𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after getting your heartbroken by your long-time one-sided love for charles, the most irritating and vexing person in your life, max verstappen, suggests only one thing to remedy it: fucking it out. and after some brief scepticism, you agree. what could possibly go wrong?
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: enemies with benefits, angst, smut (18+ please for the love of god minors DNI), best friend's older brother vibes, bad french and dutch, poor humour, mental health, insecurities, jealousy
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
EP 1 | AN OPEN DOOR
EP 2 | MEDDLE ABOUT
EP 3 | BABYDOLL
EP 4 | PACIFY HER
EP 5 | PLAY WITH ME
EP 6 | HOUSE OF BALLOONS
EP 7 | JEALOUS TYPE
EP 8 | DADDY ISSUES
EP 9 | SHE'S ALL I WANNA BE
EP 10 | DO I WANNA KNOW?
EP 11 | BACK TO FRIENDS
EP 12 | THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS
EP 13 | A CLOSED DOOR
total word count: 76.1k
EP 13.1 | dancing with our hands tied s|f|a
EP 13.2 | their first podium f|a
EP 13.3 | happy birthday max f|a
EP 13.4 | revolving door universe headcanons f|s
EP 13.5 | max vs superman f|s
EP 13.6 | horror night at the leclercs f
EP 13.7 | hand-painted trophies f|a
EP 13.8 | cat whisperer + cat parents f
Ep 13.9 | positive reinforcement f|s
EP 13.10 | casual lore drop f|a
EP 13.11 | the simulator f|s
EP 13.12 | the winner takes it all f|a
EP 13.13 | i think you'd look best in all white f|a
EP 13.14 | yes to forever f|a
EP 13.15 | honeymoon avenue f|s
EP 13.16 | a forever family f|a
total word count: 54.6k
PLAYLIST
𝐀/𝐍: yes this is not a drill! i'm writing another series! however, this idea is credited to this lovely anon who i dearly thank for requesting this! i hope you like it as much as summer sunshine although, as you can see, the tone is a bit different. and this one doesn't have entirely pre-written chapters so i'm taking my time to explore the plot here!
alright absolutely needing one where reader ridesss osc and at some point he grabs part of her (neck maybe but not choking choking) with his hands bcccc need that. he definitely talks her through it and gives her so much praise too.
bonus points if the end includes cuddling/aftercare because you can’t tell me he wouldn’t do that
Just Feel It
Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: Oscars talks his girl through her ride.
Warning: smut, dirty talk, light light chocking
Moonlight Radio: you better give me bonus points 😂 jkkk, hope u like this.
The lamplight catches in Oscar's eyes as you roll your hips, and the way he looks at you—like you're the only thing that exists in this moment—sends heat pooling low in your belly.
"That's it, baby," he murmurs, his voice already rough with want. "Just like that."
You're straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, and the fullness of him inside you makes your breath catch. You've barely started moving, just slow, experimental rolls of your hips, but already his hands are sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.
"God, you're so beautiful like this," Oscar says, his accent thickening the way it always does when he's turned on. "Taking what you need. I love watching you."
You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat beneath your palms, and lift yourself slightly before sinking back down. The sensation pulls a gasp from both of you.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel incredible."
His praise emboldens you. You establish a rhythm, rising and falling on him with increasing confidence, and Oscar's fingers dig into your hips—not controlling, just holding on, grounding himself in the feel of you.
"That's my girl," he says, eyes locked on yours. "Look at you, taking me so well. You're perfect, you know that?"
Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't look away. There's something intoxicating about the way he watches you, the way his lips part with each breath, the way his gaze travels from your face down your body and back up again like he's trying to memorize every detail.
"Oscar," you breathe, and his name comes out needy, desperate.
"I know, baby. I've got you." His hands slide up your back, one settling between your shoulder blades, the other cupping the nape of your neck. "You're doing so good. Just feel it. Feel me."
You do. God, you do. Every nerve ending seems to light up as you move, the drag and stretch of him inside you building a delicious tension that coils tighter with each movement. Your pace quickens slightly, chasing the sensation, and Oscar groans.
"Yes, just like that. Don't stop." His thumb strokes the side of your neck, a tender counterpoint to the raw intimacy of what you're doing. "You're so fucking gorgeous when you ride me. Could watch you all night."
The words spur you on. You find your rhythm properly now, a steady roll and lift that has both of you breathing harder. Your thighs burn with the effort, but the pleasure building inside you makes it easy to ignore.
"Talk to me," Oscar says, his voice dropping lower. "Tell me how it feels."
"So good," you manage, the words coming out breathy and broken. "You feel so good, Osc."
"Yeah?" His hips lift slightly to meet your next downward movement, and the angle makes you cry out. "Right there?"
"Yes—fuck, yes—"
"That's it, baby. Take what you need. I'm right here." His hands are everywhere now—your hips, your waist, sliding up to cup your breasts. When his thumbs brush over your nipples, you arch into the touch with a moan. "So responsive for me. Love how your body tells me exactly what you like."
