#GIVE HIM HIS OSCAR NOW!!

[avenirdelight]

creative meeting leader andrew robertson

[redfacedpalindrome]

i don’t know if this is playing into the stigma and frankly i don’t care because oscar’s overtake on lewis yesterday was the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.

[rebouks]

Previous // Next

Byrd: Dad? Oscar: Morning, bud.. miserable day, huh? I’m not looking forward to packing up in the rain. Oscar: Did you sleep okay? Byrd: Erm… Oscar: GO GET YOUR HEARING AIDS! [Byrd fidgeted guilty, implying that he’d lost yet another pair] Byrd: [sobs] Why do I have to be deaf without them, papa-.. s’not fair. [Oscar held Byrd tightly, stroking his back until his sobs subsided somewhat] Oscar: LET’S SEE WHAT WE CAN DO… [Oscar plonked Byrd outside as he rummaged through his bags, eventually producing a backup pair of hearing aids] Oscar: Better? [Byrd nodded gratefully, burying his snotty nose in his father’s hair as he threw his arms around him] Oscar: Maybe you ought to think twice about learning SSL. Byrd: What’s the point? No one else knows it. Oscar: Robin does, and we all know bits n’ pieces, don’t we? [Byrd grumbled disinterestedly] Oscar: I think it’s long overdue, pal-.. what if we all learn it together? Properly this time. Byrd: I guess… Oscar: All I heard was yes. Byrd: Are you deaf too? Oscar: [snorts] C’mon, we’ll probably find the other pairs as we clear up. Wren: Daaaaad, it’s raining! Oscar: The faster we get goin’, the faster we’ll be in the car-.. I bet Wren can pack up faster than you. Byrd: [gasps] NO WAY! [rain pattering]

[wisteriagoesvroom]

okkk private jet era! 💅💅 we goin’ 🛫🛫 fossil fuels 🦖🦖 let him COOK (the atmosphere) 🧑‍🍳🧑‍🍳🌳🌳 thank goodness for the dinosaurs that died so he could take this cutieful picture etc etc 🦕🦕⚰️⚰️

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

also. while i'm posting about the aftermath of s4 on the nyc crew. i totally get why people see oscar as spiraling hard after arthur's departure, and i agree that is a possible outcome, but what i really want is to see him take that very brief connection and pay it forward. the whole, "help others when you can't find a reason to help yourself" spiel that arthur gave him, let him use that as a motivator. like, maybe he wasn't able to save this one—but maybe he can save the next one. he's read enough of that bestiary to have a sense of what kinds of things are hiding in the dark corners of the world. and he's faced them! and he's come away—not unscathed, of course, certainly not unscathed, but alive. and even better, victorious. after so much pain and suffering, trying to help marie and her family but never knowing how, they did it. scratch is gone, along with its horrible crawly entourage. all it took was a little extra knowledge, a little bit of cleverness, a lot of courage. he's done it once. he can do it again.

maybe he's not gonna leave the church behind, but, i mean, st. jean-baptiste already serves mostly people who've fallen on hard times, who are being left behind by society. there's gotta be some more among their number who are haunted, or hunted, by something unknowable. and oscar starts to see them. he knows the look of someone whose understanding of the real and unreal has been challenged. and he starts to make it his mission to reach out to them, not because someone else comes along and charitably scoops him up and ropes him into monster-hunting, but because someone very dear once told him that he was good at helping, and that it was valuable, and important, and that it could be a reason to get up and put himself together in the mornings even when everything else felt pointless.

so he does. his community center gains a second life, as refuge for people stalked by demons and monsters and curses and the eyes of ancient gods. bc he may have lost what he thought was his purpose, but he's not going to insult his memory by just passively drinking it into oblivion. he's gonna honor it in the best way he can think of. by helping.

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Hello. I watched the show the haunting of hill house on Netflix recently. And I am really impressed with Oliver Jackson-cohen and then I remember he was a popular fancast for moonknight. he lowkey looks like Smallwood's MK and he's a great actor and he's Jewish. What are your thoughts on him as Moon knight?do you think he can do better than Oscar Isaac? Most of comic mk fans who doesn't like the mk show prefers him than Oscar isaac.

So I have not watched Haunting of Hill House and know nothing of Oliver Jackson-Cohen except what I just looked up. He looks alright. I'm sure he's amazing.

When they announced Oscar Isaac, I was skeptical because I only knew him from Star Wars as Poe, which I enjoyed very much, but I didn't know the man's range.

I've mentioned many times that I am always skeptical of any Moon Knight media until I can take it in for myself (Marvel has hurt me far too many times).

I think for the story they told, Oscar did an outstanding job and his need to do his own research and advocate for certain groups was amazing.

I am… Mildly... miffed that Marvel has put Oscar in other roles. (Don't get me wrong. I adore him as Spider-man 2099 Miguel. And he was in that role first before he was Moon Knight). What annoys me about it is that the re-use of an actor is taking away from someone else of that culture to get exposure, work, and representation.

Oscar Isaac is of mixed Latino descent and fits the Latino Miguel role nicely. He can use his accent and his Spanish! Full love!

Now, here's the problem. Was Marvel going to cast someone Jewish to play Moon Knight?

Did they cast someone Jewish to play Magneto? What about Billy Maximoff?

What about upcoming Ben Grimm? Arguably THE most Jewish Marvel character they have?

Ebon Moss-Bachrach is an American Jewish actor from New York (I am not going to get into any patrial lineal arguments). Baruch Hashem! It can be done!

They gave a Jewish role to a Jewish actor. THE most Jewish character they have (I'm not going to argue about Magneto here but I feel like Ben Grimm and Magneto are their own different sides to the same coin. ask me more about that later).

I feel like Marvel bit off a lot of attempted representation with Moon Knight and jumped in half cocked.

Grief stricken, Traumatized, PTSD former soldier, D.I.D,, Jewish, Avatar to an Egyptian Moon God, Autistic, anger management problem… I'm sure I'm missing a few…

If they gave this role to a Jewish Actor, it would have been purely by accident.

Moon Knight was SO underrated in the Marvel universe I just about had a heart attack when they said they were going to give him a live action series!

So now they had to take a VERY unknown character who has a history of being seen as "The Crazy face ripping off Egptian God Worshiping guy" and make people want to watch the show. People who probably didn't even read the comics as well as die hard comic fans.

How do you do that? You give them a well known and well liked Actor who will draw people in just to see that actor.

And it worked.

