#op ignore me I’m sorry

[lucienaskblog]

I have been banned from cooking in Alhaitham’s house :<

Who let bro cook?

[diosmarii]

I’ve literally become obsessed with this series and it has pulled me in too deep. So you know I simply had to draw the mc, Sophie!

I love her and her characterization so much. @fablecore is such a talented writer, tysm for giving us these amazing works of art (both the writing AND your actual art of it). Also the pose is kinda random, but I saw the reference on Pinterest and immediately thought of Sophie sooooo. Yeah. Anywho.

Link to the story: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996723

[thnksfrthmmrs]

tell me why i’m in school again i’m too mentally ill for this

[oceantornadoo]

when you first start talking to simon riley, you want to check yourself into an insane asylum.

you like to think you’re cool, you’re chill, you’re nonchalant. but he takes eight hours to text back, sending you a “come over.” text at 7pm like he hadn’t just ignored you the whole day. you complain to your friends, of course, which is a terrible move when they tell you to drop him and if he wanted to, he would! and you think he does (want to), he’s just so insanely nonchalant about it. so the next time he comes over, chinese takeout in hand after not texting you back since 8am, you go a little crazy…

you open the door for him, stepping back awkwardly when he tries to peck your forehead. he practically shrugs it off, toeing off his boots before setting the food down on your table. “got tha’ dish ya like.” you nod, forgetting his back is to you. simon unpacks the boxes with precision from the bag, not stopping until it’s all laid out on the table. you’ve been quiet for a while, unusual since you’re the talker of the bunch, and that creeping feeling that’s been sliding up his skin finally sets its hooks in him. he turns around curiously, brows furrowing at the sight of you still standing by the door, biting your lip with a timid look and wet eyes. “love?”

you shake your head with a watery smile. “can we talk?” simon follows you as you walk to your couch, feeling like he’s been dropped into an op with no details. he doesn’t know what’s wrong, just that you’re hurting and he seems to be the cause of it. “i just…don’t get it. how you’re acting so normal.” you’re twisting your hands together. “somethin’ happen, love? got me confused.” you give him that small, weak smile again and it’s like you’ve stabbed him in the heart. “you- you barely talk to me all day and then you just come over here like it’s nothing. it’s just so hot and cold and i’m wrecking myself over it when it’s so clear you don’t care. i’m just so confused, si.”

simon runs through his memories. he texted you good morning, you texted it back, then he went about his duties for the day until he was finally free to ask about dinner. hadn’t even picked up his phone in the meantime, security risks or just plain busyness being the cause. “‘ve been busy, sweetheart. ‘s why i asked t’ come over when i was done.” you shake your head, biting your lip. “it’s the modern day, simon. everyone’s on their phones. i don’t think you’re as into this as me, and that’s fine, but i just want to know!”

now simon’s the one shaking his head, pulling out his phone. he might not be tech savvy but he does know this move from johnny, the fucker constantly complaining about his screen time. he pulls up the screen time tracker and turns it to you. “not everyone.” you’re a bit shocked to be honest. his screen time is ten minutes for the entire day. a few in the morning when he texted you and nothing until nighttime, when he texted you again. you’ve never seen anything like it.

“‘m not a big texter an’ we don’t use personal phones for work, so it’s jus’ a brick i leave at home or lug around. ‘s nothin’ on you. been thinkin’ about you all day, to be honest.” your mouth is open, honestly. any other man would have never shown you their minute-by-minute screen time, would have begged off the “busy” excuse while having been on social media for four hours. simon, by all standards, is genuinely different.

“so, you do like me?” he nods stiffly, gloved hands reaching for you. you slide into his lap easily, tucking your face into his neck to hide your heated cheeks. you’d even shed a few tears over this, how embarrassing. “‘course i like you, sweetheart. an’ im sorry if it didn’t feel like it. let’s have it out, yeah?” you nod into his skin and he takes a deep breath, pulling you closer to his heart.

from that day on, you compromise with phone calls. when he’s got a few minutes and you’ve hit a lull at work, he’ll call you. it’s better than any text in the world - hearing his gruff voice asking questions about your messy coworkers or dinner plans. not so nonchalant as you thought.

-

i wish this was from personal experience but unfortunately for me, it’s closer to the men not responding for days but having a screen time of six hours.

[gothsuguru]

@catchuuu @staryukis @mossmurdock @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat

hi im going on hiatus lol byeeeeeee (L -> R)

[puppiesareperfect]

🔁canducky-momo🐥follow

Are people actually getting upset over the “I hate people” plate? It’s literally just a funny misprint, people need to get over themselves.

🔁duckymomoyoyo🥚🐣follow

Ok well as a mother I don’t think it’s cool that kids are getting a plate where their role model tells them that they hate everyone :/

🔁canducky-momo🐥follow

I think kids are smart enough to know Ducky Momo is fictional but maybe that’s just me

🔁yourverybestfriend✨🐤follow

Op don’t even bother, that other user tried selling stolen fan art at a con

🔁woahwoah-momo🦆follow

What about all those cases where kids imitate what they see on tv?! The “I hate people” plate could have REAL CONSEQUENCES!!

🔁yourverybestfriend✨🐤follow

Can you give me a time that happened outside of made up stories by boomers?? Can you?!

🔁canducky-momo🐥follow

Again kids are smart. So smart. Like, scarily so. My nine year old brothers built a rollercoaster. There are kids out there who can play multiple instruments. There are programs teaching kids how to make robots out of Legos because they know kids are smart enough. Trust me, as an older sister I have been around kids enough to know they are (annoyingly) smart.

🔁yourverybestfriend✨🐤

RB IF YOU THINK KIDS DESERVE RESPECT!!

🔁lovefändal🎸follow

I don’t go here but this came on my dash and like. I agree with OP’s message but are we gonna ignore the part where she said her brothers BUILT A ROLLERCOASTER?!!

🔁honseinabookcase🐴follow

Oh my god???

🔁youverybestfriend✨🐤follow

STOP I DIDN’T EVEN SEE THAT WHAT

🔁inthedoctorzone⏰🐒follow

NOT A RELATABLE EXPERIENCE OP

🔁yourverybestfriend✨🐤

@canducky-momo

OP. LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS OP.

🔁canducky-momo🐥

Ok I just got out the shower and there’s like 500 notes what’s happening. All I said is my brothers built a rollercoaster (which I tried to bust them for). I don’t get what’s so crazy about this

🔁martysmusicalblenderthemusical🐰

MOST KIDS DON’T BUILD ROLLERCOASTERS OP.

🔁notgothitspunk🦇🎼follow

In all fairness my dad hypnotized pigeons to poop on my uncle once

🔁scienceforthebadofhumanity⚙️🥼follow

He deserved it.

🔁canducky-momo🐥follow

@notgothitspunk wait we’ve been friends irl for a while now since when does your dad have a tumblr

🔁martysmusicalblenderthemusical🐰follow

This post is a train wreck

🔁yourverybestfriend✨🐤follow

Alright which one of you showed our parents tumblr??

🔁notgothitspunk🦇🎼

my dad is just like that guys I’m sorry

🔁lovefändel🎸follow

WHY ARE WE JUST IGNORING THE PIGEON HYPNOSIS?

🔁mold-bot🤖follow

No mold detected!

🔁buford🐟follow

I have molds of all my friends!!

🔁canducky-momo🐤

CAN WE PLEASE GO BACK TO TALKING ABOUT DUCKY MOMO???

[trashytracktales]

idk if my last ask got sent but merry christmassssss, keep shining !!

second, i need THIS https://x.com/yovremine/status/1871164598306677111?s=46 for oscar piastri in order to survive pretty please 😭💗

Aerodynamic expertise | OP⁸¹

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Yes, I'm still working on my requests from last year. We read, and we dont judge (pls) 😔👍🏻

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🏁 summary ──── Oscar has been busy most of the day, and when she comes to check on him, the limits of focus, patience, and desire are tested in the most intense way.

🏁 pairing ──── Oscar Piastri x she/her reader

🏁 rating ──── explicit

🏁 category ──── F/M

🏁 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, smut, established relationship, descriptive language, swearing, fingering, unprotected sex, playful teasing and dominant/submissive undertones.

🏁 word count ──── 3.5k

🏁 date ──── Jan. 18, 2025

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

OSCAR’S HOME OFFICE is a small room in their apartment that should’ve been her walk-in closet. The walls are decorated with a mix of framed photos from his racing career and minimalistic art prints, while a sleek bookshelf stands in the corner, its shelves filled with some of her books, and various trophies, medals, and scale model replicas of his helmets.

A small lamp casts a warm glow over his workspace, but the rest of the room is swallowed by the darkening evening. The desk is neatly organized — his laptop open, and a pile of documents on one side, almost forgotten.

He’s been reviewing updates on the car’s aerodynamics package the entire afternoon, slightly furrowing his brow as he read through the material, one hand adjusting the headphones over his ears, and the other making notes in the margins of a printout. Oscar has always been the type of person to lock in and get the job done as well as he could. For the moment, his focus remains intense, the faint sound of white noise humming through his headphones, lost in the details of drag coefficients and weight distribution.

He doesn’t notice the light tapping of footsteps approaching the office, nor does he hear the soft creak of the door as it opens.

She walks in, lingering in the doorway for a while, smiling to herself at the sight of her boyfriend who’s still so immersed in his work. His concentration is so characteristic — calm, methodical, and entirely unbothered by the passing of time. However, the late hour has her a little concerned. And annoyed. She crosses the room and stops behind him, leaning slightly to catch a glimpse of the technical drawings on his screen. Without a word, she gently places her hands on his shoulders, squeezing lightly, but he doesn’t react, her touch way too familiar.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a work-related visit?” asks Oscar, his voice as calm as ever but laced with a trace of amusement; he’s not even bothering to look up at her, but rather relaxes under her touch.

