#But that's a another whole conversation it self | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

0scarp1astr1 · 1 day ago

Text

࣭ ˖ 𐔌 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧 ࿐ . ۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Oscar finally wants to marry you, have his life with you forever. The only issue being, the media made sure to out his ring shopping, and the headliner of another woman didn't help his plans. ||

ᯓ★ Oscar Piastri x Fem! Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Angst, Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: Here is Oscar! I have two more solo fics to write before I jump into your request. After Oscar, will be Lando and Franco. Thank you guys so much for the support, it's never overlooked by me. You'll get this Oscar fic on the same day as Kimi, because it was already halfway written in my drafts, and thanks to the amazing support, I won't leave you guys waiting much longer. So please, enjoy. Remember that the request box is open and private messages are as well.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Oscar still remembers the night he first met you like a half-faded photo—soft around the edges, but vivid where it mattered most.

It was during a party that Lando had thrown together after a long stretch of back-to-back races, something loud and electric to blow off steam. The kind of night Lando lived for—fast music, faster drinks, and friends packed into every inch of his flat like confetti. Oscar, on the other hand, was the furthest thing from a party person. Introverted to his core, the very idea of voluntarily putting himself in a loud room full of strangers felt like social self-sabotage. But Lando was persistent—painfully persistent. He begged, bargained, and eventually guilt-tripped Oscar into showing up, if only for an hour.

So Oscar did.

He walked into the chaos dressed in the most neutral outfit he owned—a plain white T-shirt and jeans that looked more like he was running out for groceries than attending a party. He hadn’t even bothered to fix his hair properly. It wasn’t rebellion; it was just indifference. He had every intention of staying for sixty minutes, tops. No small talk. No drinks. No dancing. Just show face, and ghost.

The second he stepped through the door, it all hit him at once—the pounding bass vibrating through the floor, people laughing too loudly in every direction, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. The kitchen, somehow the heart of the whole thing, was a mess of spilled cocktails and half-eaten snacks. There wasn’t even a corner left to hide in.

Oscar cursed himself. What was I thinking?

“There you are!” came a familiar voice over the music. Lando, of course—red-cheeked, grinning like the Cheshire cat, and already halfway through whatever drink he was holding. His eyes lit up like he’d spotted a unicorn. “I was starting to think you bailed again. Come on! Let’s get you a drink!”

Before Oscar could even open his mouth to say no, Lando had already slung an arm around his shoulders and steered him into the crowd. Oscar didn’t want to drink, didn’t even want to be seen, but Lando was too giddy to disappoint. He sighed and accepted the cup pressed into his hand.

“You’ll enjoy it! You’ll like it, I swear!” Lando said with the confidence of someone who never doubted for a second that the world would bend his way.

Then, just as quickly, Lando vanished into the sea of people, leaving Oscar standing alone with lukewarm liquid in hand, surrounded by moving bodies and muffled conversations that all blurred together. He tried to tell himself it would be over soon. Just one hour.

That’s when it happened.

Someone bumped into him from behind—not roughly, but enough to jolt the drink in his hand, the liquid sloshing over the rim and onto his shirt. He blinked, startled, already half-prepared to retreat further into the wall.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry!” you said, turning around quickly, your eyes wide with genuine concern. “Did I spill it all over you? I wasn’t paying attention—I swear I didn’t see you standing there.”

Oscar glanced down at his shirt. A light splash of whatever Lando had given him—nothing major. But before he could say anything, you were already rambling out an apology.

“I really should’ve been watching where I was going... Ugh, I hate when people do that and now I’ve done it myself. Are you okay?”

Your words were fast, a little breathless, and filled with a kind of awkward charm that caught Oscar off guard. For the first time that evening, he let out the faintest smile.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly, the corners of his lips tilting up just enough. “Honestly. Not the worst thing that’s happened tonight.”

You laughed—warm and soft, like it was only meant for him—and for a brief second, the room didn’t feel so loud. The lights weren’t so harsh. And maybe the party wasn’t as unbearable as he thought.

You offered to help him clean it up, reaching for a napkin, fussing just enough that it made him laugh under his breath again.

“I’m usually not this clumsy,” you said, glancing up at him through a sheepish grin.

And Oscar—introverted, anxious, very much ready to leave ten minutes ago—found himself replying, “I’m usually not at parties.”

“Well,” you said, handing him a slightly crumpled paper towel, “maybe tonight we both try something new.”

And somehow, from that small moment—a bump, an apology, a soft exchange—something quiet but significant began. A kind of comfort Oscar hadn’t expected to find in the middle of a crowd. You didn’t know it then, and neither did he, but it was the start of something...different. Something good.

The conversation between you and Oscar had been easy—too easy, almost like the universe had decided he deserved a break that night. The kind of connection that didn’t come with effort or force. Just simple, smooth energy that felt right.

You didn’t pressure him to drink. You didn’t overwhelm him with questions or drag him into noisy chaos. Instead, you just existed beside him—calm, grounded, and genuinely enjoying yourself without needing alcohol or attention to do it. He noticed that. He noticed everything about you.

The way your eyes crinkled when you laughed too hard. The way you playfully scolded Lando when he tried to stack too many ping pong balls into a single cup during a chaotic game of beer pong. The way you somehow made even that look fun—made him laugh, made him play.

Oscar didn’t really care for beer pong. He barely cared for parties. But he found himself lingering near you like gravity had quietly shifted its pull. You didn’t demand his attention—you earned it, slowly and naturally. And somewhere between the laughter and small talk, between your jokes and the occasional clink of plastic cups, Oscar realized something: he wasn’t counting the minutes anymore.

Maybe it was you that night. Maybe it was always going to be you.

As the night wore on, the apartment started to thin out. Guests began filing out in little groups, hugging each other goodbye, buzzing from drinks and good vibes. The music softened. The once-wild energy simmered into a low, sleepy warmth. But Oscar didn’t notice much of it. Not really. Because you were still there—walking beside him out the door, arms brushing lightly every now and then, both of you laughing at something small and ridiculous you said.

The world outside was cool and quiet, a peaceful contrast to the storm of noise inside. It felt like a reset button had been pressed.

“I had fun tonight,” you said, breathless from your last laugh. “Oh! I never introduced myself properly—my name’s Y/N. Sorry, I totally forgot.”

Oscar gave a small shake of his head, the corner of his lips tugging into a soft, rare smile. “No worries. Oscar Piastri.”

You raised your brows, a playful sparkle in your eyes. “Oscar Pastry, huh?”

It was a tired, overused joke. He’d heard it before. But somehow—coming from you—it landed differently. He laughed, a real one, not just a polite exhale. A small, surprised sound that made your smile grow a little wider.

And that smile? That might’ve just been the highlight of his entire night.

Then came the soft sound of tires rolling to a stop—the cab pulling up to the curb. You turned to him, shifting slightly, your expression suddenly more serious, but no less kind.

“Oh—before I go!” you said, reaching into your pocket and pulling out your phone. You held it out to him, eyes sincere. “I’d like your number.”

Oscar blinked, caught off guard for a moment. No one had ever asked him like that before—straightforward, unbothered, sure. But it didn’t feel intimidating. It felt like you. Honest. Warm. Real.

He took your phone without hesitation, typing his number in carefully, and handing it back with the ghost of a smile still on his lips. You didn’t linger after that. Just a quick thank you, a soft “goodnight,” and then you were off—sliding into the backseat of the cab, waving briefly as the door shut.

Oscar stood on the curb for a moment longer, watching the car disappear down the quiet street, the faint trail of its taillights flickering in the distance.

And you? You sat in the backseat, scrolling to his contact, smiling to yourself as you saved it—Oscar. No last name. No note. Just that.

Neither of you knew it at the time, but that night would stick—etched in both your memories like a hidden bookmark in the story neither of you realized had just begun. The night didn’t end with fireworks or sweeping gestures, just the quiet magic of meeting the right person... in the most unexpected place.

And to Oscar, you would be unforgettable. Because somehow, on a night he didn’t even want to show up… You made it one he’d never want to forget.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

After that night at the party, something changed for Oscar. He didn’t expect it—hadn’t prepared for it—but he found himself reaching for his phone more often than he ever had before.

At first, the messages were short and simple. “Hey, did you get home okay?” “Was that your go-to drink at the party?” But soon, those texts began to fill the quiet spaces of his day. Good morning. Sleep well. What are you up to tonight? Want to hang out?

It became his favorite routine. You and him, tucked away from the noise of the media, the cameras, the press. No interviews, no scrutiny—just small, precious pockets of time that belonged only to the two of you. Cooking dinner, walking in the park, watching trash TV until midnight with snacks balanced between you. It was normal. It was private. And for Oscar, it was everything.

Then one evening, during a quiet moment as you both sat near a sunlit window, he looked over at you, heart racing, fingers twitching ever so slightly, and asked softly:

"I want to take you on a date… if you’ll allow it?"

It was such a simple question. But it carried weight. The moment you said yes, something shifted—for both of you. A quiet promise began to form, one that would only grow stronger.

The first date was his idea—sweet, understated, and just enough to ease his nerves. A cozy dinner. Light wine, shared food, conversations that felt like warmth in motion. The two of you sat across from each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist. You talked about family, childhood memories, even weird food preferences. And you laughed. A lot. There were inside jokes born that night, the kind no one else would understand.

The second date was your turn. You chose bowling—unexpected, messy, chaotic fun. You were both competitive in the most ridiculous ways, Oscar pretending to pout when you landed a strike, you high-fiving him dramatically when he finally beat your score. That night ended in the quiet of an empty hilltop, lying on the hood of his car, counting stars like kids at summer camp. He remembers how you laughed when he pointed at a constellation and got it completely wrong. That was also the night you took your first photo together—unplanned, under the stars, a blurry shot that still lives in his camera roll. One of his favorites.

The third date was his again. But this one was different. This one meant something. It was quieter, more intimate. He had flowers—soft lavender and cream ones he thought matched you perfectly. His voice trembled slightly when he finally said, "Will you be my girlfriend?"

It slipped out so naturally, so full of quiet confidence that it surprised even him. You said yes, of course. And he swore the moment your smile bloomed, he felt like he could breathe easier.

Time passed. Dates turned into routines. Routines turned into a life.

Oscar found a flat in Monaco. It was beautiful, filled with sunlight and soft corners and windows that framed the sky just right. But it wasn’t until you moved in that it felt like home. Slowly, your life together began to decorate every inch—photos pinned to the fridge, coffee mugs you’d argue over, throw blankets left tangled on the couch after movie nights.

The mornings started with your cooking, the smell of coffee drifting through the flat, Oscar appearing in the kitchen still half-asleep but smiling as soon as he saw you. Every goodbye kiss at the door, every return home to your arms open wide—it grounded him. Anchored him.

And then there were the moments that most people didn’t see—the quiet proof of love.

You staying up late to finish a work project, Oscar pulling up a chair beside you just to keep you company, offering snacks or resting his head on your shoulder. Him canceling plans when you weren’t feeling well. You learning everything about F1 just so you could cheer for him in a way that made his heart feel full.

Love didn’t shout between you—it whispered. In everyday things. In shared space, in little favors, in choosing each other again and again. And of course, Lando, ever the enthusiastic third wheel, cheered you both on like the biggest fan of your love story. “About damn time,” he’d joke, still bragging that he was the reason Oscar even showed up to that party in the first place.

Oscar knew now—what he hadn’t known that first night in the crowded kitchen. That bump… that spilled drink… it led him to something real. Someone real.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

In the present moment, on a sunlit and sweltering race weekend in Miami, the paddock buzzed with its usual mix of chaos and glamour. But your day had found its own rhythm—drifting from garage to garage, laughing with friends, soaking up the little moments that made this fast-paced life feel normal.

You were somewhere nearby, probably with Kelly, sharing laughs and gossip about her famously private boyfriend, Max Verstappen, or perhaps doting on little Penelope, who had taken an unexpected liking to you. Maybe you were with Alex, teasing her about her and Charles’ adorable little dog, Leo, or even chatting up Lewis, nudging him about why he still hadn't settled down so you’d have another couple friend to drag along to double dates. Or maybe, just maybe, you were off somewhere talking Franco's ear off—your conversations with him always managed to stretch into something long, effortless, and full of laughter. He had grown to be someone Oscar trusted with you. And that meant everything.

But right now, Oscar had something heavy pressing on his chest.

He made his way through the paddock, helmet still in hand, race adrenaline still fading from his system, until he found himself at the McLaren drivers’ room. There sat Lando, dressed down in his suit but glued to his phone, probably scrolling through his Instagram feed or replying to fans.

Oscar cleared his throat. “Mate, we need to talk.”

Lando immediately looked up, expression flickering with concern. He tossed his phone to the side, giving Oscar his full attention. “What is it?”

There was a tension in Oscar’s voice that made Lando squint. “Are you breaking up with Y/n?” he asked a little too quickly, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Oscar rolled his eyes with a soft scoff. “No, it’s… something serious.”

That made Lando lean in slightly, curiosity sharpening. Oscar sat beside him, shifting forward, elbows resting on his knees. His hands wrung together before he finally said it—softly, but with a clarity that felt like standing at the edge of something huge.

“I want to be with her... forever.”

Lando’s brow lifted slightly, waiting for more.

“I mean it,” Oscar added. “Not just dating. Not just someday. I want to marry her.”

Lando froze, then let out an audible “Ohhhhhh.” He stared at Oscar, blinking once, then twice before his lips broke into a slow, boyish grin. “You want to marry her? Mate… that’s huge.”

