until now, until he stares at the filtered, warm light streaking through your curtains like it’s something he will forever be in relentless pursuit of.

But then your light flickers off, and Oscar stumbles back down to his bed.

You’re going to sleep, he realizes with a breath of relief. He sinks into the mattress with a thousand curses against modern technology.

Oscar tells himself he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Explain everything. Try to salvage what’s left of the peace you’ve both learned to live in, however shaky and distant it is. He’ll explain that he didn’t send them on purpose. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to—

A soft knock at the window makes him bolt upright.

He hasn’t heard that sound in years. Not since you were kids and the ladder in his backyard was your shared secret.

His breath catches. He doesn’t move right away.

He has to be dreaming, he thinks dazedly, but then he hears it again. Three quick taps. A familiar rhythm.

Oscar throws the covers off and crosses the room in two strides. He pulls the curtain aside.

You’re standing on the top rung of the ladder, and he briefly contemplates making a run for it again.

Instead, he throws the window open. You climb in without a word, landing on the floor of his bedroom with the same ease you always had. You’re in cotton pajamas with a hastily thrown-on hoodie, which—whether you remember or not—had been one of Oscar’s from years and years ago.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he breathes.

“And you’re in love with me,” you say without preamble.

Accusation. Question.

Fact?

Oscar is frozen like a deer caught in headlights. You’re staring up at him, searching, with that same matchstick flame of anger that has carried you through life so far.

When he doesn’t immediately counter you, you go on. “Do you love me because I love you?” you ask, and the question knocks the wind out of Oscar.

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not like that.”

He— he would never forgive himself, if his affection for you was nothing more than an attempt at reciprocation.

You stare at him through the darkness. “Why, then?” you press, because of course you deserve to know why.

His throat works around the answer. It’s a confession that’s been in the making for more than a year. In some ways, it’s been there since he almost sat on you at that damn house party. The words tumble out of him, overdue but not any less sincere.

“I love you because you’re a terrible dancer,” he says, “and you know how to swim against riptides, and you’re the person I think of when I’ve had a bad free practice and when I'm on the top step of a podium. I love you. It just took me a little while to get here, but I do.”

“O,” you start. He’s not ready to hear it.

He steps back, as if to give you space he should’ve offered long ago. “I don’t expect you to have waited,” he says hastily. “I would never—I would never ask you to reconsider, not when I know the type of person I am and how much time it took for me to get here.”

“Oscar.”

“But I love you. I don't know how not to.”

The room is silent, but it feels like it holds the weight of a thousand words left unsaid. The ones he wrote.

You remind Oscar, gently, of what you said in Albert Park those many years ago. “I can’t love anybody else either,” you say, your eyes never leaving his face even as he begins to panic, starts to retreat.

He swallows hard, his throat moving with the effort. “I should have realized sooner,” he babbles. “I should’ve known. I—”

You reach out, your hand slipping into his. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

It feels so good—your fingers in between the spaces of his. He wishes he could appreciate it more, but his race-brain has kicked in, and he’s suddenly not the calm, cool, and collected Oscar that everybody in the world think they know.

No, he’s your Oscar. The one who’s a little bit of a wreck. The one who is always racing away from something.

“I wasn’t kind,” he says, voice tight. “I let you go. I thought I was doing the right thing. and maybe I did, but it still hurt you. It ruined everything.”

“We’re here now,” you say simply. “That means something, doesn’t it?”

“What if we ruin what’s left? What if it doesn't work?”

You smile at him, soft and sure. “Then it doesn’t. But I don’t think we’ll fail.”

“I’m still homely, and awkward, and—”

Mean, he meant to say, but then you’re pressing your lips against his.

It silences all his fretting, all his guilt. For a second, he doesn’t move, stunned into stillness, and then he kisses you back like he’s falling into something he’s wanted his whole life but never believed he could have. Like he can’t breathe unless he's doing this, unless he’s kissing you.

When he’s more sane, when he’s less panicked, this is something the two of you will talk about. He knows that.

In this very moment, though, he can only watch his sharp edges dull; the fury of his rage, extinguish. The softness of your understanding, the kindness of your patience, the gentleness of your kiss. It’s all he wanted, all he needs.

His hands frame your face, hesitant, reverent, like he can't believe you’re really here with him. That you waited. That you still want him.

In his head, he makes a promise: If he must hit the ground running, he will make sure it’s towards you.

When the two of you pull back for air, you murmur teasingly against his lips, “Your emails found me well.”

He giggles, a short, incredulous sound, before kissing the laughter right out of your mouth. ⛐

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x you #formula one x you #⛐ op81 #⛐ kae prix #felt like i just birthed this fic .. whew .. tappin out for now!!

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luviestarz · 1 year ago

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nishimura riki fic recs!

✷ jock!niki x tutor!gn!reader - @delcakoo (how is niki supposed to focus on biology when his shy tutor is so irresistible and fun to tease?)

✷ take (me) out - @jennaissantes (eating from each others plates)

✷ CUPID’S CORNER — nishimura riki - @amakumos (because he’s a little shit, nishimura riki sends a totally embarrassing confession about you to “cupid’s corner”, a twitter account that posts anonymous confessions from decelis academy students. but when that joke confession suddenly makes a bunch of people confess to you on cupid’s corner (for real this time!) riki finds that he’s jealous — and oh… he can’t believe it took him a fake confession to realise that he’s crazily in love with you.)

✷ NISHIMURA RIKI B☆YFRIEND HEADCANONS... - @tyunni

✷ NERVOUS : NISHIMURA RIKI - @str0l0gy (IN WHICH you make riki nervous.)

✷ THE ATTRACTIVE THINGS NISHIMURA RIKI DOES - @enhyqenn

✷ JOAH (I LIKE YOU) - NI-KI SMAU - @jayujus (in where fashion student and model, jo y/n, has been openly crushing on dance student, riki nishimura for god knows how long. that is until one day, she crushes on someone else and riki goes feral.)

✷ ( 尤も ) NATURAL — riki nishimura ᯽ - @latriii (It was natural to call you pretty, it was natural to approach you, it was natural to confess to you, and it was natural to like you. Sadly for Nishimura Riki, his liking for you was meant from afar. Riki had seen you at the volleyball court during the first day of hybe sport summer camp, since then— he developed a huge crush on you, word spread that a huge amount of people have.)

✷ [ NISHI RIKI AS YOUR HS TROUBLE MAKER BF — 🩹 !! ] - @invvuu

✷ ｡⋅✴︎｡⚬⋅ WHAT ARE WE? - @goldenhypen (the way you and riki act as best friends has everyone questioning what you two really are.)

✷ bad game (aim) - nishimura riki - @saursoob

✷ three strikes - nishimura riki x fem! reader - @boydepartment

✷ READ YOUR CONTACT— ni-ki - @mandukkul (riki gets a bit confused end ends up texting his talented gf)

✷ “kissing, I hope they caught us” ┈ ❊ ﹒ 🌪️ - @chlorinecake

✷ and you? - @palajae (niki x tutor!reader)

✷ team captain - @jongseongsnudes (badboy!niki, bf!nishimura)

✷ ୨୧ KISS IT BETTER — n. riki - @bywons (badboy nishimura riki x f!reader)

✷ i’m just a teenage dirtbag baby ( like you. ) - @leaderwonim (nishimura riki was infamous for being handsome and also quite the character. he’d purposely throw papers everywhere, bump into people without a care, and ditch class like it was nothing. you were the complete opposite, but deep down, nishimura riki knew you were just like him)

✷ DUOLINGO DATE : NRK - @chaewandz (niki catches u practicing japanese on duolingo just for him while he’s asleep)

✷ plushies and pouts ☆ riki nishimura - @star-sim (that one time that riki punched your plushie and you got mad at him.)

✷ TEXT ME BACK! - @hoony2k (it's the middle of the night, the phone keeps buzzing, you've been trying to fall asleep, there's a knock on your window...wait what?)

3K notes · View notes

lupinqs · 4 months ago

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CHAPTER THREE ━━ Mia, The Menace

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 4.6K

❀ ━ warnings: none i think

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: sigh another filler i’m sorry guys next chapter is when things actually start happening ….. also will u guys pls lmk if y’all like this series so far bc i feel like i’ve been writing it so shitty i’m sorry 🫠

THE AIR in Jo’s family home feels warmer than she remembers, thick with the lazy ease of summer afternoons in Boston. She’s sprawled out on the couch in the living room, half in Asher’s lap, her back pressed against his chest. The TV hums in the background, some half-forgotten show playing on low volume, but neither of them is paying much attention to it. Instead, their focus is on Mia, Jo’s eight-year-old little sister, who’s commanding the room as she rehearses her dance routine.

The house feels bigger than it ever does when Jo’s parents are home, their absence leaving behind a peculiar stillness that’s only occasionally interrupted by Mia’s bursts of energy. Her parents are celebrating their anniversary weekend in Maine, indulging in some much-deserved quiet while leaving Jo in charge of their youngest child. Jo doesn’t mind; after all, it’s July—her off-month—and she’s back in Boston for a brief stint of home-cooked meals and family chaos before heading back to Storrs in August. Babysitting Mia, however, is proving to be a full-time job in itself—which Jo probably should’ve expected.