You're moving faster now, chasing the building pressure, and Oscar matches you, his hips rising to meet yours in a rhythm that's becoming increasingly desperate. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by your shared gasps and moans.
"Look at me," Oscar commands gently, and when you do, the intensity in his gaze nearly undoes you. "There you are. Stay with me, beautiful. Want to see every second of this."
His hand slides up from your collarbone to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. Then his fingers trail down, wrapping around the front of your throat—not squeezing, just holding, his palm warm against your racing pulse. The possessiveness of the gesture, the trust it requires, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"This okay?" he asks, always checking, always making sure.
"Yes," you gasp. "God, yes."
His fingers flex slightly, the pressure firm but careful, grounding rather than restricting. "You're mine," he says, and there's something primal in his voice now, something that makes you clench around him. "All mine. And you're taking me so perfectly."
The combination of his hand on your throat and his words in your ear drives you higher. You're riding him harder now, desperate for more, and Oscar's free hand grips your hip to help guide your movements.
"That's my good girl," he praises, his voice strained with his own pleasure. "Fuck, you're incredible. The way you move—the sounds you make—you're going to make me lose it."
"Oscar, I'm—I'm close—"
"I know, baby. I can feel it. Can feel how tight you're getting." His thumb strokes the side of your throat in soothing circles even as his other hand helps you move faster. "You're going to come for me, aren't you? Going to come all over my cock?"
You can only nod, words beyond you now as the tension coils impossibly tighter. Your movements become erratic, chasing your release, and Oscar takes over slightly, his hips driving up to meet you with perfect precision.
"Let go," he urges. "I've got you. Come for me, beautiful. Want to feel you."
His hand tightens just slightly on your throat—still not choking, just a firm pressure that somehow amplifies everything else—and that's what tips you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your body clenching around him as pleasure whites out your vision.
"That's it, that's it," Oscar chants, talking you through it. "So beautiful when you come. God, you're perfect. Keep going, baby. Ride it out. I've got you."
His voice anchors you as you shake apart above him, and somewhere in the haze of your pleasure, you feel him follow you over, his grip on your hip bruising as he thrusts up into you one last time with a groan that sounds like your name.
For a moment, you're both frozen, trembling, breathing hard. Then Oscar's hand slides from your throat to cup your face, pulling you down into a kiss that's surprisingly tender given what just happened.
"Come here," he murmurs against your lips, and he helps you ease off him before pulling you down to lie against his chest. His arms wrap around you immediately, one hand stroking up and down your spine while the other tangles in your hair.
You're both still catching your breath, hearts racing in tandem. Oscar presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek—soft, reverent touches that make your chest ache in the best way.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, his fingers continuing their soothing path along your back.
"More than okay," you manage, your voice hoarse. "That was..."
"Yeah," he agrees with a soft laugh. "It really was." He shifts slightly, reaching for something on the nightstand, and comes back with a bottle of water. "Here. Drink."
You push yourself up enough to take a few sips, and Oscar watches you with such open affection that it makes you feel warm all over again. When you're done, he takes the bottle and has some himself before setting it aside and pulling you back against him.
"Not too much?" he asks, his hand finding your throat again, this time just resting there gently. "When I—"
"It was perfect," you assure him, covering his hand with yours. "You were perfect."
He smiles, that soft, private smile that's just for you, and kisses you again. This one is slow and sweet, a stark contrast to the intensity of minutes ago. When he pulls back, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
"You're amazing, you know that?" he says. "The way you just take control like that—fuck, it's the hottest thing I've ever seen."
You duck your head, suddenly shy despite everything you just did, and Oscar chuckles, pulling you closer.
"Don't hide from me now," he teases gently. "Not after you just rode me like that."
"Oscar," you protest, but you're smiling.
"What? I'm just appreciating my incredibly sexy girlfriend." His hand resumes its path up and down your spine, and you feel yourself starting to relax into the boneless contentment that always follows. "Seriously though. You're incredible. Thank you for trusting me."
"Always," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his chest.
You lie there together as your breathing evens out, Oscar's fingers drawing idle patterns on your skin. Eventually, he shifts you both so you're lying side by side, facing each other, and he pulls the blanket up over you both.
"Better?" he asks, and you nod, already feeling drowsy.
Oscar's hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers interlacing, and he brings your joined hands up to kiss your knuckles. "Love you," he says simply.
"Love you too," you reply, and his smile is radiant.
He pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest, and you let yourself sink into the warmth and safety of his embrace. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, and his fingers continue their gentle exploration of your back, your shoulder, your arm—touching just to touch, to maintain that connection.
"Sleep if you want," he murmurs. "I'll be right here."
And wrapped in his arms, thoroughly satisfied and completely loved, you let yourself drift.