The number of people that started watching the show who had never done ANYTHING Marvel before SPIKED thanks to Oscar. It was a VERY smart play.

What I am VERY happy they didn't do? Cast some white guy.

Oscar Isaac's casting opened up the possibility of Sephardic Moon Knight. Comic Moon Knight is VERY Ashkenazi jewish Orthodox. Up until this point, there were people who had no idea that there were other types of Jews! Hispanic Jews? Whhhhaaaaat?!

I think that is an amazing conversation to have! And man I wish they had explored THAT prospect! Make my Moon Knight Sephardic! Heck yeah! See my boys getting down to Ladino music! A little Salsa in the club and a little gefilte fish veracruzana on Friday night!

So, yes... we could have had more comic accurate Moon Knight... But is it more important to get a guy that looks like the character or someone that can play the character and open new doors?

I would love to see Ladino Jake. The sass. The attitude. The swears.

But back to the original question: Moon Knight played by an actual Jewish Actor. I'd love to see it. Again, I don't know anything about Oliver, but I'm not a comic purist and don't need the characters to LOOK like the characters. As long as they can show up and make me believe they are the character, I'm happy.

Did you know they invented Marvel Ultimate because of Sam Jackson? White Nick Fury was so ingrained and popular in 616 that when Sam Jackson got the role, and was GOOD at it, they immediately went "How do we marry the comics with MCU so we can have Sam Jackson comics without going "Ignore all that white guy stuff"?!? And now we have Marvel Ultimate Universe.

I plan to watch the Haunting series someday (I started the other one but had to stop because life happened and I never got back to it), so maybe I'll be sad they didn't cast Oliver. But I'm not sure his role would have fit in with the style of what the show was trying to do. Maybe if they had put out a Moon Knight movie, it would have needed a different guy.

[tecnestheim962]

Okay guys, I’m no artist, nor will I ever claim to be, but I was given a pouch to paint and my mind screamed Rosegarden, so I looked up both Oscar and Ruby’s emblems together and this was what I came up with (unfortunately, when I looked it up, Oscar’s emblem is the same as Ozpin’s but just to be clear, I do NOT ship Ozpin and Ruby cause that’s just yikes).

If there’s a new emblem for Oscar (I think I saw a fan made one with a pine cone which I think is cool!) that’s official, I will gladly flip this over and do a new one on the back!

Anywho, I tried to make it more obviously Oscar by doing the golden vines along with the silver roses across the whole thing.

Just thought I’d share! It brings me great happiness to have a physical reminder of my wholesome beans in my life.

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Here’s a couple of really great articles/interviews with Robbie Taylor Hunt talking about intimacy coordination more widely, but specifically on rwrb. He’s so knowledgeable and they’re really interesting and amazing reads and really showcase both his talent and why intimacy coordination is so important.

[deepseawave]

obsessed w the tags on ur last reblog

Omgg, thank you haha, it was a quality post so I just had to appreciate it in full force 😂❤️

Can‘t believe someone would actually enjoy my yapping :,D

[musubiki]

okay im actually a little emotionally attached to mochis shop being a little cat bookstore now

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The issue of power is so interesting (or something) to see because yes, from an economic perspective Taylor undoubtedly has more sway -- she's one of the most famous people on the planet, she's a billionaire, her every move is followed, etc. So I can almost sort of understand the concern, in another scenario, where some people may expect that she could crush her detractors (For instance, I'm thinking about how Harvey W. silenced his victims as a Hollywood mogul, or how corporate titans silence whistleblowers which I feel are analogies some people may turn to. Or maybe we've all just watched too much of the Roys on Succession.)

I said this in the tags of a post the other day I think, but I think some of the discourse is kind of conflating power with platform. And yes, Taylor undoubtedly has a bigger platform, again by virtue of her fame and position in the media/industry. But part of that is that she's visible in these areas, and her presumed subjects aren't, of their own choice. If any of these subjects ever chose to spoke out, or make art based on their experiences, or pursue opportunities in the media/public eye, they would absolutely be given a platform for it. (Going way back, think of how JM used the media to give his side of the story through his music and his interviews after their split. And I'd argue he was probably way more public/direct about it than she ever was.)

If any of these people decided they wanted their side of the story out there, it would be and it would absolutely be turned into a story. (And arguably that may already be starting but that's a whole other thing.) And this is just my opinion, but given that the subjects of these topics are often privileged white men, I'd argue that their sides tend to carry (more) weight regardless of their economic status in relation to her. If JM or JG or JA or HS wrote a book or a song or a script about their experiences, even only insinuating about her, it'd be the conversation. And not to be a cupcake about it, but the media seems to always want to find something to knock her down a peg about (which, sure, journalism's job is to hold people accountable, but that's not what always happens here and we know it), so they would absolutely give this the time of day, if they chose to put anything out there.

The thing is, I do see in a superficial way that there is there is a clear difference in their socioeconomic/celebrity status, and perhaps that's perceived as a power imbalance, but that's implying that she's dictating a whole host of entities out of her control, and I just don't think she holds the sway of those that some feel she does. Don't get me wrong, she's absurdly wealthy and has influence, but so do so many other people around her, including those who don't support her. (That's the wrong word for it, but I just mean, people who aren't in her circle/sympathetic to her.) And as I've posted about so so so many times before, THESE OTHER PEOPLE (men) ARE WEALTHY AND IN THE PUBLIC EYE TOO. They are all in careers that entail celebrity and involve their own influence in the media. These are not shrinking violets in private civil life who are like, grocery store checkout clerks. They're actors and musicians and media personalities who play the same game. And even the "poorest" of these subjects for the most part are millionaires who are far, far wealthier than any of us will ever be in our lifetimes. They may choose to stay off of social media or the press when it suits them, but they could absolutely make art or give interviews about their experiences and they would command their own kind of influence. (I'd also argue that they would be given a platform thanks to Taylor's platform, but that's another thing.)

I don't want to dismiss the influence of her wealth and stature in the entertainment industry, and I feel like that's kind of where the perceived "imbalance" comes from, but to be frank, I feel like if any of these other subjects spoke out, the media would be so quick to raise their stature in the press for the sake of clicks/controversy/what have you. Critics claim that Taylor can crush any story or person who goes against her, but I think given the breadth of stories out there about her at any given time (the NYT op ed, the jet stuff, the DM stuff, etc.) I don't think that's true; I think the publicity/clicks outlets get for covering stuff, even if salacious, outweighs any concerns over upsetting her or burning bridges. (Not saying that may have not happened, but... I think it would be more obvious if it were a regular occurrence these days.) If anything, 2016 through rep kinda proves that she doesn't have the "control" of the media that some claim she does.

