hi hi! 🦈 anon here to bother you with my requests again /j
i saw your post about the event ending next week(?) and wanted to get one last request in before that
how about (im so sorry but i love him too much) osc with the touch prompt [them reading you like an open book, especially knowing when you're going through difficult times]? i think male!mechanic!reader would be really interesting bc reader could just throw himself into work and hang out with osc enough that it seems like nothing is wrong at first?
have a good day/evening/night :)
- 🦈 anon
Show Me How
pairing: oscar piastri x male!mechanic!reader
author's note: hey sharkie guess who finished the fic! me!!! i did!! your requests never bother me. hope it's fine that i did f1 mechanic and if not take me out back /j!!!!(also biggest kudos to sharkie for proofreading, love ya dude <3 x)🔋 title from Show Me How, Men I Trust
tags: colleagues/friends-to-???, vague life troubles, hurt/comfort except the hurt is vague so you're mostly just comforted, author is rusty pls be kind, feelings realisation, open ending
warnings: very workaholic!reader, sleep loss, makes like 0 sense sorry not sorry, i know nothing of car factories nor the logistics but i could not be bothered (sorry mechanics </3)
word count: 1.1k
music 4 the soul | my masterlist
Becoming a car mechanic was always your dream.
From the first time you touched a toy car, intrigued and toying with the rubber wheels; to your teenage years, fully consumed by books and documentaries, eagerly drinking all the details and diagrams. Fast forward to you getting a degree in mechanical engineering, to now.
Formula one. The kind of cars that you wouldn't dare drive yourself, but those that you could work on endlessly. The possibilities, the quicker-than-lightning speed.
Over the years you've been in the sport, you've quickly learnt that the tension never leaves. Watching on with bated breath as the car you've built with your colleagues glides along the track. Sometimes it wins. Sometimes, it crashes and burns, and all you can do is watch on. It's unpredictable. That makes you love it all the more.
Regrettably, most of your time is not spent admiring your beauty. No, it's spent underneath the car floor, staring up into the pipes and machinery, trying to solve a puzzle you don't know the answer to. Or, perhaps, after an unlucky qualifying or after a long plane ride, reassemblying parts with a ticking clock in the back of your mind.
Going sleepless—or sleeping less than you should—is often the result of your hard work ethic. Maybe that's stupid; you can't bring yourself to care. It's only a few hours of lost sleep, how bad could it possibly be?
Well.
Maybe a little worse than you had initially thought. Your mind, which you'd liked for how sharp and quick it was, had started becoming… foggy. Drifting easily. Hands holding tools but never seeming to move, instead awkwardly hovering. And god, your caffeine intake has never been higher.
But hey. It's been working. The car has been working—and you couldn't complain at all about the points it's been scoring, either. Maybe it's a sacrifice you're willing to make.
"Hey," a voice calls out from somewhere behind you, accented and familiar, one you know all too well, "you've been standing there for a while. You doing okay?"
You turn around with a smile—albeit a sheepish one—and face Oscar. He's got two cups in his hands. A steaming coffee for himself, and in the other is your exact order. "God, Osc, you're a lifesaver! How do you know exactly what I like?"
When you reach for it, however, he lifts the coffee away from you. Despite your pertrurbed look, he smiles. "Let's go for a walk. You've been underneath that car for ages. Your back will start hurting, if you're not careful."
You're pretty sure he'd force you out no matter what answer you'd given, so begrudgingly, you agree. Oscar's always been like that with you; that type of caring where he'll get you to do whatever's best, even if you don't want to. But it's not all that uncomfortable. Shifting from coworkers to acquaintances to friends had brought about this dynamic naturally. Exchanging jokes and taking care of each other became second nature. However, you wonder when his smiles, laughs, and mere presence made your heart beat faster.
You don't know how he does it.
"..llooo? Hello, Earth to Mr. Mechanic?" Oscar huffs, a smug smile resting on his face, "we're here."
That you are. Hidden underneath some tree crowns, where shadows are neatly cast onto a bench, where Oscar is already sitting. You carefully lower yourself down next to him, trying not to stumble, desperately ignoring that weird, warm feeling in your chest.
Other than that, the sky is gorgeous. A sunny, baby-blue, dotted by small puffy clouds. Nature is weirdly serene when you haven't been able to fully appreciate it in a while.
"Uhm, sorry 'bout earlier," you laugh, "uhm, what were you saying?"
"No, it's just that you've been so busy. Under the car, or looking at metrics," he pauses, and gives you a sideways smile, "I feel like I haven't talked to you—like, properly talked to you—in ages."
You tense, nose scrunching up a bit unintentionally. "It hasn't been that long, has it? We talked like… a few days ago, no?"
Oscar winces—hands fumbling in his lap uncomfortably. "Mate, that was a week ago."
Oh. Right. Work has really been taking up such a big part of you now, hasn't it?
It was easy to throw yourself into. Like a crashing tide, swallowing you up whole— it distracted from any other troubles, and it was an easy excuse. Sorry, work has me busy; you used it enough that it'd become an auto-predict on your keyboard. Every single word.
Truth is, life had just gotten overwhelming. You really didn't think it was all that noticeable.
"We've still talked, though."
"It's been the smallest of small talks."
And as much as you'd like to argue against that, it was true, wasn't it? Greetings shot at each other in passing, or small conversations held while you were busying yourself with your tools.
A weird feeling, then, filled your chest. Sitting somewhere between your ribs, akin to— guilt, maybe? Or regret. Your sight shoots to your lap, where your hands are already sitting entangled with one another. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right."
"Listen," Oscar starts, and you slowly look up from your lap, "if there's anything going on, anything at all, you know you can tell me. Right?"
Maybe it's the way he says it; that genuine and careful and oh so kind tone of his, maybe that's what gets you talking. Maybe it's the fact that it's Oscar, and you really can't help yourself around him. Or maybe it's because he just noticed at all. But you start spilling your guts to him almost instantly.
You talk about the troubles that have plagued your mind, how life itself started becoming difficult to trudge through. The things in your routine that felt so easy before suddenly becoming insurmountable tasks, and how it felt easier ignoring it and just working instead.
Oscar sits there, patient, and listens. He listens so intently, and as you spew all the words that have lay dormant in your head, your heart stutters once more in your chest. In the faint, bounce-back light from the sun that has spilled through the leaves, Oscar looks beautiful.
He draws closer to you, too, and lay one hand atop yours. Reaffirms it with a careful squeeze.
"Thank you," he hums, "for telling me."
Your breath catches in your throat and your gaze falls onto your interlocked hands. Your fingers seem to tremble, faintly, although you're not sure whether that's because of him or your lack of sleep.
"Thanks for listening."
"Of course."
The two of you sit there for longer than you realise. In silence, just your quiet breathing and the distant hum of everyday life somehow regaining itself.
i wanna sleep in your car while you're drivin' / lay on your lap when i'm cryin'
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ adrianne lenker - anything
(oscar piastri x gn reader / fluff/sickfic / 567 words) oscar takes care of you when you have a cold
“I THINK I’M DYING.”
“you’re not dying,” OSCAR PIASTRI chuckles. a hint of humor breaks through his concern, taking the form of his lips quirking upwards ever so slightly in the corners. however it’s quickly erased when a series of coughs begins wracking through your body. it rattles your lungs and makes your entire body shake as you hunch yourself over, stuffing your face into the crook of your arm. “you just have a cold.”
you fall back against the couch cushions with a small huff, stifling a groan behind your bent elbow. a hand slips behind your neck, coaxing your head upwards just enough to slip a pillow behind your head. you squint through blurred vision as oscar offers a sympathetic smile from above. “same thing.”
“sure,” he hums. oscar’s hands are at your sides, now, smoothing the blanket around your body until you’re fully wrapped in the fabric like a caterpillar. its warmth is suffocating but warm, a welcome change given the chills that continuously run down your spine. “whatever you say, love.”
“i won’t be able to cover my mouth like this, you know.”
the small coffee table in your living room had instead become a tissue graveyard after a few miserable days of falling ill. the couch is admittedly not big enough for the two of you when your body is sprawled across the cushions. it sits centered in the living room, facing a large tv oscar had prided himself on installing to anyone you invited over. he now sits tentatively on the edge, balancing precariously right next to your thighs. “you can. you’ll just have to tuck yourself back in afterwards.”
you acquiesce with a quiet huff, shifting to lay on your side as much as the couch will allow. the afternoon sunlight filters in through your windows. a few trees line the surrounding streets. their leaves sway in the breeze. if you close your eyes for long enough, you can almost hear the gentle push and pull of monaco’s slow waves.
oscar reaches forward, gingerly resting the back of his hand against your forehead. your eyes flutter shut almost instinctively. his hand is cool against your skin. you almost miss the feeling when it’s gone.
you only open your eyes again when oscar gingerly brushes a hand through your hair. his fingertips gingerly trail against your cheekbone, collecting a few stray strands and tucking them behind your ear. you flinch away from the contact, scrunching your expression and earning a chuckle in the process.
“sorry,” oscar smiles. he raises his hands in mock surrender. his grin grows when you laugh. the corners of his eyes crinkle in the same way you love and a flush crawls up the sides of his neck. “didn’t mean to startle you.”
you shake your head. “just ticklish.”
for a few moments, the world falls silent once again. the breeze rattles the shutters against your windows. oscar leans in, pressing a chaste kiss against your forehead. his hand slips into your own, tracing his thumb against the back of your knuckles and tracing miscellaneous shapes against the back of your hand.
a cough rattles itself out of your chest every few minutes and oscar grimaces every time. but he still hands you a bottle of water. he pushes the tissue box closer. he tucks the blankets around you even tighter. and you know, you’ve found peace.
notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! f1 reqs are open and greatly appreciated <3 started watching the pitt i'm kinda obsessed, oscar please do good in japan i'm actually begging i can't go a whole month if he doesn't, based on my real life cold that has taken me out send help
if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, or reblogging!! and if you want to support me, consider checking out my f1 masterlist <3
Psssst……….could you write something with m!reader and Lando inspired by ‘I don’t care’ by Fall Out Boy?
Where they’re rivals but at the same time they’re whipped for each other (pre-relationship), and during an interview, Lando criticizes the reader for whatever reason?
(On a side note, I got really excited to ask you about childhood online best friends Gabi and Reader, who met on Minecraft and then saw each other irl for the first time at his home race. Then I remembered that you don’t write for Gabi.😔)
IDC what you think! (as long as it's about me)
pairing: lando norris x rival driver!male!reader
author's note: heyyy. hey nonnie. send that request. it's too cute i cant not write it,,, genuinely!! i'm #soready. plssss… (besides i sneakily added him to my list, i might be ok at writing him!)
tags: lando is being kind of stupid!, tension?? idk man, kind of childhood friends to lovers???, kind of short sorry!!!
warnings: miscommunication??? idk! confrontation, reader might be a little emotionally constipated, vulgarity (i guess), i am SO rusty sorry again, abrupt end(?)
word count: 1.5k
music 4 the soul | my masterlist
There are at least two constants in your life.