Oscar blushed slightly at even admitting it out loud. But it was a good kind of blush—the kind that comes with certainty.

Lando’s tone softened. “What made you want to settle down?”

Oscar paused. The question lingered in the air, and he let the silence hang for a moment before answering.

“It’s everything, Lando,” he said. “The way she makes space feel like home, the way she smells when she’s baking. The way she talks to people—so gentle but strong. The way she handles herself, how she doesn’t chase the spotlight, but it still finds her. The way she is with kids—God, when I see her hold Penelope, or laugh with Charles and Alex about Leo like it’s a child, it just… makes me want to have that life. A real one. With her. Waking up next to her every day, watching her grow, maybe even… raising a little us someday.”

He smiled faintly, his thoughts clearly far away now, lost in the mental image of a family he hadn’t even begun to build but somehow already felt was real.

“She’s soft-spoken. Kind. And I love her, Lando. More than I think I’ve ever loved anything in my life.”

Lando blinked away a bit of emotion at that, not expecting Oscar to say it like that. “Damn,” he whispered. “That’s actually really beautiful, mate.”

Then came the realization.

“And I’m guessing… you’re telling me this because you need help.”

Oscar gave a sheepish nod. “I want to surprise her. I want the proposal to be perfect. But I’m gonna need you to keep her distracted for a while.”

Lando leaned back with a smirk. “Oh, I’m the distraction?”

Oscar chuckled. “You’re the only one I trust to pull it off and not ruin it.”

Lando held up his hands dramatically. “I’ll do it. But only because I love her almost as much as you do. And because I know she’s going to say yes.”

Oscar’s smile widened—relief, nerves, joy, and love all tangled into one quiet moment.

And somewhere in the paddock, while you laughed with a friend or cradled Penelope or nagged Lewis just a bit too much, you had no idea that the man you loved was planning the next chapter of your forever.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The Miami sun beamed down mercilessly, heatwaves shimmering off the asphalt. The crowd was electric, a sea of color and noise vibrating through the paddock and into every driver’s chest. The lights above the grid flashed one by one.

Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

Lights out.

The race began in a blur of tire smoke and deafening roars. Oscar got a solid launch, holding P3 as Lando surged forward, challenging Max for the lead. The three of them—Oscar, Lando, Max—became the trio to watch, locked in a ruthless, tire-burning dance through the corners and straights of the Miami circuit.

Inside his helmet, Oscar was calm—hyper-focused, heart racing in time with the engine beneath him. Every sharp turn and braking zone was met with precision. His thoughts flickered to you in the paddock.

Lap after lap, Oscar edged closer.

By Lap 42, Lando had made a brave move down the inside of Max into Turn 11, clean and fast. The crowd erupted.

McLaren was now running 1–2.

But Oscar wasn’t done.

“I’ve got more in me,” he said calmly over the radio, voice smooth like steel.

His engineer trusted him. “Use Mode Push.”

The gap between him and Lando was just under a second. Teammates or not—this was still a race. Lando knew it. Oscar knew it.

By Lap 49, Oscar was in DRS range, tires still fresh from a perfectly-timed stop. He followed Lando through the long sweeping section, patient… waiting… then he launched—down the main straight, DRS open, slipstream locked.

Turn 1.

Late braking. No lock-up. Clean line. Oscar Piastri takes the lead.

Lando tried to counter, staying within reach, but Oscar had already found another gear.

Behind them, Max was hanging on in P3, but couldn’t match the pace—his tires fading, the Red Bull slightly unsettled through the corners.

McLaren was on fire.

The sun began to set, casting golden light across the track. Oscar rounded the final corner, heart hammering as the checkered flag waved.

P1.

He did it.

Lando crossed just a few seconds behind for a brilliant P2, and Max Verstappen rolled in to secure P3.

McLaren erupted in celebration—mechanics throwing their headsets, hugging, yelling, half in disbelief and half in joy.

You stood in the middle of it all, hands covering your mouth, heart ready to burst.

The trio stood tall: Oscar, Lando, and Max.

The champagne sprayed high into the air—Lando was the first to pop his, hitting Max directly, and Max retaliated without hesitation. Oscar laughed, shielding himself at first, before joining in and dousing Lando in return.

But his mind never wandered far.

As the national anthem faded and the crowd roared, Oscar took a deep breath, heart full. The victory tasted sweet—but not just because of the race. Because you were there. Because Lando stood beside him, grinning like a proud idiot. Because in that golden moment, everything felt exactly as it should.

He caught your eyes again from the podium, and in that split-second—champagne dripping from his curls, his suit marked with grit and glory—he mouthed two simple words:

“For you.”

The moment Oscar stepped down from the podium, past the flashing cameras, the sprayed champagne still dripping from his curls, his eyes scanned the crowd frantically—until they landed on you.

You didn’t hesitate. You bolted past the last line of crew members and into his arms. Oscar caught you with a firm lift, pulling you close as you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, your smile wide and your cheeks flushed with pride and emotion.

“You did it! Congratulations, baby!” you exclaimed, your voice bubbling with joy. And then—without pause—you kissed him. Everywhere. His cheeks, his temple, his nose, his lips—each kiss full of love and celebration.

Oscar laughed, head tilting back slightly from the peppering of affection, the kind of genuine laugh he only ever saved for you. His arms were still around your waist, not letting go just yet. “You’re my lucky charm,” he teased, his voice soft, eyes shining. “You show up, I win.”

You gave a playful little scoff, brushing your fingers through his damp curls. “Mmm, so now I’m responsible for the trophy?” “I mean… I did win when you wore that dress,” he murmured with a cheeky smirk, making you laugh and roll your eyes. “Oh, so it’s the dress, not my presence?” “No no—definitely you. The dress is just... bonus magic,” he grinned.

With one last loving squeeze, he gently lowered you back to the ground, but his fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant to let go too quickly.

You turned then, catching Lando approaching with a smug smile and open arms. You didn’t hesitate to embrace him too.

“You did so good out there, Lando!” you said warmly, hugging him tightly and giving him a few proud pats on the back. “I’m really proud of you.”

Lando chuckled, ruffling your hair slightly like a teasing older brother. “Yeah, yeah, give all the attention to the golden boy over there,” he joked with a tilt of his head toward Oscar.

You grinned and gave him a little nudge in the ribs. “Come on, second place on a day like today? You and Oscar owned that track. McLaren hasn’t looked this alive in a long time. You should be proud.”

Lando’s eyes softened then, smile turning more genuine. “Thanks, love. Means a lot coming from you.”

Oscar stepped forward, bumping shoulders with his teammate as they exchanged a look of shared accomplishment. “Couldn’t have done it without you keeping Max on edge.” “Yeah, well,” Lando shrugged, “someone had to play defense while you went full superman.”

The three of you stood there, a small trio in the middle of a chaotic celebration, but in your little circle, time slowed down. There was champagne still soaking into the gravel, mechanics shouting joyfully in the distance, and fans cheering just beyond the gates. But none of it could distract from this feeling—this warmth.

Franco soon joined you, jogging up in his Alpine gear, having stayed to watch the podium.

“Hey! Look at you three!” he beamed, pulling you into a half hug. “I swear, Oscar, you better hold onto her tight. She’s had you glowing since lap one.”

You blushed and laughed, while Oscar gave a mock-serious nod. “Trust me, mate. I’m not letting go.”

You glanced up at him with a look—soft, unspoken, but deeply mutual.

Franco clapped both Lando and Oscar on the shoulders. “Drinks tonight, yeah?” Lando smirked. “Oh, we’re celebrating big.”

Oscar looked down at you, brushing his thumb across your cheek gently. “But I get the first dance with her,” he murmured.

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Always.”

Oscar watched you disappear into the crowd, your figure moving with effortless familiarity toward the Red Bull garage. He caught a glimpse of you slipping past engineers and mechanics, weaving between busy crew members until you finally reached Max and Kelly. Despite how intimidating Max Verstappen could seem to outsiders, Oscar knew better now—he’d seen the soft moments, the quiet way Max would look at Kelly, or how easily the two of them welcomed you both into their lives.

Kelly adored you, and you adored her. Whether it was cozy nights in, talking for hours about life and love, or the occasional spontaneous spa day, your bond with her had blossomed into something beautifully natural. Max, too, had warmed to you over time. Dinners, double dates, quiet afternoons in Monte Carlo—Oscar often caught Max cracking a rare grin at something you said, or leaning in just slightly to hear you better, a silent sign of trust and respect. It made Oscar love you even more.

As your laughter trailed off into the distance, Oscar turned back to Lando and Franco, his hands in his pockets, a rare look of nervous excitement passing over his face.

“Alright,” he began, voice lower now, more serious under the buzz of post-race energy, “she has work tomorrow, a project she’s submitting to the office. So she’ll be busy most of the day. That gives me a window.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, already suspecting where this was going, while Franco leaned forward with interest.

“In two days,” Oscar continued, “we’re going ring shopping.”

Lando let out a soft whistle, impressed. “It’s actually happening, huh?”

Oscar gave a small but meaningful nod, the corner of his lips tugging up in the kind of smile only you had ever been able to draw from him. “Yeah. It is. I’ve known for a while, but... it just feels right now.”

He turned to Franco, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a kind of brotherly sincerity. “I’m gonna need your help, mate. You’ve got the taste. You’ll scout stores ahead of time, take pictures of the rings, tell me what you think fits her best.”

Franco chuckled. “Ah, so I’m the ring scout now, huh?”

Oscar grinned. “Exactly. But not just any ring—her ring. I want it to look like it was made just for her.”

Franco gave a small salute. “I’m on it. She’s got that elegant but soft vibe. I’ll find you something that screams her name before you even say it.”

Oscar’s gaze then shifted to Lando, a knowing smirk forming. “And you... you’re my distraction.”

Lando scoffed with a dramatic gesture. “What am I? Her babysitter?”

“No,” Oscar teased, “but if there’s anyone she can hang out with for hours without asking questions, it’s you.”

Lando shrugged, amused. “Fair enough. We do talk absolute nonsense for half the day. What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever keeps her away from jewelry shops and suspicious thoughts,” Oscar replied. “Lunch, karting, shopping, hell, make her organize your closet if you have to.”

Franco barked a laugh. “Don’t give him ideas. He will.”

Lando held up his hands innocently. “Hey, if it helps your cause, I’ll let her roast my entire wardrobe. Again.”

Oscar laughed softly, but the emotion in his eyes was real—warm and hopeful. “Thank you. Both of you. This is the biggest thing I’ll ever do. And I just want it to be perfect.”

They both nodded, a quiet weight settling over the group—this wasn’t just about helping a friend. It was about witnessing love grow from something casual to something forever.

Franco glanced toward the Red Bull paddock where you were now talking animatedly with Kelly, your head thrown back in laughter. “She doesn’t even know what’s coming,” he said with a grin.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

While the rest of Miami’s nightlife pulsed with post-race energy—drivers, teams, and celebrities diving into champagne-soaked celebrations—your evening with Oscar was unfolding in a much quieter, far more intimate way.

The two of you had reserved a private dining room in one of Miami’s most elegant rooftop restaurants, overlooking the glowing skyline and gentle waves in the distance. The restaurant itself felt tucked away, dimly lit with golden chandeliers hanging low and casting a soft warmth across the sleek black-and-gold table setting. You and Oscar had invited his family to join you—a post-race celebration, but one that felt more personal than public. It was the kind of night Oscar treasured.

He sat beside you in a crisp black button-up, sleeves casually rolled, a watch still on his wrist from earlier. You wore something soft and elegant, a silk number that caught the light every time you moved. The view behind you shimmered, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

Across the table sat Chris and Nicole, his parents, both dressed with easy sophistication. Beside them were his sisters—Edie, Hattie, and Mae—laughing quietly among themselves as the waiter finished pouring wine into everyone's glasses.

Conversation flowed easily. There was something so grounded about being around his family, and you fit right in. You always had.

“He can be a bit messy at times, but I love him,” you said with a playful smirk, cutting into your filet as Oscar let out a light groan beside you.

Nicole burst into laughter, resting a hand near her wine glass. “Oh, believe me, we know.”

Chris chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “There was a time his floor disappeared under piles of laundry. Thought he was nesting.”

You laughed along with them, the sound soft but heartfelt. Hattie smiled warmly at you from across the table, and you leaned a bit toward her, offering gently, “Did you want a refill, Hattie?”

She shook her head, sweetly. “No, I’m okay. But thank you.”

That’s what they all appreciated about you—you didn’t hover or perform, you simply were. Genuinely kind. A natural fit. You never tried to control Oscar’s time with them, only added to it. Dinners like this were your idea. And even in a restaurant as polished as this one, with live jazz floating up from the bar below and silver clinking softly against china, you made everything feel like home.

“So,” Nicole began after a sip of her wine, eyes twinkling over the rim of her glass, “any kids in the future?”

The table paused. The jazz in the background suddenly felt a little too well-timed.

You choked slightly on your bite of food, coughing into your napkin as Oscar’s eyes widened beside you.

“Mum!” he half-laughed, half-groaned, patting your back lightly as he shot her a look. “You can’t just drop that.”

Nicole held up both hands, unbothered and smiling. “I’m just asking! You two are practically a married couple already.”

“I am so sorry, Y/n,” she added, though her grin betrayed the sincerity. “Curiosity got the better of me.”

Chris was shaking his head affectionately beside her. “Smooth, Nic.”

You finally caught your breath and placed your napkin down, glancing up with a shy smile. “It’s okay, really. Just... wasn’t expecting that while mid-bite.”