“It can be,” she teases. “You’ve been in here for hours, and if that’s how I win some time with my boy…” she adds, leaning in to rest her chin on the top of his head, while her hands wrap around his shoulders from behind.

Oscar chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “I know, sorry. I’ll be done with it soon.”

She tries to appear unaffected, but it bothers her a little. He’s been ignoring her for most of the day. Even though she knows that Oscar needs time for his work, that doesn’t make it any easier for her to comply. It’s already hard enough having to adjust to his calendar all year round. Having to do that when he’s at home it’s simply ridiculous.

She rolls her eyes playfully while walking around his chair, resting her back against the desk while facing him. “How soon?” she asks curiously. “It’s dark outside, and you still haven’t told me what you want for dinner.”

He glances at the clock on his laptop and winces. “Ah, shoot. I didn’t realize it was that late. Sorry,” he says again, “I kind of got carried away.”

She hums in mock disapproval. “Typical. I’m convinced you’d survive on data sheets if I wasn’t here, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, probably,” he admits with a small smirk, his hands reaching instinctively for her hips. “Alright, so what are the options?”

“Well,” she begins, carefully sliding onto his lap, her arms wrapping loosely around his neck. The sudden shift in weight forces Oscar out of his focus, and he pulls off his headphones so he can hear her better. “I could order pizza,” she says, trailing a thumb lazily along the back of his neck, “Make something quick, or we could raid the fridge and hope for the best?”

Oscar tilts his head as if weighing the choices. “Pizza sounds good, but why do I feel like you’re leaning toward option three?”

She smiles, shrugging, “Because I don’t like wasting food,” she replies. “So. You coming?” the girl asks, her tone soft and inviting.

Oscar pulls back slightly to look at her, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I just need to finish this. Can’t leave in the middle of it.”

“Yes, you can,” she cries in protest. “Come on, Oscar. You’ve been staring at this for hours. If it��s not done by now, it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Baby, it can’t,” he insists, gesturing to the printouts on his desk. “If I don’t understand the updates, I’ll go into the next test session blind. They’ve tweaked the front wing, and I need to see how the airflow changes affect the balance.”

She crosses her arms, eyeing him. “Then let me help. Two brains are better than one, right?”

Oscar snorts, shaking his head with a grin. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but unless you’ve suddenly become an expert in aerodynamics, I’m not sure how much help you’ll be.”

“Oscplain it to me then,” she challenges.

Amused, he picks up one of the papers and holds it between them. “Alright, let’s see. This here,” he points to a diagram of the front wing, “Is the new design they’ve proposed. See how the shape is slightly curved here and flared out at the edges?”

She nods, her eyes following his finger as it glides smoothly across the sheet of paper, then descends lower, to his veiny forearm.

“It’s to channel the air around the tires more efficiently,” continues Oscar, his voice patient but lightly teasing. “Turbulent air from the tires can disrupt the flow to the rear of the car, which affects stability and speed. By tweaking this part, I’m guessing they’re hoping to create a cleaner stream of airflow.”

“Great! You already know what’s up,” she jokes, her lips curving into a small smile.

Oscar chuckles, “It’s just basics.”

“Bet,” she insists, taking the paper from him, then grabbing his hands and placing them back on her waist. “Keep going. What happens after the air goes around the tires?”

His hands instinctively begin to trace the curve of her body as he continues, “Well, the clean air flows down the side pods, feeding the diffuser at the back. That’s where most of the car’s downforce is generated. It’s all about keeping a nice balance, because if there’s too much downforce, the car is slower on straights. Too little, and it can’t corner properly.”

As he speaks, his fingers tighten slightly on her waist, mimicking the precision he’s describing. She shifts under his touch, her breath hitching just enough for him to notice.

“And, baby, balance is everything. I’ll tell you that much for free,” he adds just as his hands slide over her sides, his thumbs brushing along her ribs. “You know, the car has to respond perfectly to input. Too much force in one area, and everything gets… destabilized.”

She bites her lower lip absently, her eyes locked on his face. “Mhm, and what about this area?” she asks, her voice low as she guides his hands higher, molding his palms on the curves of her breasts.

His throat bobs as he swallows, but he keeps talking, his tone steady even as his pulse quickens. “That’s like managing weight distribution. Every shift changes the dynamics. You’ve got to be… very gentle. And precise.”

His hands squeeze her gently before letting them roam lower now, gripping her thighs, and she lets out a soft gasp just as Oscar adds, “But sometimes, you need more force,” he says, his fingers pressing more firmly into her skin. “Especially when you’re going through high-speed corners. It’s about finding that sweet spot where everything works in harmony,” he pauses, his eyes flicking to hers. “You follow?”

Oscar’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk, and for a moment, he forgets about his diagrams and work entirely. The room feels somehow smaller than it actually is, warmer, the technical jargon fading into the background as his focus shifts entirely to her.

She looks at him, while adjusting her position on his lap. The slight push forward sends tiny, yet intense sparks through her body, and her breath hitches again.

“Yeah,” she whispers, her voice laced with feigned innocence, “I’m getting there.” Oscar smiles again at her words, but before he can say anything, she continues, her hips moving ever so slightly against him. “But,” she breathes, leaning closer, her lips brushing against his ear, “I think I need some additional explanations, though.”

The air between them grows heavier, and Oscar exhales slowly, his control fraying at the edges. “Is that so?” he asks, his voice dropping as his lips ghost over hers in a shallow kiss, teasing but not giving her everything. “I can do that.”

She hums in response, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers dig into her skin, pulling her flush against him.

“You want me to show you?”

“Mhm,” she nods, fighting demons in order to keep her whimpers inside.

“I told you about tire degradation, yeah?” Oscar presses another light kiss to her lips, pausing just long enough to make her chase him for more. Which she does. “You don’t want to overheat,” he says, his hands moving down her sides to anchor her hips. “But if you’re too cautious, you won’t get the performance you’re looking for, either.”

She lets out a shaky chuckle, her hips grinding subtly against him. “Makes sense,” she nods, her voice breathy and full of need.

Oscar lets out a soft groan, as her movements on top of him send a rush of heat through him.

“When I’m in the car, I need to push just hard enough to stay in control,” his hands slide to the curve of her waist, guiding her rhythm, “But not so hard that I lose grip entirely.”

Her moan is quiet, but it cuts through the charged air between them. She tilts her head back slightly, her lips parting as the friction builds. “Oscar…” she breathes, her voice trembling.

His jaw tightens, his restraint wavering as her hips move against him more purposeful under his careful guidance. “See?” asks Oscar rhetorically, his tone rougher now, “You’re getting it. Find the sweet spot, and everything just… clicks.”

She leans forward, her forehead pressing against his as her breathing grows heavier. “We’re still at the basics?” she asks, her lips brushing his as she speaks.

Oscar smiles, though his own composure is clearly slipping. “Not really. It takes time and patience to perfect the technique. It took me lots of practice,” he says proudly, his voice thick with desire.

She laughs softly, the sound quickly dissolving into another quiet moan as he presses her even closer, his hard length straining against her through their clothes. His lips finally capture hers fully, the kiss deep and consuming, as if he can’t hold himself back any longer.

She cups his jaw, pulling his face toward hers, and presses her lips to his in a firm kiss, while his hands are slipping up to hold her more securely. Without breaking their connection, Oscar’s hand fumbles for his laptop and, with a practiced ease, he grabs it and shifts it onto the windowsill on their left. At the same time, his other arm wraps around her, lifting her as though she weighs nothing and settling her on the smooth surface of his desk. As a result, some papers flutter to the floor unnoticed, minor casualties of the heated atmosphere sparking between them.

Her focus is entirely on how Oscar moves — the way his hands slide under her shirt, the cool air kissing her skin as he pushes the fabric higher. Her body arches instinctively as his fingers dip beneath the waistband of her shorts, seeking almost curiously.

“Oh,” she gasps silently, her hips jerking forward at the first brush of his fingers against her slick heat.

Oscar’s breath hitches, and a quiet curse slips from his lips. “Shit,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at her flushed face. “You’re soaked already. Should we work on optimal traction here or?”

Her laugh is breathless, almost a whimper, as he presses a finger inside her, curling it just enough to make her shudder. “Optimal… something,” she whimpers, her thighs trembling slightly as he adds a second finger, stretching her just enough to make her squirm.

“Ease into it, baby,” he encourages her, his focus split between the way she reacts to his touch and the growing tightness in his own body. His free hand grips her hip, holding her steady as her movements grow more animated by the second. “Too much too fast, and you’ll spin out before we get to the apex, remember?”

She tries to reply, but all that escapes her is a high-pitched moan as his thumb brushes against her clit. And then his name, like an intense prayer dripping from her lips.

The sound of her voice, breathy and pleading, sends a jolt straight through him, his arousal pressing almost painfully against the fabric of his pants.

His lips twitch in a half-smile, though there’s a rough edge to his voice when he speaks again. “That’s it,” he says, his fingers working her with practiced ease. “Controlled inputs. Smooth handling. The sweet spot.”

Her body responds to him as usual, her inner walls clenching around his fingers as a broken cry falls from her lips. “Oh my—Oscar,” she gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders for support.

Oscar exhales sharply, his jaw clenching as he fights to keep his composure. “Fuck, I know. I know,” he mutters under his breath, the sensation of her squeezing his fingers making his mind wander. He imagines how good she’d feel around his cock instead, warm and tight, pulling him in and driving him to the brink.

The thought nearly undoes him, and he grips her hip tighter, guiding her as she rocks against his hand. “You’re doing so well, baby,” he says, the words slipping out in a low rasp. “Yeah, look at you.”