Summary: Max arrives home from Singapore wanting to blow off steam but you’re already asleep! Oh well!🔥
Note: Convinced my favourite girly to do a kinktober with me… @pampushky and their ideas are already fire so FOLLOW NOW.
wc 1.7k
somnophilia: somnophilia is the urge or desire to have a sexual encounter with someone who's asleep.
The click of the door echoes through the quiet apartment and Max exhales as it closes behind him, the sound of the lock sliding into place finally. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight from the weight of another podium that feels more like punishment than reward. Singapore clings to his skin, the sweat and the regret. Second fucking place. It’s certainly not the stellar result he’d hoped for to secure the championship.
He drops his cap onto the counter and kicks off his shoes, leaving them by the mat like a ghost of routine. For a moment he stands there, staring at nothing, listening to the hum of the air conditioning and the distant rush of the city outside. Monaco is still awake, but this home feels half asleep, too soft and too quiet for the storm in his chest.
It wouldn’t have been realistic to expect you to be awake but he still feels the pit of disappointment as he comes down the hallway to the bedroom, already tugging lazily at his belt, seeing that you’re asleep on your stomach in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. One leg hoisted up, cotton panties taut over your cunt, his old Toro Rosso top clinging to you from where it’s caught between you and the fabric of bedsheets.
His cock is already stirring at the sight. It’s nothing inherently sexy but the pent up frustration and the relief of being in your presence again does something to him. Fuck, he thinks.
The rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair fans across the pillow, the peacefulness that seems almost foreign to him tonight. You shift slightly, the movement tugging the fabric higher and he feels something pull tight in his chest.
He should shower. He should move. But he can’t. Not yet.
You look like every reason he’s ever fought for, every reason he’s still trying. And he knows that the night, the race, the noise in his head - none of it can touch you here.
“Pretty schatje.” He murmurs lowly, jeans kicked aside now, tugging his shirt off and discarding it aside, stretching his arms up into the air with a low groan, not intending to make you stir the way you do, responding so eagerly to him being here, even before you realise it.
Sure, he’d showered after the race… but he’d had a skinful of whiskey and gin tonic’s since then and taken a fourteen hour flight from half the world away. He really should wash up, rather than corrupt your beauty with such filth like he has in his mind.
The war in his mind is sooner over, Max Verstappen has never been the guy who makes the good choice. His hands are finding your plushy thighs after a moment, pressing the hitched leg higher against the bed so your panties spread tighter over your slit, showing the slight shadow to his hungry eyes. It’s simply lovely as he feasts on the sight of you at first, his hand dipping into his boxers to tug at himself, only half hard still but growing steadily enough at the sight.
He knows he shouldn’t. Really, he does.
There’s a pause before he commits entirely, tugging your panties down your thighs to reveal the shininess of your folds, an invitation if he’d ever received one, maybe you’d been daydreaming about his return home before you’d slept, waiting for him, a maybe he was in your mind now.
“Mm, look’t you, kitten. Nice and sticky for daddy already, huh?” His whisper is gravelly and low as he considers what to do next, whether to stretch you open before he fills you up. Whether to bother with a condom like you half-enforced in your wakened state.
Warm lips press to your hair as he breathes you in deeply, closing his eyes and letting his bare chest press to your clothed back, slowly shifting down the bed and pressing his throbbing cock to the sheets, rutting against them desperately as he presses slow kisses from ass cheek down to your slit, huffing out as he tastes you, sweet and sticky as always.
He’d never understood the use of ‘honeypot’ to describe a pussy until he’d met you all of those years ago. He took all of you in, the slight sheen smothered over the warmth of your slit, the smell of sex that lingered on you and the idea again that maybe you’d been thinking of him, willing him home sooner with these beautiful thighs pressed together. Max gathered saliva in his mouth and spat it directly on the scene in front of him. He brought his thumb up to your clit and rubbed gently as he looked up at your still sleeping face, tongue trailing from where he was rubbing slow circles all the way down to your asshole with a low murmur.
Fucking Honeypot, he thinks to himself with a smirk, murmuring out as he grinds himself down against the bed, the friction of the sheets just enough to have him hissing out as his tongue laps the taste of you up.
His words fall out around the taste of you, bumpy and interrupted by snuffling moans of appreciation. “Mijn mooie engel, je bent zo'n fucking hoer voor me, zelfs als je slaapt. Wat een geluk heb ik toch! Wat een geluk!”
My beautiful angel, you’re such a fucking whore for me, even when you sleep. How lucky am I? How lucky?
And what a whore you are, he thinks, watching as you begin to stir as he presses the tip of his ring finger into your sleeping cunny, letting you suck him in with a reverence despite being so… blissful and unaware.
“Pretty girl, such a good girl for me.” His lips press to your jaw gently, not wanting to wake you but needing more, letting out a strangled moan below his breath as he pulls his other hand from your clit to begin jerking himself in a lazy motion as he lets you swallow his finger down to the knuckle with ease, his wedding ring disappearing and cooling down the heat of your insides before his middle finger follows suit in the next dip.