Oscar leaned closer to you, his hand finding your thigh beneath the table—comforting, reassuring. You met his gaze briefly and saw that soft spark in his eyes, the one that always made your chest ache in the best way.

“I mean... we’ve talked about it a little,” you admitted, voice gentle now. “Nothing planned just yet, but... it doesn’t scare me. Not with him.”

Nicole’s expression melted with affection, and even Edie let out a quiet, dreamy little “aww.” Hattie and Mae giggled between themselves.

“I think you two would be wonderful parents,” Nicole said earnestly. “You’ve already been so great with Mae.”

“Can I name the baby?” Mae asked innocently, blinking up from her drink.

Everyone laughed again, even the waiter delivering dessert cracked a smile.

Oscar turned to you again, voice low and full of fondness. “They’re getting ahead of us.”

You smiled into your wine glass, eyes shining in the candlelight. “Maybe not by that much.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, almost absentmindedly, and then turned back to his family—conversation resuming, laughter bubbling through the air like champagne.

And as you sat there with the city lights dancing behind the windows and Oscar’s family all around you, you realized this moment—this soft, private, real celebration—was your favorite kind of win.

Dinner had long since wound down, the plates now empty save for the smudges of sauce and lingering crumbs from the breadbasket that Mae had slowly picked apart during dessert. Glasses sat half-full, the red wine catching the soft candlelight, and the scent of roasted garlic and rosemary still hung in the air, mixed with subtle hints of your perfume every time you leaned forward to speak.

Laughter still bubbled around the table, gentle and unforced, the kind that came from genuine joy—not from anything particularly funny, just from being with people who made you feel safe. You were relaxed now, more than you'd been in days. Maybe it was the quiet joy of Oscar’s win, maybe the closeness of his family, or maybe it was the arm he had draped around the back of your chair, his fingers idly brushing your shoulder like he was tethering himself to you. Even when he wasn’t looking directly at you, you felt him. But tonight, he rarely looked away.

He watched you with soft eyes, his posture open and content, nodding along as you told Nicole and Chris about your work and the never-ending test of patience that was your boss.

"My boss isn't the nicest," you said with a little roll of your eyes, fingers wrapping around your wine glass. “I’m afraid if I don’t quit someday, he’s going to drive me up the wall. He wakes up miserable, I swear.”

Nicole let out a sympathetic laugh. “Some people just have a talent for ruining mornings.”

You sighed, smiling tiredly. “Thankfully for me, Oscar keeps me from overworking too much.”

“I’m not the biggest fan of your boss either,” Oscar chimed in easily, his voice low but protective. “In fact, I have told you—if you want to quit, you can.”

There was no pressure in his tone, just quiet support. But you shook your head gently, already knowing that.

“I know I can,” you replied, reaching under the table to brush your fingers along his knee affectionately. “But I don’t want to be at home with nothing to do all day. I like my independence… even if it means a few headaches.”

Chris smiled into his glass, watching the exchange with clear admiration. It was subtle, but everyone at the table could feel it—Oscar respected you, deeply. And it wasn’t just because of the way you held your own, or how you showed up for him and his family—it was the way you carried yourself, the way you chose him and still chose you too.

Nicole gave your hand a gentle squeeze from across the table. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re handling it all beautifully. But you always have a place here, you know. And a family who’ll back you up, miserable bosses be damned.”

You smiled at that, glancing around the table at the people who had, over time, become an extension of your own.

But a glance at your phone made your brows furrow softly. “It’s getting late…” you murmured, pressing the button to lock the screen. “Oscar and I should head back to our hotel room.”

Oscar nodded, already scooting his chair back in sync with you.

You stood and smoothed your dress before stepping around the table, leaning in to wrap your arms gently around Nicole first. “Please,” you said softly, “whenever we fly back home after the season, think about coming to see us. Dinner at our place in Monaco. I’ll cook, and you can bring dessert,” you added with a wink toward Edie.

Nicole hugged you warmly. “We’d love that.”

Chris gave you a firm but fatherly hug. “Count on it.”

Even Hattie, usually a little more reserved, pulled you in with quiet affection, while Mae clung to your waist like she wasn’t ready to say goodbye. “You make the best noodles,” she whispered, giggling.

Oscar stepped in then, brushing a kiss to his youngest sister’s hair before pulling out his wallet and sliding his card to the waiter with a quiet thank-you.

He turned back to the table once more, giving his mum a light peck on the cheek. “Thanks for coming, really. This meant a lot.”

Nicole touched his arm, smiling. “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Hand in hand, you and Oscar exited the private dining room, stepping out into the cool Miami evening where the buzz of the city still lingered faintly on the breeze. The driver was already waiting by the curb, the car quiet and comfortable as you both slid in.

As the door closed and the city lights streaked by outside, Oscar leaned his head against the seat, finally letting out a long, content breath.

“That was… perfect,” he murmured.

You glanced over at him, reaching for his hand again. “It really was.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The quiet hum of the laptop fan was the only sound in the room. You sat propped up against the pillows, legs tucked under the covers as the early morning sun streamed gently through the sheer curtains. The golden light spilled across the white sheets and reflected off your screen, giving the whole space a soft, honeyed glow. Your fingers tapped rhythmically against the keys, eyes focused, though your mind drifted in and out.

Oscar’s side of the bed was already cold.

It was odd—he was never one to sneak out of bed without at least whispering a goodbye or pressing a kiss to your forehead. But this morning, he’d slipped out early, quiet as a whisper, and all he’d left behind was the subtle impression of his body on the mattress.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Maybe he went for a run. Maybe there was media to handle. Maybe Franco had roped him into some Alpine post-race brunch. Still, the quiet without him had weight. You missed him. You always missed him when he was gone too long, no matter how silly that sounded.

With a sigh, you shifted the laptop from your thighs and placed it gently beside you. Work could wait ten more minutes.

Slipping out of bed, you padded across the plush carpet in your soft lounge set, the kind Oscar always complimented with that quiet smirk of his. Your hair was a bit messy from sleep, but you didn’t care—this was your quiet time. You moved toward the door, mostly out of instinct, thinking maybe you’d call room service for some tea.

A light knock came just as your fingers grazed the handle.

You cracked the door open cautiously, only to be greeted by the wide, mischievous grin of your best friend.

“Lando?” you blinked, surprise melting into warmth as your lips curved into a smile. “What are you doing?”

“Coming to see you,” he said with his usual cheeky charm, rocking on his heels. “I figured you were still in work mode, but I missed annoying you. Thought I’d remind you I exist.”

You laughed softly, opening the door wider as you leaned against the frame. “I could never forget. And yeah, I’ve been buried under this stupid report since dawn.”

He leaned his head in a little to peek past you. “Oscar not here?”

You shook your head slowly. “Weirdly left early. Didn’t say much.”

Lando made a thoughtful noise, hands sliding into his hoodie pockets. “Hmm. Probably up to something.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you know something?”

Lando raised both brows in mock innocence. “Moi? Absolutely not. I’m just here for moral support.”

You gave him a playful nudge. “Right.”

“Anyway,” he continued, brushing past the subject casually, “whenever you get a break, we should hang out. Just like old times. I was thinking a walk down the marina, maybe grab something stupidly sugary from that gelato place you love.”

You softened at that.

It had been ages since you and Lando really spent time together. Not because of any distance emotionally, but just… life. Between your job, Oscar’s schedule, travel, and managing your own life, moments for spontaneity had slipped through the cracks. Still, Lando never once gave you guilt about it. He just kept showing up, in that uniquely Lando way—goofy, loyal, and present.

“I’d love that,” you said sincerely. “Let me finish this report, and I’m yours.”

He gave you a salute and leaned against the doorframe lazily. “Perfect. I’ll be your personal assistant today. I’ll make sure you hydrate and don’t throw your laptop across the room.”

“Tempting,” you muttered, glancing back at the screen. “Really tempting.”

Lando chuckled, watching you fondly. “Alright, finish up. Then we’ll go get your sugar fix."

You shut your laptop with a triumphant snap, the final click of the keyboard leaving you with the kind of satisfaction only people with insufferable bosses understand. You stretched your arms above your head and sighed—finally, freedom. You threw on a pair of jeans, a tucked-in tee, and a light jacket before grabbing your phone and heading to the door, where Lando was waiting, leaned casually against the hallway wall, scrolling through TikTok with a crooked grin.

“Took you long enough,” he teased, sliding his phone into his pocket as he pushed off the wall.

“I was making the world a better place,” you deadpanned. “One report at a time.”

He snorted. “Well, Saint Y/N, you’ve earned gelato and gossip.”

And with that, the two of you were off.

The day passed in waves of golden sunlight and warm laughter, walking side by side through the winding streets near the marina. You shared bites of your gelato—Lando insisting pistachio was superior, you rolling your eyes at him—and stopped by little shops just for fun. Conversations flowed effortlessly, drifting between real-time updates on your jobs and memories from your younger, wilder days.

At one point, Lando pulled out his phone and showed you a horribly grainy video of the two of you from years ago—some summer night, somewhere in Monaco, where you both looked far too caffeinated and chaotic.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, your hand covering your mouth. “Why do you still have this?”

“I cherish our worst moments,” he said proudly. “They’re funny.”

You bumped your shoulder into his, warmth blossoming in your chest. It had been too long since you'd laughed like this. Lando always had a way of bringing out that younger, freer version of you—the part that still existed beneath the maturity of your relationship and responsibilities.

What you didn’t know—what Lando was thrilled to keep secret—was that every spontaneous detour, every long-winded story, every stop to pet a random dog on the street was part of his mission: keep you out, keep you distracted, keep you from suspecting anything at all.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Oscar stood in a bright, marble-floored boutique with Franco at his side, both of them scanning the lit glass cases filled with rings.

Oscar was focused—no, obsessed. His arms were crossed, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed like he was trying to choose tires mid-race strategy.

“She doesn’t like anything too flashy,” he murmured under his breath, eyes flicking between two rings. “But she likes rose gold. And I think she mentioned cushion cuts once when we walked past a shop in Milan.”

Franco, dressed in a loose tee and joggers, was leaning with both elbows on the glass, eyeing Oscar with the casual fatigue of someone who had been ring-hunting for hours. “At this point, I think you know her ring size, style, and finger temperature better than she does.”

Oscar cracked a faint smile, but his eyes didn’t move. “I want it to feel like her. Not just some expensive rock. Something that feels like... something she’d wear even if I hadn’t given it to her.”

Franco hummed softly, tapping the edge of the glass case. “She’s not marrying the ring. She’s marrying you. But I get it.”

They circled the shop again—one that had been recommended by Kelly, who had insisted on it. Still, something wasn’t clicking. Every ring looked beautiful, but none of them felt right. Oscar was patient, but the weight of it all was beginning to grow heavier in his chest. Not with fear—but with hope. With love.

“I might have to wait until we’re back in Monaco,” he said after a long pause, eyes still studying a delicate piece of art nestled in a velvet tray. “Find the place we passed last year, the one she actually stopped to look at. She didn’t say anything, but she smiled. I remember.”

Franco nodded, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Then that’s where we’ll go. I’ll go with you. I’m already invested now.”

Oscar chuckled softly, finally stepping back from the glass. “Thanks, mate.”

“Of course.” Franco grinned. “I’m gonna cry at your wedding, by the way. Don’t expect anything less.”

Oscar laughed, and for the first time all morning, his shoulders dropped. “Honestly… I probably will too.”

Back outside, the sun had begun to dip low in the sky, casting long, golden shadows over the sidewalks of Miami.

And across town, you sat beside Lando on a bench overlooking the water, laughing softly as he told you some ridiculous party story, completely unaware of the quiet, sacred thing that was unfolding just for you.

Monaco had a quiet rhythm to it, one that you always forgot about until you returned home and were swallowed by its golden calm. The sun here poured differently through the windows. Softer. Gentler. The marble tiles of the flat cooled your feet, and the scent of the ocean always lingered faintly through the open balcony doors.

You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed the way silence felt in this place — not lonely, but peaceful. Like the world had exhaled and left you and Oscar a little corner to just be.

It had been a few days since Miami. Oscar had kept close in those first two days — helping you unpack, ordering your favorite meals, bringing you coffee in bed before your eyes even adjusted to the morning light. But slowly, he started stepping out more often. Nothing too unusual at first. Errands. “Meeting someone real quick.” A run.

He didn’t seem distant, but he wasn’t... anchored either. And maybe that wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t been through a time when Oscar was distant before. Your brain had been trained to catch the smallest changes — the ones that carried no words but all the weight.

And so when Lando dropped by for the third time in a row that week, casually flopping on the couch beside you, your instincts began to hum a little louder.

You sat beside him with your knees curled under you, your laptop open on one side, a throw blanket tucked into your side, a matcha half-sipped on the coffee table. Lando was unusually quiet. His phone buzzed twice in quick succession, and you caught the screen flash: Oscar 🟢.

Lando’s thumb flew over the keyboard a little too fast. Your brows lifted.

"Who's got you smiling at your phone like that? New girlfriend I don’t know about?" you teased lightly, leaning toward him.

He looked up with a crooked grin, the one he always used when he was trying to cover something. "Just Oscar. Dumb memes."

You hummed but didn't say more, your gaze narrowing slightly before returning to your laptop screen.

But Lando knew you. Knew that when you got quiet like that, your thoughts were spinning.

Oscar, meanwhile, stood in the heart of a sleek, private boutique tucked in a quiet corner of Monte Carlo, sunlight bouncing off the glass cases as he stared, once again, at a selection of rings that all felt just off. Beautiful, yes. But none of them whispered your name to him.