Mia’s energy is endless. Right now, she’s twirling and leaping across the living room, her movements surprisingly precise for a kid her age. She’s dressed in a sparkly leotard and pink tights, her hair tied in an elaborate bun she’d made Jo do before this—because, well, if Jo is good for anything, it’s doing hair. During summer sessions, half the team made her do their braids before practice—Paige especially, the blonde hopeless at doing her own—and Jo knows it’ll only get worse when the season starts up.

Jo tries to keep a watchful eye on her sister, but she can’t help but be distracted by her boyfriend. He’s absentmindedly tracing small circles across the middle of her thigh, and she can feel his heart beating against her back. When she glances up at him, she can’t help but grin at the softness of his smile as he claps along with Mia’s haphazard twirls, the way he leans into the couch—into Jo—like he belongs here. Which, he does. He always has.

“Joey!” Mia calls, her voice sharp and commanding for an eight-year-old. She pauses mid-spin to put her hands on her hips, her small frame vibrating with indignation. “You’re not watching!”

Jo blinks, pulling herself out of her thoughts. “I am watching,” she defends, though it’s not quite true. She sits up a little straighter against Asher, nudging him as if to say help me out here. “You’re doing great, Mia. Keep going.”

Mia narrows her eyes, clearly unconvinced. “Ugh,” she groans, glaring at her older sister. “Payton always gives me better advice. You just say, ‘good job.’ That’s not going to help if I want to be the best dancer in the entire world, Jo!”

Jo exchanges a look with Asher, who’s barely holding back a laugh. Payton, Jo and Mia’s older sister, is a professional dancer living in New York City—a career Mia idolizes. Unlike Jo, who’s spent her life on the basketball court, Payton is everything Mis wants to be: graceful, disciplined, and impossibly good at pirouettes. It’s a path Jo has no interest in, which is probably why Mia constantly reminds her she’s the least qualified coach in the family.

“Well, yeah,” Jo says with a shrug. “Payton’s a pro. She’s, like, me in basketball but with dance. I’m just here to cheer you on, don’t really know what to tell you’s right or wrong, Mimi.”

Mia just groans again, even more dramatic this time, launching into another leap across the floor. Asher leans closer to Jo, his lips brushing against her ear as he drops his voice to a whisper. “Tough crowd.”

Jo snorts softly. “You have no idea,” she murmurs back.

Mia finishes her routine with a fluoride, throwing one arm in the air as if she’s just landed a gold medal-winning move at the Olympics. Asher claps loudly, a grin inching across his face. “Amazing, Mee!” he says enthusiastically, though he’d say that even if her performance was outright awful. “You’re getting even better than Payton, I think.”

For once, Mia doesn’t respond with her usual sass. Typically, when it comes to Asher, Mia’s either teasingly threatening him or biting at him or calling him funny names—she’s a menace child if Jo’s ever met one. But instead, Mia actually smiles at the boy, her cheeks flushed pink from exertion. “Thanks,” she says cheerfully, and Jo stares at her in disbelief.

“Wow,” the point guard says, raising an eyebrow, impressed. “You smiled at him. And thanked him. I think that’s a first.”

“Progress,” Asher claims, smiling broadly down at Jo.

Mia, on the other hand, sticks her tongue out at her older sister before collapsing onto the rug, sighing dramatically. “I’m exhausted. Someone get me a glass of water.”

“Get one yourself,” Jo tells her, already pulling out her phone. She scrolls through her notifications lazily, her thumb pausing when Paige’s name lights up her screen.

PB 😱😱

Got a nike event in Boston tmrw morning

Soooo we’re hanging out after

No negotiations

Jo’s lips twitch into a smile.

Ma freshie 💘

obviously

what time?

Paige replies almost instantly.

PB 😱😱

Like noon?

Don’t bail jojo

Jo shakes her head, rolling her eyes to herself. Paige never fails to amuse.

Asher, whose chin is now pressed against Jo’s hair, his gaze on her text. He asks, “So, you and her are really tight now, huh?”

Jo shrugs, because, well, kinda, duh. “I mean, we do live together,” she says, as if that explains everything.

“Yeah, but she’s Bueckers,” he replies, saying her name like it means something. Which, even though Paige would say it doesn’t, it totally does. “That’s a huge deal. She’s, like, insane on the court. Seen all the highlights.”

Jo doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she lets her mind wander to the past month and a half—the morning runs, the late-night shooting, the quiet moments in their shared apartment, the not-so-quiet playful bickering. Paige isn’t just her teammate or her roommate. She’s… something else entirely. Someone Jo can’t quite put into words—an enigma, maybe. “She’s just Paige,” Jo murmurs finally, her voice softer now.

Asher grins. “I’ve gotta meet her sometime. Best introduce me soon, Jo.”

“You’ll like her,” she replies, confidence threading her voice. She can already picture how Paige would probably charm the hell out of him without even trying—she does it to everyone, after all. “She’s… yeah, she’s cool.”

From the rug, Mia sits up suddenly, as if she’s finally hearing the conversation, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Who’s Paige?”

Jo blinks at her. “My roommate,” she responds simply. “You knew that.”

“And teammate,” Asher adds.

“She knew that, too.”

Mia crosses her arms, her tone all business now, ignoring Jo’s last comment. “Is she nice?”

“Yeah,” Jo answers easily. “She’s great. Super chill, really funny.”

“Is she good at basketball?” Mia fired back.

Jo grins. “One of the best.”

“Bet she’s better than you.”

Jo throws one of the throw pillows on the couch at her sister’s head. “Shut up, Mia.”

Mia just giggles, dodging the pillow with ease. Asher laughs, shaking his head as he watches the two sisters bicker, more than familiar with it.

For all her teasing, Jo can’t shake the warm, almost buzzing feeling in her chest. She’s excited to see Paige tomorrow. For reasons she can’t explain, she’s missed her a lot these past couple weeks they’ve been away from campus. It’s probably just because going from basically spending every waking minute with one another to none at all is a little odd.

Probably.

THE JULY sun beats down on Boston, and Paige feels it’s warmth seeping into her skin as she walks along the tree-lined streets near the Commons. The Nike event she attended this morning went off without a hitch, just a casual appearance with some photos and a couple clips filmed that they’ll probably put into an add. But now, she’s got the rest of the day free. The thought makes her grin as she thumbs out a quick text to Jo.

PB 😱😱

All done 😊😊

Where u at?

It takes Jo less than a minute for Jo to reply, sending a pin for a location that’s about a half mile away. Paige starts walking, but a follow-up text rings before she’s even crossed the street.

Ma freshie 💘

mia and i are by the ice cream shop

hurry pls, she’s losing her mind

The next message is a picture of Mia making a ridiculous face, her lips twisted and one eye squinting in mock disgust. Paige snorts out a laugh right there on the sidewalk, the noise startling a couple walking by. She doesn’t care, though. The kid already seems like a riot, and Paige is oddly excited to meet her.

The stories Jo’s told her about Mia over the past month and a half come rushing back: the eight-year-old’s uncanny ability to get under people’s skin, her endless energy, and her knack for saying the wildest things at the worst times. Paige has been looking forward to meeting her, though she’s still not sure if it’s because she’s genuinely curious about the so-called “demon child” or if she just wants to see Jo in full big-sister mode.

When Paige rounds the final corner, she spots them immediately. Jo is standing near a brightly colored ice cream shop, her arms crossed, her face pinched in annoyance as she talks to a smaller figure—Mia, presumably. Mia, on the other hand, looks completely unbothered, her tiny hands on her hips as she talks back with the kind of confidence that only a sassy little girl could muster.

Paige slows her steps, taking in the scene with a grin tugging at her lips. Jo’s wearing a simple outfit—ripped jean shorts that show off her long legs, a tightly-fitted white tube top, and a Red Sox cap pulled low over her face. It’s casual, but there’s something about the way she looks so effortlessly good in it that makes Paige pause for half a second longer than she should.

Her stomach dips unexpectedly, and Paige frowns to herself. Relax.

Still, as Paige approaches, she can’t help but notice the way Jo’s tan skin seems to glow under the sun, how smooth her legs look. Paige shakes her head, forcing her thoughts back on track. Because, seriously, the fuck is she even thinking about?

Clearing her throat, Paige makes her presence known. Jo turns, her annoyed expression instantly replaced by something brighter—her eyes lighting up, a wide grin spreading across her face.

“Hey, JoJo,” Paige greets teasingly, the nickname rolling off her tongue before she can stop it.

Jo’s grin falters for half a second, and she slaps Paige’s arm lightly. “Quit calling me that.”

Paige smirks. “Nah.”

Before Jo can retort, Mia steps forward, her curious gaze fixed on Paige. The little girl is smaller than Paige expected, with a mop of dark curls and big brown eyes that seem to take in everything. Paige crouches down to her level, offering a hand.

“And you must be Mia,” she says warmly. “I’m Paige.”

Mia doesn’t take her hand right away. Instead, she gives Paige a long, exaggerated once-over, her gaze hard as she studies her. The blonde tries not to fidget, but it’s hard under the little girl’s piercing eyes. Jo wasn’t kidding; Mia’s got this quiet intensity that’s a little intimidating, even if she’s only eight years old and Paige is twenty.

Finally, Mia breaks into a grin and giggles as she takes Paige’s hand. “Hi,” she says, her voice lilting.

Paige relaxes, smiling back easily. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard lots about you.”

Mia tilts her head. “From Jo?”

“Yeah,” Paige remixes with a grin. “She talks about you all the time.”