He lets out a shaky breath, burning with the need to take you entirely, hips rutting with fervour and need against his hand and the bedsheets, his cheek pressing to your shoulder as he takes the pleasure that’s been needed since the moment he parted with you at the beginning of the week.
Fisting his fat cock only lasts a few minutes before he gets impatient, a strangled noise leaving him as he brings his hand back up to his mouth, spitting into his fingers before spreading it half on himself and half on you, practically panting, unable to hold back as he bullies the thick head of his cock into you, head falling back with relief. He’s practically done anything, a high performance athlete, already sweating and trembling without so much as the easiest workout, because he’s so fucking needy for you, always so needy. It worsens when you stir and murmur his name in that sweet, sleepy way, shocked by the slight stretch of his quick, shallow thrusts.
“S’okay princess, g’back… t’sleep.” He murmurs, hand on your hip as he keeps you lightly pinned down to the bed, still on your stomach, leg lifted to the side at a right angle, ass up as if you were asking to be bred on sight. “Daddy needs’t fill you up. Jus’lemme… w-won’t be long…”
There’s a precision that comes with being a driver and it finds him now, his fingers pushing beneath your hip against the mattress to track back and forth against your clit, hot breath against your ear. The moment you let out a low moan and a breathless, “Maxie? Baby? Fuckkkk…”, he’s gone.
His cock finds solace inside of you as he slams his hips forward, bullying into you all at once, forcing you to take every inch of his deprived cock, a low moan coming out against your hair as he loses himself in the lewdness of it all. It had been a discussion to try this, sure, but he hadn’t imagined himself acting on it before now.
“G-God!” You’re still far more docile than you’d usually be, practically a dead weight beneath him, lethargic but so receptive to every inch of him, his bicep caging you into the bed, his fingers strumming so fucking deliciously, his cock, ploughing into you as if on a deadline, his mouth, whispering sweet nothings between kisses to any spot of bare skin he can find.
“M’gonna cum liefje, gonna fill you up. Oh, fucking, god.” The room begins to get warm with his effort, he’s not fucking like the jackhammer he seems to think he is sometimes, but the passion makes it so much more exciting, the spontaneity has you blushing and begging for him to do it, to fill you up.
“This pussy feels so perfect, you feel like home to me, schatje. Taking daddy’s dick so good.”
He doesn’t stop through his orgasm, breathless and with stuttering hips but determined to make you finish as he moves to the pace you prefer, keeping his fingers steady as he rubs you with rhythm, smirking proudly when you follow suit and tighten around him, milking every last drop from his spent and softening cock like the good girl he knows you are.
When he pulls out, he smiles and shifts you around the sticky spot on the bed where he seeps out from between your legs, his lips pressing to your forehead, not in a kiss but as a tender moment of appreciation and to let you know that he loves you.
oscar teaches you everything you need to know before your date with lando.
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x best friend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 8.5k.
ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp, soft dom!oscar-ish, oral [f & m], fingering, dry humping. inexperienced!reader, oscar talks you through it, he is a teensy 🤏 bit manipulative, just pure smut :(, lando haunts the narrative. title only kind of from niki’s backburner (which could mean nothing,,).
ꔮ commentary box: hi, oh my gosh, i don’t think i’ve ever written pwp this long in my life. i’m kind of mortified (especially with the fact this has some >2k more words i shaved off). anyway, this was commissioned, tysm!!! 📑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 + read part two here!!!
Oscar Piastri is a patient man.
He has to be. With the way you barrel into his life and make yourself at home—your duffle bag always one laundry cycle away from living in his flat full-time, your half-drunk coffees trailing behind you like breadcrumbs, your laugh breaking over his ribs every time you tease him about being the most boring twenty-something alive—patience is the only option.
He thinks of himself as quiet. You call him steady. Reliable. “You’re my favorite person to do nothing with,” you said once, tucked under the same throw blanket, both of you half-asleep while a movie played on loop. The confession buzzed in his ears for days.
So, yes. Oscar Piastri is a patient man. But we never said he was a good one.
Not when you turn up on his doorstep tonight, eyes glinting with something soft and nervous curling behind your lashes. He knows that look. It’s the one that makes his stomach sink and his throat tighten because he’s seen it before, but never has it been directed at him.
You perch on the edge of his kitchen stool like the ground might shift under you. You twist the end of your sleeve in your hands. He hates that you’re fidgeting. He hates that you’re nervous. Mostly, he hates that it’s not because of him.
“Lando asked me out,” you breathe.
Oscar resists the urge to frown. “Okay.”
You look up at him, a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“Should I say more?” he asks, deadpan, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid. Like reach for you.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d be surprised. Or weird about it.”
“I’m not weird about it,” he lies, “and I’m not surprised. Lando would be stupid not to want you.”