He glanced at the time. Lando was keeping you company, but he couldn't keep disappearing. You weren't oblivious. You noticed things. Oscar hated lying to you, even if it was for something good.

That was when Pietra walked in — tall, elegant in her own right, with long waves of dark hair and a casual grace that made her look like she belonged in Monaco. She was warm and quick-witted, and Max Fewtrell’s long-time girlfriend. Oscar had never thought to introduce her to you — too many timing misses, travel overlaps — but today, she was his salvation.

"You really owe Lando for this," Pietra said with a teasing tone, sliding her sunglasses onto her head. "Max says hi, by the way. He was going to come but bailed when he realized you were still shopping. He said you're worse than his sister."

Oscar laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know it’s taking forever, but I need it to be perfect."

Pietra looked at him for a moment, then softened. “That’s why she’s going to say yes.”

Oscar glanced down at the tray, a set of dainty rings catching Pietra’s eye. She picked one up, holding it to the light. “What about this one?”

He looked.

And for a moment, his world stopped.

It was a cushion-cut solitaire, resting on a delicate rose gold band with a tiny crescent of opals nestled into the undergallery — a barely-there detail, but one Oscar remembered you had swooned over in a passing comment about “moonlight jewelry” once in a boutique window.

His breath caught.

“This is it,” he whispered.

Back at the flat, Lando stood abruptly from the couch, stretching in a too-casual way. "Hey, wanna go for a walk? Get out of the house, stretch our legs?"

You looked up at him. "You’ve been awfully persistent about spending time with me lately."

Lando froze.

You narrowed your eyes.

“I mean—” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Oscar’s just been out a lot, and I thought maybe you were lonely or something.”

You raised a brow, standing up slowly. “Are you hiding something from me?”

Lando gave a helpless laugh, wide-eyed, nervous, and terrible at lying.

“I swear to god,” you said, half-serious, “if this is some kind of Bachelor scheme and there’s a camera crew hiding behind the balcony curtains—”

He threw a pillow at you.

But even as you laughed, some part of your heart fluttered — a tiny bloom of nervous hope — wondering, without saying it aloud: What if?

And somewhere across town, Oscar held the ring in his hand, chest rising with a quiet certainty.

Soon, he thought.

Not too soon to rush.

But soon enough to make you his forever.

Oscar had never been good at slowing down — not when it came to racing, not when it came to you. But today, in that softly lit boutique nestled in the quieter quarter of Monte Carlo, time felt like it paused around him.

He stood across the glass counter, the velvet tray beneath the ring doing nothing to dim its quiet beauty. The cushion-cut diamond sparkled under the overhead lights, the rose gold catching the soft warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the windows. And then… the undergallery. The tiny opal crescents—just like moonlight, just like you described once in a whisper, not even realizing he was listening.

But he always was.

Pietra leaned in beside him with a little gasp of awe, her perfectly manicured fingers slipping the ring onto her own hand. “Oscar,” she said softly, holding her hand out in the light. “This is so her. Delicate but not dull. It feels like her, doesn’t it?”

Oscar smiled. Not just with his lips — with something deeper, steadier, full of quiet emotion.

“I can already see her face,” he said, voice low. “I know the smile she’ll give me. The one where her eyes crinkle, and she tries not to cry but absolutely fails.”

Pietra laughed softly, turning her wrist to admire the way the light danced off the gem. “She’s going to cry. But only after she threatens to kill you for making her wear mascara.”

Oscar chuckled, heart warm and full. It felt good to have someone like Pietra here. She wasn’t just helping — she was grounding him. She had that calm, older-sister kind of energy, and Oscar had grown to appreciate that in the moments when nerves would usually get the better of him.

What neither of them noticed — focused entirely on the sparkle of commitment and the gentle way they spoke about love — was the quiet click of a shutter.

A passerby, someone too nosy for their own good, had spotted them through the storefront window. Snapped a photo. A girl trying on a ring. A guy smiling at her. In Monaco, of all places. Gossip didn’t need context, not in this city.

The image would slip onto the internet before either of them even left the boutique.

—

Back in your flat, none of that existed yet.

The world was simpler. Safe.

You and Lando had abandoned any plans of going out for the night, content with messy hair, pajama bottoms, and a pizza box open between the two of you on the couch. A cheesy romcom flickered on the screen — one of those so-bad-it’s-good movies that had probably been made on a budget smaller than your monthly grocery bill.

You rolled your eyes dramatically as the male lead delivered a particularly corny line.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, pointing. “That’s the third time he’s used a pun to ask her out.”

Lando leaned back, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Oscar sits through these.”

You snorted. “He doesn’t. He always falls asleep halfway through, like clockwork. I turn and he’s just—” You mimed a snore, complete with a drooping head.

Lando burst into laughter, his phone buzzing once against his leg. He didn’t even check it — too immersed in the comfort of this moment. This was what he missed — you like this. Relaxed. Real. Laughing with him like you always used to before life got busy, before relationships and careers and grown-up things got in the way.

He passed you the last slice of pizza, still warm. “You’ve turned into a whole domestic goddess, you know that? Like... slippers and blanket cape level.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Hey. I can still party if I want to. I just prefer wine nights and bad movies over... tequila and regret.”

Lando grinned, raising a toast with his soda. “To wine and bad movies.”

You clinked your can against his with a mock-serious nod. “To falling asleep in Oscar’s lap thirty minutes in.”

The laughter that followed felt easy, familiar — the kind that tugged you out of your head and into the moment. You had no idea what was unfolding just a few miles away. No clue of the photo. No clue of the conversation that had happened under soft lights and velvet trays.

For now, you were content. And Oscar, even unknowingly walking into a potential storm, was the same.

Because the ring — your ring — was finally nestled into a small, white box.

It only took a few hours — a handful of blissful, ignorant hours where everything had felt okay. Where laughter still echoed off the walls of your Monaco flat and the world outside hadn’t yet crashed into your peace.

You and Lando had ignored the buzzing of your phones for a while, passing it off as meaningless group chats or social updates. The TV blared louder in the background, the glow of the screen reflecting off your tired, happy faces as you sat wrapped in a blanket with the last bits of pizza crusts on the table.

But eventually, it was too much.

“Enough is enough,” you sighed with mild annoyance, grabbing your phone from the couch. Lando barely flinched, eyes still fixed on the movie, chuckling under his breath. It wasn’t until your breath hitched—sharp and confused—that his gaze slowly flicked toward you.

Your eyes didn’t leave the screen as your thumb scrolled, mouth parting in disbelief.

“Oscar Piastri caught ring shopping with Pietra Pilão?” you read aloud, voice cold and thin with disbelief.

Lando blinked, the words not processing immediately. “Wait—what?”

You turned the screen toward him with trembling fingers. There it was. The headline, the photo, the moment. A still frame of Oscar in the boutique, his smile gentle, genuine… Pietra trying on your ring. His eyes soft in a way you knew too well. A way that had always been reserved for you.

“Who the hell is Pietra?” you asked, voice shaking now.

Lando’s mouth opened but no words came. The blood drained from his face. “She’s—she’s Max’s girlfriend, I—she was just helping—wait, wait, you don’t think—”

“You knew he was seeing someone else?” Your voice cracked hard. You stood now, backing away from the couch as though the photo had burned into your palms.

“No! No—Y/N, he’s not! I swear, I would’ve told you. Oscar isn’t like that. He’s—he wouldn’t—he’s not—”

You shoved the phone closer to him. “Then what is this, Lando?! You don’t look at a woman like this unless you love her!” Your voice broke mid-sentence, and your breath hitched in your throat as tears welled up, unrelenting and bitter.

Lando shook his head, desperate. “It’s not what it looks like. You know how things get twisted. The media doesn’t care if it’s real or not. It just looks juicy so they push it. Don’t let them ruin what you two have.”

You wiped at your face angrily, pacing now. “He’s been leaving early. Always distracted. Always tired. And I blamed myself—thought maybe I wasn’t enough or maybe he was overwhelmed. But this? This is why? And you want me to bite my tongue?!”

Your voice cracked again, this time from somewhere deeper, more raw. Lando stepped forward, hand outstretched as if to comfort you, but you recoiled.

Across the city, Oscar had just left the quiet side street boutique, the little white ring box tucked safely into his jacket pocket, protected like a secret he couldn’t wait to share.

He was humming under his breath on the walk up to the flat, the crisp sea breeze catching strands of his hair. He pictured you waiting inside — maybe working on your laptop, maybe teasing Lando about something dumb. He smiled at the thought, unlocking the door quietly.

But the moment he stepped inside, the air was different. Thick. Heavy.

He heard it before he saw it. Your sobs — raw and jagged — echoing faintly from the hallway.

His shoes hit the floor as he rushed in, panic slamming into him like a wall. “Y/N?”

Then he saw Lando. Standing still. Quiet. Guilty.

Oscar’s heart dropped like a stone.

“Did you hurt her?!” he snapped, voice edged with protective anger.

Lando flinched. “Mate—wait, just calm down—”

“Don’t blame him for hurting me!” your voice rang out, breaking and sharp. Oscar turned toward you just in time to see the devastation etched across your face. Your eyes were red, glassy. Your hands trembled at your sides.

“You were ring shopping with another woman,” you said, almost in disbelief. “And you looked at her with so much love.”

Oscar’s entire body froze. “Wait. Wait—you saw that?” His voice was strangled, a mix of shock and immediate horror. His hand went instinctively to his jacket pocket where the ring box still sat, untouched.

He whipped around to Lando, eyes wild. “You told her?!”

Lando shook his head quickly. “Wasn’t me! It’s online. It’s everywhere.”

Oscar’s breath left him in a single, ragged exhale as realization sank in.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he said to you, stepping forward, desperate now. “That’s not—God, Y/N, that woman? Pietra? She’s not anyone to me. She’s Max’s girlfriend. She was just helping. Just helping pick a ring for you.”

You stood frozen, chest heaving. The words didn’t process at first. They felt too late. Too cruel. Or maybe too perfect — the way lies always sounded when you wanted to believe them.

Oscar took another step toward you, slow and pleading. “Please. Please look at me. You know me. You know I would never—”

Your hands covered your face, a sob escaping. He moved closer again, tentatively, reaching to pull them down, to see you, really see you.

The silence in the room was unbearable. Lando looked between you both, eyes filled with guilt and helplessness.

And Oscar — eyes glassy now too — held onto one thing.

That you hadn’t walked away yet.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The silence between you and Oscar had stretched the entire evening into something unbearable — heavy, tense, every second swollen with unsaid words and questions that circled your mind like vultures. You’d curled up on the couch long before the moon had risen high above the Monaco skyline, your body turned away from him, trying to fake sleep you weren’t getting.

Oscar sat alone at the edge of the bed for hours, eyes locked on the floor, his head resting in his hands as the weight of your silence suffocated him more than any headline ever could. He had given you space, knowing you needed time. But as the hours ticked by, something inside him twisted — he couldn't keep waiting. Not when you were only feet away but felt like a lifetime.

He stood and padded barefoot into the living room. The lights were dim, shadows falling soft across your figure, but even in the low light, he could tell — you weren’t asleep. Just still. Quiet. Hurting.

He stood in front of the couch, staring down at you.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” he said softly, his voice rough around the edges. “It’s getting late.”

You didn’t answer. You just curled deeper into the cushions, your arms wrapping tighter around your body like you were holding yourself together.

Oscar sighed. He knew you — really knew you — and he recognized this version of you: the one caught between fear and logic, love and pride. You weren't angry just to be angry. You were hurt. Confused. And worst of all — trying to shield yourself by pushing him away before he could really break your heart.

“You probably held her,” you muttered finally, voice muffled but sharp.

Oscar’s jaw tensed. “Come on, baby,” he said quietly, crouching down beside the couch. “Don’t be that way. You know that’s not fair.”

Your eyes stayed fixed on the armrest, on nothing in particular, but your voice trembled with more than just frustration. “I don’t know anything anymore. You say things like they’re easy to believe, but when I saw that photo—when I saw your face—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard.

Oscar didn’t interrupt. He let the storm come. Let you say what you needed to.

“It was love, Oscar. You looked at her like she mattered. Like she was me. You can see it written all over your face. So maybe you didn’t mean it like that, but that’s what the world saw. That’s what I saw.”

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he fought to keep his composure. When he opened them again, his gaze softened as he reached out, cupping your face gently in both hands, guiding you to look at him.

And for the first time all night — you did.

What you saw in his face was not guilt. Not lies. Not even frustration. It was raw, open, utterly honest love.

“You can choose not to believe me,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “You have every right to feel like this. But that photo? That moment? I was never looking at her, Y/N. I was watching someone try on the ring that I want to see on your hand. And the look you saw? That wasn’t for her. It was for the thought of you.”

You blinked, the tears rising again, thick and hot.

“I’ve had this planned since Miami,” he continued, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Franco helped me there. He was the only one I trusted to get it right. But then he had to go home to Argentina, and I still hadn’t found your ring. So I asked Lando for help. Not because I didn’t want to be honest with you — but because I wanted it to be perfect. I didn’t want you to guess what I was planning. I didn’t want you to feel pressure.”

He paused, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting yours again. “Lando couldn’t leave you without tipping you off. So Max offered. Then Pietra came instead. That’s all it was. A friend helping me pick the thing that’s supposed to sit on your hand for the rest of our lives.”

You stared at him, breathing uneven.

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise, not a headline. And I swear to you, Y/N… I would never replace you. I wouldn’t survive a life without you in it. You mean everything to me.”