First off, there's racing. From when you were still in karts and figuring it all out, to now in Formula 1. What was once a dream, now real and right in front of you. Loving it all is as easy as breathing.
The other constant is Lando Norris.
All laughs and sunshine warm smiles, the freckled boy has been in your life as long as you can recall. It's surreal, honestly, to find him beside you on the track even now.
It's been largely established ever since the two of you debuted in 2019—when you were still bumbling rookies—that you were rivals. The side-ways glares thrown across paddocks, the banter so lovingly labeled flirting (which you weren't sure what fit better), the fighting on track; all of it.
To be honest, you like it. The fighting. The rivalry. The burning passion of it when you push each other driving. That chafing feeling against your ribcage. Most of all, you like Lando.
Well. Not more than a friend, you'd argue—perhaps a bit closer, but still. It's nothing more than a bromance, as your fans had labeled it. Exchanged fistbumps on podiums, or consoling messages after DNFs. But you're most definitely not less than that.
Not that you wanted to be egoistic, but Lando likes you too. You're sure of it.
When he's around you, he can't seem to stand still. Fiddling with his thumbs, the hem of his shirt. Fumbling over his words, laughing just a bit too much. (Not that you're any better, but that's not the point).
It's nice. Or, as he would say, kind of lovely. Off-grid especially. Hanging out in England in his car, nearly screaming as he aquaplanes when the weather is extra rude. Or, getting ice cream in Monaco when the sun is boiling hot and hearing him complain about it every five seconds.
So, to say you were shocked when that part of his newest interview came up? It'd be an understatement.
"Who's your biggest rival?"
Lando smiled at the camera, letting out a breathy laugh, "well. I'm sure all of you know that already—"
Your name slips out easily, and laughs echo through the room. Lando shrugs, humming as he shifts in his place. "Dunno, though. He's been kinda goin' easy on me. Like, he's not doing that well, is he?"
Sure. Sure. Maybe you hadn't been doing well as of late—but did he have to go out of his way to slight you? To intentionally add that, when it was wholly unnecessary? His PR team surely wasn't happy, either, probably already having polished answers for him.
Something whirled inside of you then, furious and fast. It comes out as a chest rumbling groan, and you fall onto the plush cushions of your couch.
Closing your eyes, you wish to forget it all.
Forgetting, however, is not an easy task. Especially not when you want it.
You carry that, stupid—insignificant, even—memory with you. Till next weekend. Till the time you see him again, in Mexico fucking City.
Lando's good in front of the cameras, always has been. A natural at it, earnest and smiley. Awkward in that way a teenage heart-throb might be. Media day, therefore, is a breeze for him.
You, on the other hand? It doesn't come to you like it does him.
It's rehearsed. It's flat. Your voice isn't upbeat and you're not good at smiling at a camera and talking like it's someone there. Doing tasks is mundane and you grow restless, and all you can think of is stupid fucking Lando, because apparently he invades your mind, too. Like he hasn't already invaded your life enough as is.
The day moves at a snail's pace to boot. Like moving the time forward is somehow a Herculean task. More often than you'd like to admit, you find yourself throwing snide glances at the McLaren hospitality. Like that'd do anything for you.
When the sun finally decides to glide beneath the horizon, you feel a weight being lifted off of you.
Maybe not entirely. But at least work is over, and maybe you can sleep away your troubles. A man can hope.
Though, as much as you can hope, it gets squashed the second you step out to the parking lot. Because, by some sheer cruelty, there's a curly-haired british man standing right by your car. Leaning against the hood of it, staring off into the sky.
"If you're not here to apologise, I don't want to hear it." You mutter.
Lando turns his head to you. His brows are furrowed, but a forced smile is there, too. (You've learnt the difference.)
"C'mon, mate. Little hostile, aren't ya?" He exhales—and it's sharper than what you'd thought it'd be. Like he's mad, almost. Upset? "I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Shouldn't have caused trouble by stirring up shit online," you snarl, and it gets harder by the minute to not punch his face in. (Or kiss him, but, well— whatever!) "Get off my car, Norris."
He shifts, but doesn't move from it. Instead, he looks away, shrugging off-handedly like it's merely a suggestion. He lets out a huff, almost laughing, "calling me by my last name? Oof. Harsh."
For a moment, you feel that muddy feeling come back again. It clogs your airway and builds up in your chest with a boiling hot rage. There are a million things you want to call Lando Norris in that moment,
But you don't say anything. Instead, you curl up your fists till your nails nearly pierce through your palms.
"What do you want, then?" You spit, nose scrunching up.
Lando looks back at you, and immediately you notice a few things.
His eyes are squinted. Not because of the sun, because it's just beyond the horizon now. Purple-ish pink tint the concrete and trees beyond you. He squints like that when his emotions are all fumbled; hidden behind that I'm Ok! facade of his.
Also, they're bloodshot. Like he's been crying.
Lastly, the smile he has on his face doesn't reach his eyes. It's only half-way, not that sheepish and laughable Lando you know. It almost makes you forget all the anger that built up because of him. Is he—
"Are you ok?" It comes out immediately as he turns around, and red tints his cheeks. He brings up his sleeves to his eyes, wiping furiously, letting out a forced laugh.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Listen, Lando, I don't know what's going on," you sigh, cupping your face in your hands if only briefly. "But that doesn't make you just… free of consequences. You had no right to stir the pot like you did. Just get out of my way. Please."
He winces, "yeah I deserve that— but listen."
You raise a brow, but motion for him to continue despite that. Lando shifts under your gaze, and opens his mouth a few times as if to say something.
"Okay— I…" He sighs, and he's not quite sure what to say. Maybe he shouldn't say anything at all. "I'm sorry, okay? Like… fuck me, man— I just wanted you to... I wanted you to pay attention to me."
Did you hear him right? You blink at him, not being able to hide the shock, because how could you? Lando tenses a bit, arms crossing over his chest, his eyes not quite meeting yours. "And, let me get this right, you resorted to insulting me like a school boy? You are a grown fucking man, Lando."
"I know." He breathes, "fuck man, I know, but what else do I do? You're always so distant. So far away!"
By now Lando's almost quivering, curls sticking to his forehead and his hands fumbling. You're not quite sure what to say in response,
"At this point, I just wanted anything. I wanted you to pay attention to me, even if it was shitty. Even if— if you hated me, or something, cuz I—"
He stops, breathless and panting. The air grows stale and it was as if even the breeze doesn't dare speak a word. It all goes still.
"I love you."
At the sound of those words, your heart bursts into flames inside of your chest, fast and intrusive and overbearing. Your cheeks heat up, too, and you stare almost dumbfounded at him.
Lando looks back at you, and weirdly, he looks almost scared. Of your answer, maybe; of how you'd react. He opens his mouth, lower lip trembling, "You don't have to say anything, I know you probably don't feel the sa…"
Your lips meet quicker than you can stop them. It's sloppy, your lips pressing against the corner of his, and it's chaste; though your hands linger along the side of his face even when you pull apart.
His eyes are blown wide and his cheeks tinted a rosy colour, breath staggering like it's lagging after; he looks like his brain is, too.
"You stupid fucking muppet!" You sigh, resisting the urge to pull at his cheeks, "you literally could've messaged me. Talked to me! Anything! I would drop anything to be with you, how haven't you realised that?"
The sun's somewhere beyond the horizon, now, only small streaks of purple painting the parking lots asphalt. Lando smiles, and this time it's that toothy smile you recognize. Sheepish, and in this case, regretful.
"Sorry," he laughs breathily, "will you ever forgive me?"
"Give me a few more kisses and I'll think about it."
author's note: to address the elephant in the room: yes, i'm sorry for dying on you all! life happened once more!!! sorry!! hoping that the start of the new season revives me!!! will be trying to write more!!! and, secondly: auggghhh man i hope i did this justice. i wanted reader to be emotionally constipated which = angry about lando, because he's internalized all the passion about his love!!! hope it wasn't actually ass!!!
Psssst……….could you write something with m!reader and Lando inspired by ‘I don’t care’ by Fall Out Boy?
Where they’re rivals but at the same time they’re whipped for each other (pre-relationship), and during an interview, Lando criticizes the reader for whatever reason?
(On a side note, I got really excited to ask you about childhood online best friends Gabi and Reader, who met on Minecraft and then saw each other irl for the first time at his home race. Then I remembered that you don’t write for Gabi.😔)
IDC what you think! (as long as it's about me)
pairing: lando norris x rival driver!male!reader
author's note: heyyy. hey nonnie. send that request. it's too cute i cant not write it,,, genuinely!! i'm #soready. plssss… (besides i sneakily added him to my list, i might be ok at writing him!)
tags: lando is being kind of stupid!, tension?? idk man, kind of childhood friends to lovers???, kind of short sorry!!!
warnings: miscommunication??? idk! confrontation, reader might be a little emotionally constipated, vulgarity (i guess), i am SO rusty sorry again, abrupt end(?)
word count: 1.5k
music 4 the soul | my masterlist
There are at least two constants in your life.
First off, there's racing. From when you were still in karts and figuring it all out, to now in Formula 1. What was once a dream, now real and right in front of you. Loving it all is as easy as breathing.
The other constant is Lando Norris.
All laughs and sunshine warm smiles, the freckled boy has been in your life as long as you can recall. It's surreal, honestly, to find him beside you on the track even now.
It's been largely established ever since the two of you debuted in 2019—when you were still bumbling rookies—that you were rivals. The side-ways glares thrown across paddocks, the banter so lovingly labeled flirting (which you weren't sure what fit better), the fighting on track; all of it.
To be honest, you like it. The fighting. The rivalry. The burning passion of it when you push each other driving. That chafing feeling against your ribcage. Most of all, you like Lando.
Well. Not more than a friend, you'd argue—perhaps a bit closer, but still. It's nothing more than a bromance, as your fans had labeled it. Exchanged fistbumps on podiums, or consoling messages after DNFs. But you're most definitely not less than that.
Not that you wanted to be egoistic, but Lando likes you too. You're sure of it.
When he's around you, he can't seem to stand still. Fiddling with his thumbs, the hem of his shirt. Fumbling over his words, laughing just a bit too much. (Not that you're any better, but that's not the point).
It's nice. Or, as he would say, kind of lovely. Off-grid especially. Hanging out in England in his car, nearly screaming as he aquaplanes when the weather is extra rude. Or, getting ice cream in Monaco when the sun is boiling hot and hearing him complain about it every five seconds.
So, to say you were shocked when that part of his newest interview came up? It'd be an understatement.
"Who's your biggest rival?"
Lando smiled at the camera, letting out a breathy laugh, "well. I'm sure all of you know that already—"
Your name slips out easily, and laughs echo through the room. Lando shrugs, humming as he shifts in his place. "Dunno, though. He's been kinda goin' easy on me. Like, he's not doing that well, is he?"