Mia beams at this, clearly pleased, while Jo mutters something under her breath that Paige doesn’t catch.

Paige chuckles a little as she stands. “Sooo, ice cream, right?” she asks.

Mia’s eyes light up and she grabs Paige’s hand like she’s known her her whole life rather than a minute or two. “Yes! Best ice cream in Boston!”

Jo snorts, falling into step beside them, shoulder brushing against Paige’s lightly. “She says that about every ice cream place we go to,” she mumbles, though there’s an undeniable softness in her tone.

“It is the best,” Mia insist, her voice full of conviction.

Paige grins. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”

The moment they step inside the ice cream shop, Paige is hit with a wave of sugary air and the sound of chatter. It’s buzzing in here, bigger and more crowded than she expected, almost every table occupied, with kids laughing, parents corralling them. The line snakes almost to the door, and Paige glances down at Mia, who’s still clutching her hand tightly.

“Looks like this place is the best,” Paige observes, smiling down at the little girl. Mia beams back up at her, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Told you!” she chirps, voice triumphant.

Paige can’t help but laugh softly. She glances over at Jo, who’s scanning the menu above the counter. The sunlight streaming through the shop window catches on the stray wisps of Jo’s hair that escape from under her Red Sox cap. Paige tries not to let her eyes linger too long on the curve of Jo’s jawline or the way her tube top leaves the expanse of her collarbones and neck exposed.

Jesus Christ, she doesn’t know what’s wrong with herself today.

The line moves slowly, but Paige doesn’t mind. Mia fills the time with a steady stream of chatter, never letting go of the blonde. She tells her about her favorite ice cream flavor (superman), her least favorite vegetables (brussel sprouts), and their family dogs (a dachshund named Dory and a golden retriever named Murph).

Paige listens attentively, nodding and laughing at all the right moments. She’s used to this—her own siblings are just as chatty, and she’s always been good at humoring them. There’s something comforting about Mia’s unfiltered enthusiasm; it reminds Paige of home in a way that makes her chest ache just a little.

As they inch closer to the counter, the line passes by a display of candy shelves, and that’s when it happens. Mia freezes mid-sentence, her eyes locking into something with the kind of laser focus that only a kid ready for a sugar high can muster.

“Oh my gosh,” Mia breaths, pointing to a massive rainbow-swirled lollipop almost as big as her head. She finally removes her hand from Paige’s to start tugging at Jo, begging, “Joey, please, please, can I get it? Please?”

Paige blinks a little at the nickname. Joey. She’s never heard anyone call Jo that before—she thought the only one she had was the one she hates that the whole team’s started using for her (JoJo). But Paige thinks Joey’s cute. In fact, she files it away in the back of her mind.

“No. Definitely not,” Jo says immediately, shaking her head down at Mia.

Mia’s face scrunches up in exaggerated disbelief. “What? Why?”

Paige glances between them, finally seeing what Jo meant about Mia being a demon child. The girl’s dramatic flair is something else entirely.

Jo sighs heavily. “Because the last time we were here, Mom bought you one, and you threw it up on the way home. It was gross, Mia.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Mia whines, still eyeing the lollipop like it’s the holy grail.

“It was that bad,” Jo counters.

“But it tasted sooo good,” Mia insists, dragging out the words as she tugs at Jo’s arm again.

Jo raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Did it taste good when it came back up?”

Mia stops short, her small face scrunching up in thought. The gears are clearly turning in her head as she considers this. And just as suddenly as the argument started, Mia lets out a resigned sigh and steps away from the candy display.

“Fine,” she mumbles, sounding defeated.

Jo smiles to herself, clearly pleased, and Paige has to bite back a laugh at the entire sibling interaction.

“Nice save,” she says under her breath, leaning slightly toward Jo as they start moving forward in line again.

Jo glances at her, their faces closer than usual, though she doesn’t seem to notice. Her smile just widens as she responds, “You learn a few tricks when you’ve been stuck around her for eight years.”

Paige chuckles softly, watching Mia bound up to the counter like she’s on a mission, finally their turn to order. The little girl presses her hands against the glass case, scanning the vibrant tubs of ice cream with a dramatic level of intensity.

“I want Superman!” Mia declares, her voice brimming with excitement as she points at the swirled red, yellow, and blue ice cream.

“Please,” Jo adds, giving the employee a small, apologetic smile as she nudges Mia’s arm, giving her that older sister look that Paige can tell means—use your manners. The worker scoops a generous amount of the ice cream into a cup and hands it over the counter. Mia accepts it like it’s a trophy, her eyes and grin wide as ever.

“Can I just have a scoop of cotton candy, please?” Jo asks, her turn now, her voice casual like she’s not about to commit a culinary crime.

Paige can’t help but scrunch up her nose at the brunette’s order. Nasty. She doesn’t say anything—yet—but she stores the information away for later mockery. The worker hands Jo her cone, a garishly bright pink and blue swirl that makes Paige wince just looking at it.

When it’s Paige’s turn, she doesn’t even hesitate, ordering mint chip—her absolute favorite.

They pay quickly, before stepping outside into the warm air, each armed with their chosen flavor. Mia’s already half-covered in Superman ice cream and Jo has her head tilted slightly to avoid dripping the cotton candy monstrosity in her hand.

Paige glances at Jo’s cone and makes a face. “Cotton candy is crazy work,” she tells her, incredulous.

Jo raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What’s wrong with cotton candy?”

“Everything,” Paige answers, gesturing at the cone like it’s personally offended her. “It’s basically sugar-flavored-sugar. It doesn’t even taste like real cotton candy. It’s just—” She shudders dramatically.

Jo narrows her eyes at Paige’s cone in retaliation. “Says the person eating frozen toothpaste.”

Paige gasps, her hand flying to her chest in mock indignation. “Excuse me, mint chip is a classic. It’s refreshing. It’s balanced. It’s—”

“Minty,” Jo interrupts, wrinkling her nose. “Which is gross.”

“It’s not gross! You’re gross,” Paige fires back, grinning despite herself.

Mia, who’s been watching the exchange with wide eyes, suddenly pipes up. “Okay, I’ll decide!” she declares. She scoops up some of her Superman ice cream for good measure before pointing her tiny spoon at Jo’s cone. “Joey, let me try yours first.”

Jo bends down slightly to hold out her cone, and Mia takes a small bite. She lets it melt in her mouth, her face scrunching up like she’s debating a complex equation. Finally, she nods. “It’s okay,” she says, though she doesn’t look thrilled.

Jo looks affronted. “Just okay?”

Mia shrugs nonchalantly before turning to Paige. “Now yours!”

Paige kneels slightly to hold out her cone. Mia eyes it suspiciously. “Why is it green?” she asks, sounding almost fearful.

“Don’t worry ‘bout the color,” Paige tells her, waving off the question. “It’s good. Trust.”

Mia hesitates for a second longer before scooping up a tiny bite. She puts it in her mouth, and her face goes still. For a moment, Paige wonders if she’s about to spit it out, but then Mia’s eyes light up.

“This. Is. So. Good!” the eight-year-old squeals, practically bouncing in place.

Paige grins, holding out her hand for a high five. “Told you. Welcome to the winning team.”

Mia smacks her hand enthusiastically, ice cream forgotten for a moment. Jo, however, is standing off to the side, arms crossed and pouting like a kid who just lost her favorite game. Paige glances at her and immediately starts laughing.

“Oh, don’t be mad,” she teases, nudging Jo’s arm.

“She’s supposed to be on my side!” Jo grumbles, glaring halfheartedly at Mia. “I’m your sister!”

Mia sticks her tongue out at her, clearly unbothered. “You’re just mad because you have bad taste.”

Paige nearly chokes on her ice cream, laughing so hard she has to steady herself against a bench they’re stood next to. “Dang, Mia!”

Jo shakes her head, though the corner of her mouth twitches upward in a reluctant smile. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you little menace,” she mumbles, ruffling Mia’s hair.

Mia slaps her hand away from her head, beginning to bicker with Jo. Paige watches, quiet now as she bites into her cone. She finds herself unable to look away, a strange warmth blooming in her chest.

See, whatever that is, has to go. She doesn’t like it, doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t understand it in the slightest.

It just—has to go.

THE LIVING ROOM feels cozy in a way that Paige hasn’t experienced in a long time. It’s not her home, not her couch, not her family, but something about it wraps around her, soft and warm. The overhead light is off, leaving the room bathed in the dim glow of the TV. Colors flicker against the walls, shapes shifting across the furniture. Paige doesn’t know what movie is playing—something animated, she thinks—but it’s barely background noise at this point.

Jo sits a few feet away, her back against the armrest of the couch, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly. Mia’s curled up fast asleep in her lap, her little head tucked under Jo’s arm, one of Jo’s hands running lazily through the little girl’s hair. The motion is slow and deliberate, like second nature, and it’s strangely captivating. Paige finds herself staring, watching the way Jo’s fingers disappear into soft brown curls, touch gentle.

Paige hadn’t planned to stay this long. After Mia had declared mint chip her new favorite ice cream and told Paige she could officially call her Mimi—a nickname that only her absolute favorite people can use—they’d hung out all day, walking around the Commons, then shopping, then getting dinner. After that, they were meant to depart, Jo and Mia going home, and Paige going back to her hotel. But then Mia had looked up at her with those big, pleading eyes, practically begging Paige to come back and watch a movie with them. And Paige is terrible at saying no to kids.