The tears finally slipped free, rolling down your cheeks as Oscar brushed them away with both thumbs, his touch gentle, reverent.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “And I will ask you to marry me. But not like this. Not out of fear or to fix a misunderstanding. I’ll do it when your heart is calm and your mind is at peace. But right now… I just want you back in bed with me. Please. Come lay with me. You don’t have to talk, you don’t have to forgive me yet, just… be near me.”

He lowered his forehead against yours, voice barely above a whisper.

“My arms have never held anyone else… and they never will. They only know you.”

For a long moment, you didn’t speak. You just breathed with him. Listened to the heartbreak in his voice and the trembling devotion behind every word.

Then, slowly, you nodded — not in full surrender, but in exhaustion. In aching trust. He stood and reached for your hand. And this time, you took it.

You let him lead you to bed, where the silence that followed was different. Not heavy. Not sharp.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Time, they say, softens the edges of even the deepest pain — and slowly but surely, it did.

Your heart, once heavy with doubt, now beat steady and light again, reassured by Oscar’s love, his honesty, and the unwavering way he remained beside you in silence, in understanding, and in forgiveness. He didn’t push you to forget — only asked you to remember the truth of who he was, and what he meant when he said he loved you. And you did. God, you did.

Oscar, for his part, was swift and clear with the public — not with anger, but with the calm of someone protecting something precious.

"She and I want our relationship to be private. While you all know we're dating, and while some moments are shared in photos, what we are like at home and away from media... that’s ours. And we want to keep it that way." One simple, composed statement that shut down the rumors with grace. No drama. No need for defense. Just truth.

It wasn’t long before Lando reached out. Your apology was tearful, met with a warm and understanding hug that said all is forgiven even before words were spoken. He introduced you �� properly this time — to his friends. Pietra’s arms wrapped around you in an instant when you met her.

“Oscar is in love with you,” she said with an earnestness that nearly brought you to tears. “Please don’t let someone behind a screen ruin what you two have. I saw the way he looked at that ring. You were the only thing on his mind.”

And you believed her.

So when your anniversary came around, Oscar didn’t even hesitate. “Anywhere,” he said, eyes shining. “Anywhere you want.”

You remembered a moment months ago — Fernando teasing you about Spain, tossing out casual restaurant suggestions in that charming way of his that never felt quite casual at all. Something about Spain had stuck with you — maybe the way he described the sunsets, or the late-night streets lit with music and warmth. Maybe it was how far it felt from the noise. The rumors. The past.

So Spain it was.

It felt like breathing again.

No flashes of cameras. No whispers. Just you and Oscar, hand in hand beneath golden skies and blooming balconies. Spain welcomed you like a secret, like it had waited for this moment just for you two. You updated Lando in brief, teasing texts — mostly pictures of food, the occasional photo of Oscar caught mid-bite, and even one blurry selfie of you both on a park bench, laughing.

Lando, as expected, responded with endless emojis and one message that had your face turning red hot:

“Wear protection, please. No mini-Piastris yet, I’m not ready to be fake uncle material.” You showed Oscar. His ears turned red before yours did.

“We’re never telling him anything again,” he muttered, hiding his face in your shoulder.

And then… came the night.

That one night in Spain. Your favorite so far. It had rained earlier, so the streets were glossy beneath your shoes, catching reflections of old streetlamps and flickering lights from warm, rustic windows. You and Oscar had just finished dinner on a tucked-away terrace, where guitar strings floated down from somewhere above, and the candle between you two refused to go out despite the breeze.

The night air was perfect. Cool enough to make you inch closer to him, warm enough to never want a jacket between you. The moon above was shy, peeking through clouds like it was giving you privacy.

Oscar’s hand never left yours.

"Come with me," he said after dinner, his voice low — almost like he didn’t want to disturb the night.

You followed him down a quieter path, away from the cafés and people, down toward a small garden square you didn’t even realize existed — all stone benches and overgrown vines, ivy twisting around old wrought-iron fencing, and a little fountain still bubbling lazily in the middle.

And then he stopped walking.

You turned, puzzled, about to ask what was wrong.

But then… he let go of your hand, took a slow breath — and dropped to one knee.

Your heart stopped.

His hand reached into his jacket and pulled out the small velvet box, but he didn’t open it yet. His eyes never left yours. They were glassy, a little nervous — but full of love. Steady. Certain.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice low but clear, “I’ve had this moment in my head for a long time.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, tears already rising as he continued.

“I remember the first time I realized I was in love with you. It wasn’t dramatic. No fireworks. No big, cinematic moment. It was simple. We were in the kitchen. You were wearing one of my old shirts, humming to yourself and burning the toast because you were too busy dancing around. And I remember standing there and thinking—‘I want this forever. I want her forever.’”

You laughed through your tears, a broken little sound, heart twisting.

He smiled, a bit shy, a bit overwhelmed, but still holding himself steady.

“Since then, I’ve watched you grow, and I’ve grown with you. We’ve had good days. Bad ones too. But no matter where life has taken us, I’ve always known… I don’t want to go through any of it unless you’re right there next to me.”

He looked down for a moment, then back up again, his voice cracking slightly.

“You’ve seen me at my best and at my worst. You’ve believed in me even when I doubted myself. And you never asked me to be anything more than who I am. That’s what made me choose you. Not just for now. Not just for the good moments. But for life.”

He opened the box.

The ring shimmered in the dim light — simple, delicate, timeless. Just like you.

“I don’t want a flashy life. I don’t need perfection. I just want us. I want late-night talks and sleepy mornings. I want your laugh echoing through the house. I want quiet Sundays and chaotic dinners. I want a life where I get to love you every single day and never have to let you go.”

He took a slow breath, his voice softening.

“So, Y/N… will you do me the greatest honor of my life — and marry me?”

You were already on your knees before you realized it, hands on his face, tears streaking your cheeks.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice shaking with emotion. “Yes, Oscar. Yes.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger with trembling hands, then pulled you into him, forehead resting against yours as you both smiled through tears.

You kissed him like you were promising him forever — because you were.

And in that quiet corner of Spain, beneath a sky full of stars and a garden full of memory, the future officially began.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

TAG LIST: @lacey-blog @linnygirl09 @coolpeanutchaos @jewlszn @wertyuizxcvbnm @fctnllvrs @fangirlmusicbiashoe

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri #f1 angst #formula 1 fanfic #f1 headcanons #formula 1 x reader

257 notes · View notes

gingerhastoomanyobsessions · 2 days ago

Text

Things that actually happen in hunchback of notre dame, in no particular order

The book mostly is told from the POV of Pierre, a self-insert who is failed author and, I cannot stress this enough, utterly pathetic

Quasimodo damaged his hearing as a teenager from years of bell ringing and now uses sign language whenever he can

There is a scene where Quasimodo and a fellow deaf guy have to have a conversation without using sign language because they’re in a courtroom and the jury doesn’t know sign. It goes about as well as you’d expect

Frollo has a little brother, Jehan, who he raised after their parents died. Jehan is now a frat bro in college whose hobbies consist of getting drunk and being mean to Quasimodo. In his first scene Jehan complains about college DEI because an Italian guy got a scholarship he wanted.

Esmeralda is accused of witchcraft because she taught her pet goat Djali how to do math

Djali may or may not be sapient. He can and does imitate human mannerisms to make fun of people on purpose. He does this while on trial.

Yes. They tried the goat for witchcraft, too.

Pierre writes a whole play riding on the pun of dolphin/Dauphin. Nobody likes it.

Frollo is an alchemist and has a secret mad science lab where he writes on the walls

Jehan literally pulls a “buy my silence” and frollo gives him money to make him shut up

There’s a trio of catty girls who bully Esmeralda like it’s Mean Girls

Quasimodo and Frollo literally have Cryptid Status— Parisians circulate rumors that Quasimodo is either a familiar, a homunculus, or the result of demonic mpreg, and that Frollo is a wizard with wizard powers and/or a ghost

There is a little old woman who lives in a hole and shouts slurs at people. She has a tragic backstory.

There is a homicidal con man/king of thieves named Clopin Troillefou (surname translation: The Fool of Fear) who deserves tumblr sexymanhood.

Pierre learns how to carry chairs with his teeth

There’s an entire chapter dedicated to the layout of the streets of Paris in painstaking detail

There’s another chapter that is a rant about interior design

Esmeralda and Pierre get platonically married due to Clopin’s murderous shenanigans. Pierre tries to make a move in her but ends up being more emotionally attached to Djali the goat than to her. I think that should be grounds for divorce

There is a scene where Pierre has to choose between helping Esmeralda escape or helping Djali. He picks Djali.

Frollo hides from his own brother by laying face down in mud and playing dead. Somehow this works

There is a Plot Significant Tiny Shoe. A Tiny Shoe Chekhov’s Gun. And Victor Hugo will not stop telling you just how Tiny this shoe is.

There’s a soap opera style plot twist that involves a false accusation of cannibalism and the woman in the hole who shouts slurs

Quasimodo makes up a stupid little song that doesn’t even rhyme to confess his love to Esmeralda, who remains oblivious

He then attempts to demonstrate his affection via convoluted metaphors that involve props. She doesn’t get it. Boy please say what you mean

Frollo pulls the classic discord groomer tactic of threatening self-harm if Esmeralda doesn’t give in.

Jehan rolls up to a party/rescue mission scheming session in Clopin’s secret hideout in full plate armor (how did he get that???), drunk off his ass, and acts like he owns the place. Everyone finds this so ridiculous that they just let him

Hugo goes on and on about how innocent and naive Esmeralda is but then casually reveals that Esmeralda carries a dagger on her person at all times to fend off assault. When Frollo attacks her and Quasi intervenes, she takes Quasi’s knife and almost kills Frollo (fair!) but he flees. She contains multitudes?

Frollo has a psychotic breakdown in the middle of a field surrounded by chickens and hallucinates skeletons everywhere

For the first half of the book Esmeralda is like 70% sure Frollo is a ghost, not helped by his aforementioned Cryptid Status

Jehan eats a moldy piece of cheese off the ground

Frollo tries to send Pierre on a suicide mission in drag. Pierre objects to the suicide part but not the drag part

Clopin’s preferred weapon is a scythe, he’s very good at using it, and he sings when he fights. Again: sexyman potential.

Victor Hugo has a foot fetish. I initially dismissed it as Frollo having a foot fetish until Victor Hugo included a foot fetish torture scene without any Frollo in it. So I can only conclude that the foot fetish is authorial in nature. Unfortunately the foot scenes are important to the plot.

Frollo is canonically 36, he just aged like shit and is bald. The narrator will not stop telling you just how bald he is.

Despite being in full plate armor, Jehan gets splatted like a bug

Almost every named character dies. Djali the goat lives.

#thond #the hunchback of notre dame #does the book have many many problems esp regarding race? yes. very.#do I still want to squeeze quasimodo like a squeaky toy? indubitably

180 notes · View notes

streamsofmoon · 1 day ago

Note

she can be one of Vi being as tough as Officer/Enforcer, and her co-workers; Caitlyn, Loris, Steb and Maddie don't think she has a partner ie; with the unfriendly face or as tough as she was but they see these cute lunches she brings to work with little love notes and even brings dessert, always when she arrives in the mornings besides her usual perfume there is another sweet one, until one day they see her with her wife and Vi is all puppy dog in need of her wife, almost melting in her wife's arms when she went to pick her up <3

i love this idea so much; i'm a sucker for tough wife!vi and sunshine wife!reader.

especially when everyone assumes that vi is closed-off. she isn't rude and will carry out conversations, but she isn’t to go out of her way to make friends. so all the enforcers give her space when they aren't out on the field and will invite her for drinks after shifts but aren't surprised when she always turns them down.

but there's a sweet side to her; they know there is because of the lunches she brings every day. all cutely packed in colourful lunch bags with homemade meals that smell divine. and they're always accompanied with a small handwritten note on a heart-shaped sticky note.

they, without fail, make vi smile, the quirk of her lips a little goofy. it's the type of smile that screams a woman in love and it makes everyone wonder who this mysterious person is.

and all that wondering is answered when you enter the office and politely ask for vi's desk. there's immediate intrigue when vi's name leaves your lips, the curiosity is palpable. because you're so cute in your ankle-length skirt and oversized buttoned up cardigan. adorably soft and sweet, your voice carrying a lovely tune whenever you talk.

why on earth would someone like you be looking for vi?

but then vi sees you and her demeanor drastically changes.

instead of being her usual standoffish self, she opens up like a flower in bloom. she's immediately rushing over to you, softly calling out your name, before pulling you into her arms. and you're giggling, holding her tight as she nuzzles her cheek against yours.

"i missed you," vi near whines as she attempts to burrow herself into your warmth.

"it's only been 8 hours, baby," you coo, running a gentle hand through her hair, and everyone is treated to the sight of watching vi melt.

jaws drop to the floor in shock.

this is the day when the whole office finds out that vi has a darling wife she'd burn the whole world for.

a cute ray of sunshine a contrast to her tough and rough personality.

#vi arcane #vi x reader #vi x you #the moon scripts 🌙

126 notes · View notes

ild-rllrcstr · 2 days ago

Text

The Second Seat part 2

Lando Norris X You (female driver) / slight angst / 2.4K

part 1 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 (final part coming soon)

Summary You worked your way up to Formula One, contracted with McLaren, defying all odds. You play the team game: humble, strategic, and willing to follow orders, even if it means sacrificing podiums so Lando Norris can be the world champion. Every lap you sacrifice, every time you hold back, the world starts to doubt your talent. Lando sees it all. So he makes a choice: to give you the race, the recognition you deserve, and maybe his heart. You came for the drive, but you stayed for something more.