Sure. Sure. Maybe you hadn't been doing well as of late—but did he have to go out of his way to slight you? To intentionally add that, when it was wholly unnecessary? His PR team surely wasn't happy, either, probably already having polished answers for him.
Something whirled inside of you then, furious and fast. It comes out as a chest rumbling groan, and you fall onto the plush cushions of your couch.
Closing your eyes, you wish to forget it all.
Forgetting, however, is not an easy task. Especially not when you want it.
You carry that, stupid—insignificant, even—memory with you. Till next weekend. Till the time you see him again, in Mexico fucking City.
Lando's good in front of the cameras, always has been. A natural at it, earnest and smiley. Awkward in that way a teenage heart-throb might be. Media day, therefore, is a breeze for him.
You, on the other hand? It doesn't come to you like it does him.
It's rehearsed. It's flat. Your voice isn't upbeat and you're not good at smiling at a camera and talking like it's someone there. Doing tasks is mundane and you grow restless, and all you can think of is stupid fucking Lando, because apparently he invades your mind, too. Like he hasn't already invaded your life enough as is.
The day moves at a snail's pace to boot. Like moving the time forward is somehow a Herculean task. More often than you'd like to admit, you find yourself throwing snide glances at the McLaren hospitality. Like that'd do anything for you.
When the sun finally decides to glide beneath the horizon, you feel a weight being lifted off of you.
Maybe not entirely. But at least work is over, and maybe you can sleep away your troubles. A man can hope.
Though, as much as you can hope, it gets squashed the second you step out to the parking lot. Because, by some sheer cruelty, there's a curly-haired british man standing right by your car. Leaning against the hood of it, staring off into the sky.
"If you're not here to apologise, I don't want to hear it." You mutter.
Lando turns his head to you. His brows are furrowed, but a forced smile is there, too. (You've learnt the difference.)
"C'mon, mate. Little hostile, aren't ya?" He exhales—and it's sharper than what you'd thought it'd be. Like he's mad, almost. Upset? "I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Shouldn't have caused trouble by stirring up shit online," you snarl, and it gets harder by the minute to not punch his face in. (Or kiss him, but, well— whatever!) "Get off my car, Norris."
He shifts, but doesn't move from it. Instead, he looks away, shrugging off-handedly like it's merely a suggestion. He lets out a huff, almost laughing, "calling me by my last name? Oof. Harsh."
For a moment, you feel that muddy feeling come back again. It clogs your airway and builds up in your chest with a boiling hot rage. There are a million things you want to call Lando Norris in that moment,
But you don't say anything. Instead, you curl up your fists till your nails nearly pierce through your palms.
"What do you want, then?" You spit, nose scrunching up.
Lando looks back at you, and immediately you notice a few things.
His eyes are squinted. Not because of the sun, because it's just beyond the horizon now. Purple-ish pink tint the concrete and trees beyond you. He squints like that when his emotions are all fumbled; hidden behind that I'm Ok! facade of his.
Also, they're bloodshot. Like he's been crying.
Lastly, the smile he has on his face doesn't reach his eyes. It's only half-way, not that sheepish and laughable Lando you know. It almost makes you forget all the anger that built up because of him. Is he—
"Are you ok?" It comes out immediately as he turns around, and red tints his cheeks. He brings up his sleeves to his eyes, wiping furiously, letting out a forced laugh.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Listen, Lando, I don't know what's going on," you sigh, cupping your face in your hands if only briefly. "But that doesn't make you just… free of consequences. You had no right to stir the pot like you did. Just get out of my way. Please."
He winces, "yeah I deserve that— but listen."
You raise a brow, but motion for him to continue despite that. Lando shifts under your gaze, and opens his mouth a few times as if to say something.
"Okay— I…" He sighs, and he's not quite sure what to say. Maybe he shouldn't say anything at all. "I'm sorry, okay? Like… fuck me, man— I just wanted you to... I wanted you to pay attention to me."
Did you hear him right? You blink at him, not being able to hide the shock, because how could you? Lando tenses a bit, arms crossing over his chest, his eyes not quite meeting yours. "And, let me get this right, you resorted to insulting me like a school boy? You are a grown fucking man, Lando."
"I know." He breathes, "fuck man, I know, but what else do I do? You're always so distant. So far away!"
By now Lando's almost quivering, curls sticking to his forehead and his hands fumbling. You're not quite sure what to say in response,
"At this point, I just wanted anything. I wanted you to pay attention to me, even if it was shitty. Even if— if you hated me, or something, cuz I—"
He stops, breathless and panting. The air grows stale and it was as if even the breeze doesn't dare speak a word. It all goes still.
"I love you."
At the sound of those words, your heart bursts into flames inside of your chest, fast and intrusive and overbearing. Your cheeks heat up, too, and you stare almost dumbfounded at him.
Lando looks back at you, and weirdly, he looks almost scared. Of your answer, maybe; of how you'd react. He opens his mouth, lower lip trembling, "You don't have to say anything, I know you probably don't feel the sa…"
Your lips meet quicker than you can stop them. It's sloppy, your lips pressing against the corner of his, and it's chaste; though your hands linger along the side of his face even when you pull apart.
His eyes are blown wide and his cheeks tinted a rosy colour, breath staggering like it's lagging after; he looks like his brain is, too.
"You stupid fucking muppet!" You sigh, resisting the urge to pull at his cheeks, "you literally could've messaged me. Talked to me! Anything! I would drop anything to be with you, how haven't you realised that?"
The sun's somewhere beyond the horizon, now, only small streaks of purple painting the parking lots asphalt. Lando smiles, and this time it's that toothy smile you recognize. Sheepish, and in this case, regretful.
"Sorry," he laughs breathily, "will you ever forgive me?"
"Give me a few more kisses and I'll think about it."
author's note: to address the elephant in the room: yes, i'm sorry for dying on you all! life happened once more!!! sorry!! hoping that the start of the new season revives me!!! will be trying to write more!!! and, secondly: auggghhh man i hope i did this justice. i wanted reader to be emotionally constipated which = angry about lando, because he's internalized all the passion about his love!!! hope it wasn't actually ass!!!
I don't know if you'll actually write this since its pretty long but here i go.
Don't know if you've seen mlp (going with whats basically a male pinkiepie but without the magic) but party planner reader (i head cannon that reader watched mlp when he was younger and wanted to make people happy like pinke pie) who's the best party planner ever, meets with charles for the first time at an event reader had to plan for ferrari sponsers (reader has a hella long waiting list for anything that isn't birthday parties, he gets to those asap) and charles is excited because he's never gotten to go to a reader made party before with how exclusive they are, what with the waiting list for non-birthday parties events being so long and no one being able to throw more money at the problem so their name gets pushed further up anyway reader and charles meet, charles asks reader if he can help charles with his little brothers birthday, reader says yes they get to know each other over texts, reader is kinda busy after said ferrari event is done and charles asks reader if he would like to join him at a gp reader says yes, charles asks him out on a date and things go from there like people freaking out that the ultimate party planner is in charles' garage arthur freaking out his brother had the ultimate party planner on board for planning a surprise b-day for him when he walked in on them planning it in charles' living room from there it basically just reader and charles being in love or arthur doesn't find out male reader's the one making the party till the day of.
sorry if its too long
– 🍑
hi 🍑! i adore this idea, it's so so cute, but it's not working:(
i tried, but in the end i couldn't execute it in a way that's satisfactory or fun to write. i hope this doesn't stop you from requesting more in the future;;; im sorry! (˃̣̣̥ᯅ˂̣̣̥)
lilie.. i love you but the crowd yearns for more sub oscar (its me, im crowd) (PRETTY PLEASE WITH A CHERRY ON TOP) 😞😞
hello my loooove <3 sub!oscar is one of my favourite types of oscar so i get you!!!
though if this is a request, i can't get much based off of this ('''' •᷄ ᴗ •᷅ ) requests are open, but you will have to be more specific;; what type of fic (like headcanons, written, etc.)? & what type of scenario? and of course, what kind of reader??
i'd love to make something, if you send a request in! as i said, sub!oscar is veeery loved here, so i am up 2 write it for you!! much love ♡
might as well call me osc anon bc this is, yet again, another osc request (* ´ ▽ ` *)
you mentioned you are open to suggestive ideas? how about a "morning after" vibe with touch prompts 15 and 20? (implied bottom osc if you could)
as always, feel free to change whatever (even the driver, ik ive asked a lot of osc requests TT)
have a good day/evening/night lillie :D
-🦈 anon
In the window, turning light
pairing: oscar piastri x male!reader
author's note: hai sharkie! yes, suggestive ideas are a-ok! this seems so sweet,, since every other request of yours is male!reader that's what i'm assuming here, too? if not, i'll be tots up to remake it! hope you like it!!! title from slow dance by clairo
tags: suggestive, implied bottom & sub!osc, implied top & dom!reader, fluffy but also still kind of suggestive,,, morning fic wohoo!!!
warnings: mentions of sex, oh and slight flashbacks to it too so slight smut??? just barely though, oscar is a scratcher
word count: 0.6k
music 4 the soul | my masterlist
You wake to the melodic chatter of birds outside of your window.
That, and the hushed snores from the man lying beside you. Oscar's still asleep, of course he is. Last night was— well. Last night was exhausting in more than one way. More than just coming home after a long flight. More than just cooking dinner and doing chores.
("Fuck— please, pleaseplease," his voice cracked, breath trembling as you pressed kisses down his neck, eyes big and glossy. His hips bucked into the air, his fists balling up the fabric of your duvet beneath him.
"Please what, Osc?"
"Please fuck me.")
It was a good night, a nice reunion after weeks away. Oscar's curled up into himself, the blanket tangled between his legs, leaving you with barely any blanket covering your body.
You let your fingers find your back, carefully feeling for the scratchmarks that had been left there. They're still sore, and you shudder at the touch; you didn't expect Oscar to be marking you up like this. Then again, you're not complaining. Who could?
Turning onto your side, you're met with his back. The splatter of freckles is a familiar sight; you let your fingertips carefully glide over them, counting the small patches of brown on him. The ones on his shoulder blades, on his sides, lining down all the way to his hips.
Soon, your fingertips start following the line of his neck, down to his spine—feeling the notches of his vertebrae.
Oscar stirrs from his sleep under your touch, and you watch as he turns over, blinking groggily at you. His hair is messy and unruly, curls standing at the edges.
"Morning," he mumbles, knuckles rubbing at his eyes, stifling a yawn but not quite succeeding, "have y'been awake long?"
You shake your head, a loving smile playing on your lips, "no. Was admiring you while you were asleep."
Heat rises to his cheeks, colouring them in a rosy-peach. He lets out a groan, turning his back to you once more. "'s to early for that."
You pout, "c'mooon, Osc. Turn around again f'me, please?"
A huff, but no words. Almost akin to how you'd imagine a temper tantrum from him would be, although this is more theatrical; he's playing into it on purpose.
"Okay, okay, 'm sorry," you chuckle, "now turn around, please?"