So, she came home with them, to their house which sits right on the outline of the city. The house isn’t massive, but it’s nice—nice enough for Paige to have faintly wondered how much money Jo’s parents make. But it’s still welcoming and cozy, and Paige feels comfortable here. She also likes that she’s got to see all the photos around—the ones of Jo when she was little, some more recent ones that Paige can guess are apart of her senior photos, and a couple of her with her sisters.

The only one that she didn’t enjoy seeing was that one. A nicely framed picture of Jo and her boyfriend sitting on the shelf directly to Paige’s right. They look happy in it. Too happy, in Paige’s opinion, though she doesn’t know why it bothers her so much. Maybe she’s got some sort of jealousy deep down in the part of her heart where her commitment issues aren’t veined around, an envy toward a stable relationship like that. But either way, there’s no reason for her to care. And yet, she doesn’t like it.

Paige shakes the thought away, focusing instead on the conversation. She and Jo have been talking quietly since Mia fell asleep, their voices hushed but easy. It reminds Paige of late nights back at their shared apartment on campus, how they’ll end up in the kitchen at the same time and somehow talk for hours without meaning to. Paige likes those moments more than she’ll ever admit, and this feels no different.

Their conversation drifts, flowing naturally, until Jo starts talking about her sisters. “I admire them, you know,” she says softly, her hand still moving through Mia’s hair. “Payton, especially. She’s… well, she’s incredible. Mia thinks she walks on water, and honestly, sometimes I do, too.”

Paige tilts her head, curious. Jo’s voice has a different quality now—still soft, but there’s something else underneath it. Not sadness exactly, but something close. “What about you?” Paige asks. “You’re incredible, too. And Mia clearly adores you.”

Jo smiles, but—for once—it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, but it’s different. Payton’s a dancer—like, a real dancer. She’s in New York City, with the ballet there. And that’s what Mia loves. That’s what they both love. And, y’know, they connect over it. It’s dance; it’s their thing.”

Paige frowns, the words sinking in. Jo rarely talks like this. She’s always so happy, so upbeat, so wrapped in sunshine that Paige sometimes forgets there might be anything else underneath. “You don’t feel connected to them?” she asks, her voice a little quieter now.

Jo hesitates, her hand pausing in Mia’s hair for just a second before continuing. “Not really,” she admits. “I mean, I love them, obviously. But… it’s hard sometimes. I’ve always been the odd one out, you know? The one who plays basketball while they dance. Sometimes it just feels like we’re on completely different planets.”

Paige doesn’t know what to say at first. She’s surprised—stupidly so, maybe, because she’s never considered Jo might feel this way. But, if she thinks about it, it makes sense.

“I get that,” the blonde finally says, soft but steady. “I mean, I’m so much older than my siblings that it’s hard to connect with them sometimes, too. But… for what it’s worth, I think you’re amazing. And I know Mia does too—whether she says it or not.”

Jo looks over at her then, and for a moment, Paige thinks she might forget how to breathe. There’s something in Jo’s eyes, something raw and unguarded, and it makes Paige’s chest feel tight. “Thanks,” Jo says quietly, barely a whisper.

The moment feels too heavy, too close, and Paige decides to lighten the mood. “So,” she says, changing the subject, her small smile curling into more of a smirk. “Mia calls you Joey?”

Jo’s smile returns, softer this time but more genuine. “Yeah. My whole family does. It’s a much better nickname than that JoJo Siwa shit y’all have come up with.”

Paige laughs, shaking her head. “Don’t shit on the JoJo nickname. It’s iconic.”

Jo raises an eyebrow, her smile turning teasing. “Iconically bad,” she corrects.

“Okay, fine,” Paige says, pretending to think. “But I like Joey more, too. It’s cute. Maybe I’ll start calling you that instead.”

Jo shrugs, but her smile widens just a little. “Anything’s better than JoJo.”

Paige grins, leaning back into the couch, though—for whatever reason—her heart starts thumping a little faster. She doesn’t know why she feels the way she does around Jo sometimes—why moments like this stick with her longer than they probably should. But for now, she doesn’t let herself think about it too much. Instead, she lets herself enjoy the quiet, the warmth of the room, and the easy rhythm of their conversation.

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grogumaximus · 29 days ago

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Yet another Red Bull team mate of Max Verstappen’s is struggling to be competitive, Liam Lawson having qualified last in China last weekend after failing to get out of Q1 in Melbourne. He joins a long list over the last five years. Pierre Gasly, Alex Albon and Sergio Perez were never this far off, but the pattern is unmistakeable: Red Bull has followed where Verstappen’s enormous talent has taken them. But it’s made for a car no-one else can make competitive.

This looks a lot like Michael Schumacher at Benetton in 1994/95. There was of course a lot of controversy around the electronic systems on the Benetton in ’94 and it led to questions about whether his car was the same as that of his team-mates. But it was about more than that. JJ Lehto, Jos Verstappen and Johnny Herbert all had good reputations damaged by being his team-mate in a nervous car only he could properly exploit.

Listening to Max describe his car preferences, it sounds pretty much how Schumacher used to describe it.

Schumacher: “People say I like oversteer. I don’t. I can handle it and drive it but I don’t want it. With a neutral car you can have it sliding from turn-in to exit and all the time you can just drive on the limit of the four tyres’ given grip, and that’s what I’m always looking to achieve. I had cars that did that. With a little input you could make it go the way you wanted it to go.”

Verstappen: “I like a pointy car but with a rear that is just stable enough to have a controlled balance. I like a strong front end. I don’t really like understeer. It’s just killing the whole feel of the car. A strong front end with a rear that is just on the edge. But of course you still need that rear to rely on.”

It sounds simple, but what separates them from their team-mates is/was the feel for the transition, trading off rotation against scrub. Verstappen’s sim racing partner Atze Kerkhof is also an F1 driver coach and has studied intensely what Max does and how he makes it work. He relayed it on his YouTube channel. at 0:30:40

“When the Red Bull was a bit of a lazy car at the beginning of ’22 it was very easy to drive leaning towards understeer. Understeer is a very boring way to drive a car because whatever you do with the brake pedal, at a certain point the car doesn’t rotate any more. A pointy car wants to rotate more than you want and what Max does very well is he can balance the car that is too pointy for everyone else because for them it starts sliding. Max can make that car perfectly smooth and make use of that extra rotation and he can cancel it with his inputs in the points where he doesn’t need it. … the last five-tenths is dancing a very thin line, balancing the car and stepping away from the textbook style of aggressive on the brakes, very smooth coming off, turning at the right time. That’s still there in the basics but it needs to be adjusted intermittently in millimetres to have a positive effect on the balance.”

Intuitively feeling that point where the rotation needs to be checked, with just the smallest inputs of brake and steering, allows outrageous speed to be taken in without the penalty of time-consuming slides. Watching Lawson desperately try to make sense of the Red Bull in Shanghai, he would take the speed in and turn, only to then find himself correcting big snaps of oversteer. That sensitivity to a demanding car just wasn’t in the same league. But put them in a less pointy car, Lawson would be much closer.

Red Bull has naturally followed Verstappen’s preferences in how it has developed its cars over the last few years. Just as Benetton did with Schumacher. But when Michael left and two good drivers – Gerhard Berger and Jean Alesi – tried the car, they could barely control it and each suffered several pre-season crashes.

Some say Lawson should be given more of a chance than just two races and certainly there’s merit in that. But conversely, perhaps the sooner he can get back in to a ‘normal’ car, the quicker he can begin recapturing the confidence which has surely been destroyed.

#oh thr schumi max comparison of their driving preferences #michael max marc... hm #max verstappen #michael schumacher #about max's driving style

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ma1dita · 6 months ago

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hi jo!! can i please have a ticket to here for the boos! with sylus :)))) with a ice cream and fries! happy october ;)

devil inside

[STARRING: SYLUS QIN x reader ; “I know what you did.” “Blood? Oh it’s not mine.” ] wc: 1.4k warnings: none, undercover stripper!reader, mentions of Xavier as a friend if you consider that a warning LOL, ooc!MC? if that's possible? best hunter in Linkon City but the devs play her off too ditzy for my liking so i gave her some duality and spice. but also that might just be how she is w Sylus anyway, title from inxs

monster mash-terlist

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Maybe he’s had a few too many gin fizzes tonight.

That, or Sylus Qin has found himself completely captivated by the sight of you dancing on stage. The leader of Onychinus is rarely impressed by anything or anyone. It’s all a part of the job, after all.

If Sylus was ever to be caught off-guard, he risks losing everything he’s worked for.

Winning is how he survives, and ensuring that keeps everything and everyone in the N-109 Zone in order. Anyone good or bad knows not to play him at his own game. Still, there’s something in the way you look at him as you spin around that pole that makes him think you could be a worthy opponent.

He shakes his head, running his hand through his silver hair, but his eyes remain transfixed on the way your hands slither up and down your body. You’re good at what you do and everyone in the establishment can see that, dollar bills flying onto the stage like confetti as you sway your hips. But he won’t let himself be shaken so easily by a woman he’s never met before.

The song ends with the club’s roaring applause as you twirl and flutter your lashes, waving cutely at men who leer at you like you’re a piece of meat. However, you’ve already made your mark on the most feared man in the establishment.