Warnings swearing A/N I'm trying to write something each day, and here comes the second part! Might still have one or two more parts of this coming, but let me know who I should write next! Although I speak French and English neither of them are my native languages so bear with me if there are mistakes (don’t hesitate to let me know also!)

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

The atmosphere of the club was at its peak, but Lando was strangely not his usual party self. Something’s really bothering him. And Carlos noticed. He noticed how Lando took a long amount of time to show up, and he’s not that into the party even though he won Monaco and set the fastest record, again.

“I thought by this time you’d be on the table dancing in your underwear by now. Monaco win? Fastest lap? Come on, champion.” Carlos stumbled down onto the couch next to Lando.

“Yeah. Big night.”Lando’s pulled a weirdly fake smile staring blankly at whatever Charles and Pierre are doing, some French songs, clearly having trouble concentrating.

“So? What's going on? You’ve been weird the whole night. You ghosted us until midnight.”

Lando looked at Carlos, wondering if he should talk to about this, but he is not the best at hiding his emotions and thoughts.

“It’s… Y/N, she seems to be having a hard time because of the race.” Carlos nodded, getting what Lando was talking about.

“From P5 to P9 hurts, we’ve all been there, we know how it feels.” Lewis said firmly with compassion on one side, sipping his drink.

“Please. As if she was gonna take Isack. She looked like she might, we’re in Monaco, we all know, and consider the rookie she is, she just had to blocked all our way like a rental kart session, it’s freaking stupid…” Lance, being a bit drunk, complained on the side as soon as he heard your name. Still mad about being blocked earlier in the race.

“Watch it, Stroll,” Lando shot a deadly glance at Lance.

The slight raised in voice caught the attention of the others. Charles’ eyebrows wentup. Pierre paused mid-sip. Even Isack widen his eyes.

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. She was in P5. You think she suddenly forgot how to drive? No need to see the front to know that you’re boxing. It was for you to box clean, and she followed it like a good little number two.”

“Come again?” Lando’s now standing up, fuming. Carlos quickly stood up between the two.

“Number. Two. It’s the eighth Grand Prix now, isn’t it obvious enough? They’re making her your shadow, and you know it.” Lance smirked. “I don’t know why you’re this mad, it’s for your benefit, and she seems to be happy enough to just be sitting in a seat with us, no?” Lance was absolutely drunk out of his mind.

Fernando quickly stood behind Lance, trying to stop the conversation, it was going too far.

Lando was leaning forward, Carlos quickly held him back just in time, whispering in his ear, “Lando, too many people around, not a good moment.”

“Come on guys, sure it was shit call, but we all know strategy is strategy. It is like this in this competition, we’re not new to this. That’s respectful for Y/N’s teamwork, I got no beef. Perhaps we should be the ones learning a thing or two.” Alex stepped in between, helping Fernando to hold the drunk Canadian back.

Lance was quickly retired to another corner with Fernando and Alex to make sure he doesn’t get involved in this anymore, seeing how drunk he was. Carlos and Charles are sandwiching Lando, making sure he calms down.

Lando said nothing. But his fists clenched, jaw tightened, and the way he was staring into his untouched drink says everything.

“You know what, tomorrow, my yacht, we’re going on a ride, just to chill it out, it might help her. It’s her first time in Monaco, can’t have her leave my home town on a bad note.” Charles picked up his phone right away.

“Allô, ça va merci, est-ce que c’est possible préparer mon yacht pour cet aprèm?”

(Hello, I’m well thank you. Is it possible to prepare my yacht for this afternoon?)

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

The next day, you woke up with your head slightly spinning from all the crying you did last night. You probably cried yourself to sleep.

‘16h à la porte, on attendera jusqu'à t’es là.’ - Charles

(16h at the port. We’ll wait until you show up.)

You looked at the time, it was already 13h, you dragged yourself to the shower, trying to reduce your puffy eyes and the weight behind them. You ended up ordering room service for some ice to help, along with some light food.

After a moment of hesitation, you pulled on a white maxi dress that hugged your shape softly, flowing like peace. One of the outfits you packed in the hope that Monaco would feel like a vacation, which was almost forgotten because of the race. You texted Charles apologising that you’ll be late for a bit.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

“En fin! Elle est là!”

(Finally! Sh’e here!)

Charles and Alexandra warmly greeted you.

“Merci pour m'inviter.”

(Thank you for inviting me.)

You smiled softly.

Even Leo wagged his tail like he knew you needed softness today.

“Mon chouchou!”

(My darling!)

You knelt to greet Leo with a little smile. You’ve built your little friendship with the little guy quickly throughout the races. The wind carried your perfume, your hair fluttering elegantly.

Lando did not understand French, but hearing Charles’ loud voice, he came out of the cabin. You were kneeling down, playing with Leo and didn’t really notice him. Once you stood back up, Lando got a full sight of you.

For once, you are not in your fireproof suit, not with a helmet and tired eyes, not in the simulation, not with data sheets, but in something flowing and softly white, but still with a soft smile you were clearly forcing to wear, which made him pause.

He had one hand in his trouser pockets, another one holding on to his drink tightly.

“Wow, am I in the inner circle already?” You energetically smiled and joked when you entered the cabin, seeing only a couple of the drivers were on the yacht.

Good actress. Lando looked at you on the side, somehow seeing through you, not understanding why you are like this.

Lando almost caught you red-eyed last night, and you really don’t need more people on your tail.

The others chuckled. “You speak French, that’s already a fast lane ticket to this circle.” Pierre joked back.

You were surrounded by your new friends, everyone was on the dock enjoying the sun. Carlos and Rebecca were laughing over a Uno game going on with Lando. Lewis was lounging quietly, sunglasses on, but you felt his gaze check on you once or twice. Pierre had his arm draped lazily over Francisca’s shoulders, the two whispering between bites of fruit. It was all easy, golden, safe.

“Don’t let the media get to you,” Lewis said gently, handing you a drink. “You did what was asked. That’s more than a lot of people would do.”

Charles approached and continued, “If it were reversed, if Lando were told to hold up traffic for you and he did, people would be calling it ‘brilliant teamwork.’ But when you do it, it’s ‘lack of pace.’ Fuck that.”

You smiled, small and tight. “It’s fine. Really.”

“Non,” Charles said firmly. “C’est grave,” (It’s serious.)

“They used you. And you took it.”

“It’s just part of the job,” you replied, trying to make it sound light.

Lando was not sitting far, he was hearing the conversation with the Uno in his hands, losing count of the cards he was pulling for the +4 card. He dropped the cards and stood up. Too suddenly.

“Stop saying that,” he snapped.

Everyone fell silent.

“Why do you keep pretending it doesn’t matter?”

Your eyes flicked up to him, startled but calm.

“Because maybe it’s not yet the time for me to start acting like it matters. That’s not what McLaren needs from me right now. Like I always said, I’m doing what my team needs me to.”

His jaw flexed. “McLaren needs your silence, then? Your obedience? You think that’s loyalty? It’s survival. That’s not the same.”

Everyone was watching intensely, this was not what Charles organised this cruise for.

Lando took a step closer, voice lower but shaking.

“You had Hadjar. You had him. And they made you back down. Then you held off half the grid with dead tires like it was nothing.”

You stood, keeping your expression even.

“Maybe it is survival for me, being the only female in this competition. It was done for you, but what’s done is done. Enjoy your victory and we move on.”

“No,” he said, voice cracking.

“You move on. But to what? Another Grand Prix where you can’t show people what you basically sleep in the simulator and a swarm of data sheets for? You act like it never hurts. Like this doesn’t eat you alive. But I see it. I saw your face yesterday. And I fucking hate that you won’t let yourself say it out loud.”

You swallowed. The wind curled around you both. His chest was rising too fast. No one said a word.

Lando was right, but so were you.

“…It’s not your job to hate it for me,” you said, quieter now.

Lando’s reply came after a beat. “Yeah. But someone has to, and you are clearly not doing it.”

Lando left for the other side of the dock, Carlos followed. Charles and Alexandra came to make sure you’re okay. It took you everything to not break down in front of everyone.

“Suis désolé pour ça, je voulais pas de mettre l’ambiance comme ça.”

(I’m sorry for this, I didn’t want to make the vibe like this.)

You sighed and softly apologized to Charles and Alexandra, feeling guilty.

“T'inquiète pas ma belle, c'est pas ta faute.”

(Don’t worry, my pretty, it’s not your fault.)

Alexandra gave you a tight hug.

“J'avoue qu'il aurait pu t'approcher sur ça plus gentiment, mais c’est parce que Il tient vraiment à toi, tu sais. Il était à deux doigts de se battre avec Lance hier. Je lui ai jamais vu comme ça.”

(I admit he could’ve approached you about this more gently, but it’s because he really cares about you, you know. He was this close to going into a fight with Lance yesterday. I’ve never seen him like this.)

Charles leaned on the rail while Alexandra kept you in a cute side hug.

You looked at Charles with your eyebrows frowned. That’s when he told you what happened yesterday at the club.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

The atmosphere was saved by dinner, although you and Lando sat on the opposite side of the table, the perfect corner to avoid each other. You sat between Alexandra and Lewis, both have been extra nice with you the whole afternoon, making sure you feel better, at least you looked like you felt better.

After dinner, on the ride back, you sat on the end of the yacht, watching the sunset. The hum of the motor and the wave were calming, along with the wind and the orange rays of sunset. It was so peaceful that you just let your mind empty.

You heard footsteps, but didn’t bother to turn around. The person sat next to you, mimicking your position.

Lando.

Both of you sat there for a long while without talking, just feeling how the wind blew through.

"Thank you for defending me yesterday at the club, Charles told me." You quietly said.

“Lance was drunk and stepping out of the line." He paused, "I’m sorry for lashing out like that earlier.” He quietly said, looking straight at the water.

“You’re not wrong. But if my little sacrifice can make it easy for everyone, I do think it’s worth it.”

Your words were frustrating him again, but he tried to calm himself down, since it did not end well the way he reacted earlier.

“You don’t owe them comfort. You don’t owe me silence either. You are my teammate, but we’re supposed to push each other and not starve one to feed another, we’re McLaren we can have enough for both of us.”

He wasn’t just angry anymore. He was hurting.

You turned to look at him, and there was something raw in his eyes, the kind of frustration that only comes from caring too much, like he’s begging you.

“I don’t want to be the reason the team loses trust. If I break down, it’s not just me who suffers. It reflects on every woman trying to get into this sport. I believe the team has its plan, and I want to trust their decisions.”

“So you’re just going to bleed for everyone in silence?” It was pure bitterness in Lando’s voice.

You smiled faintly. “If that’s what it takes.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and there was something in his gaze that burns hotter than an F1 engine running at 200km/h.

“I can’t stand watching them waste you.” Lando gritted his teeth.

“They’re not wasting me. I’m still here. And you’re getting the huge top rank gap between you and Lewis.” You were saying so, but you can’t look straight in his eyes to say these words.

“Yeah, but for how long before they break you, trying to make you small? And to be honest, I won’t feel like a real champion if I’m getting it like this”

Silence again. The air between you was tight with everything unsaid.

“Don’t care so much, Lando. It’ll hurt you.” You stared at the line where the sun disappeared into the water.

Lando almost whispered, “Too late.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding for reasons that had no longer anything to do with racing anymore.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

“Should I go see if everything’s okay over there?” Carlos asked, eyes fixated on the two at the end of the yacht.

Everyone was trying to be subtle, but 8 of them all squeezing near the cabin opening to see what’s going on was very obvious and somehow comic.

“I think we can leave them alone for now.” Charles was concerned, but the situation didn’t seem to need interfering for the moment.

“It’s scary when Lando is like that, it’s new and unpredictable,” Pierre muttered, stating what most were feeling.

“Are you guys for real?” Lewis distanced himself from the others, looking at them as if they all had three heads.

“What?” Charles voices everyone’s confusion.

“Do you guys seriously not see why might be the reason he’s like that?” Lewis smirked.

The others looked at each other, still confused. Then Alexandra’s eyes widened and she looked back at Lewis in disbelief. Lewis shrugged, confirming what Alexandra’s thinking.

“Merde, ne me dis pas qu’il l’aime” Charles whispered.

(Shit, don’t tell me he likes her.)

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡⋆⭒˚.⋆ ₊˚⊹☆ ⋆˙⟡

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #lando x y/n #lando fanfic #lando imagine #lando x you #lando x reader

77 notes · View notes

inkpetrichor · 14 hours ago

Text

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

5.- Part five

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. hurt/comfort. smut. p in v. unprotected sex. creampie. lots of dirty talking. absolute filth but kinda cute(?. lemme know if i missed anything<3 wc. 5.6k an. enjoy! as usual, comments are appreciated<3

Tuesday painted the sky outside your window gray—not stormy, just... blank. The kind of sky that felt like waiting. Another day you had to skip. You had half a cigarette left and no lighter, which somehow felt symbolic.

"Come to me when you're ready to actually talk feelings..."

You weren't ready. And you couldn't blame him.

You couldn't blame him for wanting more—wanting something real. For having the spine to say this isn't enough when it would've been easier to keep things messy and half-lit like you always did.

He had self-respect. He knew what he deserved. And deep down, you admired that about him.

And you wanted him. God, you wanted him. Not just in your bed, not just in passing—you loved him. You didn't know when it started, only that it had sunk in slowly, like ink through paper. But when he asked for your honesty, for something real, the words just wouldn't come.

You didn't know how to say I love you without feeling like you were standing on a ledge with your chest cracked open. You'd never been taught how.