Her head tilts forward as her moans grow louder, her movements more frantic, almost never enough for her to relax. She watches through her eyelashes as his fingers pump in and out of her pussy without hesitation, feeling the tips putting pressure inside with each stroke. “Please. Feel so good,” she moans softly, her voice breaking, alerting Oscar that she’s close.

“I hear you, love. Come on, then,” he says, his tone both encouraging and commanding. “I’ve got you.”

It is his voice that pushes her over the edge. He sounds like he is utterly intoxicated by her and the way her body responds to him, always. His words seem to be covered in a generous layer of honey and equal worshipping, which drives her higher and higher. Her body tenses, and then she shatters around him, her release hitting her in waves that leave her trembling. Her cries echo in the small room, mingling with the sound of their heavy breaths.

Oscar watches her with a mix of satisfaction and awe, his fingers still gently stroking her as she slowly comes back to herself. His chest rises and falls heavily as he sees how affected she is. Gently, he withdraws his hand, his fingers glistening with her arousal. With his other hand, he brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, his thumb lingering on her cheek.

“You okay?” asks Oscar in a tender voice, a stark contrast to the rough edge it held moments ago.

She nods, a small, blissful smile playing on her lips as she meets his gaze. Her hands are easily sliding down to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms.

But then her gaze drops, and her smile grows mischievous. “Are you okay?” she asks, her tone dripping with mock innocence as her hand trails down to the unmistakable bulge straining against his pants.

Oscar stiffens slightly, his breath hitching when she palms him through the fabric. “Bloody hell,” he mutters.

“You know, I’d give it some attention,” she muses, her thumb tracing over his tip through the material. Her eyes flick up to meet his, playful yet wicked. “But you’re obviously so busy with work. It can wait, I guess.”

His eyes snap back to hers, narrowing slightly as he reads her intent, but before he can respond, she’s pushing him back into his chair. Oscar exhales sharply, his hands instinctively gripping the armrests as she stands, retrieves the laptop from the windowsill, and places it back on the desk in front of them.

“Stop,” he warns, his voice low, but it’s more a plea than a command.

“Stop what?” she asks in an innocent manner as she tugs her shorts back up, the fabric clinging to her curves.

Smiling, she leans down to gather the papers scattered on the floor, clearly putting on a show for him. Her movements are purposeful, the curve of her ass drawing his gaze like a magnet.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” says Oscar, almost annoyed at her audacity. “And it works.”

She glances back over her shoulder, with a playful glint in her eyes. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about, babe.”

Once she’s seated back on his lap, her thighs slick with the remnants of her orgasm, she shifts slightly, her weight settling over his aching length. Oscar lets out a shaky breath, his fingers instinctively finding her waist again, gripping her softly.

She starts scrolling through his laptop documents, pretending to focus on the technical details in front of her. “Hm, were were we? Ah, yes. Air flow dynamics…” she reads, her tone intentionally casual.

It’s pure torture for him.

Her warmth is teasing him through the thin fabric separating them, and the subtle movements of her body have his control is slipping.

Almost defeated, Oscar pushes her hair to the side and presses his lips against the sensitive curve of her neck while she keeps reading off the screen. He stopped listening long ago, too high on her simple presence. His kisses are soft at first, but as his need grows, they become much more desperate; he is hungry, after all. For her.

One of his hands slides up under her shirt, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her stomach.

“Can I slip inside?” he whispers, his voice husky and full of need.

She tilts her head back slightly, smirking at him. “Can you multitask?”

That’s all the permission he needs.

Oscar works quickly, freeing himself from his pants, just as his hand slides between her thighs, pushing her shorts to the side just enough to expose her. The tip of his cock presses against her heat, and the fullness as he slowly pushes inside has them both moaning simultaneously.

“Fuck, so warm,” he swears, resting his forehead against her back for a moment as he adjusts to the feeling.

Her body opens up for him immediately, clenching tightly around his length as he lifts her hips slightly, only to pull her back down. She’s slick, her arousal making it easy for him to glide in and out, but the tightness still has his breathing ragged.

Her head falls back against his shoulder as she moans softly, turning her head to continue with her teasing, “The coefficients and flow angles could really—”

Oscar exhales sharply, cutting her off. “Alright, fuck. I’ll finish tomorrow,” he says, his voice strained, giving in entirely.

He stands suddenly, bending her over the desk as he cups the curve of her ass, guiding her hips back onto his cock. The angle shifts, and the deep stretch makes her gasp. His thrusts are slow and measured, but the way her body clenches around him makes it impossible for him to keep it as simple as that. Gradually, he picks up the pace, the sound of their bodies joining mixing with her muffled moans.

Her elbows rest on the desk as her head drops between her shoulders, every movement pulling her closer once again. It is too much, yet still not enough. She wants to feel all of him, but then Oscar is pulling out, forcing another cry out of her.

She tries to protest by pushing back against him, and Oscar is not wasting a breath, chasing a well-known feeling as she grips at the edge of the desk. Even though he just took care of her, nothing compares with feeling of him fucking into her from behind.

The heat between them builds rapidly, their muscles tense as they chase their release. Her thighs tremble, and her breaths come in short, sharp gasps. Oscar seems to follow that sound, caressing her sides just for as long as he slips free to pull her shorts slightly lower on her thighs, for better access. His cock nudges back against her swollen clit immediately, causing her thighs to press together at the pressure. It makes Oscar see stars, driving him to thrust his hips harder at the feeling and let his cock slide along the slick, puffy folds.

When her walls clench around him, the tight, wet heat sends him spiraling. “God, baby. You feel so good,” he groans, his voice rough as he thrusts harder, his hips snapping against hers. “Always. So fucking good for me.”

The room fills with the sounds of her pussy squelching while Oscar keeps thrusting in and out, her release hitting first. The pleasure washes over her as her body spasms, gripping him tighter, and the sensation pulls Oscar over the edge almost instantly. He buries himself deep inside her as he comes, his groans muffled against her shoulder.

As they catch their breath, she looks down at her ruined shorts and laughs softly. “Well, these are done for.”

Oscar grins, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. “Guess we’ll add laundry to tomorrow’s to-do list.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[propertyofwicked]

LEARN - OP

summary: oscar finally gets to show his girlfriend what he's been reading about (part 2 to this - but can be read as stand alone!)

warnings: smut! MDNI! fingering, orgasm denial (sorry), again - smut, not proof read

masterlist the playlist

oscar rarely found himself with a break between races, and yet instead of spending his free time on the track or in the gym, he curled up on the couch with a book. not just any book, but one of the spicy, smut-filled novels his girlfriend loved. he wanted to understand, he wanted to learn.

"you're really getting into those, huh?" y/n teased, noticing the deep concentration on oscar's face.

"yeah, they're... interesting," he admitted, a faint blush on his cheeks.

y/n smiled and kissed the top of his head. "that's sweet, oscar."

a few days later, at the mclaren garage, lando couldn't help but notice oscar's new reading habit. he leaned over, peering at the cover of the book in oscar's hands.

"mate, are you reading... romance novels?" lando asked, an amused grin spreading across his face.

"y/n loves them, so i thought i'd give them a try,” oscar shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

lando chuckled, shaking his head. "you're becoming more like her every day."

y/n truly thought that the summer break meant that her and oscar would spend more time together and yet back at home, oscar was once again absorbed in one of her favourite books. y/n was wrong - he was so engrossed in the story that he didn't hear her calling his name, nor did he notice when she walked into the room, pausing in the doorframe with her hands on her hips and a loose smile playing in her lips.

"oscar? are you ignoring me for my own books now?" she asked, a playful glint in her eyes, causing oscar to glance up at her, slightly startled.

"sorry, these stories are just... really good."

y/n laughed, sitting down beside him, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder as she peered over to look at the chapter he was on.

"i'm glad you like them," she started, “be careful with this bit it’s a bit…full on..”

“full on? like….” he replied with a smirk, his eyebrows raising as he looked at her, “full on?”

“i’m talking like biting and shit…” she trailed off, shifting to rest her head on her hand, her hair brushing against oscar’s neck briefly.

“oh that’s nothing compared to the last book i read.”

“oh yeah? what did you learn in that one?”

“i could show you…” he said, turning his face to look into her eyes, “if you want?”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

nothing more needed to be said in the moment as oscar’s lips moved to join hers, softly at first, as though he were testing the waters. his hand gripped at her thigh, pulling it towards him and slinging it over his own. his fingers trailed along the expanse on her thigh, drawing patterns that trailed her skin, dipping momentarily beneath the fabric of her shorts. y/n rocked her hips slowly, feeling the tensed muscle of oscar’s thigh on her heat, her hands gripping at his shoulders as he slipped his tongue into her opened mouth.

he pulled back slowly, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip, pulling it with him before letting go. y/n head fell to oscar’s neck, kissing the skin beneath his ear as his hands moved her hips so she straddled his lap entirely. he struggled with the button of her shorts for moment before popping it open and dragging her zip down tantalisingly slow, his hand sneaking behind the fabric and pressing the pads of his fingers onto her clothed clit.

“osc..please,” she begged.

“patience, sweet girl,” he replied, removing his hand to hold her face and press a kiss to her cheeks, her forehead, and her nose before moving to her lips. oscar moved his hands back to her waist, pulling at her body till she lay beneath him on the sofa, her hair fanning around her head like a halo.

his fingertips loomed on the waist band of her shorts, pulling them back only to let them slap back on her skin causing her to whimper in frustration again. his lips landed on her neck, pressing a trail of kisses down her skin, over her t-shirt and finally down to the cotton of her shorts that his fingers were slowly pulling down her legs, underwear in tow.

“so pretty,” he told her, leaning back to sit on in front of her, gazing down at her heat.

“stop complimenting me and do something,” y/n started, wriggling her hips towards him in desperation, “please.”