But most importantly, THE ALBUM ISN'T OUT YET. WE DON'T KNOW WHAT THE LYRICS ARE. Taylor gets accused of writing diss tracks, but she rarely does, and I don't think she's written an outright callout song since her Fearless/Speak Now days when she was a teenager/very young adult. Just about everything since Red on has been about her own feelings, experiences, etc. and not a literal "you did x and y and z and you're stupid and i hate you" song. She's not calling people out by name, and truly only chronically online fans are going to deduce who songs are about; five years from now, people discovering the music will just know they're bops (or depressingly sad breakup songs, as the case may be).

I don't know where I'm going with this, i'm talking in circles, it's just interesting how things are being interpreted or assumed so far. I fully acknowledge I'm a cupcake so I'm generally not going to jump to the worst conclusion about Taylor, but there's also curious sociological/gender stuff happening in these conversations. I absolutely think that if the roles were reversed and her exes were billionaire household names and she was an indie artist, nobody would ever talk about power dynamics. I think it's all moot because like so many people have said, I don't think the album is going to be what some think it's going to be, and I think it's going to be way more introspective/vulnerable/dark than what they assume a breakup album is going to be, though obviously I don't know anymore than they do. It's just funny because you never hear about this with other people. (Like, was there a big fuss when Kelly Clarkson wrote a breakup album about her ex-husband? I know she's not as wealthy as Taylor and her ex was probably wealthier than Taylor's exes, but she's someone with sway in the industry and is on TV everyday, but everyone kind of said "lol her ex was a jackass wow she writes sad banger ballads" and moved on.)

Anyway I don't want to start shit or anything, but I'm just giving my two cents about my observations of the whole media landscape stuff.

[itspileofgoodthings]

Impossible to look away from Ryan Gosling’s Ken. Just a PERFECT 10.

[lieutenantselnia]

I was thinking of my fankids with Heinz and was like hmm I still need a name for our second one (which is a boy), and I started considering the name Erwin. It's maybe a bit more old-fashioned and not super common but somehow I've always found it kind of cute, but then I remembered that some time ago I've already given him the name Oscar, I literally forgot my own fankid's name🥲

[marilinhazz]

OSCAAAAR 😭😭😭😭

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — HE’S YOUR EMERGENCY CONTACT

a/n: here’s some raya lore — i’m a cardiac nurse irl and work with cardiothoracic surgeons all the time, so zayne’s story makes me giggle thinking about my surgeons doing this

ZAYNE

You regain consciousness slowly, with the vague sense that something humiliating has occurred. The hospital lights are too bright, the bed is too firm, and the IV in your arm is just... rude, honestly.

"You're awake," comes a voice — cool, low, and very familiar.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You turn your head and find Zayne, still in scrubs, standing at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed and that trademark look of stoic disappointment on his face. You’re not sure if he's judging your vital signs or your life choices.

“I told you not to skip lunch,” he says.

“Did you get called down here?” you ask, voice hoarse.

He lifts an eyebrow. “No. I was already here. In surgery. Where I was paged — in the middle of a triple bypass — because my emergency contact had decided to dramatically pass out in the hospital lobby like a Victorian novel protagonist.”

“Wow. Sounds like they need better lobby snacks.”

He doesn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches slightly — the Zayne equivalent of a full belly laugh.

You shift in bed, suddenly aware of how gross you must look. “Sooo… just to confirm, my very intimidating, brilliant surgeon-boyfriend got pulled out of heart surgery because I skipped breakfast and had a blood sugar tantrum?”

“Yes.” He picks up your chart like it personally insulted him. “And I had to hand my patient off to Dr. Greyson, who, by the way, is now convinced you're either dying or incredibly high-maintenance.”

“Well, I am dating a man who yells at EKG machines.”

“I don’t yell at them,” he says, deadpan. “I encourage them sternly.”

You’re about to tease him again when he steps closer and rests two fingers against your wrist, checking your pulse manually. You both know it’s unnecessary — your vitals are already beeping steadily on the monitor—but he does it anyway, like he needs to feel it for himself.

His eyes soften for a second — just a flicker —then the mask returns.

“I’m fine,” you say gently. “I swear.”

He doesn’t reply. He just exhales through his nose like you’ve personally ruined his whole month and reaches into the pocket of his white coat.

“I brought you juice,” he says flatly, pulling out a little box of apple juice like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You stare. “Wait. You detoured to pediatrics for juice?”

“I’m a surgeon, not a monster.”

You take the juice. He even gives you a bendy straw.

“I love you,” you say, smirking.

“You’re hypoglycemic. Your judgment is impaired.”

You reach for his hand anyway, and he lets you have it, warm and steady and a little calloused from years of holding hearts in his hands.

“You’re lucky I’m not dramatic,” you murmur.

He doesn't blink. “You fainted in the middle of a hospital hallway like an Oscar nominee.”

“Told you. Lobby snacks.”

Zayne exhales, shakes his head once, then gently brushes your hair away from your forehead with the kind of tenderness that could undo an entire cardiac ward.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “eat something. Or I’m putting you on a monitored meal plan.”

“You’re hot when you’re bossy.”

“I’m always bossy.”

“True. Still hot, though.”

Zayne doesn’t smile. But he does sit in the chair next to your bed and take out his tablet, one hand still loosely holding yours.

He doesn’t have to say anything. This is Zayne-speak for I'm not leaving.

And honestly? You’re kind of okay with fainting in public if it gets you this much juice and love from the hospital’s most terrifyingly devoted cardiothoracic surgeon.

XAVIER

You’re lying on the hospital bed, blinking up at the sterile white ceiling, wondering how you managed to turn skipping lunch into a full-on hospital visit. The door opens, and in walks Xavier — your boyfriend and your emergency contact — looking like he just sprinted through a hurricane, but somehow still perfectly put-together.

He spots you immediately, his calm, composed mask cracking just a little. “There you are,” he says, voice steady but with an unmistakable undertone of relief.

You try to sit up, but your head spins a little. “I’m fine. Sort of.”

He crosses the room in two strides, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid if he’s too rough you might actually break.

“I got the call while I was in a meeting,” he says quietly, “and I left everything. I didn’t even finish my coffee.”

You smile, appreciating the little sacrifices he makes without complaint.

“You’re my emergency contact,” you remind him playfully. “Kind of your job to freak out a little.”