It was like trying to have a conversation in a language you'd only just started learning—fumbling for the right words, terrified of saying the wrong ones.

And now here you were, half a cigarette in hand, no lighter, and no clue how to stop ruining things before they could ever really begin.

Then your phone buzzed.

Emi <3: sorry babes, had 2 give u a lil push (˶ > ₃ < ˶)♡ : ???

Before you could type out a proper what the fuck, there was a knock on your door.

And you knew. You just knew.

That knock wasn't generic. It wasn't a neighbor or delivery guy. It was three short raps, one beat slower than the others.

The same rhythm he’d used a hundred times before. He'd come over so many times it became second nature. Familiar. Specific... Him.

Your chest tightened painfully, like something inside you had braced for impact without warning.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Kuroo Tetsurou's tall frame stood in your doorway like a memory come back to make you suffer, looking thoroughly unimpressed. His arms were crossed. His shoulders slouched. There was no smug glint in his eyes—just quiet frustration and something heavier under it, like disappointment dressed in black and red.

You stared.

He stared back.

"What are you doing here, Tetsurou?" you asked, voice dull. Tired. Like you were already too exhausted to handle whatever this was going to be.

He shrugged slightly, but it was half-hearted.

"Emi came up to me today... With that mutt of hers. What's his name again? Ki... something?"

"Kenkiba," you muttered, a half-smile twitching at your mouth despite yourself.

"Right. Him." He squinted like the memory annoyed him. "He was giving me the stink eye the whole time she talked. Didn't blink once. I thought he might bite me."

You huffed out a scoff, dragging a hand down your face.

"Sounds like him."

Silence bloomed for a second—thick and humid. Not hostile, just... heavy.

"She told me not to give up on you," he said softly after a beat.

Your throat tightened. Closing around words you weren’t ready to speak. You looked away from him.

"And?" you asked, voice thinner than you meant.

Kuroo tilted his head. His gaze swept over your face like he was trying to read something in between the fine lines of your exhaustion.

"Still figuring it out," he said simply.

The honesty made your stomach twist. You’d missed that. His way of speaking plainly, even when the truth was sharp.

You sighed, long and quiet, and stepped back. "Come in, make yourself at home. You know where everything is anyway."

Kuroo didn't say anything. Just stepped inside like he always used to do—quiet but present, all warmth and height and gravity. The air felt heavier with him in the room, but it wasn't unpleasant.

It was familiar.

And dangerous.

He glanced around your tiny entryway like it was both a crime scene and a memory. His fingertips grazed the edge of your shoe rack like touching it might tell him if things had really changed. You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

You weren’t ready for this conversation.

But you’d left the door open anyway.

The living room was dim, cozy in that lived-in way—shadows pooling in corners, the soft hum of the TV playing some sitcom rerun you hadn’t bothered turning off. A half-finished drink sweating on the coffee table. Folded blankets no one used. Familiarity buried under the dust of everything you hadn’t said.

Kuroo sat opposite you at the dining table, fingers idly drumming against the wood while you picked at a loose thread in your sleeve. A glass of water for each of you.

His eyes flicked toward your couch, then quickly away.

You broke the silence first, eyes still fixed on the thread in your sleeve.

"How was practice?"

Kuroo leaned back slightly in his chair. The sharp tension that had hung in the air earlier began to loosen a little.

"Yaku lost a bet to Lev."

That got your attention. You raised a brow, lips twitching.

"Had to wear one of Lev’s hoodies for the whole practice," Kuroo continued, almost fondly. "Looked like a pissed-off gremlin drowning in beige fleece."

You snorted, the image so vivid you could practically see it.

"He threw his shoes at you?"

"Twice," Kuroo said with a weary sigh. "Once for laughing, once just because I was there."

A real smile curled on your lips this time. Small, but it warmed your face.

"I like Yaku."

"He likes you too," Kuroo replied. "In a scary, sorta fan way. He’s rooting for you. And, weirdly enough, also slightly afraid of you."

You were about to fire back something snarky when—

Creaaak.

The door to your dad’s room swung open, slow and yawning like it resented being disturbed.

It was like the sound and smell of conversation had dragged him from his nap. You stiffened, eyes flicking to the hallway.

Kuroo went still.

It hit him all at once—how quiet this house had always been. Empty whenever he came over. Just the two of you. Always careful. Private. The unspoken rule had been: no family, no interruptions.

Now there were footsteps. Heavy ones. Presence.

This wasn’t just anyone stepping into the room. This was your father—and it was the first time either of you had ever been this close to the other's home life. Kuroo felt it like a shift in pressure, like the air had gone thick.

He sat up straighter, instincts clicking into place like armor.

Your father emerged from the hallway, slow and deliberate. He shuffled out in sweats and a grey tank top that had seen better days, scratching his belly like a bear half-disturbed from hibernation.

Kuroo shot up from his seat. His posture went ramrod straight and his eyes widened.

The man was huge. Not just muscular—solid. Towering. Heavy hands, boxer's shoulders, a chest like a steel barrel, and a scowl carved into his face like a statue’s that had never known joy. He looked like he could knock out a grown man with one hand and still make it home in time for dinner. Kuroo felt like a goddamn pair of chopsticks next to him.

And the look your dad gave him?

Like he was already imagining what it'd feel like to snap him in half and make a wish.

"Dad. Kuroo Tetsurou. Kuroo Tetsurou. Dad." you introduced lazily. Too casual in his opinion.

Kuroo scrambled to his feet and bowed, polite and slightly terrified. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Your dad grunted. Not a word. Just grunt.

"He's my tutor," you said, arms folding across your chest.

Another grunt. Slightly lower.

"And the guy I'm in love with."

Silence.

Your dad’s eyes flicked wider—just a twitch—but in his world, that was basically a scream. He looked at you, then back at Kuroo, who was now staring at you like you’d grown a second head.

Did you want him to die? Because he was pretty sure that's what you were going for.

Then your dad squinted. His chin tilted up ever so slightly as he peered at Kuroo through his lower lashes, expression calculating now. Something in his gaze sharpened—predatory, maybe. Appraising.

Kuroo could see the resemblance.

"Are you the guy my daughter cried herself to sleep over the other day?"

Your eyes flew open, panic shooting through you.

"Da—"

"What do you do for a living?" he cut in.

You blinked. Panic changed to cringe.

What the fuck was that question?

Kuroo stammered. "I—I'm a student, sir."

"And?"

"He's the captain of the volleyball team," you said quickly, rubbing your temples in secondhand embarrassment.

Your dad's brow twitched. He didn't say anything, but the surprise was there—buried beneath his blank expression.

"And top of his class," you added.

"Top of your class?"

"Top of my class, Sir."

Your dad grunted again—less annoyed this time. Thoughtful, maybe.

Then, without another word, he reached out and grabbed your glass of water off the table, downed it in two massive gulps.

You scowled. "I was drinking that, thank you."

If he heard, he ignored it. He wandered into the kitchen and the faucet creaked awake as he filled the glass under the sputtering tap. His free hand patted at his pockets.

Then, without so much as a glance, he tossed something in your direction.

You caught it mid-air, reflexive.

Your fingers closed around the shape before your brain caught up. The feel was familiar—rectangular, thin, slightly glossy. You looked down and gasped. Audibly.

A pack of cigarettes.

But not just any. The cigarettes—the most expensive ones the local konbini carried, the ones you only ever admired from behind the counter like they were luxury perfume.

"I saw your report card, kiddo. You've been doing great," he muttered, not looking directly at you as he set the glass back down on the table with a clink. His eyes flicked to Kuroo next. "I guess I gotta thank you for that too. Though I assume since you play sports, you don't smoke."

"No sir."

"Good. Maybe you can get her to quit that bullshit too."

You rolled your eyes, a wry little grin tugging at your mouth. "What will you give me when I don’t smoke and still do well in school?"

"Good point," he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he looked at Kuroo, giving him a jerk of his chin.

"Sit down, son. This ain't the military. Just don't make her cry again or I'll make you wish it was."

Kuroo nodded so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

"Yessir."

He sank back into his seat with zero resistance, spine still straight as a rail, like he didn’t trust gravity not to betray him.

Your dad grabbed his battered bomber jacket from the hook by the door, slinging it over one shoulder. It looked too light for the weather, but that was just how he was—too stubborn to feel the cold.

"I’m going out. Go ahead and have dinner without me," he said gruffly, hand already on the knob.

Then his eyes slid to Kuroo. A pause. Then back to you.

"Behave."

You raised a hand in a lazy salute, leaning back in your chair.

"Have fun~"

He grunted once—final, almost fond—and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked into place with a soft metallic snick.

Silence.

Kuroo let out the longest exhale of his life.

"Are you insane?! He could've killed me with a flick of his pinky."

You burst out laughing. The sound cracked out of you, light and sudden.

"But he didn’t. Relax—he’s harmless."

"Uh, yeah. I don't believe you."

"Tetsurou."

"Y/N."

You sighed, brushing a hand through your hair.

"Follow me, please."

You stood and padded toward your room, feeling his presence shuffle behind you—socked feet brushing over the floor, quieter than usual. When the door clicked shut behind him, you went straight to your bag, kneeling beside it with shaky fingers.

Not from fear.

But from the crushing awareness that you’d said it.

That you loved him.

Out loud.

In front of your dad. Like a lunatic.

Your hands trembled as you pulled a box of chocolates from your bag and turned, holding it out.

Kuroo blinked down at the box like it had materialized out of nowhere. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced between your face and the glossy packaging, confusion shifting slowly into something quieter. Curious. Guarded. Like he was afraid to hope.

You cleared your throat and dropped your gaze to the floor.

"I, uh..." you started, voice barely above a whisper. "You said... you wanted, like—a cute confession. Like in the movies. With chocolate... And a letter... n' shit."

He stared at you, eyes unreadable. You kept yours fixed on the floor like it might open up and swallow you whole.

"So," you said quietly, forcing the words out before they slipped away, "here’s the chocolate."

Kuroo looked down at the box in his hands, fingers twitching like he didn't know whether to laugh or hug you.

You kept talking, like if you stopped you'd fall apart.

"I… I didn’t write a letter because that’s stupid, and I’m not good at feelings. You know that. But I thought maybe you’d… I don’t know. You’d get what I meant if I just… if I just showed you."

Your breath hitched. The pressure in your chest was building—tight and relentless behind your ribs.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Tetsurou," you said, finally looking at him just to look down again, running away from the intensity of his golden, honeyed eyes.

You blinked rapidly, trying to keep it back, but the heat of guilt and shame stung anyway. The tears came fast—hot, unwelcome, and traitorous.

"I just— I didn't want to fuck it up. That's the only thing I knew from the start. That if I let it get serious, I'd do something stupid and mess it all up. And then you'd leave. And I thought it'd be easier to keep it simple and just not... not feel so much."

Your voice broke and you squeezed your eyes shut.

The tears spilled over.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," you said again, softer now. A whisper, like the truth had grown too heavy to speak at full volume.

Kuroo’s voice met you like a steady anchor—

"But you did," he said softly. Not sharp. Not angry. Just real.

You looked up slowly, the shame burning hot behind your eyes.

He was already watching you.

"I know," you whispered.

He took a breath. Slow. Full of something more than just oxygen.

Then came that smirk—that lopsided, him kind of smirk that made your heart stumble. The one you'd missed like hell.

His golden eyes scanned your face, and he still hadn’t let go of the chocolates. They hovered between you like a fragile offering. A truce.

"You really thought I meant the chocolate part?"

You let out a wet, broken laugh. "I panicked."

"God," he muttered, stepping forward.

Then he kissed you.

Warm hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing over damp cheeks as his mouth found yours—soft and grounding. Not desperate. Not hurried. Just full. Steady. Like he was trying to tether you to him, to the now, so you’d stop spiraling through everything you’d been afraid of.

You clung to his shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Your lips parted beneath his with a quiet, gasping sob.

"I’m sorry," you breathed into him. Again and again. Each one more cracked than the last, as his mouth moved from yours to your cheek, to the corner of your eye.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

"I know," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. "I know."

He kissed the top of your head, fingers trailing down to your hips, grounding you with quiet presence. Holding you there. Steady.

"I love you too, by the way," he said. Soft. Firm. Impossible to mistake.

You froze.

"It was quite ballsy to say it in front of your dad," he added, voice nearly a whisper.

You looked up at him, nose pink and eyes red and blotchy. "You love me?"

"Yeah," he said like it was obvious. "Why else would I put up with you acting like my feelings were a math problem you could ignore into submission?"

You shoved his chest, still crying but laughing now too, emotions a tangled mess in your throat.

"You're such a dick," you sniffled.

"And you are too," he said, pulling you into another kiss. "Now shut up and let me hold you before I cry too."

You kissed like you had all the time in the world.

No more frantic hands or clashing teeth. No power games. No pretending you didn't care.

It was just you, and Kuroo, and the quiet press of his lips against yours.

You felt him sigh into it, like kissing you brought him some kind of peace. Like it was relief. Forgiveness. Home.

His lips trailed along your jaw, slow and reverent, rediscovering you inch by inch—re-memorizing every part of the map he’d gone too long without touching.

"I missed you," he breathed, voice cracking like the words were breaking out of him whether he wanted them to or not. A truth he needed to say aloud.

You hated how much that made your throat close up. Your hands curled around his shirt, pulling him closer without even realizing it. Not desperate. Just... greedy. Needy. Because you'd missed him. Because you loved him. Because you needed him. And he felt so fucking good—solid and warm and real—breathing against your mouth like he needed you just the same.