Making your way over to him and his henchmen, you lean down and offer him a smile, “You look like you might have something I need.” And once your eyes lock, Sylus can’t fathom not getting to know you. He thinks he can hear Luke choke on his spit under his mask, or maybe it’s Kieran—one of them whacks the other but that all fades into the background as his blood red eyes roam your face and then, lower.

He’s still a man, after all.

“Eyes up here, mister. I think I just asked you a question.”

You’re a fearless one, toying with him in front of so many unfortunate souls that will never see the light of day once he blows this place up later.

Perhaps he’ll do you a favor and warn you. A face like yours is too pretty to go up in flames. He smirks, “Is that so? Run it by me again,” he croons, index finger playing with the pendant that hangs from your neck, “You’ve got my attention, kitten.” Your smile widens, saccharine and sinister, as you repeat yourself.

“Do you have what I need?”

Oh, he knows you’re not here for him tonight. The man you were supposed to interrogate for information is being dragged out the back entrance by the blonde guy who’s been starring daggers at him since you started talking.

“I think your associate already has him out back. Unless you mean something else, sweetie.”

Pretty little kitty, rubbing herself up against the wrong bad guy.

It’s not your fault per se—the mission report details told you the person you were looking for would stand out; though it just so happens that Xavier found him first. Your eyes flash, straightening your posture as you spare him another smile before turning to head out the back door, “Maybe next time then. Thanks, handsome.” You’re gone in a swish of sparkles and you don’t look back at him, not even once. But Sylus does love a game, and you’ve successfully captured his interest, even if that wasn’t your original mission.

Later, on his way out, he hears the sound of metal against metal from the alleyway. Sylus watches you fight back-to-back with your partner through the crack in the emergency exit door, slashing through Wanderers with sheer power and athleticism in every strike.

Who knew his little kitten had claws? How interesting.

“Ugh! Xay, Tobias is getting away!” you grunt, holding your sword down by your side—and Sylus dares to wonder where you pulled that out from. There are still two Herte Knaves staggering up from the ground, ready to pounce, “You need to get that briefcase!”

“I’m not leaving you here!”

Slashing a Wanderer clean through, you take a second to wipe the sweat from your brow, “I can handle this Xavier. You need to trust me, and we need to finish the mission. He won’t make it far if you use your Evol.”

Your hunter friend hesitates, before taking off, looking back at you the whole time, “Please be careful! I’ll communicate with you!” And Sylus has seen enough, he thinks, stepping out into the darkness. If he were fighting with you, it wouldn't even enter his mind to leave you alone like this. But as he raises his faintly glowing hand to pummel the last Wanderer into dust, your sword gleams in the streetlights, hacking at its weakest points until it disintegrates. You don't see him lurking in the shadows, as you collect protocores, sheathing your sword against your hip. The beeping noises on your comms link remind you to inform Xavier of your whereabouts.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side, sweetie."

You jolt, averting your eyes when you catch him at the door.

How long has he been there?

Sylus looks at you through full lashes and time stops. You don’t remember how he got so close to you, or why you let him…something pulling you to him from the depths of your core. His hand wraps delicately around the base of your neck and cheek before you even realize it, breath hitching under his caress, "Is that...."

"Blood? Oh, it's not mine," you smile as if he didn't see you single-handedly annihilate a group of Wanderers on your own, "I just got sloppy."

Your smaller hand claps around his wrist, fingers barely wrapping around his skin as you push him away and start walking. It's best to get out of here, handsome stranger be damned.

"I didn't get your name, kitten. Do you belong to someone?" he says playfully, watching your figure sashay towards the end of the street. You stop, not turning to meet his eyes. It's risky to get involved with someone while on the job, much less in the N-109 Zone.

What would the Association think?

"That's for me to know, and for you to find out."

Expensive cashmere is draped over your shoulders. You don't remember hearing his footsteps come near you at all. When you turn back towards the alley, the mysterious man is gone. Swallowing hard, you button the suit jacket to protect your modesty—who knows what other unexpected deviants might follow you home.

Mephisto caws from a nearby powerline, mechanical eyes gleaming ruby red like his master's. He makes sure you leave before the club explodes, plumes of smoke filling the night sky.

But all he can think of is you and the challenge you've presented him— a week later, Sylus has bought out an entertainment complex that you frequent in Linkon. He goes to inspect his newest business venture, making the trip out in scorching daylight and losing sleep every day that week just in case you might drop by.

What he doesn't expect to see is you standing in front of the plushie machine on your day off, eyes fixated on the stuffed animals within the glass box. You've been trying to collect the Succulent Bunny for an hour now, and he thinks even a fire wouldn't break your concentration. Sylus has tried everything—walked back and forth down the aisles, pretending to help customers nearby....he ought to stick Mephisto in there to be caught by the metal claw.

"I just need to try harder..." you mutter, the green plush slipping out of the trembling prongs. It glows red the longer you stare at it, lifting itself towards the slot, before hitting against the glass.

What?

You can feel the energy flux thrumming from inside the machine. Is there a Wanderer inside the plushie? Its new position makes it easier to capture—you can't help but scream in joy when the bells go off and the stupid thing slides into the hole.

"YES!"

You look around you frantically, hair whipping against your neck and then you see a familiar figure leaning against the doorway just like how you left him at the club. Hugging the plushie, you quickly walk towards Sylus. He watches you come towards him again with the same determination in your eyes, though the behavior you've presented in the arcade is nothing like the seductress he saw at the club. Here, you're not a hunter—just a plushie enthusiast.

"I know what you did."

"I could say the same about you, kitten. Wanna trade thoughts on it?" he smirks, looking down at your amused expression.

Two can play this game— it looks like the both of you are willing to take a gamble.

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ma1dita's monster mash is closed for requests but ongoing for the rest of october!

#ma1dita's monster mash 𓉸ྀི #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #lnds sylus #sylus qin x reader #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x mc #sylus fanfic #promptober #love and deepspace x reader

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eevees-hobbies · 10 months ago

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What Happens at Ume's Summer Bash, Stays at Ume's Summer Bash! - NSFW

Author’s Note: Well, here it is. I didn’t mean to make the title as long as an old Panic! At the Disco song. God, when I was writing Togame, I had myself feeling a certain type of way. Idk if I’m leading us into a potential Sakura x Togame x Reader threesome or what. Help. Anyway, I’m never beating the Haruka Sakura simp allegations! Giving the people what they didn’t ask for, shit-talking, dominant Sakura.

Synopsis: You’re invited to Umemiya’s Annual Summer BBQ Bash! Pull up a chair, pour yourself a drink, and have some fun with old friends! I hope you can avoid temptation from Togame; he’s kind of into you! But as a good girlfriend, you only have eyes for your boyfriend, Haruka Sakura. Wait…what are you doing on that bed?

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Haruka Sakura. Mention of alcohol and bodyshots. This may or may not be the same Togame that saw your nudes in Sext Me Like You Mean It. Brief mention of sharing, but not explicit. Aggressive flirting, jealousy, shit-talking, dirty-talking Sakura, teasing but not too mean, fucking where you shouldn’t, fem!reader receiving oral, squirting. Tis smut. Minors Do Not Interact.

Word Count: 3.4K

Dividers by Saradika. Invitation by me

They say there are very few things in life that are guaranteed. Yes, taxes and death are undoubtedly imminent, but the other life-altering event that should be added to that list is Umemiya’s Annual Summer BBQ Bash!

Every Summer, Umemiya invites his closest friends to his home in hopes of hosting a space where you all can exist without the stresses of day-to-day life.

You and Sakura are excited to attend, but who can blame you? Umemiya’s Summer BBQ Bash is always memorable; this year will be no exception.

The parties can get relatively wild as the alcohol tends to flow freely, and it isn’t unusual for the lines to blur between friendship, one-night stands, and sharing of partners. Plus, the food smacks! Bofurin alums and Jo Togame, who has always felt like an honorary member of the friend group, make up the attendee list.

It isn’t long before libations in shot glasses and red cups make their way around the party, and all the popular Summer hits blast through the stereo speakers loud enough to break a few city ordinances.

You’ve long since abandoned Sakura, who still sits at the table, to dance with Kotoha. Sakura can’t take his eyes off you as you bend over, place your palms against your knees and gyrate your hips to the beat as Kotoha delivers a heavy smack to your ass. It takes every fiber in his being to look away.

He needs to avert his eyes, not because he’s embarrassed, but because if he doesn’t look away, his head might just pop.

He knew he was going to have a hard time today when you emerged from the bedroom in your outfit: jean shorts that stop barely stopped above mid-thigh, a black band tee that is cropped at the bottom and exposes some of your tummy when you raise your arms even slightly, and low-top black and white chucks. It may be a simple ensemble for you, but it’s a wet dream for him.

Togame slips into the chair next to Sakura, letting out a deep sigh, “Your girlfriend is insanely hot. Just my type.”

Sakura’s fists clench instinctively, and he has to remind himself that while Togame seemingly has a crush on you, it has been harmless thus far.

And Sakura isn’t delusional; he knows how attractive you are. He can practically see it now as you and Kotoha dance together. You’re sexy, uninhibited by the judgment of others, and radiating with confidence, all things he admires, and that doesn’t go unnoticed by other men—even some of his friends.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“It's been a couple of years for you two, right?” Togame continues as he does the mental math, remembering the first time he saw you holding hands with Sakura and mentally berating himself for not being the first to make a move.