You smile again, soft, grateful. It kills him.
Then the smile drops, and you sigh—one of those long, full-body exhales. Your fingers tap against the countertop. Once. Twice. “I’m nervous,” you admit.
He studies you. I can see that, he nearly says, but he settles instead with, “Why? You’ve known Lando for years.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
You won’t look at him. That tells him everything. Still, he waits. Patient, as ever. “I haven’t really done… a lot,” you murmur, eyes trained to the ceiling.
“Done?”
You glance at him then, briefly, face hot. “Sex. Stuff.”
He has to look away for a minute. Heat licks up the back of his neck, settles low in his gut. His arms tighten over his chest. The air shifts between you, dense and humming. You’re still talking, voice too delicate, too open.
“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” you babble. “Like, what if he expects me to know things? Or be a certain way? And I’m just me?”
Oscar turns his head, slowly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. You’re chewing your bottom lip raw, eyes downcast. There’s that part of you—unguarded, genuine, scared—that you never show anyone else. He knows it like he knows his own hands.
“You’re not just anything,” he says. It comes out harder than he meant it to; his throat feels like it’s lined with glass. “You’re…”
You finally look at him, just as he lamely finishes with, “... you. You’re you.”
He’d be more articulate, but his brain is kind of shutting down on itself.
Because now he’s picturing it. How Lando will touch you. If Lando will see the way your breath hitches when someone brushes your wrist. If he’ll know that you go quiet when you’re turned on. If he’ll think to ask before he undoes you.
Oscar shouldn’t want to know those things. He does, anyway. And now you’re here. Asking him—indirectly, innocently—for reassurance. As if he could talk you through this without wanting to burn the world down.
He swallows. “What if you didn’t have to worry about that?”
You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”
His heart punches against his ribs. Stupid. Reckless. Absolutely not the plan. “What if someone you trusted showed you?” he says, voice sounding not quite like himself.
You stare at him for a beat, gauging what he’s offering, whether he’s kidding. When you laugh out his name, a breathless, playfully scandalized “Oscar,” he can hear the strain beneath the two syllables.
“You said you were nervous because you haven’t done much,” he says. Carefully. “What if you didn’t have to go into it blind? What if you could learn with someone who already knows you? Who cares about you?”
He waitswaitswaits.
You blink. Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the serious set of his mouth, the immovable force of his arms. And then.
You nod.
It’s small—barely there—but it changes everything. The air feels heavier now, like the pressure before a storm. Oscar doesn’t move right away. He lets the weight of your decision settle, lets it braid itself between the quiet inches of space still left between your bodies.
You’re still watching him. Like you’re waiting for him to flinch, to take it back. Like you think he might regret offering.
He doesn’t.
He only steps closer.
“Okay,” he says, voice low. Gentle. “Then we’ll go slow. You tell me what you want to know. What you want to feel.”
You nod again, firmer this time. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” you say shakily, brows drawn together adorably. “If we want to keep this from getting complicated.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods. “Got it.”
You’re close now—closer than you’ve ever been without an excuse. Oscar can feel your warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the almost-touch of your body to his. The two of you shuffle over to the couch, silent and in sync, just to make things easier.
You sit side by side, knees pressed against each other. Oscar watches your fingers pause just above the waistband of his joggers. You’re not trembling, not exactly, but there’s a hitch in your breathing that makes him want to reach out. Press a hand over yours, ground you. Not to stop you. Just to let you know he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.
“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice roughened at the edges. “We’re not in a hurry.”
You glance up at him. He sees it again—that flicker of uncertainty, of unspoken questions. So he speaks first. “How far have you gone?”
Your voice is so, so small when you admit, “Not very. A little bit of making out here and there.”
There’s heat in your cheeks, in the way your eyes dart away like you’ve admitted to something shameful. Oscar hates that. He hates that you think your inexperience is something to hide.
“That’s good to know,” he says plainly.
You fidget with the drawstring on his joggers, eyes still cast down. “Just so you don’t expect me to know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “This is just for you to learn. For you to feel safe. That’s all.”
You nod, your mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Still no kissing, though.”
Oscar swallows the protest that almost rises to his lips. “Right,” he rasps. “No kissing.”
It’s the only thing keeping this from tipping over into something else. Into something it can’t come back from.
You reach for him again, fingers tentative as they trace the curve of his oblique, just above the V of his hips. Oscar sits still, arms loose at his sides, letting you explore him.
“That’s a good spot,” he murmurs when your fingertips pass over the sharp line of muscle there. “Most people don’t realize how sensitive that area can be. Especially when someone’s paying attention.”
You hum thoughtfully and trail your hand upward, brushing over his ribs. He shivers. “Ticklish?” you ask, a touch amused.
“A little. But in a good way.”
Your fingers drift again, this time along his chest, pausing at his pecs. You press your palm flat against him, and he instinctively tightens the muscle under your hand. “You flexed,” you say.