"Tetsurou..." you muttered, tugging at his hair, breath skimming his cheek. "You make me so fucking soft, it’s disgusting."

That got a low laugh from him, warm against your skin. "Guess we're both disgusting, then."

But you weren't. Not with how his hands moved—gentle, steady, worshipping. Hands sliding up under your shirt, fingers slow and sure as they brushed across your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your breast. Not groping. Savoring.

Not with how gently he pushed you onto your bed. Soft like a whisper, smiling into the kiss when you pulled him by the collar of his shirt on top of you like you couldn't be apart from him for longer than strictly needed.

Not with how you kissed him back, mouth parting with quiet need, teeth grazing his lower lip like a silent promise. He tasted like the ghost of salt and sweetness. Like missing someone so badly it hurt.

You kissed him harder. Deeper. Tongues tangling like you were trying to swallow each other whole. When you ground your hips up against him, you felt how hard he already was, thick and twitching against your thigh.

He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding down to hook under your thighs.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear—almost shy, like he didn’t want to scare you off with how soft you suddenly felt.

"I know," you whispered, breath hitching as your hips rolled against his. "I just don’t know how to do this when it feels this fucking real."

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, down to your jaw, tilting your face up before dipping to press his mouth to your collarbone. Each kiss was barely there at first—featherlight—until his teeth scraped your skin and he growled against it.

"Then don’t think," he said, voice rough. "Just let me make you feel good. Let me ruin you a little more."

You exhaled hard, like you were exorcising fear. Then you nodded.

Clothes came off slower this time, but not without heat. He stripped you like he wanted to remember how every inch of you felt beneath his hands.

His mouth left a trail down your chest, sucking your nipple into his mouth until your back arched off the bed. You whimpered, and when you tugged his hair, he groaned—eyes fluttering shut like the sound of your need physically hurt him. He didn’t tease—he devoured.

"Look at you," he rasped, forehead pressed to the center of your chest, voice breathless and thick with hunger. "You’re so fucking beautiful like this. I like it when you're all tough and bratty—but this?"

His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick folds as he kissed your sternum.

"This is gonna fucking ruin me."

You swore under your breath, face burning, but you didn’t stop him. Your legs opened wider—offering, surrendering.

When he finally pushed into you, it wasn’t exactly gentle, but it was sweet. Slow, deep, intentional. A filthy stretch that filled every inch of you and made your mouth fall open in a raw, aching gasp.

"Oh—fuck—Tetsurou—" you choked, nails clawing into his back, dragging down his sweat-slick skin.

"You feel that?" he groaned, cock grinding in deep with one thick, steady thrust. "So fucking deep… Christ, you’re gripping me."

Your walls clenched reflexively around him and he stuttered forward, a broken sound ripping from his throat.

You whimpered, eyes rolling back as your legs locked around his hips, pulling him impossibly closer.

"You feel... you feel so good, I can’t—"

"You can," he muttered against your mouth, voice wrecked. "You’re fucking perfect around me. So wet—fuck—so wet for me I can hear it. Just take it. Let me give this to you."

He was right. You could feel it—could hear it—the obscene, slick sound of him fucking into you, each thrust louder, wetter, drawing filthy friction from your swollen, aching cunt. You were soaked, stretched around him so perfectly it felt like your body was made to be ruined by his.

His hips moved in long, grinding thrusts—intentional, filthy in their closeness. His pelvis dragged against your clit just right, every stroke hitting that spot that made your voice break, made your moans crack into desperate little gasps of his name.

"Tetsurou—please, don’t stop—"

It wasn't about power tonight, or payback, or pushing limits. It was about closeness. Forgiveness. The way your hands trembled in his hair as he kissed your tears away. The way you clung to him like he could patch up everything you didn’t know how to say.

"I’ve got you," he panted, one hand gripping your thigh, the other planted beside your head. His hips slammed deeper now, still controlled, but with a force that made the bed creak. The air was sticky with sweat and sex.

"Not going anywhere. Gonna make you come—hah, fuck—gonna come so hard you forget what you were crying about."

You whimpered something wrecked and incoherent, and his rhythm faltered for a heartbeat.

"Say it again," he gasped, fucking you harder, faster. "Say my fucking name while I make you come."

"Tetsurou—please, please—fuck, I’m gonna—"

He caught your face, fingers firm on your jaw as he kissed you like he needed your breath to survive.

"Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me have all of it."

And you did. You came with a sob into his neck, shattering around him, nails digging into his back as your body locked down on him, trembling so violently he had to pin your hips to ride it out. But it wasn’t enough—not with the way you pulsed around him, hot and wet and pleading.

He cursed—loud, low—and shoved in deep. Once. Twice.

Then he followed with a strangled groan.

He buried himself to the hilt, cock throbbing in thick pulses as he spilled inside you. His mouth was at your throat, panting, praising, kissing the slick skin beneath your jaw.

"Fuck—fuck—" he groaned. "You feel too fucking good—I can’t—can’t let you go—"

You held him like an anchor, legs still trembling around his hips, breath shallow and stuttering.

His cock twitched inside you with aftershocks, and he didn’t pull out—not yet. He just stayed there, forehead resting against yours, one hand stroking your thigh like it was the only way to keep breathing.

Every thrust, every kiss, every shaky breath felt like a thread stitching two bruised hearts back together.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled, breathless, still joined at the hips as the air slowly cooled around you. His weight pressed into you, grounding, comforting. Like he was trying to hold every broken piece in place with nothing but skin and closeness.

Your hands combed through his damp hair, fingers lazy and loving, like you needed something—someone—to hold onto.

Because you did.

"You’re everything I was scared to want," you mumbled into his hair, voice low and raw, scraped clean by everything he'd just pulled out of you.

He smiled—not smug, just soft—and pressed a kiss to your neck.

"You’ve always been mine," he murmured. "You were just too damn stubborn."

He rolled to his back, bringing you with him, bodies still warm and sticky. You settled on his chest, legs tangled with his, cheek resting over his heart. It was still beating hard, like maybe he hadn’t quite come back down yet either.

His fingers lazily traced shapes on your hip while your hand lay flat against his chest, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall.

You weren’t used to this.

The silence that didn’t need to be filled.

The peace after the wreckage.

But you were quickly learning to crave this part just as much as the rest of him.

He shifted slightly, the arm around you tightening—not possessive, not afraid. Just anchoring.

"Your dad really threw me under the bus, huh?"

You snorted softly. "Yeah. He has a gift for timing."

"He said you cried over me..." His voice was quiet, careful.

You paused, then sighed. "I did."

He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he couldn’t quite face you yet. "I cried too. The day at the beach."

You looked up at him. "You did?"

He gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Got on the train home, sat down, and just—bam. Tears. Like an idiot." He finally glanced at you, lips tilting into a crooked smile. "I didn’t even make it one stop before some old lady handed me a tissue."

You couldn’t bring yourself to laugh, even though he grinned like he wanted you to. The moment felt impossibly softer as your fingers curled gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I’m sorry," you murmured. "I didn’t mean to make you feel like that."

"I know." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I get it now. Why you pulled away. I wish you hadn’t, but... I get it."

A beat passed. Then a little fire reignited in you, sparked by the memory of a certain someone perched all too comfortably on his arm.

"You’re lucky you’re cute, though," you grumbled.

He raised an eyebrow, smile faltering slightly. "Yeah?"

You squinted up at him. "Otherwise I’d still be mad about you flirting with Hebinuma like it was your fucking job."

His grin returned in full force. "Okay, in my defense—"

"There is no defense."

"—I never touched her."

"You didn’t need to. You let her touch you. Let her put her dirty paws all over you."

He laughed. "Alright, alright. Guilty as charged. But, for the record..." He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, voice dropping into a teasing whisper, "You made it so easy to make jealous~ You looked so pretty... all mad and possessive like that."

You tried to roll your eyes but ended up burying your face in his neck instead. "Ugh. That’s disgusting."

"You love it."

"...Maybe."

He kissed the top of your head, fingers smoothing gently down your back.

"Don’t gotta pretend anymore, y’know. You can just be soft with me."

You let out a slow breath against his skin. "You make it really hard not to be."

"Good."

"I can say cheesy shit and not immediately shove you away to preserve my street cred."

Kuroo gave you a dangerous grin. "Oh really? Try."

You hesitated. "Don’t laugh."

"I won’t."

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. "...I... I like you."

He snorted immediately at how absurdly difficult that had been for you—especially considering you’d just said you loved him.

"Fuck you! You said you wouldn’t laugh!"

"I’m sorry!" he cackled, then tackled you with kisses, smothering your face as you flailed, trying to push him off, while he sang in a childish voice like he was teasing you at recess. "You like me~ You like me~ You liiiike me~"

"I’m gonna punch you in the ribs."

"You liiiike me~"

"I’LL BITE YOU."

He rolled onto his back, still grinning like a fool, pulling you with him so you ended up half on top of him again. You let your head drop onto his shoulder with a long, dramatic sigh.

"You’re the worst," you muttered.

"You’re in love with the worst, then."

"...Unfortunately."

He turned his head to look at you, gaze soft—like you were the only person who had ever mattered. His thumb brushed your cheek, grazing the skin beneath your eye.

"I love you too."

Your breath caught a little.

"I know," you whispered.

He kissed you again—slow, unhurried. Like he had forever. Because maybe now, he did.

No more pretending.

No more hiding.

No more guessing.

Just his fingers tangled with yours, your limbs intertwined beneath the sheets, the distant hum of the street outside, and the quiet, sleepy freedom of knowing you could love each other out loud now.

And god, did it feel good.

You nestled closer into Kuroo’s chest, and he let out a little hum of satisfaction, arms tightening around you like you were something precious. You were still a little sweaty, tangled in the sheets and each other, but neither of you moved to clean up just yet.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—small, lazy things, like he finally had the time to show you how much he liked having you like this. All his.

You tilted your head, catching his mouth with yours, slow and indulgent.

You shifted slightly, letting your leg hook over his thigh again, the closeness grounding you. "You really cried on the train?"

"Like a baby."

"...Fuck. That makes me wanna cry all over again."

He smiled, and this time, it was quieter. Realer.

"Don’t. I’ve got you now. And if you cry again, your dad will kill me... Speaking of your dad killing me—we should probably get dressed before he gets back."

"I kinda don’t wanna move, though," you groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"We also have to clean up. And you need to pee. Friction during sex pushes all kinds of bacteria into your urethra and you could get a nasty UTI—"

"Tetsurou. I know. You say it every time."

"It’s ‘cause every time, you don’t wanna let go! And seriously, your urethra needs—"

"I’ll go if you stop saying urethra."

"Real mature, Y/N. It’s simply a body part. Nothing to be ashamed of," he mocked with that signature grin.

You groaned and stood up, tugging on the long t-shirt you used as pajamas.

When you came back, he’d put on pants and even made your bed. He was scrolling through his phone, looking as beautiful as usual.

"Don’t leave yet..." you murmured.

His eyes lifted, widening slightly.

"You wanna... cuddle with clothes on or something?"

His surprise melted into a sly smile, but there was a warmth behind it that was unmistakable.

"Cuddle? With clothes on? We’re moving a little too fast, Y/N. I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet," he teased.

"Shut up."

You flopped next to him, your arms immediately winding around his torso, pressing your cheek to its rightful place on his chest.

"Wanna watch the first season of Death Note?"

"I can’t, unfortunately. I gotta get home—and I doubt your dad would let me stay. But maybe..."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe you could come home with me tomorrow. After practice. I know it’s not a Thursday but..."

The unsure way he said it hurt you. Like he still didn’t quite believe he could ask for things—didn’t trust that you’d say yes.

You hugged him tighter, arms looping around his waist, and pressed a kiss over his heart without even thinking. It caught him off guard.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy leaving more soft kisses along his chest, murmuring apologies into his skin.

"Thank you. I’ll be there," you whispered.

Your voice was the softest he’d ever heard. And somehow, it made something settle in him. Like everything was finally clicking into place.

He hugged you back with a labored sigh.

Like he could finally stop holding back.

Like he could finally hold you how he’d always wanted—without worry.

For the first time, you walked him to the door and said goodbye with a long kiss, followed by many smaller ones he scattered across your face like the first one wasn't enough.

"See you tomorrow. Stop skipping class. Things are getting a little harder lately, and if you miss too much you could fail the exams."

"I guess you'll have to put me up to date with the contents."

"Thursdays after class?"

"After practice." you corrected. He smiled.

"After practice."

You watched him go, your hand lingering on the doorframe even after he disappeared down the stairs. For a long moment, you didn’t move—just stood there with your lips still tingling and your heart still echoing with his laughter.

Something in you had finally unraveled tonight. Not in a bad way. Just… looser. Lighter. Like you could finally breathe.

You shut the door softly behind you, the apartment unusually quiet as you padded back into your room. Kuroo’s scent still clung to your sheets—warm laundry and a hint of sweat—and you smiled into your pillow before flopping down on it like some idiot in love.

Because maybe you were. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was dangerous.

But it felt good. And for now, that was enough.

But peace, as always, was temporary. The whispers crawling through Nekoma’s halls were growing fangs—sharp with rumor, slick with malice. And somewhere in the dark, a ghost stirred, reanimated by a snake with a grudge.

And this time, she wasn’t coming for you directly.

Next chapter↪ (coming soon<3)

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208

#haikyuu #hq fanfic #hq x reader #haikyu x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu fluff #hq #kuroo x reader #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo testuro #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsuro fluff #kuroo tetsurou #nekoma

56 notes · View notes