He lets out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “I panicked. A bit. But I stayed composed.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it. “You’re doing great.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment the world outside this hospital room disappears. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close but steady.

“Promise me you’ll eat something next time,” he says quietly, his breath warm against your temple.

“I promise,” you murmur.

“And no more fainting in public. I don’t want to have to race down hospital hallways to find you again.”

You laugh softly. “Noted. I’ll try to keep you from breaking a sweat.”

His smile is almost shy now, but the way he tightens his hold on your hand says it all.

“You’re my emergency,” he whispers.

You snort. “Let’s not keep it that way.”

You stay like that for a while, just holding onto each other—two perfectly imperfect people, tethered together by something stronger than any emergency call.

RAFAYEL

Your ankle propped is propped up on a pillow, wrapped in bandages, and your pride slightly more bruised than your actual injury. The nurse said it’s just a mild sprain and you’ll live—but not before she tried very hard not to laugh when you explained how it happened.

The door bursts open like a dramatic plot twist.

“Where is she?!” comes the unmistakable voice of Rafayel.

You barely get out a “Hey—” before he’s at your bedside, eyes wild and hair slightly windblown like he’s just escaped a wind tunnel. Which, honestly, might not be far from the truth.

“I got the call and thought, ‘Oh, maybe she’s dehydrated, or tired, or mildly inconvenienced,’” he says, flinging his jacket on the nearest chair like he’s auditioning for a hospital drama. “But no. You injured yourself chasing your lunch?!”

“It was a really good sandwich,” you mutter defensively.

“A sandwich?” he repeats, clutching his heart like you’ve personally wounded him. “You rolled your ankle because a gust of wind stole your sandwich?”

You glare at him. “I was hungry, okay? It was toasted. And warm. It smelled amazing. I panicked.”

He takes a long, theatrical breath like he’s trying to absorb the full weight of your questionable life choices.

“I left in the middle of an event meeting ,” he says, dramatically pulling a chair up to your bedside. “I might have knocked over a cup of coffee on the way out. I think Thomas yelled for me. I don't remember. My soul left my body the moment they said your name.”

Despite his flair for the dramatic, his hand finds yours — gently, carefully, like he’s trying to check for injuries you haven’t mentioned.

“You’re okay, though?” he asks, suddenly quieter, eyes searching yours. “Really okay?”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m fine. Just a little bruised. Physically and emotionally.”

He exhales, visibly relaxing even though he’s trying to pretend like he was never worried in the first place. “Good. Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared to lose you to an airborne panini.”

You burst out laughing. “Technically, it was a ciabatta.”

“Oh, excuse me,” he says with mock offense, but you catch the tiny tremble of relief in his smile.

He straightens up with a newfound sense of duty. “Right. From now on, I am personally supervising all your lunches. If it has lettuce, it’s getting double security.”

You grin. “Are you volunteering to be my food bodyguard?”

“Silly girl— I’m your boyfriend and your emergency contact. Food security is just a natural extension of my role.”

And with that, he dramatically unwraps a protein bar from his bag, holds it out to you like a solemn offering, and adds, “Now eat this. And next time, let the sandwich go.”

You take the bar, still giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the most responsible person in this relationship.”

You nudge him playfully with your elbow. “You ran into a hospital yelling.”

“I entered with urgency. There’s a difference.”

Despite everything, you’re smiling. Because if you’re going to end up in a hospital with a sprained ankle and a lost sandwich, there’s no one else you’d rather have panicking beautifully at your side than Rafayel.

SYLUS

You’re lying in a hospital bed, leg elevated, toe wrapped in what must be 400 layers of gauze for a very minor fracture. Your phone’s dead. You’re mildly embarrassed. And the nurse informed you that your emergency contact has been called.

Great.

Not five minutes later, the door opens with an entirely reasonable amount of urgency, and in walks Sylus. He looks calm, of course. Immaculately put-together. The kind of composed that makes everyone else feel like maybe things aren’t on fire.

“Hey,” you say sheepishly. “Before you ask, I’m not dying.”

He walks straight to your bedside, his steps efficient, quiet. His eyes scan you from head to toe like he’s assessing battlefield injuries, even though the only casualty is your dignity and maybe a toe bone.

“Mm,” he hums, setting down a small bag —because of course he brought things. “The nurse said you broke your toe.”

“Just a tiny fracture. More like a dramatic crack. I stubbed it on the coffee table.”

Sylus sits in the chair beside your bed and raises an eyebrow. “With enough force to require X-rays and emergency contact notification?”

“I was chasing a bug.”

He blinks. “You injured yourself in active combat with a housefly.”

“It was huge.”

He nods slowly, lips twitching, almost smiling. “Understandable.”

You watch him as he leans back slightly in the chair, arms crossed, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s trying to appear relaxed, but you know him. The slight crease between his brows? The way his leg is bouncing, just a little? That’s Sylus-level distress.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“I’m fine,” he replies smoothly. “You’re the one who got into a full-contact brawl with furniture.”

You grin. “You worried?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Of course.”

“You’re hiding it well.”

“I’m excellent at containment,” he replies, but then — he gently takes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles with an absent, comforting rhythm.

The silence stretches out, warm and familiar. Finally, you speak.

“You didn’t have to rush over, y’know.”

“I didn’t rush,” he says.

“You’re out of breath.”

“I took the stairs.”

You laugh, and that finally gets him to crack a full smile. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple, brief and grounding.

“Next time,” he says, still soft, “let the bug win.”

“Are you saying that because of my toe, or because you’re secretly pro-bug?”

“I’m saying that because you are not replaceable, and coffee tables are surprisingly effective weapons.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re my favorite emergency contact.”

“I better be.” He raises your hand to his lips. “I have a designated bag for this exact situation.”

You blink. “Wait — what’s in the bag?”

He opens it casually: snacks, a charger, a small first aid kit, and — of course — a mini bottle of lotion “in case hospital soap dries out your hands.”

“You’re terrifyingly prepared,” you murmur.

Sylus smiles calmly, brushing hair from your forehead. “And you are accident-prone. It’s a beautiful match.”

And just like that, everything feels a little less embarrassing, a little less dramatic. Because Sylus is here — collected, calm, worried down to his bones, and still managing to make you feel like the most secure clumsy person in the world.

CALEB

You’re sitting on a gurney with an ice pack strapped to your wrist and a very strong desire to sink into the floor and disappear. It’s a mild sprain. Barely a sprain, really. But policy’s policy, and your emergency contact has been notified.