“you’re never normally this impatient,” oscar replied, chuckling lightly as he ran his fingers through her folds, her slick coating them almost instantly.

“you never normally take this long,” she huffed, crossing her arms across her chest in defeat.

“oh, im sorry - did you have plans?” he asked, beginning to stroke small circles into her clit as he did.

“well no bu-”

“then you can wait,” he interrupted bluntly. slowly, his fingers dipped in her folds, dancing around her entrance quickly before returning to circling her heat once more. she wasn’t going to argue, she liked this new side to oscar, as though she had sculpted this change in demeanour by encouraging him to read the books she loved so much. strangely, she felt relaxed, her mind had gone blank in calm waves of pleasure from his gentle ministrations, and her eyes closed just taking in the bliss. had her eyes been open, she may have noticed the way oscar stared down at her, eyes flicking from his fingers, to her face and back to his fingers that he was now pushing into her slowly.

her back arched at the intrusion, helping the digits reach the spot that had her mewling his name before he retracted them slowly, repeating the action over and over again at a tantalising pace. her hips wriggled beneath him, desperate for something, anything.

“please osc,” she begged.

“fine,” he huffed, though exaggerated, his fingers speeding up suddenly and curling up into her, his free hand moving to toy with her clit, pinching it lightly, rolling it between his fingers and then finally, drawing patterns into her. oscar’s gaze stayed focused on her heat, in awe at the sight of his fingers disappearing into her and coming out covered in her slick that glistened in the evening sun.

“so good f’me, aren’t you?” he told her, moving the hand away from her clit to push at the fabric of her shirt, as she nodded at him, “taking my fingers like you take my cock,” he added, pushing a strand of hair from her face.

“feels good,” she replied, panting lightly as oscar’s hand pushed her shirt up further, exposing her breasts to him. he wasted no time placing one in his mouth, flicking his tongue over her nipple, nipping at the skin with his teeth. y/n’s hand fell to his head, pulling at his hair desperately trying to ground herself as his fingers continued their brutal pace inside her. the sensitivity spread across her whole body, as she felt waves of her orgasm approaching quicker than ever before.

“fuck, osc, please,” she begged, though not sure what she was asking for.

“you gonna cum on my fingers, baby?” he asked her, leaning over to attach his lips to hers, feeling the way she gasped into his mouth at the sudden feeling of him pushing deep into her, rubbing deep circles into her sensitivity as his thumb found her clit once more, mirroring the actions of his fingers.

“y-yes fuck, i’m gonn-” she started, feeling her walls contracting around oscar’s fingers as her high approached her, “fuck.”

her hips raised quickly, and dropped back just as quick, grinding up into oscar’s palm as though he was going to disappear. she felt herself reaching bliss, until she didn’t. oscar removed his fingers slowly, but surely, placing them in his mouth momentarily.

“open up, baby,” he told her, sliding his digits into her mouth and along her tongue for her to taste herself. though he didn’t need to tell her to open up, her mouth already hung open in the shock at having her orgasm ripped away from her so suddenly.

“what the fuck, oscar?” she finally asked him as his hands moved back to her hips.

“what do you mean?”

“wha-? why? what do you mean? why would you do that?”

“well you said you didn’t have any plans,” he replied, as though his reasoning was obvious.

“…and that means i can’t cum?” she replied, more confused than angry.

“no? it means you have all evening to earn it,” oscar replied, standing from the couch and extending a hand for her to take, guiding her towards the bedroom.

[thnksfrthmmrs]

my manager walked around and showed us all pictures from the cat cafe she went to and it made me feel better in a kinda weird way because it’s not that i’m much of a cat person but i found it really sweet that she was so excited she wanted to show us pictures and idk. i’m feeling better than i was two to three hours ago at least

[maxlarens]

I got a lot to say so it might be long,

starting with, thank you for the Charles smau and the Lando fic <3

it took me time to choose an emoji lol but I've been doing an internship and time goes by way too quickly, but I decided to go for the strawberry one 🍓

and since you said you wanted to write for driver! reader, and that she was very intense about driving, maybe you can write something about her racing while she's sick/not feeling well but she still wins the race

woo hi again!!! literally no big deal! i hope ur internship is going well, it’s awesome that you’re doing one!! but yeah literally real life is always the priority as much as i’d also like to spend all my time on here lol. but anyway yay the strawberry is super cute 🍓🥺

and YES lol driver!reader is consuming my thoughts right now. i have other things i should be writing instead of this but i smashed this out in a few days😭 i decided not to make it a win because i have a thing brewing for driver!readers first win and i didn’t want to use up all my ideas for that. anyway!!! as usual thank u for the ask and pls enjoyyy 🤗

OP: extraordinary machine

pairing(s): oscar piastri x mercedes driver!reader

summary: you push yourself to your limits. (also sorry i simply don't know enough technical terms about racing for this to be fully accurate but i hope it works)

word count: 3.4k+

Here is a fact— you’ve got a fever of 39.4 degrees.

Here is another, indisputable fact— you’re racing in Imola today.

The fever had come on overnight after a persistent tickle in your throat all weekend. A mildly sore throat had turned rapidly to a snotty nose, full body chills and sweat pouring off you like you’d just run a marathon. You’re wearing a puffer jacket over your racing suit and it’s twenty-nine degrees out. You feel freezing, you feel delirious, and you’re eating Sour Patch Kids by the handful to keep the sugar rush going. Your race engineer, Rachel, keeps telling you that it’s okay if you can’t race. George can step in, I promise. You keep telling her I’m fine. I’m fine. I can race. But the expression on her face says she doesn’t believe you.

You’re telling practically everyone who’ll listen that you’re getting in that fucking car today. Rachel, George, your mum who keeps calling. Lewis keeps looking at you like you’re about to keel over and die and you want to scream at him you did this! Brazil 2015. You had a fever. You got on the podium. If I can’t do this and you can, what does that mean? But you don’t because that’s your 39.4-degree fever talking and this isn’t about being better than Lewis. It’s about knowing without a doubt that you can still get in that car and race your ass off.

Your phone keeps buzzing with texts from Susie that reassure you that you’d be disappointing no one at all if you had to let George take over this race. You’re not letting down women everywhere and you’re not letting down the team. I know Susie, you keep saying, but I’m still racing.

You know you’ve got to convince Toto when Rachel starts a hurried conversation with George and he starts grabbing his fireproofs like it’s a sure thing he’ll be driving in your place. Bundled up in your coat like it’s the middle of winter, you stomp over to Toto’s office and barge in.

“I’m racing,” you tell him without any preamble.

His head snaps to look at you, expression only mildly surprised— not that you would even notice if you didn’t spend so much time around him. He gives you a once over, eyes lingering pointedly on your jacket and then he raises his eyebrows, “It is twenty-nine degrees outside.”

You suck your teeth in frustration, “I know. The car will be hot. I can race.”

He frowns.

You plead, “Toto. Do not take me out of that car. I can do this.”

He shakes his head, “I can see you sweating from here. You’re not well.”

You shake your head frantically, ignoring how your vision starts spinning, “Let me race. If I fuck up you can put George in the car for Monaco. If I fuck up you can even replace me. I don’t care. Just let me drive today.”

Toto’s face pinches in the way it does when he’s considering something, you can see cogs turning in his head as he evaluates what you’ve said and decides if he should listen to it.

He sighs, “I am not putting that kind of ultimatum on you,” your heart stutters and stops in your chest, and you hold your breath, “Okay. Against my better judgement, I will let you race today.”

You let out an audible breath, it edges out into a sob that makes your aching body curl into itself. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes for a moment to suppress the urge to give in to your fever. It would be easier to give up, it would be easier to let George take your seat for the race so you could crawl into bed and cry the fever out. But none of this has ever been easy for you. You’ve fought tooth and nail to get here, you won’t forfeit a race and let people say you took the easy way out.

You look up. Toto looks concerned.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“You won’t.”

You practically stumble onto the asphalt before the national anthem, passing your coat off to Rachel while your trainer wipes your forehead with a towel as if you’ve just finished a full-body workout. Your shoulders feel tense, you can’t stand up straight without shuddering so you’re hunched over awkwardly hoping it doesn’t come off looking too strange.

People are still milling about, setting things up while the drivers assemble. You don’t really notice on account of the fever state you’re in, but you end up standing between the McLaren boys. You must brush against Oscar because he looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed, mouth set in a line and his eyes wide like a puppy dog. You get lost in them a little— because of the fever. Definitely.

“Dude,” Oscar says to you, “You’re really hot.”

On your other side, Lando breaks into a fit of laughter. You frown, your brain trying the puzzle through the sentence. You feel foggy, your eyes feel heavy. You need more Sour Patch Kids, or a shot of espresso, or five Red Bulls. Max could swing it for you.

Oscar leans past you and swats at Lando’s shoulder, “She’s burning up, stupid.”

Lando’s laughter pauses, and he says seriously, “Oh shit.”

Suddenly, you’re being twisted around and you’re wincing at the contact on your shoulder that makes it ache even more. Lando puts a hand on your forehead and then immediately rips it away.

“Eugh. You’re sweaty.”

The back of Oscar’s hand replaces it. You twist away, brushing it off.

“You’ve got a fever,” he tells you, his voice thick with concern for you, “Have you told anyone? Does Toto know? Lewis?”

Instead of answering you press a hand over your eyes and crack your neck, trying to work through some of the stiffness in your back. You roll your shoulders and stand up as straight as possible, pushing through that aching, sickly feeling that runs through your whole body. When you finally drag your hand from your face— a thin sheen of sweat coming with it— Oscar is staring at you with a deep-set frown on his mouth. At his shoulder, Lando looks at you with a markedly less severe, but still concerned, expression.

“I’m fine, Oscar,” you insist.