Oscar smiles. “Didn’t mean to. You caught me off guard.”
You trace your thumb over his nipple. A light brush. He exhales through his nose, his jaw tight. “That’s another good spot,” he mumbles. “Sensitive. A little underrated, honestly.”
You glance up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgets the rules. Forgets the line he’s supposed to be toeing. But he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let his eyes drop to your mouth. He is patient, he is patient, he is patient.
You explore lower now, hands skimming the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband, but you don’t go further. Not yet. Oscar feels his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his cock is already hard and straining against the fabric.
Still, he waits.
“You okay?” he checks in.
You nod.
“Good,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to keep going?”
You hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding again.
“Need you to use your words, gorgeous,” he says, light and teasing, drawing a bashful laugh from you.
“Yes,” you concede. “Wanna keep going.”
Oscar nods. “Then let me show you more.”
He reaches for your hand again, gently guiding it to his bicep, then his forearm. “Different parts of the body respond to different kinds of touch,” he murmurs, watching your expression all the while. “Here’s strong. Solid. But if you drag your fingers lightly—like this—”
He demonstrates on your arm, the softest touch over your skin. Goosebumps prickle over where his fingers had been.
He mirrors it on himself, guiding your hand to follow. “It’s not always about pressure. Sometimes it’s about presence,” he says. “Letting someone feel you. Letting them want more.”
Your pupils are blown now. He wonders if you even realize you’re leaning into him. He doesn’t say it. He just lets you keep touching, keep learning, and he pretends he’s not falling apart from it.
Oscar sees it happen in your eyes before you say anything—the worry creeping back in, like doubt tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling you inward. You’re still touching him, still warm and close, but your gaze is far away.
“I just…” you start, voice unsteady. “I keep thinking about what Lando might expect.”
Oscar doesn’t flinch, but it cuts anyway. A dull slice just beneath the skin.
You keep going. “What if he wants someone confident? Someone who can—who knows how to, I don’t know, use their hands or say the right thing or—”
He stops you with a firm, “Hey.”
You look up at him, startled.
Oscar’s expression is calm. Too calm, maybe, because he’s holding back everything. Every petty surge of jealousy, every instinct that wants to pull you away from this hypothetical version of Lando and remind you that he’s right here. That it’s his body under your hands. His pulse you’ve got racing.
“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says. “And if you want to learn absolutely anything, I’m here. That’s it. That’s all this is.”
You nod, slowly. Still, your fingers hover—undecided, unsure. He stays where he is until you’re finally out of your head enough to move.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and tug them down.
Oscar’s breath catches. He helps you, pulling them off, leaving him in nothing but black boxers. Tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him thick against the fabric. He sees your eyes go there, linger, and it takes everything in him not to react.
You reach out. Palm first, hesitant. You touch him over the cotton, soft pressure at the base, and Oscar’s stomach tenses instantly.
“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back against the couch cushion. He tries, valiantly, not to come undone from just this.
Your hand immediately stills. “Too much?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Not at all. You’re doing fine.”
You start to move again, stroking him through the fabric. Oscar’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He has to steady himself, fists clenched at his sides.
“Pressure’s good,” he grunts. “But don’t be afraid to explore. You can use your palm... or your fingers. Try different things. I’ll tell you what feels nice.”
You trace along the length of his cock, fingers curving lightly around the shape of him, then back down to the base. He’s thick and growing heavier in your hand. You’re watching closely, brows drawn in concentration, like you’re studying him.
“You’re really hard,” you say, almost to yourself.
He huffs out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happens.”
Your gaze flicks up to him, quick. But he sees the shift in you. The awareness, the realization of the power you wield. Your hand moves more confidently now, a little more pressure. His hips jerk subtly out of instinct, reaction.
Oscar breathes out through gritted teeth. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s—really good.”
You’re gnawing your bottom lip. “You like it?”
“I like you,” he says, before he can stop himself.
You laugh like it’s a fucking joke. You probably think he means it as your best friend, when the thoughts running through Oscar’s mind are far from friendly.
You keep touching him. Slower now. More focused. Oscar—still pretending this is just for you, just a favor—lets it happen, lets you learn him one stroke at a time.
After what feels like forever of just you working him up, Oscar realizes he’s barely breathing.
Your hand is still wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him in slow, uneven movements. Unsure, but so eager. It takes every ounce of restraint not to buck into your touch. Not to groan louder than he should. Not to lose himself.
But then you pause.
Your fingers hover, nerves creeping back into your expression. And when you look up at him, your expression flayed open with such heartbreaking earnestness, his heart stutters in his chest.
“Can I—” you start, voice barely audible, “can I see it?”
Oscar exhales slowly, like it’ll keep him tethered.
“Yeah,” he manages. “‘Course.”
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides the boxers down. It takes effort—his cock is hard now, thick and straining against the cotton—but eventually they fall, pooling at his ankles. He’s already leaking at the tip, unable to resist the way you do him over.