That would be Caleb.

You don't even get a chance to text him before the door bursts open.

There he is — Caleb in full protective, puffed-up mode — hair messy like he sprinted here without stopping to breathe, hoodie half-zipped, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready to file a lawsuit or carry you out in his arms. Possibly both.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, rushing over. “Are you okay? What happened? Why didn’t you call me? Did someone push you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “It was a slippery hallway.”

Caleb squints. “Slippery like… sabotage? Who waxes a hallway that much?”

“It’s a hospital, babe.”

“Still suspicious.”

He pulls a chair up to the bed with unnecessary force, plops down beside you, and carefully examines your wrist like he’s about to perform surgery himself.

“They gave you an X-ray, right? And ice? Did they check for nerve damage? Do I need to talk to someone?”

You sigh, smiling. “Yes, yes, no, and absolutely not. It’s a minor sprain.”

“Minor?” he repeats like you just called a plane crash a “minor inconvenience.”

You lean back and watch as he starts rifling through the little hospital drawer for reasons unknown. Possibly looking for answers. Possibly snacks.

“Caleb.”

“Hm?”

“You can breathe. I’m okay.”

He finally pauses, sitting back in his chair. “I know you’re okay. I just need to see you being okay for, like, the next three hours before I stop internally screaming.”

You reach over and lace your fingers with his with your uninjured hand.

“I appreciate your overreaction.”

He huffs dramatically. “This isn’t an overreaction. This is called deep, passionate concern.”

“You accused a hallway of foul play.”

“And I stand by that.”

You chuckle, gently tugging his hand. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

“I’m always worried. You’re a walking hazard zone.”

You smirk. “Yet you keep dating me.”

“I like living dangerously,” he says, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead. “But next time? Text me. I want to hear about your wrist injury from you, not a very bored nurse who said, and I quote, ‘Your partner’s fine. Bit dramatic, though.’”

“Wow. She really captured your energy.”

He narrows his eyes. “Okay. I’m limiting your sarcasm until your wrist heals.”

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

[leclerc-hs]

romantic chocolates? - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you and your best friends brother accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolate OR you and oscar get so fucking horny while on a yacht in the Maldives. warnings: smut smut smut, all smut basically. oral, p in v, dirty talk, language, marking kink, slight voyeruism, exhibitionism??, not sure what else...NOT PROOFREAD! (might be some typos) word count: ~3.9k author's note: SURPRISEEEE ITS OUT EARLY (I worked hard over the weekend lol) hope you guys enjoy!! THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR OSCAR EVERRRR (aside from a one shot i've had sitting in my drafts for months lol) comment and let me know what you think!!! xoxo

ln4 cl16 mv1 op81 cs55

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You’ve always had a sweet tooth.

Everyone knew it. Oscar especially. He used to tease you over it when you were younger. Would point out when your fingers were sticky with something sugary.

He never said it unkindly. Just amused. Soft. Something like you’ve got chocolate on your face and then passed you a napkin you didn’t ask for.

He’s always been like that. Gentle. Kind. The boy who was never loud. More of a listener than a speaker.

And he never made you feel silly. Not when you cried after falling off your bike and scraped your knee. Not when your towel slipped. Not even when you accidentally spilled juice all over your shirt on a long flight. He just handed you a new one from his backpack like he knew it’d happen. 

You’d grown up like that. 

And now here you were, years later. Sunburned and salty on a private yacht in the Maldives, still with a sweet tooth and one of his old McLaren shirts he gave you when he first got signed. Pulled over your bikini.

His sister, your best friend, left on in the morning for a tour with the rest of the group. Something about history and snorkeling. You’d both waved your hands declining. Something about being too burned and too sleepy for it. 

“She’s going to get bored halfway through,” You sip on your drink. “Probably will call us in two hours.”

Oscar gives you a shrug. “I give her one.”

“She said it was a once in a lifetime experience.” You throw up your hands while repeating her words. Mocking her almost. Smiling.

“So is sitting here.”

And you laugh.

He’s sitting across from you, towel slung around the back of his neck, sun catching his shoulders. His hair is damp. Skin flushed from the sun. No shirt. Just a pair of swim shorts and bare feet.

You shift slightly where you are. Curled up in the shade. Bare legs stretched out. The oversized shirt clinging to you just a little too much where your bikini top was wet.

He glances at you when you move. Doesn’t speak. Just tracks it with his eyes. And looks away again.

His hand reaches for the table. “What’s this?”

You look over. 

A little box. Dark. Red ribbon wrapped around it.

“Some welcome thing, I think.” You shrug. “Dropped it off yesterday.”

Oscar pulls the lid open, brows lifting. He picks up a wrapped square, amused.

“Well, well.” He says, looking at you. “Your kryptonite.”

You grin. “Shut up.”

“You gonna pretend you didn’t spot this the second we sat down?”

“I did not.”

He tilts his head, giving you a look.

“Mm, you’ve got that look.” He says.

“What look?”

“The one you used to get before stealing cupcakes at birthday parties.”

You roll your eyes, but blush. Cheeks reddening. “I did not steal…”

“You did.” He cuts you off. Already unwrapping one of the chocolates. “Always had sugar on your hands. Icing on the corner of your lips.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he tosses a piece toward you.

You catch it.

You watch him bring the chocolate to his mouth, tongue darting over his lip without thinking.

Peel open your piece and press it to your tongue. It melts fast. Rich. 

You hum, licking a smear of it off your finger. “That’s actually really good.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

You glance up and catch him mid-swipe across his bottom lip. Looking dazed. Distracted.

Then he blinks, clears his throat. And nods. “Yeah, pretty good.”

He closes the lid of the box, slides it to the side. Then leans back, looking at the water.

And you sit there with him. Across from him on the cushioned benches. Chewing slowly. Feeling that heat bloom beneath your skin.

It’s soft at first.

Then deeper.

A warmth in your chest. A pulse between your thighs.

The wind sweeps your skin. And the fabric of your bikini suddenly feels too damp. Too thin. Too tight.

You swallow. Trying not to fidget.

Oscar hasn’t moved much. His gaze is still on the ocean, but it isn’t really. And you watch the way his jaw flexes. The way his foot shifts on the deck. Like he was grounding himself.

He doesn’t look at you.

And he always looks at you. 

You shift again. Cross your ankles. Press your thighs together.

You glance at Oscar again.

And his lips are parted. Just a little bit. And his brow is slightly furrowed.