You’re not. He knows you’re not. It doesn’t matter, you don’t want to seem weak. Not barely thirty minutes before the race. You can’t have either of them thinking you’d be easy for an overtake or that you’ll back out of a fight first. Off the track, fine��� you’ve been vulnerable and honest with both of them at times. On the track is a different story. This is Formula One. You’re not here to make friends. They are not here to make friends.

“Mm,” Oscar hums, “Pretty sure you’re not.”

“You’re sweating bullets,” Lando adds, “Can see it from here.”

Something white-hot and pissed off flares up your spine. Oscar is not this kind of person, even on track; but the suspicion that he’s just trying to eliminate you as competition rises anyway. You think it because if the situation were flipped, you’d be weighing the pros and cons of having a sick driver on the track. Their weaknesses, what it means if they’re distracted. It doesn’t make you a good person, but you’re already pretty sure you aren’t one.

“I am fine,” you bite.

Oscar’s expression drops. Into something not quite offended… accepting, maybe? Resigned? It closes off to you, is what you mean. That’s fine, you’re trying to close yourself off to him. You’re re-drawing a line that you’ve been crossing without a thought for at least two years now. You’re not here to make googly eyes at Oscar and let him put his hand on your fever-ridden forehead and have him reprimand out-of-line, so-called professionals for you. You’re here to get in that car every Sunday and put your life on the line for a shiny trophy and fucking glory. Even if you’ve got a fever. Even if you’ve got a weird crush on Oscar Piastri.

“I’m racing,” you add in a different tone, feeling as if you’ve been a bit harsh on a well-meaning Oscar, even if you mean what you’re thinking.

Oscar nods, and says, “Okay,” in a way that really means, ‘If you say so, then it is’.

In the car, on the tarmac, sitting in your starting grid position, you’re shitting bricks.

Your cheeks are squeezed tight into your helmet, you can feel sweat, slick and soaking through your balaclava. Your arms hurt, your legs hurt, your ass hurts where it’s pressed into the seat. You’re not crying, but your mouth— hidden away by your helmet— is open like you’re about to. Set into a grimace that you breathe raggedly out of. Toto says something over the radio before the lights go out, you don’t hear it. You’re too busy regretting how earnestly you’d begged him to let you race. It would have been better if George had taken over. It might have been better if you’d passed out during the national anthem so you really had no choice but to sit it out. No one could say you weren’t committed to this sport if that had happened. They’d have plenty to say about women and their weak constitutions though.

You’re on autopilot when the lights go out. One second you’re freaking out like it’s your first time in a car, the next second everything is fading into background noise and you’re fighting a Ferrari and a McLaren for your original grid position. Twenty of you tear down the straight to turn two and you find yourself slotting easily into what you think is P4. Ferrari— not the same one— in front of you. Your mirrors reveal the McLaren behind you. It’s Oscar, you’re sure. You can tell by the way he sticks to your ass. Every nudge of the car you make he makes with you.

You press the radio button, “That Piastri behind?”

Crackle, “Yeah.”

“Knew it. He’s up my butt, Rach.”

“Okay. Go faster then. Not sure what to tell you.”

You make a face. You weren’t looking for sarky advice, you were trying to commiserate. You press the button and make a vaguely mocking neh-neh noise that gets a laugh and then radio silence because you’re supposed to be fucking concentrating. Which, okay, fair.

You press the throttle, done with trying to manage your tyres for the moment and taking Rachel’s comment as permission. You tear away from Oscar, stopping his fight to overtake you through the chicane in its tracks. You start slowly gaining on the Ferrari in front of you, its red rear wing growing closer and closer.

“Sainz in front?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yup,” Rachel confirms before rattling off some lap times when you ask for them.

By lap thirty-something, you’re on Sainz’s ass like Oscar was on yours. You’re fighting him through every chicane, threatening him on the straights and generally behaving in a way that you know for a fact is putting him on edge. But Carlos isn’t giving up P3 without a fight.

A safety car goes out around lap forty, and you pit. Everyone ahead of you does as well. Oscar doesn’t, Oscar is lucky to have gone in earlier. Rachel tells you he’d made up four places after being forced to box for some tyre issue. You feel a strange mix of pride and jealousy swirl in your chest as you all file into a discordant line behind the safety car.

Verstappen leads the pack, as per usual. Then Oscar, Sainz and you. Leclerc is behind you, then Lando. You’re in P4, right where you started and right where you’ve been fucking sitting the entire race so far. twenty-five laps to at least make it onto the podium. Then you’ll be happy. Or not quite happy, you’d need pole for that. Content. You’d be content.

Max starts weaving. The safety car goes off and Max keeps you all ready and waiting until the exact millisecond that he decides the race can properly begin again. You hate when he does this— you know that’s exactly why. Eventually, finally, he gets going.

You have to run defence like crazy for a few laps to keep Leclerc behind you until everything is warmed up. The gap widens as you drive. At some point, you stop worrying about the Monégasque so much and focus your attention on car fifty-five like your life depends on it. The laps fly by as time ticks on. Twenty-five to go, twenty, fifteen, ten. You’re back on Sainz’s rear wheel, a gap of 0.2 to 0.3 that’s been consistent throughout this last stretch of the race. You’re watching him like a hawk, waiting for the smallest slip-up to take advantage of. Somewhere you can push, somewhere he’s weak. It’s hard— he’s covering all his bases. Not giving you an inch so you can’t take a mile.

You’re closing in on sixty-four laps— with only three to go— when he gives you that fucking inch. It’s in the first chicane. His wheel locks up, and he jerks the car slightly the wrong way, something like that. You get in his space and you push and he backs out first. You press down on the throttle and rocket past him, shouting FUCK! FUCK YES! to yourself.

P3. P3. God, you hope it’s P3.

You press the talk button, “Rach?”

“Yes, P3,” she barks, “Fucking, focus. Three laps to go.”

Those last three laps of Imola are some of the hardest of your life. Defending against Carlos is a task, of course, but it’s not even that. The sickness starts to creep back into your awareness as the adrenaline that had hit its peak during the overtake starts to subside. Two laps to go and you’re remembering the fever again. The sweat soaking your hair and streaking down the back of your neck. Your whole body is on fire and it aches everywhere. It feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to the inside of your skull. You want so badly to close your eyes and drift away to sleep, but the car is flying through the air demanding your attention with the way it thuds against the track. You’ve got one lap to go and Carlos is on you like white on rice. You can’t afford to make a mistake until you’re firmly over that finish line.

So you don’t. You grit your teeth and you refuse.

Carlos is downright reckless in the last chicane, he tries to bait you by moving to one side and pushing but you’re not going to fall for something like that even if you’re near delirious from the 39.4-degree fever. Though surely it’s higher now, the car temp can’t be helping. You hardly realise you’ve crossed the finish line because you’re thinking so hard about how lightheaded you feel. On instinct, you slow down to a safe speed as Oscar’s McLaren enters your vision, but you think your toes have pins and needles and there’s some feeling tingling up into your shoulders. You blink hard and take a long sip of water so you can make it to the pits before your head starts to spin.

Crackle, “Where are you going? That was P3.”

“Huh?” you realise you’re following the other drivers instead of heading into the pits where you’re supposed to go, “Shit. Sorry.”

You edge back as carefully as you can, avoiding other cars that pass by, lucky you’ve not overshot too far so you can turn into the pits and park your car in front of the P3 sign without going around the entire track. That would be embarrassing. Or that would be more embarrassing than how disgusting you’re going to look when you take your helmet and balaclava off.

Toto, Rachel and a few of your engineers are there to meet you at the barricade when you clamber out of the car, unsteady on your feet. Rachel’s eyebrows are furrowed as she tries her best to smile at you, trying to put on a brave face even though you can tell she’s concerned you’re going to keel over. You brace yourself with a hand against the gate and tear your helmet off, then your balaclava. You’ve never been so fast to put a cap on your head, trying to cover the sweaty mess that is your hair right now.

“That was phenomenal work,” Rachel says, reaching to put a hand on your burning hot bicep, “You look fucking terrible, though.”

You suck in a ragged breath and you nod in agreement, trying to keep the black tinging your vision from taking over completely. 

“Get her something to drink,” you hear Toto bark, though it comes to your ears, muffled and staticky.

You’re fine. You’re fine. Until you’re not and your sweaty hand is slipping against the guardrail and your vision is fading into darkness and you’re falling face first into a metal railing. And, and, someone’s got their arm around your middle and you’re not on the ground with your face in the asphalt. You blink, hot tears— from what you assume is exhaustion— burning your eyelids. The arm around your middle is covered in something orange and black… Oscar. It’s Oscar who’s got you propped up, held firm into his body so your legs don’t collapse underneath you. The two of you sway and stumble for a second as you gain your footing back, your vision returning to normal, the buzzing in your ears going away.

“You’re good,” he breathes, “I’ve got you.”

You ignore the shiver that runs down your spine, you attribute it to your current state.

You remember the cameras that are on all of you right now. You try not to look panicked as you step away from him. You try to do it calmly and not frantically like you so want to. Toto has some electrolyte drink held out right in your face and you take it, chugging half of it straight away while you swivel around to face Oscar. You nod, feeling slightly better, but gripping the guardrail tight so as not to repeat earlier.

“Thanks,” you try a smile, but it’s just turning into a grimace because you feel like shit.

Oscar shakes his head, “Don’t mention it.”

“Great driving out there.”

His eyebrow goes up, touching the curl of his hair that peeks out from his cap.

“You’re kidding?” he says, tone laced with amusement.

You frown, which is much easier, “No. You drove great.”

He makes a face like ‘yes, obviously’, but somehow does it in a humble and endearing way that you find you like a little too much. It leaves you confused as to his point.