“Been together this long and still haven’t put a ring on it or knocked her up? Dangerous game, my man. Women don’t like to wait. Someone else might snatch her up.”

Fuck off sits on the tip of Sakura’s tongue, but despite his annoyance, he can silently admit that what Togame is saying has consumed his thoughts as of late.

The idea of making a baby with you is enough to push him into cardiac arrest, so he tries to think less of that and more of asking you to marry him.

Baby steps!

And if fear of rejection didn’t cause him immense paralysis, the engagement ring tucked snuggly away in his underwear drawer would already be on your finger.

Their eyes snap back to you as you turn to Sakura and cup your hands around your mouth in an attempt to be heard over the speakers, “Haruka! Come dance with me!”

Sakura shakes his head. You should know better than to ask him to dance outside the safety of your shared living room.

Togame’s eyes light up, however. Your request and your boyfriend's refusal opening an opportune window for him. “I'll dance with her.”

Before Sakura can protest, Togame’s already pushing himself out of the chair and striding over to you. He can’t hear what Togame says to you over the music, but whatever he says makes you offer a smile and take his hand.

As Togame pulls you flush against his body, you can’t help but feel the pang of disappointment in your chest that it isn’t Sakura coming to dance with you. “I’m going to guess that you didn’t ask Sakura for his permission to dance with me?”

Togame looks down at you, his leer making you shudder from under the immense pressure of it. “I need to ask permission from your handler to dance with you? Didn’t know you were into that, lamb.”

Laaaaaaaaaamb?! If you’re the lamb in this dynamic, Togame is the wolf, licking his pointed fangs as he sizes you up and expands his jaw, ready to bite.

You’re trying not to wilt at his given nickname for you, but Togame knows precisely what he’s doing.

You aren’t naive to the fact that he’s hot—all 187 centimeters is dripping liquid sex appeal, and he obviously desires you. Still, you don’t take too kindly to being hunted, especially when you’re already smitten, head over heels, and obsessed with a certain cat-eyed hot-head.

Togame’s hands find refuge on your hips. His grip is solid and arrogant, as though you and he have danced this way before, and it’s a regular occurrence. He’s ducking down between you both so his hair, which has grown longer over the Summer, brushes against your forehead.

“What would you do if I kissed those pretty glossed lips of yours?”

You crane your neck to look at him, making direct eye contact and challenging his stare so your message is clear: “I’d smack the taste out of your mouth.”

Your response earns a deep purr from Togame’s throat; he loves how firey you are, and it only stokes his desire for you. You can feel his hands snaking around your hips, his fingers pressing firmly into the exposed skin of your midriff until they rest dangerously close to the top of your ass.

“Sakura’s lucky he got to you first because in any other situation where he hadn’t, you’d be my girl.”

“There’s not an alternate reality in which I wouldn’t be Sakura’s girl,” you pause as you hear familiar heavy footfalls. “And if it keeps you up at night, which I desperately hope it does, I pursued him.”

“Of course you did. Because you take what you want.” Togame’s jaw clenches, not in anger, but in something more primal, and his eyes don’t betray everything he wants to say and do to you at that moment, but he’s interrupted when Sakura places a hand on his shoulder.

“You heard my girl.” The way Sakura says “my girl” makes you shiver; his voice is low, offering an unspoken threat to his friend.

Togame steps aside, that predatory look in his eye dissipated as he shoots you both a half smile. His absence allows Sakura to take his place, hands resting on your hips.

Hiragi sighs, finally dropping the water hose he was fully ready to unleash on Togame and yourself. “Why does this party always make people act like they’re in heat?”

Umemiya chuckles as he pours himself some punch, “Good question! But, hey, at least you haven’t had to use the water hose this time…yet!”

You beam up at Sakura, your stomach practically executing Olympic-level summersaults as you lean into his frame—close proximity and PDA all subsets of a love language that you so desperately crave from him.

“He is obsessed with you.” His cheeks are tinted red, more than likely from the combination of your affection, the interaction he had witnessed between you and Togame, and the beers he has ingested

“Hadn’t noticed. Hey, I have to go to the bathroom. Come with me?”

“You need my help in the…bathroom? Ok.” You’ve certainly had stranger requests, but he refuses to leave an opening for Togame to corner you again.

As you enter Umemiya’s home, you immediately pull Sakura into the room closest to the left, which also happens to be Ume’s bedroom. The master bedroom is simple and minimalist, but it benefits from an extensive amount of natural light from the sliding glass door that leads out to the backyard. You can see your friends, and they presumably could see you if they came close enough and weren’t so distracted by taking body shots off Tsugeura’s body.

“Wha??? This isn’t the bathroom.”

“Sakura, that was an obvious cover. I wanted some alone time with you.”

A crimson blush crawls from his neck to the tips of his ears. “In here?”

The silken sheets of Umemiya’s bed smell freshly washed, somehow still warm from the dryer as you pull them back and sink into them.

Sakura bites his lip as you hold out a hand. You are temptation personified in your jean shorts, with the skin of your tummy peaking out and beckoning to him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

He climbs on top of you, already making quick work of the button to your pants. “A-are we about to fuck in Umemiya’s bed?” Your voice is shakey, but your eyes are unblinking and mischievous as you stare at him.

“I don’t want to think about it.” As he tosses your shorts—and underwear soon after–aside, he disappears under the covers. You let out a gasp as his tongue pokes at your pussy, pulling each labia into his mouth and sucking hungrily. If you two intended for a quick romp beneath the sheets of Umemiya’s bed, that’s now suddenly out of the window.

It isn’t long before Sakura is eating you out like it has been too long without his favorite meal, delivering gentle nips of your folds in between intense suckles to your clit that make you buck your hips. He lets out a growl and wraps muscled arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to him so that his mouth is suctioned against your clit.

Your moans are uncharacteristically soft and tempered out of fear that if anyone were to enter the house, they’d be able to hear you. But it’s hard to contain yourself as Sakura fucks you with his tongue, loud, messy, wet lapping sounds as your essence dribbles onto his tongue.

He briefly pulls away from your drooling cunt, “Oh, don’t try to be quiet now.” Then he’s back to burying his face in your heat, shaking his head from side to side, swiping his tongue against your clit. As he devours you, slurping and his needy moans fill your ears. Your eyes flutter closed, and you can’t help but take in the scent around you. It smells exactly like Umemiya and makes you feel like he’s in bed with you both. You cover your face with your arm as the thought has you clench around Sakura’s tongue.

“Mmm, that’s my girl..”

The continuous, unrelenting licking and slurping contribute to the intense buildup of flutters deep within your abdomen until you finally release, warm and thick in Sakura’s mouth. He moans, swallowing happily, enjoying his much-deserved reward.

You’re lightheaded, but you still crave more. Mental gymnastics have you thinking that if you haven’t been found by a party attendee yet, why not take a chance on some extra fun?

“Sakura, fuck me, please. I need you.”

Sakura raises himself from between your thighs, bringing the bedsheet with him so you’re both trapped in the confines of it, and despite there being so little light, your eyes quickly adjust to the smirk on his face.

“Yeah? Say that again.”

“Sakura, I’m not going to beg for it.”

��You sure about that?” You can feel him dragging the fat tip of his dick against your folds, pressing the leaking head against your entrance with so little pressure that it feels cruel.

Ok, maybe you could beg for it a little.

You raise your hand to his face, dragging a thumb against his bottom lip, which is still saturated with your cum.

“Baby, please, I am literally begging you to fuck me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. His pretty girl asking ever so nicely for his cock. The power play turns him on—hearing you, his queen, treating his dick as a much-needed commodity.

But he thinks you can do a little more begging.

He grips his cock and delivers harsh smacks against your sopping wet hole, reveling in the buttery, sharp wet sounds it makes.

“Sakura,” you growl, “if you don’t put it in-“

His eyes snap up to meet yours. They’re narrowed and intense, almost setting off your fight, flight, or freeze response. “You’ll fuckin’ what?”

Oh.

Fuuuuuck.

You swallow thickly, realizing that maybe you misjudged which Sakura had joined you in Umemiya’s bed today—shy, blushing Sakura was probably still at the table outside. You were under the covers with ex-Bofurin leader Haruka Sakura, the Sakura that likes to fold you like a pretzel and fuck you raw until you’re weak and out of commission for a few days.

Bedroom dynamics are funny like that.

So, you, ordinarily headstrong and unfaltering, now speak to him in a softer and pleading voice.

“P-please, Haru.”

He snorts, grabbing one hand of your plush thighs and pushing it up so it’s pressed against your stomach. “Glad you fixed the attitude, brat.”

As Sakura sinks into you, he can’t help but look down at where your bodies meet, the length of his cock disappearing into the mess of you. He lets out a shaky breath to steady himself and not cum in you before he can leave his mark. As his eyes return to your face, he can’t help but grin, delighted by your blissed-out face.

“Feels good, yeah?” He asks as though he can’t deduce the answer from how you’re already gripping him.

“Soooo good, baby!”

“That’s all it takes to calm you down? Good dick?”

You would literally build an altar in his name and pray for absolution if it meant access to his dick, so yes, But words are hard when your cunt is stuffed to the brim of the aforementioned good dick, so you simply give him an enthusiastic nod.

“Tell me how you want it, pretty girl.” Once again, he knows the answer. He can feel it the way you desperately choke his cock with your walls, but he wants to hear you say it.