You go very, very still.
Oscar watches you take him in. How your eyes track the length of him, how your lips part like you’ve forgotten how to close them. He resists the urge to shift under your gaze, to adjust himself, to do anything that might break the moment.
“Jesus,” you whisper. “It’s… bigger than I thought.”
He tries not to smile. Tries not to let it get to his head. He can feel it, anyway. The way the pride simmers under his skin, low and satisfied.
You keep looking, eyes full of something like awe, something almost reverent. He stores it in his mind for future reference.
“Bigger than in videos?” he teases.
Your face goes even redder, and Oscar bites down a groan. You’re killing him.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just... I didn’t expect—”
“It’s okay,” he says, scooting closer just a bit. “I like that you’re curious.”
You reach out, slowly. Your fingers brush against the base of him, tentative at first. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.
“Still okay?” you ask.
He nods. “Careful with your nails. Not too sharp.”
You pull back immediately. “Sorry.”
“No, no, you’re fine,” he assures, voice a little strained. “Just—try using more of your palm. Yeah, like that.”
You adjust, cupping him with both hands now, dragging one slowly up the shaft while the other stays low. You trace a vein with your thumb, and Oscar’s hips twitch before he can stop them.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “That’s good. Sensitive there. ‘Specially near the tip.”
You take him at his word. Your thumb circles the head, a little clumsy, a little too dry. He winces. “Okay—wait, hang on,” he says, voice catching. “That’s good, but you need to slow down. Think less pressure, more glide. Use your fingers gently here, like you’re… coaxing.”
“Coaxing?” you echo.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “Like you want it to give you something.”
You giggle under your breath. The sound goes straight to his spine.
Still, you follow instructions well. Your fingers soften, the rhythm more fluid now. You explore at your own pace, brushing over the head, down the length, to the base again. You cup him. He twitches, bites back a moan.
Oscar looks down at you—your flushed face, your blown pupils, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
He wants to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a ragged, “You’re learning so fucking fast.”
He means it. Every shaky breath of it. Because if this is how you touch someone when you’re nervous and new, he can’t even imagine what you’ll be like when you’re not holding back.
And here’s when we realize Oscar is not as good as he ought to be:
Oscar shouldn’t be thinking about Lando. Not now.
Not when you’re right next to him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, hands wrapped around the base of his cock like you’re still trying to make sense of it. But the thought wedges itself into the back of Oscar’s skull, ugly and persistent. Lando, waiting in the wings. Lando, clueless and grinning. Lando, who might never know what it took for you to get here.
Oscar breathes through his nose, grounding himself in the present.
You’re looking up at him like you’re waiting for permission.
He doesn’t want to be bitter. Doesn’t want to ruin this. So he softens his voice, makes sure you’re still there with him. “Good?”
“Good,” you say, fingers still curled around his throbbing cock. “I—do you think I should try my mouth?”
Oscar cups your cheek. His thumb strokes along your jaw, reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says simply. “But if you want to try, I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it. Just go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod, take a breath like you’re about to dive into deep water.
He watches as you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. Just that alone sends heat curling through his belly. Your mouth is warm, soft. You press a kiss there, awkward and unsure, and Oscar exhales sharply.
“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to take much. Start with your tongue. Lick, taste me a little. Get used to it."
You follow his instructions, tongue flicking out, tracing around the head of his cock. It’s messy—your spit catching against the ridge, your lips dragging slightly too dry at first—but you’re trying. Concentrating.
“Good,” Oscar grunts. “That’s really good. Try using your hand around what you can’t take in your mouth. Keep it around the base."
You wrap your fingers tighter, your other hand bracing on his thigh. Your mouth opens wider and you take him in, slowly, maybe an inch or two. Your lips stretch around him. Your brow furrows.
“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.
You shake your head, but you gag a little when you go further. You pull back quickly, a breathless, embarrassed laugh spilling out of you. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t—wasn’t expecting that."
Oscar laughs with you, quiet, breathy. He smooths his hand over your hair.
“Nothing to be sorry about. That’s normal,” he says through his teeth. “Just go at your pace. You don’t have to get it perfect."
You try again.
This time, you take him into your mouth slower, lips stretched, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Your hand keeps a steady rhythm where your mouth can’t reach. It’s clumsy—your jaw is working too hard, your cheeks hollowing with effort—but it’s erotic in a way Oscar’s never experienced.
Because it’s you.
You, trying for him.
You, so obviously inexperienced and so desperate to learn.
He can’t help the sound that escapes him. Half groan, half whimper. His hips twitch forward, but he forces himself still. His hand stays gentle on the back of your head, not guiding yet, only grounding. “Good. Just like that,” he groans. “Little slower. There you go.”
Your spit’s everywhere now—slick on your chin, trailing down his cock, wetting your fingers. You look up at him again, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and Oscar feels something dangerous stir in his chest.