“No,” he scoffs, “Okay, yes. What I mean is that you just got P3 with a raging fever.”

You purse your lips, countering, “You don’t know I have a fever.”

His tongue darts out to wet his top lip, hiding the small smile that threatens on his face.

He shrugs, “Bit obvious, unfortunately.”

You roll your eyes. You think what he means is it’s a bit obvious because you look like absolute death. There’s probably sweat rolling off you in buckets, your cap is jammed on your head and your hair is probably sticking out at crazy angles. There were dark circles under your eyes before you left for the track this morning, they’re probably ten times worse now. He might also mean it’s obvious from the way your skin is burning hot, like touching a radiator in the middle of winter. Or, perhaps, the way you’d passed out into his arms a few minutes earlier.

You suck your teeth, “Well. I told you I was racing today.”

Oscar nods, biting the inside of his lip, “Yeah. You did.”

There’s more that neither of you are saying. A conversation that you’re trying desperately to have with prolonged eye contact, small little smiles and breaths out through the nose. You think it might be ‘I’m proud of you’ or ‘You’re very impressive and I’m going a little bit crazy about it’. That’s how you feel at least, somewhere in between the fever chills and the urge you’re suppressing to curl into a ball on the tarmac. This is okay, you think. You don’t have to be Oscar’s sworn enemy just because you’re both chasing the win. You can let him worry about you, but make sure he understands he can’t stop you from taking the things that you want. You can say things that mean other things and Oscar can smile at you like it’s something private for just the two of you.

You can be happy with that. Or not quite happy. Content.

🏎️ song inspo (fiona apple my Beloved) -> https://open.spotify.com/track/5h9Iek7Hp9wayRt7fBp7Ab?si=9PnuH5CDSC-qTurLPGiTwg

💫 fill out this form if you want to be added to my tag list: @clowngirlsstuff @leclercsluvs @c-losur3 @mael1pastry @papayamusha @mvk1ma

[solxamber]

hi! could you do the prompt "this isnt what it looks like" with ignihyde? (totally stealing this one from the person that requested with diasomnia teehee) fluff and comedy if thats okay! :D

im loving your account (and this event) by the way, your fics are so nicely written !! ty for blessing the fandom with ur works ❣️

ahh thank you so much <3 i love this game and I'm happy to contribute to the fandom!

Traitor || Idia Shroud

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "This isn't what it looks like" ; Genre: Comedy + A little Fluff

Idia stood at the edge of the clearing near Ignihyde dorm, clutching a crinkly bag of premium cat treats in one hand and wearing the softest gloves money could buy.

His target? The fluffy, majestic feline that often lounged near the dorm, seemingly mocking his every attempt to approach it. It seemed to like everyone except him and he was determined to pet it.

Today, however, he froze in his tracks, heart lurching at the sight before him.

There you were, sitting on the ground with the cat nestled in your lap, purring like an enchanted engine. Its soft, fluffy tail swayed contentedly as you scratched under its chin, and it stretched as if it were the happiest creature in the world.

Idia's gasp was audible, sharp, and dramatic. "Et tu, Brutus?" he exclaimed, clutching his chest as though you'd driven a dagger into his heart.

You turned, startled by his voice, and your eyes widened in horror as you realized what he'd seen. "Idia, wait, this is not what it looks like!"

"Not what it looks like?!" His wild, blue flames flickered brighter. "You're petting it! The cat that ignores me no matter how hard I try! The one I've been bribing for weeks with premium treats!"

"I-I can explain!" You frantically gestured for him to calm down. The cat, blissfully unaware of the drama, butted its head against your hand for more pets. "It just… showed up, and it let me pet it! I swear I wasn’t trying to betray you!"

Idia's lip quivered as he pointed an accusatory finger. "You—you're like those traitors who trigger the secret romance route while the protagonist is stuck grinding side quests!"

You sighed, setting the cat down gently. "Come here," you said softly, patting the spot next to you.

He hesitated, still glaring at the cat like it was his nemesis. "No way. It hates me. It'll probably hiss at me if I—"

"Just come here, Idia."

Reluctantly, he shuffled closer and crouched down beside you, still sulking. To both your surprise, the cat stretched out lazily and placed a paw on Idia’s knee. Its eyes half-lidded with feline approval, it allowed him to pet it.

Idia froze. "Wait… seriously?!"

"See? It likes you too." You grinned, nudging him playfully.

A hesitant hand reached out, gloved fingers brushing through the cat’s fur. When it didn’t bolt, his shoulders relaxed, and a faint smile crept onto his face. "I… I did it," he whispered, his tone reverent.

The cat purred louder, and Idia’s smile grew until he turned to you with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Okay, fine. You're not Brutus. You’re like, uh… my co-op partner. But don’t think I forgot your betrayal!"

You rolled your eyes, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "You’re ridiculous."

Later that night, as you sat in his room after watching him animatedly retell the story of his victorious cat-petting to Ortho, Idia surprised you by hugging you from behind. His arms were loose but warm, and his voice was softer than usual.

"Hey," he mumbled, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Sorry about the Brutus thing. I was just… you know."

You laughed, leaning back into him. "I know. I didn’t take it seriously."

Idia’s grip tightened slightly as he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. "Good. ‘Cause, uh… I’m glad you’re here. And, you know, I still love you too."

Your smile widened as you turned to kiss him on the cheek. The betrayal had been forgiven, and Idia had gained a new feline ally—and a new reason to hold you closer.

Masterlist

[elodieunderglass]

Kids also don’t have a huge amount of experience in anything, and it’s a parent’s job to teach them. This sounds incredibly obvious, doesn’t it?

Before a family Christmas celebration, when all five of us happened to be lounging around together, I announced we were playing PRESENT PRACTICE. I wrapped a toy frying pan in a muslin cloth and handed it to a child, who unwrapped it and mimed amazement. The older children and their father were all awarded points for their simulated appreciation and the baby got points just for learning to unwrap something. On the second pass we all leveled up to making a grateful comment in reaction to the particular gift, such as “this will go in my collection of frying pans” and “now I can cook one very small egg.”

For the six year old, I very seriously presented the important and tricky case study of unwrapping a large exciting box to find a single pair of socks. The child suggested a reaction of “this is great, how surprising! But,” their face changing to seriousness and the tone of giving the giftee useful feedback for the future, “I’m not very interested in socks.” They explained the utility of passing on this feedback. So, this being present practice, I received this reaction with the grace and thoughtful attention of an award-winning director, and we discussed how we would leave that part out for our more sensitive audiences.

The children also traditionally give small cheap or handmade presents to their family members. Each parent takes each child secretly in hand to prepare a present for the other parent. The six-year-old also has access to the PTA school shop, where the PTA purchase small shitty items (scented candles, bars of soap, cheap socks) and sell them to the schoolkids for £1.50 each, and wrap them on the spot. The 6-year-old carefully squeezes the value from the £10 we give them for this purpose, and squirrels away their mysterious bag of wrapped gifts like it’s a state secret. The three year old is given “pocket money,” and taken shopping. There is now emotional investment in giving; we whisper together quietly about how much people will like the gift. The three year old frequently whispers hotly into my ear about the item they chose for their grandmother (a tissue cover, lmao). The children, therefore, watch adults carefully when their own offerings are unwrapped and admired. When they see us reacting with amazement and gratitude to their gifts, it maps that pathway and lights it up. It also teaches pretty early on that giving is actually supposed to be rewarding, and is a more reliable source of cheer - as you can always control the feeling giving, while getting is tiresomely at the whim of an external giver, isn’t it? And it reinforces that a certain degree of social performance is expected.

Present Practice is a fun game to play so the kids do it to each other. It’s a funny trick to play on a parent, too. You can hand a parent something hilarious, like a potato wrapped in toilet paper, and see them try to do a Level 3 reception on it (“this will be my favorite ever potato,” I say mistily, “how did you guess what was in my heart?”)

For high-pressure present-opening situations, you can just sit back and watch, really. Even when I had to let them open USA-grandparent Christmas presents over Zoom AT the house of the British Grandparents. The children spontaneously decided to receive presents in the guise of angels. I was giving the kids wild thumbsups from behind the camera as they warmly enthused over the sentiments in the cards before even looking at the gift.

Does it sound artificial? Well, they have fun, and they’re kind, and they love giving and receiving. They’re nice and well behaved - and people love to give them presents. It’s all social performance! and you’re expecting super high-level software to run on Kid Hardware, which is like trying to program Plant Pathology 101 onto a border collie! Kind of an unfair expectation on the framework, mate!

I’d suggest the first port of call is literally - teaching kids how to get presents.

"Look at this video of a child disappointed at their expensive gift! Children are so spoiled these days!"

That's cool. So, why did their parents upload their small child being upset online? In a public video, shared to the entire video? Why did they even save the recording?

Like. The kid in that scenario could be saying the most entitled nonsense in the world, and if their parents post it online to be publicly shamed, I'd still support the kid 100%. Thinking your child's life is a toy to exploit freely for #content is "spoiled"; when faced with mommy vlogers, kids should be demanding three PS5s and a new Bugatti, and we should be applauding them for it

[misslovasstuff]

Op!men seeing you hurt

sanji x reader, zoro x reader

Sanji

The only occasion when he calls you by your name and not one of his words of endearment

With the speed of light, he rushes when he hears you’ve been shot in your leg.

He’s panicked but tries to keep his cool

“Show me please, - Sanji touches your thigh gently, touching the end of your dress to pull it up but you stop his hand. - Y/n?”

“I’m fine… it’s nothing.” - you claim, trying not to let your expression give away your pain.

Sanji stared at you, clenching his jaw as he shakes his head, anger building up. Who even dares to hurt you this way?