His shoulders relax, and although slowly, he does turn back around. The red flush on his cheeks is still vaguely there, and he's pouting a little. You can't lie, it's a very cute sight; all flushed and pouty.
Despite his somewhat annoyed facade, he smiles a little at you before letting another yawn escape him. "I'm so sore," he sighs, glaring a bit at you.
"Not my fault you were so needy. You were the one whining about it," a smirk grows on your face, "oh please, please, I need you—"
"Stop! Stop," he groans, grabbing one of the pillows from beneath him and smacking you lightly. Though there isn't any actual animosity in it. "Honestly. You're so mean."
You tut at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "sorry Oscie. Couldn't help it, you're just so easy to rile up."
He throws you another glare, but doesn't say anything. The two of you lay there for a while, looking at one another, and almost instinctively you reach out to cup his cheek, one thumb pressing down on his lip.
Almost immediately his mouth falls open, bunny teeth coming into view more clearly. His eyes widen, too, and he looks at you so, so sweetly. Eyes glossed over, cheeks flushed—his breathing far more airy.
For a moment, you'd prefer to keep him this way, but then again you know you won't be doing anything if you do. You press a chaste kiss to his nose, and rise out of your lying position.
"Alright," you sigh, "let's get up, yeah?"
Oscar lets out a whine, rolling onto his back, "nooo. Can we stay in bed a little longer? Please?"
You glance at your phone, 8:31, the number staring back at you. A sigh, "yeah, okay."
pairing: spiderman!isack hadjar x male!roommate!reader
author's note: as all of my isack fics are and will be, this is dedicated to the best oomf in all of oomfverse, @milessunflowers! ily; if u told me to jump off a bridge i would!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
tags: marvel universe (spiderman), physics major!isack, law major!reader, roommates to lovers/friends to lovers, 2 idiots in love, kind of slow-burn
warnings: i know little to nothing abt spiderman,,, i also know nothing of physics. god forgive me: i know nothing!! a bit of angst, confrontation (scary), slight description of injuries, slightly rushed!! not proofread!!
word count: 4.1k
my masterlist
When you wake from your sleep, there's already noise on the other side of your dorm room; the scratch of pen against paper, rustling amongst piles of what you can only assume is notes or assignments, and most importantly a low hum of french rap music.
Though, it screeches to a halt the second you move to look over to your side.
Isack blinks wide-eyed at you, hand hovering over his cd-player, "… good morning. Sorry— did I wake you?" His voice is low, though not gravelly, like he's already been awake for a while.
You blink back at him, slow and deliberate. The cogs in your head have barely started spinning—slow and still clogged with sleep, so you say the first thing that comes to mind before sparing it a thought, "how long have you been awake?"
He winces, glancing over at the clock. You listen as the hands go tick, tick, tick, before he replies, "it's been, ah, three… no, four hours?"
A small gathering of birds not too far outside starts chattering, a quiet call of morning as the sun rises somewhere beyond your curtains. "Isack, it's—" you peer over at the clock, squinting to make sense of the numbers, "—God, it's 8:14. You're telling me you've been awake since 4?"
You watch as Isack nods, a sheepish almost-smile playing on his lips, "yeah. The, uh," he hesitates, before he glances over at his papers, "the lecture notes weren't making sense."
"Right. Well, 'kay. I guess that explains it," you hum, although it doesn't really.
He hums, turning his head back to his notes. You hop out of bed, "oh yeah— for the love of God and everything else, don't play that french rap again or I'll put poison in your coffee."
A dramatic gasp escapes him, "you'd never!"
"Don't test me, Hadjar." You sing-song back, stepping over to the coffee machine that the two of you'd bought together when you'd first been assigned as roommates; the thing whirrs to life and spits liquid into your mug. "Honestly, though. I'm impressed you manage studying with that insane schedule of yours."
"It's not that bad. The Daily Bugle is good, though— I only have to submit pictures a few times a week," Isack murmurs, pressing the butt of his pen to his lips.
You cock your head to the side, huffing, "and you somehow manage to be fit at the same time. Do you have any moment to relax?"
The frenchman closes his eyes, contemplating. "I'm… relaxing now, aren't I?"
You've been roommates with Isack for a few months, now. You're not friends, no, not quite. Something along the lines of acquaintance-almost-friends. In between studying sessions (sitting by your separate desks while cramming for exams), and stumbling around every morning, you've learned how he works.
You've learned that his ears turn red when he lies. You've learned that he disappears almost everyday and how when he comes back with a bruise, or a scratch, that it's always somehow a gym accident.
"Relaxing by listening to awful french rap and reading whatever gibberish physics is trying to be?"
“It’s chanson urbaine,” he says, imitating a dignity he doesn’t quite reach. “And there is structure in it. You wouldn’t understand, Mr. law man."
You snort into your mug. “Right. Structure. Very academic of you.”
“It is,” he insists, leaning back in his chair like he’s giving a lecture. “There’s rhythm, and flow, and— and intention.”
“Mmhm. And yelling.”
“It’s passion.”
“Same thing.”
He rolls his eyes at you, turning back to his paper and tapping the butt of his pencil against his top lip once more. "Yeah, yeah. Your classes start soon, right?"
"Not soon. Like. in an hour or so," you hum, trodding over to your wardrobe and shuffling through your clothes, there's a few t-shirts (an embarrassing amount of the same shirt design, too, which you had bought in bulk) and you pull one off its hanger, "you wouldn't mind if I hang around, right?"
His head tilts back, eyes falling over you, and there's a grin coating his face. "Oh, I would so mind. In fact, I would mind so bad, I think I'd play some chanson urbaine to get it off my mind."
"Hadjar." You start, trying your best to sound scolding but the smile breaking out on your face betrays that.
"What?" He chirps back, teasing smile still evident.
But you have nothing to say, and instead just sigh. You realise the shirt you try to pull overhead has shrunk in the wash, which, is just your luck. Though, thank god you have dupes of that one.
You linger in the dorm for a while, chatting with Isack about pretty much whatever comes to mind. His assignments, about physics despite your cluelessness, and even a bit about your law work.
It's weirdly nice talking to him. Like mentioned, you don't really get that many chances to actually talk, but then again, you suppose living with someone through Exam season does that. Exam season you is a wholly different man. A very tired, no-bullshit kind of man.
There's something easy about conversation when it comes to you and Hadjar. Smooth, flowing, banter coming as easily as language.
Before you realise how much time has passed, the clock is dangerously close to when your first period starts.
"Oh, shit," you mutter, turning over to your roommate who raises his brows at you, "my lecture starts like. Super soon. I have to go."
Isack blinks, and then snorts at you, not even trying to disguise the amusement. "Good luck bro. You'll need it."
"No I won't," you glare at him, "but thanks anyway."
"Yeah yeah, now shoo. I know your first period teacher is ass."
"How do you know about Mr. Michae—?"
"Remember that one time when you wouldn't stop complaining? That. Now leave!" He hurries you, and you flip him off before exiting the dorm room.
There's no way you're missing this lecture, that's for sure. Not when it's Mr. Michael. You aren't giving him that right, not in a million years.
When you get back to your dorm, Isack isn't there.
He usually isn't anyway, not at this time. You suppose it's natural, when he balances part-time work and also going to the gym with school, but still. He never gets back until you fall asleep, but he always appears in the mornings.
Your chair squeaks as you sit down in it—you've been meaning to get a replacement, but not with your non-existant money—and you immediately fold over the papers on your desk.
Procrastination is a near thing. In fact, you kind of do procrastinate, pulling up your phone, initially to put on music, but then aimlessly scrolling tiktok for ten minutes.
When you do get to work, you feel despair filling every crevice of your mind.
Not to say you dislike law; you chose the major for a reason! But God save you. The courses that you take with it, as helpful as they are, are pure suffering.
The clock on the wall goes tick, tick, tick as time passes faster than you'd like. Your blinking grows weary, exhaustion creeps in, too; an unwelcome but familiar friend. When you look at the clock, it's past midnight.
What you fear most isn't the fact that you're stuck on your papers (because you're practically finished, anyway), it's the fact that Isack Hadjar has not yet returned.
And you know he takes a while to get home, but this is bad. Like very, super-duper bad. Is he dead? Did he get involved in an accident? Did he get kidnapped?
He would've messaged you if it was getting too late, wouldn't he?
The worry spreads through you like a virus; stubborn, incessant. Honestly, it makes you sick to your stomach, in that weird way. You barely know him, but you know him so well.
You know that he likes one sugar cube in his coffee, and that he has a huge collection of manga at home. You know that he stores some volumes in your dorm too, that they're hidden in his lowest drawer on his desk.
And you know that he would tell you that he'd be back, if it was this late.
Your head hits your pillow, and you close your eyes, but you cannot sleep. Try as you might, your mind just doesn't go quiet.
So you stay awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. Some of your music is playing in the background, a faint hum of song trying to hush your worries.
Time passes, soon it hits the witching hour, yet there's still not a single trace of your roommate anywhere. You've gotten out of bed, cup of hot chocolate sitting in your hands while you stare out in the deep dark.
Then,
Then the door to your dorm creaks open.
When you whip your head around, you're ready to scold him; berate him. But once you notice him, you really can't.
He's hunched over, his hand holding his stomach and his breathing quivering. His curls are pinned to his face with sweat, and his brows are furrowed unlike what you've seen of him before. Once the door clicks shut behind him, he falters down onto the floor.
You put down your mug instantaneously, rushing over to him. "Oh my god, Isack, are you okay?"
He looks up at you with furrowed brows, and winces, "fuck. D— didn't think you'd still be awake."
"You had me worried sick!" You exhale, noticing the scar on his face. Not deep, luckily, but it's smudged red and the dried blood cracks when you press your thumb down, and he recoils at the touch. "Are you hurt?"
"Ngh. A— a bit, yeah," he hisses, and swears under his breath as you dab an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on his still-open scar. "Nothing major."
You fumble with the first-aid kit at your side, looking over at the man in front of you. His face is all scrunched up. The hoodie he's wearing is slightly stained with blood, and there's a trail of dried crimson from his nose. "What happened?"
His accent is heavier when he speaks once more, eyes not lifting to look at you proper, "ah— an argument," he breathes, letting out a whimper as he does, "with some person at the gym. I'm okay."
But despite his assurance of it, he sure doesn't look that way. But you don't dig into him, not yet—not when he's practically still bleeding. Instead, you let out a reluctant hum. "Okay. Just… message me, next time. If you're out this late."
Isack raises his head, and his eyes are wide with something you can't quite place; he gives you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "right. I'll do that."
Neither of you talk for a long while. Tension is high in the room when you patch him up, he has a few cuts along his abdomen, and his rib looks bruised. That explains why he winces every time he tries to breathe, you suppose.
There's something in his eyes, though. Every time you look up, there's something fond. Something warm. Something fierce; loving.
You're not sure if it's directed at you, or your actions.