“Hard. So fucking hard, Kitten.”

The only indication that Sakura planned on slamming his cock into your cervix is the sudden way he pressed the tips of his fingers into your thighs, but it was so instantaneous that your brain hardly had time to register the act. The alarming nature of not having a warning or much time to adjust almost made you clamp your legs shut around him, but a low growl and a “No.” keeps you wide open for him.

You gasp and wiggle against him, panting; the sound of shifting linens and his drumming into you roar in your ears as the sheets around you create an echo chamber. He’s fucking you like you belong to him. As though he has the god-given right to mold a path in your cunt.

“Gonna make you squirt.”

Oh, and you absolutely believe him because you can feel it looming over you like a creeping, ominous shadow.

“B-but, Ume’s bed-”

“Oh, Haruka, what about Ume’s bed???” he mocks you in the same whiny tone you’re using, then shifts back to speaking normally.

“You should have thought about that before you were begging for cock.”

Your stomach muscles tighten. His words are so harsh, so aggressive, so good. Your eyes roll back as the unmistakable feeling of a spring so tightly wound up finally uncoiling. Absolute pleasure shoots through you, and a flood of hot fluid coats Sakura’s pubic hair and Umemiya’s sheets.

“Theeeeere you go,” he praises. Still, he doesn’t stop the abuse of your pussy, fucking you with the added saturation of your cum, making him throw his head back, dual-colored eyes closing, and silently praising whatever god is listening.

As another orgasm crashes into you, Sakura chuckles and flips you over, so now you’re straddling him, shaking as he holds you flush against his body with fingers wrapped around the back of your neck. “Tapping out already? I’m not even close to being done.”

His cock doesn’t miss a beat, continuing to fuck at your hole with desperation, trying to prove that his cock is better suited for you than Jo Togame’s.

“Fuuuuck, Haruka!”

While you would never encourage the flirtatious behavior of others to incur Sakura’s jealousy, feeling him use you like a cock-sleeve will not garner any complaints from you. You latch your mouth onto one of his nipples, earning a whimper from him.

“G-gonna cum if you do that again.”

You grunt as it hardens against your tongue, amused that his words were meant to deter you.

You both freeze as the sliding glass door to Umemiya’s bedroom opens. Sakura’s pistoning of his hips comes to a halt immediately, and you both cover the other's mouth with a palm.

Kotoha sighs at the sight in front of her: clothes strewn across the floor and the bed unmade with the blankets bunched up into a large mound. She doesn’t attempt to pay attention to the ladies' underwear on the floor, not wanting to think about Umemiya’s extracurriculars too much.

“You could have cleaned up your bedroom before inviting us over! Now, where did you say your wallet was?” she calls over her shoulder to Umemiya.

Umemiya, too busy flipping burgers in the air with the practiced precision of a grill master, shouts back, “My room is clean, Koooootoooohaaaaaa! My wallet should be on my nightstand!”

You and Sakura are staring into each other's eyes, panic-stricken as Kotoha rummages through the drawers closest to your heads.

Your mind can’t help but wander as you imagine her pulling back the sheets and finding Sakura’s balls plastered to your slit, messy love-making evident under the puddle of saliva and cum soaked into the sheets beneath you.

Your cunt twitches erratically, still wrapped around the base of Sakura’s cock.

Sakura glares at you, in disbelief at your depravity but not too shocked because he knows you. His eyes seemingly scream, “Pervert! Pervert! Pervert!”

“Here it is!” the sound of footsteps receding and the sliding glass door closing, quieting the voices and sounds of the party, allows you both to relax.

Sakura pulls his hand off your mouth, “Were you seriously squeezing my dick at the idea of being caught!?”

“Couldn’t help it,” you whine as you wiggle against him.

“You love the idea of someone watching me fuck you, huh? That’s fucking filthy.” his hands return to the top of your ass as he gives you a few upward thrusts.

“Fuck, you’re wetter now than when we started. You want me to go get all our friends, let them watch me fuck this pussy?”

“Y-you would never,” you say through moans.

“You don’t have a clue what I think about at night. Heh, how about we grab Togame? I know he’d love to see you spread open.”

“Baby, I’m going to-”

“Then fucking cum.”

A rapturous, otherworldly, blissful orgasm rips through your body, and Sakura follows soon after. Your mouths crash into one another in a messy and loud kiss as you exchange groans and moans.

Sakura’s half-lidded eyes open as he looks at you, “what should we do with the sheets?”

“Hope they dry on their own? I mean, it’s probably not that bad, right?”

After you and Sakura get dressed, you pulled back the sheets and cringed at the sight of wet stains covering the expanse of his sheets.

“I hope he has a mattress protector on.” Sakura slowly turns to you with a raised eyebrow as if this is your fault!

“Shutup, shutup!” You push him out of the room, hoping the sunlight shooting in through the sliding glass doors can dry the linens.

As you enter your shared bedroom, Sakura quickly closes his underwear drawer and turns to you with a blush on his face.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to look at your naughty magazines. Ume just texted me.”

“I dont HAVE naughty magazines!” He registers what you just said and shoots you a look. “Texted you…?”

“He said that there was a spare bedroom that we were more than welcome to use if we had just asked.”

#wind breaker #windbreaker smut #sakura haruka smut #haruka sakura smut #haruka sakura x reader #sakura x reader #sakura haruka x reader #haruka sakura

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lilacerull0 · 8 months ago

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it makes sense that ariel has always been my favourite princess. i am also fascinated by everything while knowing pretty close to nothing about everything. i am a professional at being an amateur.

#jo in the tardis*#i feel like lila after the dance asking pasquale to explain the world to her #she was also crying when that happened hahahahahahah #thankfully i have a wayyyy better pasquale than she does

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silantryoo · 9 months ago

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BONUS [ LIKEALOOK ] — EPILOGUE 3, begin again

jo yuri and choi yena's wedding.

WARNINGS ; implied depression, mentions of overworking, slightly suggestive, mentions of broken homes (2.4k)

y/n wished that it was her up on that altar with wonyoung.

the hues of white and gold twinkled against the sunlight, the heat of the californian sun blinding everyone in the venue. yuri's dress, a hanbok beautifully accentuated with gold, ruffled in the wind, yena standing across from her soon-to-be wife with tears in her eyes.

y/n couldn't focus as they began to open their letters, the couple's vows written in great length (and the last time y/n asked yuri, she had almost two pages).

all she saw was jang wonyoung, standing across from her with a soft smile, watching the couple exchange their speeches.

the wonyoung she knew was still there, bits and pieces of the shy, caring girl she fell in love with years ago making herself known through each smile and laugh. her smile was still angelic, but gone was the burden of her last name. she walked lighter, the shackles of expectations now released from her .

she wasn't jang wonyoung, the daughter of a politician. she wasn't jang wonyoung, the promising volleyball player and the hope of suma, nor was she 'victory' jang, yoo 'the ace of korea' jimin's shadow.

she was wonyoung, just wonyoung.

and somehow, despite the years apart, wonyoung looked as beautiful as ever. she seemed much older, wiser, yet it was all the same. with her hair slightly shorter, y/n could tell she had gained some weight in her cheeks. her eyes, still doe-like, never seemed brighter, and from where she stood, y/n could see someone familiar.

she didn't know why, but y/n wanted to fall in love with this wonyoung, just like she she fell in love with her wonyoung.

y/n's eyes tore away from her ex, the entirety of the venue cheering as yena and yuri kissed.

she clapped half-heartedly, her mind and eyes wandering to the tall girl standing on the other side.

she was happy for the two, knowing how hard it must've been for them. y/n knew about their rough patch and the long-distance relationship they had during yena's overseas training. she admired them honestly, the way they pushed through it.

y/n wanted to be like them, so sure they'd be better for the other person.

she glanced at wonyoung, their eyes meeting.

it was pathetic, honestly. she was still hung up on her ex from college despite graduating so long ago. even through her multiple counselling and therapy sessions, she couldn't let go of it.

she did all the steps. she explored her options, dating around but nothing truly sticking. she took care of herself, both mentally and physically. she focused on her career, finally a well known actress.

but it always ended with wonyoung in her heart, no matter how much her mind wanted it to stop.

yuri and yena walked down the aisle, and beside her, jiwon and minju had already begun to cry.

(she was sure after their toasts later, jiwon would sob a river.)

it was bittersweet, knowing that when she was young, she had always dreamed that she and her wonyoung would be walking down in a similar fashion, somewhere in france.

wiping a stray tear on her cheek, y/n smiled. they followed suit with the now-wedded couple, cheers erupting as flowers littered the hot air.

y/n looked forward at the couple.

wonyoung didn't.

the after-party started right after aeri's toast.

they had moved to a much bigger, more ambient venue once the ceremony had ended. it was a couple minutes away from the vineyard, yet it was enough to fill the entirety of the one hundred guests and the couple's requests.

wonyoung knew coming in that there would be a huge bar with a plethora of fine wines and liquor. yena had asked her months ago about the most expensive services money could buy. beside it, a photo booth with yena and yuri's cardboard cutouts stood. tables littered the floor, the front designated for the two brides. in the center was the dance floor, a huge, rave-like stage sat in the middle.

she was surprised that the two didn't bother to buy a disco ball while they were at it.