“Please, let me see. - he notices the worry on your face and tries to lighten up the situation. - What, are you shy? Love, it was only yesterday when you had my head pressed in between. Now…”

Your cheeks blush, looking away and getting somewhat a sense of relief seeing him smile, although you know deep down it was forced to reassure you.

Sanji raises your dress up, noticing your wound on your thigh. His eyes widen and he curses.

“Damnit!… - he caresses the unwounded area of your thigh as he looks at your eyes. - It must hurt a lot, right? Let’s take you to Chopper!”

Sanji picks you up and you put your hands around him, head resting on his chest.

“I’m really sorry, Sanji. I didn’t mean to be a bother for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. - he says sharply. - If you wanna feel sorry about something, feel sorry for the bastards that did this to you and that have to deal with me. I’m gonna give them ten times more of the pain you’re feeling now, love.”

“I am in no pain when I’m with you.” - your voice gentle and soft and words so genuine and selfless make Sanji feel even more at fault for letting you get hurt. But his heart starts beating faster and he can’t deny it as your hand rests on his chest.

“I won’t let you get hurt ever again. I promise.” - Sanji kisses your forehead, flames of anger extinguished by your gentle love only to burn brighter than ever after he leaves you at Chopper’s care, kissing the palm of your hand and finishing the business he has with the ignorants who dared to touch his woman.

Zoro

“Are you ok?! Oi, answer me!” - Zoro shakes your body, noticing a lack of reaction.

“…who did this… - he whispers, putting strands of hair behind your ear. - Please answer me, baby. Open your eyes… please…”

He’d never beg for anything, but now more than ever, Zoro felt most helpless. Hi strength could not help, nor his swordsmanship or any other asset he deemed as important.

He had his lover layed on the ground and hurt, and he wasn’t there to protect, to defend, to lay down his life for you.

“fucking hell… - he cusses, grip on his sword tightening. - … why didn’t you call for me?!”

Zoro takes your body, pulling you close to his embrace as his forehead meets yours.

“How can the world hurt such a soul like yours… tell me… open your eyes and scold me as always… please, love…” - his voice has a distinctive desperate tone, jaw clenched that relaxes when he feels his clothes pulled.

You reach your hand to the nape of his shirt, opening your eyes and giggling slightly at his widen gaze.

“You’re so silly, you know?” - and there, you scold him. But instead of having a counter argument, Zoro hugs you tightly, pecking your lips before asking many questions.

“Are you in much pain? Are you feeling fine? Which bastard did this to you, give me his name cause I swear to-

“Relax, - you breathe heavily but still manage to relax your fuming boyfriend. - the fight is over isn’t it? Let’s just go back to the sunny.”

Zoro sighs, scanning your face before saying:

“I could have not handled a second more in this world without you. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

It’s true, although your vision a bit blurry, you can feel his voice shaking and his tight grip on your arms as he holds you, perhaps to convince himself that you’re here with him, and you’re alive.

“Then I’ll make sure to love you for a lifetime, Zoro.”

This man doesn’t usually shed tears but, his eyes get a bit watery as he presses his lips against yours, then shaking his head and sighing in relief.

“Ok enough kissing now, let’s get you treated.”

“You’re the one kissing me, idiot!”

[lizdive]

saw ur inbox is open so i jumped right into the opportunity 🤭 just recently discovered ur blog and AUGH i love your writing!! the lack of platonic stuff is a CRIME.. 💔

could i request something with aventurine being an older (adoptive) brother to teen reader? if you want some extra lore, the ipc basically found the reader and wanted to use their powers for themselves cuz theyre like- crazy op- 😭 (reincarnation of an aeon typa shit) so they placed the reader into aventurine's care bcuz he was the only person they weren't hostile towards-

SORRY THIS GOT A LITTLE LONG ?! you don't need to use the extra lore if you dont want to btw! i just put it there :3

can be either hcs or a oneshot/drabble, u can choose!! >_<

please and thank u!!!! (ゝω・´★)

YOU’RE SO SWEET YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME ILUSM ☹️🩷🤍 Aventurine is my everything I love when people send me reqs about him he’s never left my team since I’ve gotten him 😭 ALSO I LOVE THE EXTRA LORE I LOVE UR BRAIN LEMME KISS IT MWAH 💋 tysm for requesting <33 if you’re unsatisfied just tell me and i’ll redo this 🫶

notes 𐙚 gender-neutral reader — "you" + "they/them" used to refer to the reader ,, reader is a teenager but is implied to be ancient ,, reader is implied to be a part of tayzzyronth — aeon of the propagation — and can be up for interpretation, however they do have swarm abilities ,, i did some research on tayzzyronth however there may be things that are not accurate or do not align with canon as tayzzyronth and the swarm is very confusing ,, reader grows a hatred for qlipoth — aeon of the preservation and their followers aka the ipc ,, platonic relationships ,, ipc activities as usual ,, penacony mission at the end ,, i feel like i derived from og request i’m sososo sorry ,, ending is cringe ngl ,, this is not proofread so ignore typos

Bugs, insects, flies — you do not know what these creatures are referred to as. You do not know of their origin, and you do not know if you are one of them taking a different form. They treat you as if you are one of them and protect you like you are their ruler.

The planet you reside on is dark. There is no other being except for these creatures that swarm you like you are their creator and their savior. You rarely move. Your cheek has grown accustomed to the cracked grounds of this wasteland as you slumber for periods of time you know not the length of. It is gray, yet you sometimes spot the colorful liquid that leaves their bodies as they succumb to the eternal slumber you sometimes seek.

There is no coldness and there is no hotness — you are always warm. They blanket you with their wings and speak to you in a language you have learned to understand.

"The followers of Qlipoth are coming!" they would say, and yet you did not know who they spoke of. The concept of beings existing that are not you or the insects that flutter about bringing you sustenance and company is foreign, and your young mind cannot comprehend it without physical proof. You assume they jest as they always do to try and humor you, and so you do not acknowledge their warnings.

"The followers of Qlipoth have come, you must leave!" And yet you chose to remain on the cracked grounds that have filled your sight for the many years you have lived. You chose to remain under their wings which shielded you as they fought against Qlipoth’s devout to keep them away from your form.

They are weak, you convince yourself, as you hear the shrieks of your swarm. They are weak, you convince yourself, as you hear the loud explosions which cause the frail floors to crack more and more. They are weak, you convince yourself, as you hold a baby bug in your arms like a toy to sooth the bubbling feeling of fear which is so foreign to you.

They are not weak, you realize, as you feel their hands pull at you from beneath the pile of dead creatures, doing their best to fight off the hallucinations from their wings.

These people — the followers of Qlipoth — are enemies. They do not deserve what the insects would call 'mercy'. The chains which cling to some of your joints barely hold you back as you scream at them in what sounds to them like gibberish. Your body is weak from the lack of movement, yet what you consider weakness is considered as strength that was once unattainable to them.

"If I didn’t know of the swarm I’d assume they were an abomination of the abundance," a woman speaks, yet her words mean nothing to you for you cannot understand them. You do not know who spoke, and you do not care. They are all enemies, and this 'Qlipoth' that they follow will be struck down by your own hands one day. They follow this being and therefor this being is the one to order them to do such horrendous acts.

You make an attempt to flutter the thin wings that decorate your back but they feel heavy. You look back and find them to be hidden away and chained. You do not feel the pain, but perhaps it is just the adrenaline rushing through you.

"Did you really have to cover them up like that?" "The workers said that they were hallucinating, we couldn’t risk it."

A gloved hand is placed in front of you. There is nothing in it. The golden rings shine under the lighting of the room you are in. The shimmer is new to your eyes and makes you squint from the reflecting light. You are used to the dullness of your 'home' planet, so when you look up to properly face the man who seems innocent enough, you recoil at the brightness off his appearance.

The many layers of clothes he adorns makes you curious. You do not wear much, only enough to properly cover you. The insects would keep you warm. Yet he wears so much — so many layers of attire made from materials you didn’t even know existed.

Your rage and hostility is pacified with curiosity, and that makes his smile a bit more genuine. He brings a hand to your head, and you’re ready to tear him to shreds should he try anything, but he only pets you gently. It reminds you of when the insects would nudge your head whenever they wanted you to wake up.

The sense of familiarity makes your eyes water but you do not shed the tears. You don’t like how they blind your sight and you blink rapidly to make them go away. The man clad in bright colors says something, but you once again can’t understand him.

But when the suffocating chains no longer cling to your tender skin, you understand that he is safe like those that cared for you and he is trying to comfort you. It works.

The man is named Aventurine — he repeated it constantly until you finally said it, albeit with the accent of a toddler. Still, he praised you. When he smiled and pat your head, you felt happy. It was a good thing.

You follow Aventurine around. He is the only one you have familiarized yourself with. He gets frightened by the swarm that follows you, so you scold them whenever they show themselves unannounced. You do not want him to leave you — you’ve noticed it happens a lot as you are exposed to human beings. He tells you he won’t leave you, how you’re his responsibility now.

You only understand a little bit of what he speaks, but you want to learn more to get more head pats and praise. The language they use is very foreign and requires much more effort to sound out the words as well as memorizing the symbols they write with. It is a lot of effort, but Aventurine is very encouraging.

Aventurine is nice. He is patient. He is understanding. He is helpful. You have been told that the one who has given you your strength was born from loneliness, but if that was the case, them shouldn’t your abilities be gone by now? Because with Aventurine, you do not feel lonely.

You want to tell him this, and one day you will. But for now, you’ll sit in his office, dressed in the nice clothing he has bought for you, and continue to practice your speech and writing.

You do not like leaving his office, because Qlipoth’s devout will then try to talk to you. You have tried many times to send your swarm after them, and you have succeeded many times, but Aventurine always scolds you. You do not like it when he scolds you. It’s a bad thing.