You sit up slightly. “You okay?”

He shifts. Then clears his throat, blinking. “Yeah. Just…hot.”

You nod slowly. “Same.”

He leans forward, breathes out. But his fingers twitch. And you notice as his back muscles roll slightly as he drops his head down, towel slipping down.

He stays like that for a few seconds. Then rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

His voice is quiet. Flat. “What was in that chocolate?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you’re fucking throbbing now. And your bikini is definitely soaked.

“Do you feel…” He swallows, throat bobbing. “Strange?”

You nod. And then remember he isn’t even looking at you. “Yeah.”

His jaw clenches.

He shifts again. Still not looking at you. And that’s how you know something is wrong.

Because he never acts like this. 

You’ve seen him flustered, sure. After a race, dealing with the media, around too many people. But never like this. Not this tense. As if he’s afraid.

“I didn’t think chocolate could….fuck.” His voice cracks. And he laughs under his breath. 

He grips the bench. Looking like he’s in pain.

“I think I need to go inside.”

And he stands too fast. Towel falling down. Hands clenched at his sides as he turns on bare feet and walks toward the main cabin.

You stare at his back. His shoulders. And he disappears down the stairs.

You’re so hot that you could cry. Unbearable.

You press your palm flat to your stomach. Like it’ll help.

But it doesn’t.

Because it’s not just the chocolate. 

It’s him. Oscar.

Gone for less than a minute and his voice is the only thing in your head. The way his mouth looked when he licked the chocolate off his thumb. His hands. The muscles of his back straining as he leaned forward

The silence stretches heavy.

You make a quiet sound in your throat. Barely audible. And you can’t sit still. Can barely think. Can’t stop seeing him.

Your hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re hesitant at first. But then trail your fingers to the center of your ache.

And your hips lift off the cushion. A heavy breath escaping.

Your other hand grips the bench as you rock slowly against your own fingers. Over the bikini. Slow circles. Each one, pressing harder.

You let your head fall back. And the sky above is almost blinding.

“Oscar…”

You don’t even realize you said it out loud. It just slips. 

And a few moments later, you don’t even hear him come back. Your fingers still at your bikini. Rubbing.

You lift your head. He’s there.

Flushed. Hair ruffled like he ran his fingers through it a million times. Eyes fixed between your legs like he’s in some sort of trance.

He just stares. Doesn’t even speak.

“I can’t stop,” You whisper. Honest.

“You’re…” He blinks. Voice low. Stunned. Like he just walked into his favorite fantasy and doesn’t know what to do. “You’re fucking touching yourself?”

You nod. And he groans.

“To me?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” You whisper.

“Jesus.” His hands twitch at his sides.

You shift, spreading your legs a little wider without meaning to. Unable to stop rubbing the tight circles.

“You look so pretty like that,” He mutters.

You tremble. “I need help.”

And his eyes widen.

“Please,” you whisper. “I can’t…Osc, please.”

He groans. Hands dropping to the front of his swim shorts, palming the hard line of his cock through the fabric.

“Come closer.” You plead.

And he stares at you with wide eyes. Flushed. He doesn’t move. At least, he doesn’t at first.

But then his gaze drops back down to your legs. Spread open. Your fingers rubbing slow, desperate circles. And his hands twitch.

“I…” He says, but he’s already squeezing himself. “I shouldn’t.”

“Oscar…”

“I shouldn’t be seeing this,” his mutters. “And I shouldn’t be this fucking hard.”

Your eyes fall to where his hand squeezes against his cock. Like he’s trying to fight the ache between his legs.

And you whimper. Hips jerking. “I can’t. I need….I need help.”

His hand squeezes himself tighter.

“Fuck.” A pause. A few silent moments of heated stares. “Do you know how many times I used to think about this?”

His voice has gone rough. And you blink at him. Heart stuttering.

“I used to jerk off in my room and feel sick after,” He whispers. “Because it was you. My sister’s best friend. Always walking around in those tiny shorts. That blue bikini. Always so fucking sweet.”

Your fingers slow. Jaw falls slack.

“I’ve thought about it,” His voice shakes. “Fuck. I’ve thought about this. When we were younger.”

Your breath hitches.

“Thought about your pussy more than I should’ve.” He mutters. “Wondered how soft you’d feel. How tight. If you’d let me take my time or if you’d beg me to fuck you rough.”

Your back arches.

“Wondered what you’d sound like when you come.” He continues. “If it’s all breathy. Or if you’d cry. If you’d say my name.”

“I’d press the pillow over my face after so no one would hear me,” He admits. “Every time.”

You gasp.

“I would.” You gasp.

His hand pushes harder into his cock. Groaning. “I’ve thought about fucking you with my tongue. Holding your legs and licking you for hours.”

You press your fingers even harder.

You whimper, other hand reading for a pillow or something to grab onto. “Osc, please.”

“You want my fingers?” He whispers. “Right here? Want me to fuck you with my hand?”

You nod. Repeatedly. Fast. Almost pathetic.

Oscar lets out a whimper. And then he’s kneeling in front of you before you can blink. Hand still pressing into his cock. The other trembling as his fingers brush your thigh.

“You’re so warm.”

Your hand falls away and he replaces it instantly. Pressing two fingers against the soaked fabric. Groans loudly when he feels it.

“Fuck, pretty…” He groans. “You’re soaked. Fuckin’ dripping.”

And then he pushes the fabric aside, stares. Pupils blown. “God, look at you…"

You shake your head. “Please.”

“I’ve thought about sliding my fingers into you since I was seventeen,” He pushes them in. Half-laughing. “Thought about curling them deep and slow….hearing you moan just like that.”

Oscar swears under his breath, leaning closer. Jaw locked tight. “I’d keep you like this for hours if I could. Legs spread and needy….mine to play with.”

You cry out. Rocking your hips.

And he curls his fingers. Watching your face.

“Yeah?” His thumb circles your clit now. Slow. “Right there? Knew I’d find it.”

And you careen forward. Hands flying to grab his shoulders.

“Come for me,” He mutters. “Right here. In my fucking shirt. On my yacht. On my fingers.”

And you do.

Hard.

And he watches every second. His lips parted. Cock throbbing.

And then he drags his fingers out of you slow.

Brings them to his mouth. 

Licks them clean. Eyes locked on yours.

“Taste better than I ever dreamed,” He says softly.

And then he’s grabbing the back of your neck. Pulling your lips to his. Kissing you like he’s starving.

His tongue licks your mouth like its his. Like he already knows how to pull those sounds out of you and wants to hear every single one. 