He's the first to speak, after sitting on the carpeted floor for long enough that it's left prickled marks in your thighs.
"I'm sorry," it's hesitant, soft. But genuine enough. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I didn't think—"
"Like you ever do."
He glares at you, but smiles despite himself. "Like I was gonna say, I didn't think it'd make you worry at all."
"Let me get this right," you snort, "you think that, your roommate—and friend—wouldn't worry if you come home at whatever-past-midnight. Plus! You're all bruised up."
"I didn't think you'd be awake!" He argues.
"So what? Me being awake or asleep shouldn't change that!"
Isack furrows his brows, and opens his mouth like he's ready to retort—
Nothing comes out bar a shallow breath. He tilts his head back against the door, hitting it with a dull thud, and the sound feels like it reverberates through your entire dorm room.
"I don't want you worrying," he tries, but grimaces at the sincerity in his tone; too unsteady, wobbling at the edges, "maybe it was wishful thinking but… The least I want is you to get dragged into my mess."
You exhale, a long and exasperated breath.
"Isack, you don't—" you pause, letting out a wobbly sigh, "you don't just get to decide that I shouldn't care. You're my friend, for gods sake."
Isack's jaw tightens. and he redirects his gaze to anywhere but you. To your messy desk, to the poster-lined walls, even to the door, like it's suddenly decorated with ancient wisdom.
"Well," he begins, shifting a bit. He winces a bit, clutching his ribs but pulling away just as quick. "It's easier if you don't."
A scoff escapes you, though it bears no teeth, "easier for who, exactly?"
And, Isack just goes quiet.
For a second you think he might argue again. You can basically see his retort forming—something flippant, dismissive. Something that keeps you at an arm's length.
But it doesn't come.
Instead, his shoulders sag. Just barely, like he's melted that top layer off; that defensiveness dissipating.
"I didn't mean to disappear," he says, finally, "I thought… I really thought I'd be back before you'd notice."
"You were gone for hours. I thought you were—" you stop yourself just before you say it, shaking your head, "don't do that again, please."
He nods, "okay. I won't."
Silence settles between the two of you once more, heavy with emotion and all things you've left unsaid. Isack's breathing is uneven, shallow, and you're sure he's hurting more than he's letting on.
But even then, Isack visibly relaxes for what you think is the first time tonight. He sinks further down onto the floor, almost akin to ice melting. There's something weirdly comforting about it, about seeing him calm. As you think he's about to fall asleep on the floor, he lets out a murmur.
"You should be mad, you know."
You blink. "I am mad."
He opens one eye with a slightly quizzical look, and you continue. "But I'm obviously not gonna berate you when you're sitting here with injuries."
"Details." He waves his hand vaguely, laughing (and trying his best to hide the sudden burst of pain that gives him).
"Yeah, yeah." You hum, smiling at him. "Let's just go to sleep, or you'll be dead tomorrow."
Neither you nor Isack talk about that evening for a while.
He starts messaging you more, though—selfies in the gym, complaining whenever he's in meetings with The Daily Bugle, even small photos of things he finds in random stores and captions of "bro this looks just like you".
It's charming. It's weird. It's also very Isack.
There's also this weird feeling that bubbles in your chest each time his contact pops up. Like a flower in bloom, all warm and fluttering nerves. A bit silly, in your opinion, though it is what it is.
It's easier to ignore it than to figure it out. Figuring it out is a future you problem.
Something that's a present you problem, however, is finding your way back to your dorm.
Okay, yes, you're a bit lost.
It's dark out—darker than you'd expected when you left the library at the very least—and the paths all look painstakingly similar once the lights thin out. There should really be some street lamps installed around here.
Your phone sits useless in your palm, now just a black mirror reflecting your own vaguely annoyed expression back at you.
"Great," you groan into the cold air, mist escaping along with it, "this is just… fantastic."
You shove it back into your pocket and start walking, turning slowly in place. There's a sign. Some trees. A lamppost. A bench. Quite frankly, none of it looks familiar in the near-pitch darkness. Or, maybe it does, and your brain is just fried enough to be unhelpful about it.
There's an urge somewhere inside you to scream into the void, but you settle for just a sigh instead; running a hand through your hair.
To be fair, it's not like you're in active danger, or anything. You're merely inconvenienced. And maybe it's kind of cold. But it's not dangerous, despite the unsettling atmosphere that follows the stillness.
You start walking again, though this time in a vastly different direction since the other one clearly didn't work.
As you do, your mind drifts—that traitorous thing that it is—back to Isack.
To him all hunched up in your dorm, shoulders sagging and that small near-smile he gave you; that warm look. To the texts he's been sending lately, like he's suddenly acknowledged the fact that you exist outside of shared mornings and evenings.
And, his face. His smile. His moles, God his physique—
Get a grip, you internally scream. He's just being a good friend!
You kick a stray rock as you turn a corner, stopping to do so. But even though you stop, there's something behind you.
Footsteps.
Maybe you're just imagining things. Maybe it's you overdosing on energy drinks.
But you hurry anyway. And they do, too.
It's probably nothing. People walk places, they could just be walking to the same place as you. But the feeling doesn't leave; that prickly feeling of someone watching you.
You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, and there it is.
A figure not too far away, barely beguiled in the darkness. Though they're hard to make out in the low light, you can see that they're tall. Hood up, face down. Their hands in their pockets.
Your pace quickens. Is this where those impromptu judo lessons Isack gave you comes in handy? He did say your form was good. You could probably beat this person down. Maybe.
You turn another corner, heart beginning to thud just the bit quicker. The path in front of you narrows, and you feel your chest tighten. It's not panic, not exactly. More like a distant friend of it, close enough to be uncomfortable.
And, the footsteps don't stop.
For a moment you consider calling out. Or running. Settling on neither, you merely continue walking as your heart continues to chafe against your ribs.
Then you hear something move, a rush of air somewhere above you.
It's hard to spot, but it's someone swinging around up there. There's a faint swish! sound, atleast, so that's what you assume it is.
Then before you can process it, there's a blur of motion and a sharp yelp that definitely isn't yours. All of a sudden, the prescence behind you disappears.
You turn around and, yeah. The path is empty.
"What…?"
From somewhere above, a voice cuts in, low and strangely familiar—even if you're sure that you haven't heard it before. "You okay?"
Your head snaps up.
Perched on the edge of a building, nearly akin to a hawk, is a figure in what you think is red and blue. Spiderman? His mask is halfway up his face, and you're not sure if it's the situation getting to you, but you swear you recognize that mole on his nose.
"…Isack?" you say, dumbly.
He winces, but tries to play it off.
"I— Isack?" There's a change in his accent, before a jumble of something you're not sure of turned into a faux-british one. "Never heard of him! You must be, ah, imagining things."
Immediately he pulls his mask down, "you need to get back to your home! Just turn right at the end of the path and you'll be there! Uh, good luck out there—"
And he swings off.
You really need some sleep.
When you woke in the morning, you half-expected to have forgotten everything that happened last night.
It was straight out of a fever dream. Isack, your nerdy, stupid roommate, being Spiderman?
Sure, it aligned. With his gym incidents, and how The Daily Bugle keeps getting pictures of the hero, but…
He's Isack. He's your roommate! He's the guy who watches boxing in the middle of the night and accidentally wakes you up. He's the guy who buys every new volume of Hunter x Hunter when he can. He's…
He's the guy you have a crush on.
But you didn't forget. And the delirium from night time's worn off, and now you picture the image of Spiderman even clearer. That was definitely Isack. Or some secret twin that he'd forgotten to tell you about.
He's already awake (as always) when you flutter your eyes open. Sitting at his desk, phone resting on his pencil case as a makeshift stand.
"Mornin'," you murmur, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.
"Could've been worse." You hum, rising out of your bed.
He nods in acknowledgement, returning his attention to his phone.
You linger there for a second, standing awkwardly by your bed. There’s something off about him—not obvious, not enough that you could point to it if asked, but still. His leg bounces slightly where he sits, heel tapping against the chair leg.
“Hey,” you say.
Isack tilts his head back to look at you, "hm?"
You open your mouth, as if to ask him, but close it. "Did you, uh, sleep well?"
"Yeah. Like a baby." He nods, though it came out too fast, like he'd practiced the answer.
You squint at him. “That wasn’t convincing.”
That earns you a quiet huff of a laugh. He finally looks up at you, one brow raised. “You’re one to talk. You look like you got hit by a bus.”
“Rude,” you mutter, but you don’t smile.
Silence stretches. Awkward, sure, but also almost loaded. Like there’s something sitting between you, unspoken but very much present.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other.
“Isack?"
He stills, clenching his jaw, but looks at you anyway.
You swallow. “Are you… Spiderman?”
His eyes flick up to yours, wide for half a second before he looks away again. He presses his lips together, jaw working like he’s deciding how much to give you.
"I dunno what you're talking about." He mumbles, but he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
That answers it for you. "It was you."
He nods once. Slow, tentative. “Yeah.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he echoes, glancing at you. “That’s it?”
“Well,” you muse weakly, “I did think I was hallucinating. This is kind of better.”
Isack laughs at that, careful and warm and marginally better than whatever tension held him moments ago.
“I’m sorry,” he smiles sadly at you. “I didn’t want you to find out like that. I didn’t want you involved at all.”
“I don't think you could've hidden it from me," you hum, fumbling with your thumbs, "I mean, honestly. We live together."
He winces. “I was trying to protect you.”
“Still," you shrug, "protecting is vastly different from whatever you thought it is. Coming back to our dorm injured is not nearly protecting me."
“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles.
“I know.”
Silence intrudes again. Or, near silence. Chittering of birds, and the hum of noise from people or cars outside occupies it. Neither of you know who should speak first.
“So,” you say, quieter now, “you're actually Spiderman. Spiderman lives with me, and is a terrible liar."
“Don't be rude,” he huffs, but doesn't disagree.
"I'm just saying!" You chide, "besides, I wouldn't call you out if I didn't care."
Isack raises a brow at you, teasing grin growing, "you care?"
"I have cared! Is it not obvious?"
He blinks. "Oh. Wait, you—?"
"Yeah," you sigh, "I like you. You obviously don't have to… like, return my feelings, I just—"
He leans in. And it’s tentative, careful. Like he’s checking every inch of space between you before closing it. When his lips brush yours, it’s soft and a little clumsy. Not at all what you expected, but it's nice.
You kiss him back.
When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his smile small and disbelieving.
“So,” he murmurs, “you're not like, weirded out or anything?"
“I am,” you watch his smile fall into a frown, "not of you, obviously."
“Good,” he says softly. “Because I kind of like you, too.”
You give him a roll of your eyes, "okay, cheesy."
He snorts, a loud laugh escaping him. “Wooow. Betrayal!"
“Well I won't lie to you!” you reply.