He tries to get you accustomed to human society. It is hard, especially because the human society he tries to make you interact with is filled with Qlipoth’s followers, but for him, you will try.

For him, you will listen to them as they order you to send your swarm to terrorize planets littered with precious material. For him, you will listen to them as blood stains your hands — blood which is not yours. For him, you will allow others to call you a monster which he reassures you that you aren’t.

For him, you will let yourself become the tool Qlipoth’s devout want you to become.

Something you have noticed and have been taught about human society is the concept that is family. You have heard the term many times, especially on this planet called Penacony. The main heads of this big hotel are called The Family. The head of The Family is the brother of his sister. You make sure to remember that.

Aventurine tells you to keep your features hidden as well as your little swarm bug which you brought with you, and you do not protest. The hotel is big, perfect for your insect friend to flutter about freely. Your hand clings to Aventurine’s coat, a habit you have picked up on. When you cling to him, people talk to him first. You don’t know why, but you do not care because it has yet to fail you.

You do not pay attention to the woman at the front desk. She speaks too fast for you to properly comprehend her words, anyways. You take note of the people around. There is nobody adorning the familiar uniform of Qlipoth’s followers, much to your relief. You tug on Aventurine’s coat, looking at him.

He hums, and looks at you while the woman looks the both of you up to check for the reservation. "Finish?" You ask quietly. "Almost. You can sit if you want," he replies, pinching your cheek playfully. You frown and shake your head.

"Alright, It seems you both have reservations. Here are the keys for your rooms. We hope you and your younger sibling enjoy your stay in penacony." The woman smiles and slides the cards on the counter. Aventurine thanks her and motions for you to follow, which you do without hesitance.

The walk is silent, and once the two of you are in the elevator, you decide to speak once more. "We are like Sunday and Robin."

Aventurine blinks at your declaration and turns so his body is facing you, leaning on the support bars of the elevator. "Is that a statement or a question?" He asks, but you don’t directly answer his question, only explaining your words.

"I am younger sibling, you are older sibling." It is then that Aventurine realizes you had paid attention to the woman’s words, or at least her send off ones. He didn’t think much of it, it wasn’t the first time people had assumed you both as siblings. Then again, you had yet to learn the concept of family and the various titles during those encounters.

Still, Aventurine smiles, chuckling lightly as the fuzzy feeling in his chest grows. "Yeah.. You’re the younger sibling, I’m older sibling." The elevator grows silent once more as you both wait for the doors to open.

He’ll need to finish those custody papers once this mission is over.

[tamaaiba]

🌌 skyofstars  Follow

hiii!!! just a reminder, you shouldnt name your kits skykit or give them a -sky suffix!! me and plenty of other skyclan cats have expressed our discomfort with our clan name being used on other cats :3

🐈‍⬛ whiskers-andpaws  Follow

how about you mind your business??? my great-great-grandma had -sky as a suffix and i dont see anything wrong with it??? who cares

🌌 skyofstars  Follow

you cats didnt even know skyclan existed shut the fuck up you ignorant thunderclan cat

🐈‍⬛ whiskers-andpaws  Follow

HELLO?????? IF IT WERENT FOR THUNDERCLAN YOUR ASS WOULD STILL BE GONE

🌊 willowclawz  Follow

Typical of ThunderClan to act like they’re entitled to everything. All because you got a few prophecies you think you’re better than everyone.

sixfallingsnowflakes-deactivated

lmao rich coming from a fishbreath. whens the last time you were relevant?

🌌 skyofstars  Follow

Hey guys can you stop blowing up my notes

🐞 i-am-a-bug  Follow

Is anyone gonna bring up the fact that we literally have a ShadowClan medicine cat named Shadowsight

🌌 skyofstars  Follow

a shadowclan cat. i dont care if shadowclan names their kits after themselves i just don’t want them using sky

sixfallingsnowflakes-deactivated

“yOU cANT lOOK aT tHE sKY iF yOURE nOT sKYCLAN”

🐇 rabbitz394  Follow

ThunderClan 🫵

🌌 skyofstars  Follow

alright whatever. I deleted the post stop arguing about useless nonsense

🐈‍⬛ whiskers-andpaws  Follow

You started it though, lol

sixfallingsnowflakes-deactivated

shit like this is why skyclan shouldve never left their gorge

🐇 rabbitz394  Follow

HELLO???

🐈‍⬛ whiskers-andpaws  Follow

🎂 I’m sorry my mutual left that note on your post

🌈 dashing-winds  Follow

anyone in this thread eat catnip

🔔 bellmoon  Follow

posts that have 10000 notes to me

morningsun115-deactivated

Hey OP!! I’m sorry everyone’s been so mean to you! I’m from RiverClan and have a SkyClan mate and I was wondering if it’d be okay if we named our kits Riverkit and Skykit to unite our clans together? I understand if not!!!

🌌 skyofstars  Follow

you what

🪷 lilypadz  Follow

@/morningsun115 is Echofrog from RiverClan btw

🐇 rabbitz394  Follow

HELLO????

🐱 throwawayaccount  Follow

hey im on a burner account to protect my identity but @/morningsun115 is literally my mate and im from shadowclan???

🌈 dashing-winds  Follow

IT GOT WORSE

🌌 skyofstars  Follow

😭😭😭 im going insane

🦔 scuddles-away  Follow

hwuh… echofrog is my mate we’re literally both from riverclan what in starclan is going on

wings-of-ash-deactivated

shit is like this why ill never leave this site of no stars

🌌 skyofstars  Follow

well you literally deactivated so

🫧 staring-atthe-sun  Follow

@/wings-of-ash FUCKING DIED

[cozage]

Hey hey hey! It's me again XD I'm here to send you another angst request and you can write it with any OP charaters that you like! The request is how they would react to their s/o dying unexpectedly from an illness but when they kissed them goodbye on the lips, their s/o came back to life and said 'your love is my cure' or other cheesy phrases cuz Idk what to write lol ?

A/N: RAINBOWSTAR HI IVE MISSED YOU I HOPE YOU ARE WELL

Characters: reader x Law, Luffy, Zoro

Cw: reader death, angst

Total word count: 800

True Love's Kiss

Law

He can’t figure out why your heart rate is dropping so fast. He’s done everything he could to try and help you, but nothing is working. 

Your heart stops, and he’s in a full panic now. Immediately starting CPR. Praying to anything and anyone to let you live somehow.

When he presses his lips to yours, he’s desperately hoping for a miracle.

He hesitates just a moment before breathing air into your lungs, and he’s startled to see your eyes fly open.

A gasp escapes your mouth, and he looks at you, unbelieving that you’re really still alive. 

He buries his face in your chest, taking a few uneasy breaths and trying not to cry from the relief of you being okay. 

You comb your fingers through his hair and steady yourself, trying to recall what happened or why he’s reacting this way, until he finally speaks. 

“You died,” he says. His voice is thick with tears, which you try your best to ignore. If Law is crying, then it must’ve been serious. 

“You saved me,” you reply. You don’t feel like you have just died. Just like you woke up from a really long nap. 

“No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do any-“

“I’m alive now aren’t I?” You ask. “I guess your lips really can heal anything”.

He’s so thankful that you’re alive, he doesn’t even respond to your stupid joke 

Luffy

He’s shaking you, begging you to come back to him. He’s screaming and sobbing and impossible to console.

Zoro tries to pull him away so Chopper can treat you, but Luffy knows. He’s been here before. 

Chopper knows too. Everyone knows. So they just sit and watch their captain fall apart. 

He’s clutching you to his chest, he doesn’t want anyone else near you or touching you. He’s still sobbing, but it’s growing softer into whimpers.

He gives you soft kisses across your face, silent pleas for you to wake up. His lips finally meet yours, a final goodbye to you.

A soft gasp escapes your lips, and the entire crew takes back a step in shock. 

“Luffy?” You groan, still pressed against him so tightly it hurts. “You’re crushing me.”

He just holds you tighter, returning to hard sobbing again. “Stay with me,” he chokes out. “Please don’t die.”

“That’s impossible,” Chopper whispers. “Y/N was dead.”

You take a second to process. “I guess a true love's kiss brought me back.”

“If I give you more, you better live forever,” Luffy says, covering you in even more kisses. 

Zoro

He carries your limp body to Chopper, begging him to fix you. But he knows it’s too late. He doesn’t know what you were hit by, but he knew when he pressed his head against your chest, your heart was still. 

He lays you on the ground for Chopper to run an examination. Chopper confirms his worst fear. It was too late.

He holds you, running his hands through your hair, whispering words of apologies to you. He blames himself, of course. He wasn’t strong enough to keep you safe. 

He presses his lips into your forehead first, taking a deep inhale to try and remember your smell. He’s having trouble accepting the fact he’ll never smell your shampoo again, never see your smile. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

He moves his lips down to yours, giving you one last kiss as a goodbye. He pulls away to find your eyes staring at him, scared to see him so sad.

He drops you in shock, his face contorting into a weird mix of confusion and joy. He doesn’t know how to feel or what’s going on, and you're just as confused. 

“What the hell?” he yelled, prompting Chopper to look up and see you alive and well. The reindeer screams while you look at your boyfriend in confusion. 

“What?” you ask, irritated that was his reaction to kissing you.

Zoro just stares at you, mouth agape. You can see his eyes are still watery, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds until Chopper screams. “You were dead, Y/N! Really dead!”

“No I wasn’t,” you shoot back, trying to hide your panic. 

“You were,” Zoro whispered. He lunged at you, his lips pressing against yours for a long time. 

You finally push him off of you, gasping for air. “Damn, Zoro! Don’t kill me again!” you said, feigning a coughing fit. “Although, I guess you could, as long as you bring me back with another kiss, mmkay?”

Before he has the chance to say something snarky back, you lean in for another kiss, and he happily accepts it.