And his hands slip down your body. Down your shoulders, over your ribs. Brushing the dip of your waist. Until he’s gripping your thighs.

“Wanna see bruises here,” He says. “Want people to see bruises and know.”

He stays kneeling between you, chest heaving.

“You’re soaking, baby.” His voice cracks.

He leans forward. Kissing your inner thigh. And then opens his mouth, sucking hard. Pulling a moan from you.

You feel the bruise forming as he licks over it. Sucks it again. Fingers pressing into your skin, gripping it.

“That’s one,” He mutters. 

He leaves another one. Higher. 

Then a third on the other leg. Right by your cunt. So close that it makes your hips jerk into his mouth.

And then he’s standing. Grabbing you under your thighs. And lifts you. 

Laying you down on the table. The welcome basket crashes onto the deck with a thud, but neither of you acknowledge it. The box of chocolates dangling on the edge.

He grabs it.

“What are you doing?” You ask. Breathless.

He doesn’t answer. Opens the box, takes out a single piece and holds it up. Gaze dropping down to your cunt spread open for him.

“Need to taste you with this,” He mutters.

He leans over you. Pressing the chocolate between your lips. “Bite.”

You do.

The sun’s hot against your skin.

And then he kisses you hard. Tongue lapping against yours, sharing the chocolate. You both moan and groan into each other before he’s dropping back to his knees.

“Look at you,” He breathes. “All messy. Want my mouth, baby?”

You nod.

And he leans in. Licks you.

One long drag up your slit.

You cry out. And he groans into your cunt. Licking you. Tasting you.

“Fuckin heaven.” He drags a hand to your leg. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”

“Oscar…”

He doesn’t stop. Just hooks his arm under your thigh, and pulls you closer to the edge. Legs over his shoulder.

And buries his face in your pussy.

You grind into him instantly. Chasing every flick of his tongue.

Your hands fist into his hair, dragging his face closer against you. And he moans. Wrecked.

“Fuck,” you yell. “Oscar…oh my…fuck.”

He drags his tongue through you. Flicking your clit over and over.

“Keep fucking my face,” his voice is hot.

“You sound…my God..Oscar, you sound obsessed..”

“I am.” He grunts. Fingers curling in you as he nudges your clit with his nose.

And then he pulls one arm away. You barely notice it. Until you hear it and look down.

He’s got his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting it fast. Leaking.

He jerks his cock faster. Hips twitching into his own fist as his mouth works harder against you. 

“Gonna come,” he confesses. “Gonna come from tasting you.”

You cry out.

“C’mon…” He urges. “Let me taste it, yeah?” 

And it breaks you.

You moan into the open sky. Grinding against his face. Jaw slack. Eyes squeezed shut.

And then he groans, standing up and comes hard onto your cunt. 

Hot, messy ropes of it. Spilling over you. 

And then he’s dragging you off the table without a word. Not giving you time to even breathe. Panting. 

His hands tight around you, and then he’s spinning you. Forcing you to face the ocean. Chest hitting the metal railing. 

And he’s behind you. Silent.

You start to turn your head, “Oscar…?”

“No.” He says. Voice rough. “Stay just like that.”

His hands drag your shirt up. Slow.

His name in bold letters stretched across your back.

He groans. Violently.

“I should’ve fucked you in this years ago.”

Your breath falters.

“Fucking knew it,” He grabs a fistful of the shirt, twisting his hand in it. “Knew one day you’d bend over in this and I’d lose my fucking mind.”

You feel the heat of his body behind you, shoving your bottoms down with one swift flick of his hand. Cock thick and heavy. Dragging through your folds, collecting his come and your wetness.

He groans. You shake.

He presses forward, hips rocking against you. Grinding into your thighs.

“You’ve no idea what you look like.” His breath is heavy behind you. “Bent over. My name on your back. Come still dropping down your cunt.”

And you bite your lip. Arching into him harder.

One hand grips your hip, the other fisted around the shirt.

“You wore this shirt for years like it meant nothing,” His voice quieter. Mean. “Didn’t think about what it did to me every time you wore it.”

“Osc…” You attempt to say his name, but he shifts his hips into you harder and your voice cracks.

He laughs.

“Now look at you. Dripping all over me. Wearing my name like you belong to me.”

He sinks in slow. So slow that you feel every pulse. Every ridge. 

And you whimper. He groans behind you. Like he’s in pain. Like he’s trying so hard to not ravish you.

But when his hips meet you, and he’s bottomed out. He just….stops.

Breathes in heavily.

“Fuck.” He says soft. “You’re so fucking tight around me.”

His fingers dig into your hip even harder. Bruising. Marking.

“You’ve ruined me,” He laughs. “Y’know that?”

And you don’t even get a chance to answer.

Because he pulls back and slams into you. Hard.

You cry out, hands gripping the railing that your knuckles turn white.

His pace isn’t gentle at all. It’s feral.

“Fucking ruined me,” He says again. “You in this shirt….you in my fucking name..do you even know what that does to me?”

You moan. So loud. And his hips smack into you. Over and over.

“You’ve been walkin’ around in it for years.” He spits. “Like it’s nothing.”

He thrusts deep, angling his hips at a better angle. “Like I haven’t been dreaming of fucking you in it since I gave it to you all those years ago.”

You’re babbling now. Unable to breathe properly. Your entire body trembling.

His hand slips from your hip and slides up your spine. He grabs the back of your neck and pushes you down. Just a little bit harder. Forces you to arch even more.

And fuck, he nearly collapses when he feels you clench tighter around him.

“You should see yourself,” He grunts. “Squeezing around me like you’re desperate to never let me go.”

And he’s lost all rhythm. He’s just slamming into you. Cock so deep. 

“Can’t believe this is real.” He’s panting. “Can’t believe I get to fuck you in my shirt. Pussy covered in me.”

Your orgasm is close. And you’re shouting. Moaning. 

"Bet she'd lose her mind if she knew what a slut you were f'me..."

You cry out. He feels you teetering on the edge. 

“Don’t.” He snaps.

And you cry, “Oscar…please.”

“You’re gonna wait.” He demands, fucking into you more rapidly. 

And he’s losing his mind. It’s sooo good. 

“Say who’s inside you.” His hands squeeze the back of your neck. “Say it.”

You gasp. Jaw falling slack. Chest pressed harsh into the metal railing. “You…Osc..fuck, it’s  so good..”

You sob out his name and Oscar fucking snaps.