And this time, when he kisses you again, it feels easy.
credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3
author's note (again): happy birthday oli! thank u for being an awesome friend:) this has been planned 5ever ago (even when i didnt know ur birthdate) so i do hope it came out decenttt. love u to the moon & the stars & forevermore! <3 <3 <3
pairing: spiderman!isack hadjar x male!roommate!reader
author's note: as all of my isack fics are and will be, this is dedicated to the best oomf in all of oomfverse, @milessunflowers! ily; if u told me to jump off a bridge i would!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
tags: marvel universe (spiderman), physics major!isack, law major!reader, roommates to lovers/friends to lovers, 2 idiots in love, kind of slow-burn
warnings: i know little to nothing abt spiderman,,, i also know nothing of physics. god forgive me: i know nothing!! a bit of angst, confrontation (scary), slight description of injuries, slightly rushed!! not proofread!!
word count: 4.1k
my masterlist
When you wake from your sleep, there's already noise on the other side of your dorm room; the scratch of pen against paper, rustling amongst piles of what you can only assume is notes or assignments, and most importantly a low hum of french rap music.
Though, it screeches to a halt the second you move to look over to your side.
Isack blinks wide-eyed at you, hand hovering over his cd-player, "… good morning. Sorry— did I wake you?" His voice is low, though not gravelly, like he's already been awake for a while.
You blink back at him, slow and deliberate. The cogs in your head have barely started spinning—slow and still clogged with sleep, so you say the first thing that comes to mind before sparing it a thought, "how long have you been awake?"
He winces, glancing over at the clock. You listen as the hands go tick, tick, tick, before he replies, "it's been, ah, three… no, four hours?"
A small gathering of birds not too far outside starts chattering, a quiet call of morning as the sun rises somewhere beyond your curtains. "Isack, it's—" you peer over at the clock, squinting to make sense of the numbers, "—God, it's 8:14. You're telling me you've been awake since 4?"
You watch as Isack nods, a sheepish almost-smile playing on his lips, "yeah. The, uh," he hesitates, before he glances over at his papers, "the lecture notes weren't making sense."
"Right. Well, 'kay. I guess that explains it," you hum, although it doesn't really.
He hums, turning his head back to his notes. You hop out of bed, "oh yeah— for the love of God and everything else, don't play that french rap again or I'll put poison in your coffee."
A dramatic gasp escapes him, "you'd never!"
"Don't test me, Hadjar." You sing-song back, stepping over to the coffee machine that the two of you'd bought together when you'd first been assigned as roommates; the thing whirrs to life and spits liquid into your mug. "Honestly, though. I'm impressed you manage studying with that insane schedule of yours."
"It's not that bad. The Daily Bugle is good, though— I only have to submit pictures a few times a week," Isack murmurs, pressing the butt of his pen to his lips.
You cock your head to the side, huffing, "and you somehow manage to be fit at the same time. Do you have any moment to relax?"
The frenchman closes his eyes, contemplating. "I'm… relaxing now, aren't I?"
You've been roommates with Isack for a few months, now. You're not friends, no, not quite. Something along the lines of acquaintance-almost-friends. In between studying sessions (sitting by your separate desks while cramming for exams), and stumbling around every morning, you've learned how he works.
You've learned that his ears turn red when he lies. You've learned that he disappears almost everyday and how when he comes back with a bruise, or a scratch, that it's always somehow a gym accident.
"Relaxing by listening to awful french rap and reading whatever gibberish physics is trying to be?"
“It’s chanson urbaine,” he says, imitating a dignity he doesn’t quite reach. “And there is structure in it. You wouldn’t understand, Mr. law man."
You snort into your mug. “Right. Structure. Very academic of you.”
“It is,” he insists, leaning back in his chair like he’s giving a lecture. “There’s rhythm, and flow, and— and intention.”
“Mmhm. And yelling.”
“It’s passion.”
“Same thing.”
He rolls his eyes at you, turning back to his paper and tapping the butt of his pencil against his top lip once more. "Yeah, yeah. Your classes start soon, right?"
"Not soon. Like. in an hour or so," you hum, trodding over to your wardrobe and shuffling through your clothes, there's a few t-shirts (an embarrassing amount of the same shirt design, too, which you had bought in bulk) and you pull one off its hanger, "you wouldn't mind if I hang around, right?"
His head tilts back, eyes falling over you, and there's a grin coating his face. "Oh, I would so mind. In fact, I would mind so bad, I think I'd play some chanson urbaine to get it off my mind."
"Hadjar." You start, trying your best to sound scolding but the smile breaking out on your face betrays that.
"What?" He chirps back, teasing smile still evident.
But you have nothing to say, and instead just sigh. You realise the shirt you try to pull overhead has shrunk in the wash, which, is just your luck. Though, thank god you have dupes of that one.
You linger in the dorm for a while, chatting with Isack about pretty much whatever comes to mind. His assignments, about physics despite your cluelessness, and even a bit about your law work.
It's weirdly nice talking to him. Like mentioned, you don't really get that many chances to actually talk, but then again, you suppose living with someone through Exam season does that. Exam season you is a wholly different man. A very tired, no-bullshit kind of man.
There's something easy about conversation when it comes to you and Hadjar. Smooth, flowing, banter coming as easily as language.
Before you realise how much time has passed, the clock is dangerously close to when your first period starts.
"Oh, shit," you mutter, turning over to your roommate who raises his brows at you, "my lecture starts like. Super soon. I have to go."
Isack blinks, and then snorts at you, not even trying to disguise the amusement. "Good luck bro. You'll need it."
"No I won't," you glare at him, "but thanks anyway."
"Yeah yeah, now shoo. I know your first period teacher is ass."
"How do you know about Mr. Michae—?"
"Remember that one time when you wouldn't stop complaining? That. Now leave!" He hurries you, and you flip him off before exiting the dorm room.
There's no way you're missing this lecture, that's for sure. Not when it's Mr. Michael. You aren't giving him that right, not in a million years.
When you get back to your dorm, Isack isn't there.
He usually isn't anyway, not at this time. You suppose it's natural, when he balances part-time work and also going to the gym with school, but still. He never gets back until you fall asleep, but he always appears in the mornings.
Your chair squeaks as you sit down in it—you've been meaning to get a replacement, but not with your non-existant money—and you immediately fold over the papers on your desk.
Procrastination is a near thing. In fact, you kind of do procrastinate, pulling up your phone, initially to put on music, but then aimlessly scrolling tiktok for ten minutes.
When you do get to work, you feel despair filling every crevice of your mind.
Not to say you dislike law; you chose the major for a reason! But God save you. The courses that you take with it, as helpful as they are, are pure suffering.
The clock on the wall goes tick, tick, tick as time passes faster than you'd like. Your blinking grows weary, exhaustion creeps in, too; an unwelcome but familiar friend. When you look at the clock, it's past midnight.
What you fear most isn't the fact that you're stuck on your papers (because you're practically finished, anyway), it's the fact that Isack Hadjar has not yet returned.
And you know he takes a while to get home, but this is bad. Like very, super-duper bad. Is he dead? Did he get involved in an accident? Did he get kidnapped?
He would've messaged you if it was getting too late, wouldn't he?
The worry spreads through you like a virus; stubborn, incessant. Honestly, it makes you sick to your stomach, in that weird way. You barely know him, but you know him so well.
You know that he likes one sugar cube in his coffee, and that he has a huge collection of manga at home. You know that he stores some volumes in your dorm too, that they're hidden in his lowest drawer on his desk.
And you know that he would tell you that he'd be back, if it was this late.
Your head hits your pillow, and you close your eyes, but you cannot sleep. Try as you might, your mind just doesn't go quiet.
So you stay awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. Some of your music is playing in the background, a faint hum of song trying to hush your worries.
Time passes, soon it hits the witching hour, yet there's still not a single trace of your roommate anywhere. You've gotten out of bed, cup of hot chocolate sitting in your hands while you stare out in the deep dark.
Then,
Then the door to your dorm creaks open.
When you whip your head around, you're ready to scold him; berate him. But once you notice him, you really can't.
He's hunched over, his hand holding his stomach and his breathing quivering. His curls are pinned to his face with sweat, and his brows are furrowed unlike what you've seen of him before. Once the door clicks shut behind him, he falters down onto the floor.
You put down your mug instantaneously, rushing over to him. "Oh my god, Isack, are you okay?"
He looks up at you with furrowed brows, and winces, "fuck. D— didn't think you'd still be awake."
"You had me worried sick!" You exhale, noticing the scar on his face. Not deep, luckily, but it's smudged red and the dried blood cracks when you press your thumb down, and he recoils at the touch. "Are you hurt?"
"Ngh. A— a bit, yeah," he hisses, and swears under his breath as you dab an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on his still-open scar. "Nothing major."
You fumble with the first-aid kit at your side, looking over at the man in front of you. His face is all scrunched up. The hoodie he's wearing is slightly stained with blood, and there's a trail of dried crimson from his nose. "What happened?"
His accent is heavier when he speaks once more, eyes not lifting to look at you proper, "ah— an argument," he breathes, letting out a whimper as he does, "with some person at the gym. I'm okay."
But despite his assurance of it, he sure doesn't look that way. But you don't dig into him, not yet—not when he's practically still bleeding. Instead, you let out a reluctant hum. "Okay. Just… message me, next time. If you're out this late."
Isack raises his head, and his eyes are wide with something you can't quite place; he gives you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "right. I'll do that."
Neither of you talk for a long while. Tension is high in the room when you patch him up, he has a few cuts along his abdomen, and his rib looks bruised. That explains why he winces every time he tries to breathe, you suppose.
There's something in his eyes, though. Every time you look up, there's something fond. Something warm. Something fierce; loving.
You're not sure if it's directed at you, or your actions.
He's the first to speak, after sitting on the carpeted floor for long enough that it's left prickled marks in your thighs.
"I'm sorry," it's hesitant, soft. But genuine enough. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I didn't think—"
"Like you ever do."
He glares at you, but smiles despite himself. "Like I was gonna say, I didn't think it'd make you worry at all."
"Let me get this right," you snort, "you think that, your roommate—and friend—wouldn't worry if you come home at whatever-past-midnight. Plus! You're all bruised up."
"I didn't think you'd be awake!" He argues.
"So what? Me being awake or asleep shouldn't change that!"
Isack furrows his brows, and opens his mouth like he's ready to retort—
Nothing comes out bar a shallow breath. He tilts his head back against the door, hitting it with a dull thud, and the sound feels like it reverberates through your entire dorm room.
"I don't want you worrying," he tries, but grimaces at the sincerity in his tone; too unsteady, wobbling at the edges, "maybe it was wishful thinking but… The least I want is you to get dragged into my mess."
You exhale, a long and exasperated breath.
"Isack, you don't—" you pause, letting out a wobbly sigh, "you don't just get to decide that I shouldn't care. You're my friend, for gods sake."
Isack's jaw tightens. and he redirects his gaze to anywhere but you. To your messy desk, to the poster-lined walls, even to the door, like it's suddenly decorated with ancient wisdom.