"yeah," yujin hiccuped, raising a glass of champagne in her hand. she watched as yena messily made out with her now-wife in the middle of the dance floor. "that's my friend!"

wonyoung smiled. part of her wished rei could've come to humble yujin a tad, but things were already hard on her with the mention of jiwon. if she were to see the kim, fully dressed up, she was sure to have a mental breakdown.

gaeul sat yujin down, the taller girl leaning on her fiancée.

"is yujin-unnie drunk already?"

her eyes wandered for a moment, settling on the actress who constantly invaded her mind.

unlike wonyoung who was mostly known for her brand, l/n y/n was a name you heard everywhere. her face was on billboards, her smile on screens. everywhere she looked, everything she heard was y/n, or at least adjacent to her.

it hurt for a while, seeing the girl you loved everywhere but not hearing from her. wonyoung had waited months for a text back, for a call.

nothing came, and it was enough for wonyoung to know that y/n was done with her.

but the years of drowning herself in horrible music, expensive wine, and using work as a distraction paid off. VKY took off, and the bigger it got, the worse and worse her mind became.

the first few months of success felt like a failure.

"she was drunk during the ceremony, actually." gaeul clarified, ignoring the sulking girl beside her.

wonyoung was thankful for them, dragging her away from her desk and forcing her to face everything she worked so hard to push away. gaeul, rei and yujin urged her to go get help, and despite her parents raising hell to prevent wonyoung, she did.

she hated taking those stupid pills though.

"i was not!" yujin sulked, clinging onto gaeul like saran wrap. "i was tipsy."

wonyoung glanced once more at her ex, y/n smiling at some joke yuri had made.

she got over it, the ghosting. it took a year or two (or three), but she did. she cried, she drank, she tried to forget. wonyoung even journaled, her baby blue leather book filled with tears and pain.

still, she could never get over y/n.

it was by accident. wonyoung had found out when she was going through her contacts with yujin, the two talking about other notable people to model for her newest collection. yujin, always making sure never forgot, mentioned the actress. out of curiosity, she checked, only to realize that her number was wrong.

and then she panicked even further.

('wrong number.' she had double-checked with jiwon.)

"baby," yujin whined, her eyes watery. "i wanna dance."

the olympian tugged on her fiancée, huffing at gaeul's sluggish movements. yujin's emotions always got amplified tenfold when she drank, and years later, it was still the same.

"i'm gonna go with her." gaeul grinned, gathering her purse as yujin tugged harder. "she'll start telling people we're married if i don't."

"we are!"

"we are not." gaeul's voice blended into the background, finally giving into yujin's request. "our wedding is next year, yujinnie."

the music continued to blast around them, wonyoung watching as they walked into the surprisingly active crowd (but what did she expect from yena and yuri's friends?). their figures blurred into the horde, leaving wonyoung alone at the table.

she looked at her glass, dripping as the cold mingled with the hotter air.

it was lonely, being twenty-six years old and watching your friends get married. she achieved success, all the things her father was sure she would never reach. but not once was she date. she didn't want to date anyone, and when she did, it wasn't her.

it wasn't y/n.

wonyoung felt like she was back in that stupid bathtub, drinking some wine she grabbed from the dollar store, and playing some music that someone probably dedicated to their ex. her eighteen-year-old self would probably sit beside her, crying in her arms. she'd probably even throw up on the ta-

"hey."

l/n y/n.

familiar yet different, everything and nothing, hers but no ones.

"hi." wonyoung smiled, her grin soft but her heart hammering.

y/n's nerves crackled in the dim light, the sun setting behind her. for years, she had dreamt about this, pathetically so.

"can i sit here?"

the designer nodded. "go ahead."

the decorated chair scraped the floor lightly, y/n taking place on it. she was close enough to feel, the heat of her skin permeating onto wonyoung's, their knees nearly touching. wonyoung strained her ears, hyper-aware of every move, every breath, everything that was y/n.

she was over the hurt, but wonyoung would never be over y/n.

"congrats, by the way."

wonyoung glanced at the shorter girl's hands, watching as she rubbed her knuckles. "on what?"

"on your brand." y/n whispered, her words coming out slightly forced and awkward. "i remember you always liked stuff like that."

she always tried to hide it, but y/n remembered freshman year, and the little pastel blue notebook wonyoung would hide in her nightstand.

"i did." wonyoung fought the urge to look up, to steal a glance, afraid that this was just another dream. "i just never had the time to."

fear always ruled jang wonyoung.

the fear of imperfection, of loss and pain. it lingered in the halls of the jang household, long before wonyoung was born. it was a birthright that she had no say in, one acquired through her father's actions and her mother's words.

wonyoung wasn't scared anymore.

the taller girl's eyes met with y/n's, a soft sigh escaping her mouth. y/n was way more beautiful than she remembered, her cat-like eyes and her mole pairing with her smile.

"how's hyunseo?"

"she's good." wonyoung closed her eyes, letting out another breath as she relaxed. "we visited hannah's grave a couple weeks back."

y/n had never heard of hannah, her name a foreign word to the actress. she tried to wrack her mind for any memories, but every single one came out empty.

"hannah?" y/n sighed softly. "who's hannah?"

wonyoung stared at her, her eyes softening. it felt so freeing, finally being able to say her name. "hannah was someone who meant a lot to me."

even after years, a near decade, y/n could still read the bits and pieces of wonyoung. how she'd look away, contemplating on telling more. how the girl take a sip of water, trying her best to calm down.

wonyoung was still so similar to the girl she met, the girl she loved, and the girl she let go.

"why didn't you tell me that you were the deleted number?" her mouth moved before she could process her words.

"huh?" wonyoung froze, and from the corner of her eye, she could see the crowd getting larger and larger. "oh, um, i didn't think it mattered anymore."

if wonyoung was eighty percent sure she let go, then she was sure y/n definitely did.

and before, as soon as those words left wonyoung's mouth, y/n would already be in hysterics. her heart would be ripped in two, and she'd go silent, trying her best to figure out what she did wrong.

"it mattered to me." it felt like the world lifted off her shoulders. "you should've said something."

their eyes met once more.

"i panicked." wonyoung's voice was sheepish, a small dust of red coating her face. "it was stupid of me, i know. i just..."

y/n's fingers twitched, her mind itching to touch her wonyoung again, to figure out who was in there.

"an old habit, i'm guessing?"

she'd love any version of wonyoung, whether it was hers or not.

"a very old habit."

the air danced around them as the night continued, the smell of booze multiplying with each minute. neither moved from their spot, worried that this was the last time - the last chance - they'd get to see each other. so the two sat, stealing glances and people-watching, content with whatever was going to happen next, whether it be good or bad.

a soft whisper traveled into wonyoung's ears, and if she hadn't spent the past eight years yearning for the sound, she might have missed it.

"i'm better now, wonnie."

wonyoung loved that nickname more than life itself. "sorry?"

"my promise." a smile flickered onto the actress's face, and wonyoung found herself afraid of losing her again. "i'm better now."

old habits die hard, but time marched forward. wonyoung knew that they changed, for better or for worse. she knew that no matter what, in sickness and in health, she'd love y/n. they weren't the same two naive girls who were hurting, and even though glimpses of them flashed through, wonyoung was willing.

y/n held her hand, and everything fell into place.

"thank you..." wonyoung could barely hold her tears back. "for keeping your promise."

"anything for you, wonnie."

y/n squeezed her hand, and the room fell silent. wonyoung felt like she was floating. she wasn't sure where she was gonna land, if it was gonna hurt her or anyone else. all she knew was that somewhere, y/n was waiting for her, just like wonyoung had been too.

to love someone was to do the right thing.

"are you seeing anyone?"

"no." a grin splayed across y/n's face, one that was only ever reserved for wonyoung. "i'm not."

jang wonyoung would wait forever. she would wait for the perfect time, sitting idly in the corner of the room. she'd count the seconds as they go by, watching as each hand moved at a snail's pace, but a pace nonetheless.

"good."

l/n y/n couldn't wait. she couldn't sit by and let nature take its course. she could prevent earthquakes and hurricanes if it meant protecting wonyoung. she'd move planets, shapeshift, become someone new... someone better.

"good?"

wonyoung stood up, her hand trembling. she reached out to her y/n, offering a hand. she couldn't keep waiting forever, and she knew y/n couldn't be the only one changing for rest of eternity.

(wonyoung was too grown to keep being an idiot, anyway.)

"dance with me, y/nnie?"

love.

it was still there.

"gladly."

THE END.

masterlist

taglist (CLOSED)!!

@moontealemonpie @rikisgeef @cutieseo @limbforalimb @ahnneyong @yumtooki @lcv3lies @sserajeans @jiwoneiric @blue4hour @trsrina @xyxlyn @misumiausworld @awkwardtoafault @d7dream @slowlyturninggay291 @perfectsunlight @juhyunsthirdwife @uzumakioden @txtbrainrot @rosiehrs @wlwgirlsworld @skisk1 @bzeus28 @deeznutzryu @jisooftme @jihyostolemyheart @li0ilthecxnt @eggomi @ddoxhan @zhivaxo @sweet-dhrafts @bearseulgs @marimo-anura @wonyoluvr @serenitygrace24 @ddeonutz @noiacha @livelaughchoerry @yunnybunnyy @ivy-aurora

#jang wonyoung x reader #ive x reader #iz*one x reader #izone x reader #aespa x reader #kpop x reader #idol x reader #silantryo

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