“That’s it, baby.” 

His hips hit you faster. Deeper. The filthy sound of it heard over the waves lapping the hull. 

You sob into the railing. 

He leans into you, head falling forward.

“Gonna come,” He chokes out. “Gonna come right inside you. Stuff you full. Let it leak out.”

And you break.

Orgasm ripping through you. Violent and hot. Back arching so hard into him. You sob out his name. Your walls clenching around him in a tight grip.

And he crashes with you. Body shuddering. Cock throbbing. Spilling into you.

He’s still panting against you when he pulls out. And it’s a fucking mess in between your thighs.

But before you can say anything, he’s dragging you upright. And you’re stumbling as he drags you across the hot deck. Hand across your stomach. Keeping you close.

And then he’s shoving you into the rinse off shower.

He reaches up. Turns the handle. And the water is so cold that you gasp from it.

Oscar laughs behind you. “Too cold?”

Your head falls onto his shoulder. “Asshole.”

And then he turns the temperature warmer, and then it’s all steam and heat again. 

You expect him to rinse you off gently.

Instead, he grabs the shower head. Detaches it from the hook. And pulls your back against his chest.

“Gonna clean you up.”

You’re about to ask what exactly he means. But then he;;s nudging your legs apart. Brings the shower head straight to your cunt. 

And you jolt forward with a sharp cry.

The heat. The pressure.

“Oh my god…Osc,” You’re mumbling.

And he watches you. Holding one leg to keep them apart.

“Stay open,” his voice is soft. “Wanna see you come again.”

And you whimper. Begging. “Too much…fuck.”

But he doesn’t stop. Just tilts the shower head just right. Hitting your clit.

“Thought I’d have to work harder for this,” He mutters. “But you’re soaking already.”

“Fuck…fuck.”

"Y'like this, hm?" He whispers into your ear. "Being used like some filthy secret?"

Your hands reach behind you and slip their way into his hair. Pulling it. He groans. Rutting his hips into your backside for some friction.

“C’mon, pretty.” He grunts. 

And the water just keeps hitting you. 

You sob. And then crash again.

Your legs shake. Cunt clenching around nothing.  But he holds you up, turning you to face him. Pressing your back against the wall.

He finally sets the shower head down. Lets it spray onto the deck. 

And then his hands are back on you. One at your lower back, one gripping your thigh, pulling it up to wrap at his waist. You balance on one leg.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Y’okay?” His voice gentle. Caring.

And you nod, pressing your head into his neck. And his heart stutters when you lean into him. Like he can finally breathe.

“I’ve got you,” He whispers.

And then, he sinks back into you.

Slow. Gentle.

Your mouth falls open. The stretch still almost unbearable after everything. But the way he slides in, feels too fucking good.

You gasp. Digging your nails into his skin. And he cradles you against the wall.

He moves slow. Rocking. No rhythm. And he feels massive. Thick. 

“Oscar,” You hush into his skin. “You feel…Y’feel so good.”

He nods. “I know, baby. I know.” And his voice is a whisper. 

He grinds deeper. Barely moving but pressing into you. “Can’t believe you’re still this wet…” He grunts. “Still want more? Want me to stuff you full again, hm? Fuck you til it leaks down?”

You nod. Mouth open. Moaning.

“C’mon,” He pants. Hips jerking. Cock throbbing. 

It’s quick. The feel of you wrapped around his cock. The overstimulation of the stretch.

You both come quick. Crying out into each other’s skin. Soft kisses in between the moans.

And then you’re both laughing. Smiling at one another.

-

“Holy shit…I’m dying.” Your best friend announces. “Never let me go on another tour ever ever again.” 

Oscar snorts from beside you on the bench, looking at his phone. “Told you you’d hate it.”

“You didn’t say I’d almost drown.”

You keep your face still. Sipping your drink.

And she plops down on the lounger across the deck, sighing.

And for a moment…it’s quiet.

Until Oscar leans in slightly, elbow brushing your arm.

His voice low. “Y’think she noticed?”

You glance at him. Shake your head.

“She’s never been less observant,” You whisper back.

And he grins. One of those fuck-you grins that makes you stutter.

And you hold back a smile.

Your best friend groans across the deck. “God, I feel disgusting. Should we order dinner in an hour?”

Oscar clears his throat. “Sure.”

“Yeah,” You say.

And then you lean, just slightly, into his side. Just enough that his thigh is touching yours again. 

He doesn’t move. And he doesn’t stop smiling.

"Hey, what happened to the welcome basket?"

Oops? taglist (holy shit SO MANY OF YOU ILY): @landoscarinthefastlane @dudenhaaa27 @330bpm-whiplash @xoln04f1xo @sainzluvrr @minjiahyung @madicecream123 @star73807-blog @simpfortoomanymen @art-h1ve @annaswrites00 @forumlabee @butterfly-daisies07 @nothereneverherever @widow-cevans @suns3treading @fmejenson @megatrilss1885 @10iceicebaby @sh1nedreamsm1le7 @ptrickbateman @chasingosc @uuoozzii @idkwtdwml123 @pinkdeadtopia @chiara8104 @ellie-bellie-29 @piastri-my-boy @1-of-my-many-obsessions @8junejpg1 @jaydensluv @astrlape @idontknow0704 @whistlef0rthechoir @op814kitty @asmoothoperator @illicit-affcirs @lilith-123321 @teddybearbeth @saudianna @skylyn-vais @fleurdangz @angxedxtz @marekmybeloved @liafics @dxrlxb @gabyasworld @treebranch23 @drysdalesv @morganalatina21 @bigcatharmony @ilovemuppets @acina27 @angelabunbun @megatrilss1885 @ilikecarsalotsometimes @roxanne-ragnvindr @euphoriapillz @luminouskalopsia @trinity2058 @livsturnioloo @wdsara48 @ini3103 @shimmermotorsport @marslovesran4eva @wherethezoes-at @monsterdesandia @mythicalmaven @3in1shampooconditionerbodywash @ella284-3 @landossainz @redcrescentmoons @jaeger-chan @altaccount283927 @ericasdumbworld @aerie717 @the0twst0shrimp0mc @ysavelelelel @phillza-my-beloved @thenalovescars @zicosbitch @scaroscar8115 @wertyuizxcvbnm @needy02 @dessashippr @quill-vy @o6hellnah @enchantedwaspwhisper @awesome-fandom-panda @biancathecool @lilorose25 @wowzees (not sure if all these worked but I took them straight from my comments on the sneak peak)