"Well," he begins, shifting a bit. He winces a bit, clutching his ribs but pulling away just as quick. "It's easier if you don't."
A scoff escapes you, though it bears no teeth, "easier for who, exactly?"
And, Isack just goes quiet.
For a second you think he might argue again. You can basically see his retort forming—something flippant, dismissive. Something that keeps you at an arm's length.
But it doesn't come.
Instead, his shoulders sag. Just barely, like he's melted that top layer off; that defensiveness dissipating.
"I didn't mean to disappear," he says, finally, "I thought… I really thought I'd be back before you'd notice."
"You were gone for hours. I thought you were—" you stop yourself just before you say it, shaking your head, "don't do that again, please."
He nods, "okay. I won't."
Silence settles between the two of you once more, heavy with emotion and all things you've left unsaid. Isack's breathing is uneven, shallow, and you're sure he's hurting more than he's letting on.
But even then, Isack visibly relaxes for what you think is the first time tonight. He sinks further down onto the floor, almost akin to ice melting. There's something weirdly comforting about it, about seeing him calm. As you think he's about to fall asleep on the floor, he lets out a murmur.
"You should be mad, you know."
You blink. "I am mad."
He opens one eye with a slightly quizzical look, and you continue. "But I'm obviously not gonna berate you when you're sitting here with injuries."
"Details." He waves his hand vaguely, laughing (and trying his best to hide the sudden burst of pain that gives him).
"Yeah, yeah." You hum, smiling at him. "Let's just go to sleep, or you'll be dead tomorrow."
Neither you nor Isack talk about that evening for a while.
He starts messaging you more, though—selfies in the gym, complaining whenever he's in meetings with The Daily Bugle, even small photos of things he finds in random stores and captions of "bro this looks just like you".
It's charming. It's weird. It's also very Isack.
There's also this weird feeling that bubbles in your chest each time his contact pops up. Like a flower in bloom, all warm and fluttering nerves. A bit silly, in your opinion, though it is what it is.
It's easier to ignore it than to figure it out. Figuring it out is a future you problem.
Something that's a present you problem, however, is finding your way back to your dorm.
Okay, yes, you're a bit lost.
It's dark out—darker than you'd expected when you left the library at the very least—and the paths all look painstakingly similar once the lights thin out. There should really be some street lamps installed around here.
Your phone sits useless in your palm, now just a black mirror reflecting your own vaguely annoyed expression back at you.
"Great," you groan into the cold air, mist escaping along with it, "this is just… fantastic."
You shove it back into your pocket and start walking, turning slowly in place. There's a sign. Some trees. A lamppost. A bench. Quite frankly, none of it looks familiar in the near-pitch darkness. Or, maybe it does, and your brain is just fried enough to be unhelpful about it.
There's an urge somewhere inside you to scream into the void, but you settle for just a sigh instead; running a hand through your hair.
To be fair, it's not like you're in active danger, or anything. You're merely inconvenienced. And maybe it's kind of cold. But it's not dangerous, despite the unsettling atmosphere that follows the stillness.
You start walking again, though this time in a vastly different direction since the other one clearly didn't work.
As you do, your mind drifts—that traitorous thing that it is—back to Isack.
To him all hunched up in your dorm, shoulders sagging and that small near-smile he gave you; that warm look. To the texts he's been sending lately, like he's suddenly acknowledged the fact that you exist outside of shared mornings and evenings.
And, his face. His smile. His moles, God his physique—
Get a grip, you internally scream. He's just being a good friend!
You kick a stray rock as you turn a corner, stopping to do so. But even though you stop, there's something behind you.
Footsteps.
Maybe you're just imagining things. Maybe it's you overdosing on energy drinks.
But you hurry anyway. And they do, too.
It's probably nothing. People walk places, they could just be walking to the same place as you. But the feeling doesn't leave; that prickly feeling of someone watching you.
You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, and there it is.
A figure not too far away, barely beguiled in the darkness. Though they're hard to make out in the low light, you can see that they're tall. Hood up, face down. Their hands in their pockets.
Your pace quickens. Is this where those impromptu judo lessons Isack gave you comes in handy? He did say your form was good. You could probably beat this person down. Maybe.
You turn another corner, heart beginning to thud just the bit quicker. The path in front of you narrows, and you feel your chest tighten. It's not panic, not exactly. More like a distant friend of it, close enough to be uncomfortable.
And, the footsteps don't stop.
For a moment you consider calling out. Or running. Settling on neither, you merely continue walking as your heart continues to chafe against your ribs.
Then you hear something move, a rush of air somewhere above you.
It's hard to spot, but it's someone swinging around up there. There's a faint swish! sound, atleast, so that's what you assume it is.
Then before you can process it, there's a blur of motion and a sharp yelp that definitely isn't yours. All of a sudden, the prescence behind you disappears.
You turn around and, yeah. The path is empty.
"What…?"
From somewhere above, a voice cuts in, low and strangely familiar—even if you're sure that you haven't heard it before. "You okay?"
Your head snaps up.
Perched on the edge of a building, nearly akin to a hawk, is a figure in what you think is red and blue. Spiderman? His mask is halfway up his face, and you're not sure if it's the situation getting to you, but you swear you recognize that mole on his nose.
"…Isack?" you say, dumbly.
He winces, but tries to play it off.
"I— Isack?" There's a change in his accent, before a jumble of something you're not sure of turned into a faux-british one. "Never heard of him! You must be, ah, imagining things."
Immediately he pulls his mask down, "you need to get back to your home! Just turn right at the end of the path and you'll be there! Uh, good luck out there—"
And he swings off.
You really need some sleep.
When you woke in the morning, you half-expected to have forgotten everything that happened last night.
It was straight out of a fever dream. Isack, your nerdy, stupid roommate, being Spiderman?
Sure, it aligned. With his gym incidents, and how The Daily Bugle keeps getting pictures of the hero, but…
He's Isack. He's your roommate! He's the guy who watches boxing in the middle of the night and accidentally wakes you up. He's the guy who buys every new volume of Hunter x Hunter when he can. He's…
He's the guy you have a crush on.
But you didn't forget. And the delirium from night time's worn off, and now you picture the image of Spiderman even clearer. That was definitely Isack. Or some secret twin that he'd forgotten to tell you about.
He's already awake (as always) when you flutter your eyes open. Sitting at his desk, phone resting on his pencil case as a makeshift stand.
"Mornin'," you murmur, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.
"Could've been worse." You hum, rising out of your bed.
He nods in acknowledgement, returning his attention to his phone.
You linger there for a second, standing awkwardly by your bed. There’s something off about him—not obvious, not enough that you could point to it if asked, but still. His leg bounces slightly where he sits, heel tapping against the chair leg.
“Hey,” you say.
Isack tilts his head back to look at you, "hm?"
You open your mouth, as if to ask him, but close it. "Did you, uh, sleep well?"
"Yeah. Like a baby." He nods, though it came out too fast, like he'd practiced the answer.
You squint at him. “That wasn’t convincing.”
That earns you a quiet huff of a laugh. He finally looks up at you, one brow raised. “You’re one to talk. You look like you got hit by a bus.”
“Rude,” you mutter, but you don’t smile.
Silence stretches. Awkward, sure, but also almost loaded. Like there’s something sitting between you, unspoken but very much present.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other.
“Isack?"
He stills, clenching his jaw, but looks at you anyway.
You swallow. “Are you… Spiderman?”
His eyes flick up to yours, wide for half a second before he looks away again. He presses his lips together, jaw working like he’s deciding how much to give you.
"I dunno what you're talking about." He mumbles, but he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
That answers it for you. "It was you."
He nods once. Slow, tentative. “Yeah.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he echoes, glancing at you. “That’s it?”
“Well,” you muse weakly, “I did think I was hallucinating. This is kind of better.”
Isack laughs at that, careful and warm and marginally better than whatever tension held him moments ago.
“I’m sorry,” he smiles sadly at you. “I didn’t want you to find out like that. I didn’t want you involved at all.”
“I don't think you could've hidden it from me," you hum, fumbling with your thumbs, "I mean, honestly. We live together."
He winces. “I was trying to protect you.”
“Still," you shrug, "protecting is vastly different from whatever you thought it is. Coming back to our dorm injured is not nearly protecting me."
“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles.
“I know.”
Silence intrudes again. Or, near silence. Chittering of birds, and the hum of noise from people or cars outside occupies it. Neither of you know who should speak first.
“So,” you say, quieter now, “you're actually Spiderman. Spiderman lives with me, and is a terrible liar."
“Don't be rude,” he huffs, but doesn't disagree.
"I'm just saying!" You chide, "besides, I wouldn't call you out if I didn't care."
Isack raises a brow at you, teasing grin growing, "you care?"
"I have cared! Is it not obvious?"
He blinks. "Oh. Wait, you—?"
"Yeah," you sigh, "I like you. You obviously don't have to… like, return my feelings, I just—"
He leans in. And it’s tentative, careful. Like he’s checking every inch of space between you before closing it. When his lips brush yours, it’s soft and a little clumsy. Not at all what you expected, but it's nice.
You kiss him back.
When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his smile small and disbelieving.
“So,” he murmurs, “you're not like, weirded out or anything?"
“I am,” you watch his smile fall into a frown, "not of you, obviously."
“Good,” he says softly. “Because I kind of like you, too.”
You give him a roll of your eyes, "okay, cheesy."
He snorts, a loud laugh escaping him. “Wooow. Betrayal!"
“Well I won't lie to you!” you reply.
And this time, when he kisses you again, it feels easy.
author's note (again): happy birthday oli! thank u for being an awesome friend:) this has been planned 5ever ago (even when i didnt know ur birthdate) so i do hope it came out decenttt. love u to the moon & the stars & forevermore! <3 <3 <3
Would it be too much to ask for a male reader with epilepsy with multiple drivers? Could I request Lando, Charles, Lewis, and Ollie? I’ve just recently been diagnosed and a little bit of comfort would help :(
F1 Drivers x Epileptic!Male! Reader
I don't write for Lando, so I just did the other 3 :)
Based on my own experiences withe seizures, and research, please inform me if any of this is stereotypical or harmful
Reminder to please send asks through the ask button in my bio so that I see them and can respond sooner/easier
Charles Leclerc
Charles' first instinct is to try to train Leo to be a service dog for you
He gives up, the little guy is too chaotic, but he does end up getting you a service dog of your own
He'll go to every doctors appointment if you're ok with it so that he's updated on everything
Whenever you have a seizure he'll sit you down after once you're all put together again and debreif
Does anything hurt, did you hit your head if he couldn't get there fast enough
He's a worrywart, but he does trust you
He just wants to help as much as he can
Lewis Hamilton
The first thing Lewis does is research as much as he can
Within a day of your diagnosis he knows how to respond to seizures, how to reduce triggers, and manage symptoms
He's basically an in home clinic, and boyfriend simultaneously
He has entire game plans for seizures in different situations
At the paddock? All of Ferarri/Mercedes know how to deal with a seizure of any kind
It was part of his terms to sign with Ferarri, that everyone gets trained
At home? There are blankets all over the house to protect your head, and he'll always be ready to help at any second
Ollie Bearman
When you tell Ollie about your diagnosis he thinks it means you're gonna die
He goes to the most reasonable person he knows (His older brother, oscar)
And Oscar convinces to actually at least google what epilepsy is
He does on an internet deep dive, and figures that other people also need to know what to do if you have a seizure at the paddock
Introducing powerpoint night, where Ollie invites the entire grid to his 100+ long slideshow on what to do if you have a seizure, and how to minimize triggers
Kimi and Esteban ask a lot of questions, because they know they'll be around you the most
In the end the Haas Garage is a haven for you, in the loud, bright, chaotic paddock
omg lillie you reblogged my fic?? AHHHGBWUWOCBWGDLA
erm, could you tell me how you liked it? i feel like i couldve done more description but idk (you dont have to, i just wanna hear feedback from a mutual :)
also i wrote that in one sitting and wow do i never wanna do that again IT TOOK SO LONG
also how are you? is your illness being sucessfully slain by your immune system lol
(btw lmk if youd prefer these chatting type of askes on your personal blog instead of here)
wahhh sharkie of course i did!!! new male/gn/ftm writer on the block,,, a cool guy??? why wouldn't i!! plus it was awesome!!
i think the descriptiveness was great! not too wordy, not too flat; also it flowed very well! the word choices were good, too! the description of osc was so good too,,, i looooved how adorably awkward u made him!!
if you wanted to do more description, you could, but i personally think it was already great!
I GET YOU,, writing is super fun but writing something in one sitting (unless you're REALLY enjoying yourself) is so difficult,, and a bit of a hassle,,, o7 soldier u did great (AND IM WAITING SOOOO PATIENTLY FOR MORE FICS... watch ur inbox in the future snookums ;) /hj)
i'm alright! the cold is officially gone, thank god! hopefully i can finally get the requests done,
(i could do with either! personal blog works great too <3 buuuut if you want, dms are open for mooties always!)
oscar piastri, gn! reader, fluff, getting together, reader works at mclaren racing, sharkie tries not to nerd out over motorcycles
notes:
first fic aHHH
hopefully you guys like it, i will cry if yall say anything mean, i'm just a guy :(
(if gn! reader isn't completely gender neutral please lmk, i will fix it or change the tag)
The night was clear, for once, a smattering of the brightest stars visible in the sky. It was late enough that a bright sliver of the moon was visible, right above the trees. You smile at it, having long gotten used to going home late at night. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation catching up to you but the moon started to feel like an old friend by now, always present.
Deep breath in and slowly let it out. A ride home always feels better after taking a moment to enjoy the serenity of night.
You swing your right leg over your motorcycle and balance it upright, kicking up the stand. Grab the clutch, fire up the engine, and flick your visor down. It was second nature by now, but it’s the little things that bring joy, is it not? You shift into first gear and slowly make your way out of the parking lot. Some of your colleagues were making their way back home as well, giving tired waves of goodbye, a blanket of exhaustion weighing down on everyone.
A familiar figure steps out of the glass doors, the edges of his silhouette traced with a faint glow from the warm lights inside. Oscar Piastri. You slow down, your eyes fixed on him. You’ve always seemed to gravitate towards Oscar, have been for over a year now.
He looks around for a bit, searching for something, when his gaze falls on you. You watch as his eyes light up in recognition and he begins to walk towards you, his lips set in a tiny smile.
Wait, he’s walking towards you? Fuck, you don’t even have work to distract you this time. Oh gods, what if you stare at his unfairly pretty face again, there’s no way he’s going to believe your “Oh, I just zoned out” excuse again-
“Hey.”
Your mind snaps back to the present.
Before you was all 5 feet and 10 inches of Oscar, gorgeous and adorably rumpled despite the time quickly approaching midnight. It should be illegal how seeing him in a simple black hoodie made the butterflies in your stomach feel like they’re out to kill you instead.
Ignoring the frankly annoying reactions your body goes through around him, you bring your motorcycle over to the side of the curb
“Hi Oscar, finally finished up for the day, huh?” You joked, feeling very glad for the small mercy that was your helmet hiding most of your face. You do flick up your visor though, if only to see his brown eyes better.
He sighs, “You know how it is, work never ends here.” His wry tone reflected the mood of the entire team. Everyone at the MTC had been working absurd amounts of overtime in preparation for next season.
“Yeah, what can you do? At least we managed to figure out that problem, can’t believe it took us weeks!” You groan, slumping into yourself with your head in your hands.
“Yeah” he winced, nodding along “that- that was certainly an ordeal.”
You sighed, echoing Oscar’s dejected sigh from earlier.
“Anyways,” you straighten up, getting ready to leave, “don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’m sure you want to go to bed as soon as possible.”
“Ah, no worries, I’m just waiting for my uber, honestly.” He shrugged, looking down at his phone giving him live updates.
You stare at him incredulously, “In these temperatures? Oscar, that uber is going to take ages to get here.”
“Wait,” you continued, an idea striking you, “what if I- what if I gave you a ride? It would be much faster. Plus, I have a spare helmet somewhere, it’s probably under my desk.”
“You sure? You don’t need to feel obligated to help me,” he said, with a concerned tilt of his head.
“Of course! Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to do it,” you wink with a cheeky grin.
Oscar’s face turns a slight pink and returns your grin with a placid smile, “Sure.”
Huh, why did he flush pink? Might be the cold getting to him. You should get him home before he catches a fever.
You apply a bit of throttle to push your motorcycle onto the curb and slowly ride it towards the main doors. “Here, stay inside and watch over my bike while I get you a helmet,” you say, already jogging inside.
-
A couple minutes later, you come back out and hand over the promised helmet to Oscar. Both of you walk out into the pitch black night, heading to your parked motorcycle just off the side of the double doors.
“Oh! I almost forgot, you should take my jacket, Oscar.” You slip off your leather riding jacket and hold it out to him.
You see his brows furrowed in concern, mouth ready to protest. So you cut him off, “Just take it, Oscar. Do you or do you not want to get home?”
He obliges and tugs the jacket on, though not without a playful eyeroll. “Alright then,” he says, breaking into a smirk, lips revealing a hint of his bunny teeth.
You let out a chuckle and get on the motorcycle, motioning for him to sit on the back seat.
“By the way-” you cut off a grunt as he stabilizes himself with his hands on your shoulders, “you know where to hold on?”
You hear some rustling as he pops his head into the helmet.
“Around here, yeah?” he answers.
You feel your breath stutter in its path as Oscar’s arms gently encircle your waist, hands politely resting on your stomach. His body settles in barely a few inches behind your back and you feel ready to combust.
“Right- uh,” you clear your throat in an attempt to compose yourself, “just use the tank to stop yourself from pitching forward when I slow down.”
Oscar hums, indicating that he heard you.
“Let’s uh- let’s get going then.” The faster you can focus on riding the motorcycle, the better.
You go through the motions of starting your motorcycle up again. After double-checking with Oscar if you had the right address, you set off.
The roar of the engine picks up, the stars and moon fade away, and you zip through the highways towards London. Trying not to think about how his arms are firmly holding onto you, you instead choose to focus on the familiar rumble of the engine and the lights flying by.
–
Slowing to a stop, you kill the engine and lean the bike on its kickstand. You hold out a hand for Oscar to help him off, and then almost stumble off yourself. Enduring that wind chill without your jacket was not easy.
“Well, we’ve arrived. Leave me a good review, yeah?” you smirk, putting a hand on your hip.
He snorts, “I’d rate you five out of five stars.”
You step forward as he tries to take his helmet off, seeing him fiddle with the strap.
“Is the buckle usually this hard to open?” Oscar asks with a confused laugh.
“That buckle’s been fucked for a while now. Here, let me help.”
You take off your own helmet and gently pull him closer, muttering about how you can’t help him if he stands about a mile away from you. You manage to get the buckle free and pull his helmet off, setting it next to yours on your motorcycle’s sleek black seat.
You turn back towards him and catch him already looking at you.
You’re standing really close to him. Were you two really standing this close before? The fog of your breaths intermingled and in the dim streetlight, you were able to barely make out the streaks of green in his hazel eyes. He was so beautifully pink across his cheeks, your heart was slamming against your ribcage.
Wait, why did his eyes flick down, what is he-
No.
There’s no way.
He’s staring at your lips. You’re sure of it.
Your brain shuts down entirely from all the implications.
Fuck it.
You close the distance and give him a quick peck.
The slight tingle on your lips barely lasted a second before he immediately pulls you back in.
With his hands on the nape of your neck, entangled in your hair, he kisses you so much deeper. You let out a small noise of surprise, your hands scrambling to grab a hold of his waist.
A kiss, one more, and twice more following that. Each lock of your lips is tender and achingly soft, yet lingering, wanting to never break apart for anything but necessity.
Your body felt warm all over, as you and him swayed slightly in each other’s hold, getting lost in your own rhythm.
After 5 minutes or maybe 5 hours, you finally break away from his lips with a soft sigh.
Your brain comes back online, and, now fully comprehending what just happened, you swiftly wrap your arms around his waist and shove your now burning face in the curve of his neck.
Amused, Oscar hugs you back and gives you a small kiss on the side of your neck.
You let out a quiet, “...Oscar..”, pretending to complain, yet holding him even tighter.
“Hm?” he responded, voice dripping in affection.
“I- you…you like me?” you shyly ask.
“Always have, you just never noticed.” He places a kiss on your temple.
You hum in response.
Remembering what you’ve wanted to do for ages, you take a quick breath in and out, and straighten up to face him again.
You’re momentarily stunned by the sheer amount of fondness swirling in his eyes. But it serves to push you into asking that one question since that late night you fell in love with Oscar, not PIA or Oscar Piastri, just Oscar standing on a balcony under glittering stars.
“Oscar, will you be my boyfriend?”
You watch as his smile grows even sweeter, his eyes shining with love. With a caress of your face, he whispers, “Yes,” right before he gives you one last tender kiss.
"dont forget me when youre famous" my writing is NOT that good but i appreciate the vote of confidence ✅️
yes!! i love sharks, im not a complete nerd about them unfortunately (my fixation went into cars and bikes instead) but i like any and all sharks :) favorite is the thresher shark, they look so stupid LMAO
heheh my osc agenda is spreading :j
ohh, thats amazing bro, being sick sucks so much so im glad the worst of it is over
nnnoo. i do quite believe you'll be famous,,, hang it in the louvre! or actually i dont want you to be stolen,
sharks are soo!! so sweet!! i love lemon sharks but also whaaale sharks??? look at them! their sweet :0 mouths and just !! my babies!! thresher sharks are super silly though i love em
my fixation went into motorsport too 👎 like no pls.. i have suffered Enough. then again i jump around a lot, but motorsport has stayed over a year! waow!
being sick sucks, yeah ^^; not much i can do though LOL