Lando won’t get this version of you.
Not the way Oscar has you now. Mouth stretched, blush deep, fingers trembling slightly from how much you’re trying to impress. He cups your jaw again, thumb stroking over your cheekbone.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.”
You hum softly around him—accidental or deliberate, he doesn’t know—and Oscar nearly comes undone. He has to breathe. He has to last. But it’s getting harder with every second you stay on your knees, letting him fall apart in your mouth.
Oscar’s voice is tight when he speaks next, tighter than it’s been all night.
“Can I—” he starts, and then pauses, swallowing hard. He forces his voice careful, normal. “Can I use your mouth a little?”
Your brows pinch, lips still swollen and wet, and he continues, nervous now. “Not rough, just… guiding a bit. Like Lando might. So you know how it feels.”
He hates himself for saying it like that.
Hates invoking Lando’s name when your lips are red from him, when your hands are still trembling from the weight of him. But it’s the only way he knows you’ll let him. The only way to justify the way his cock aches to fuck into the willing shape of your mouth.
You nod. You pull away from him for a moment, voice barely carrying as you say, “Okay.”
Oscar cups the back of your head gently, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll go slow. You breathe through your nose, yeah?” he instructs. “If it’s too much, just tap me.”
You nod again, and he rocks his hips forward.
The first slide into your mouth is shallow, but Oscar feels it in his spine. The heat, the resistance, the obscene sound of spit and breath catching. His grip tightens slightly in your hair, steadying himself. You’re warm and wet and pliant, jaw relaxing more the deeper he gets.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Doing so fucking good, baby.”
He watches your hands scramble to his thighs, gripping him for balance. Watches your lashes flutter as he fucks forward again, deeper this time. The sound your throat makes as you try to take him fully is sinful. He doesn’t go all the way—won’t push you there, not yet—but he can’t help the slow, hungry rhythm he sets. A gentle grind of hips. A firm pull of your head toward him.
You gag slightly. He pauses. “You okay?”
You nod, watery-eyed, lips stretched, breath shaky through your nose.
“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “That’s it. Use your tongue. Just a little more… hng, fuck. Right there.”
He starts again. Small thrusts. Controlled. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust. Your throat convulses around him once, and he sees stars. He’s saying things now, low and unraveling, almost incoherent.
“Mouth so fucking perfect.”
“My pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl.”
“Can’t believe I’m the first one—holy shit.”
The idea hits him again, harder this time. He’s the first. First one you’re letting in like this. First one whose cock you’ve taken into your mouth, messy and unsure and eager to learn. He’s the one who gets to show you what it’s like, what you’re capable of. What you deserve to be praised for.
His hips snap forward a little harder. You choke, just slightly. He slows again, hands gentling.
“Shhh. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” he rushes to praise you, hands stroking you soothingly. “My good girl, taking it so well. You’re making me feel so—fuck, I can’t even—”
Your hands squeeze tighter around his thighs, fingernails digging in, grounding yourself. Your eyes water more, and it makes you look somehow even more devoted. Even more his.
He groans, low and ragged, tipping his head back. “ I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that.”
And you—so innocent, so unknowing—you blink up at him through the tears and hum around his cock, sending a vibration so sharp it makes his knees weak.
He has to stop. Has to pull back. Has to catch his breath before this ends too soon. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Not when you’re letting him fuck into your mouth like it’s the only thing you were made for.
Oscar’s voice is more gravel than words now.
“Open wider for me,” he whispers, breath ragged, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Exactly like that. Keep looking at me—fuck, yeah, don’t look away.”
He’s rocking into your mouth, riding the edge, and you’re so obedient it wrecks him. Jaw slack, tears shining in your lashes. There’s saliva at the corners of your lips, a glossy sheen along your chin. Your hands grip at his thighs like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to him.
“Touch yourself,” he says lowly. “You don’t have to finish. Just… want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”
You hesitate, shy even now. But you obey, hand sliding down to cup yourself over your shorts. And that’s what makes Oscar nearly come right then and there.
The idea of you squirming with your fingers buried between your thighs, while your mouth is so warm and wet around him? His stomach clenches, jaw tight. He feels his orgasm cresting fast, too fast, and he can’t hold it back anymore.
“Gonna come—fuck. Keep still for me, y-yeah? Please, baby?”
You do.
You hold perfectly still when he buries himself deep and comes with a broken sound. It’s not neat. It’s not silent. It’s breathless and shaky, his fingers curling hard in your hair as he pulses down your throat. You take all of it like a champ. Throat flexing. Moaning from somewhere deep down.
When he finally pulls back, you’re panting, licking your lips without realizing it. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight. “Shit,” he breathes, immediately crouching, hands cradling your face. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head, a little dazed. Voice hoarse. “No, no. That was just… intense.”
Oscar presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, giddy and exhausted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Your tongue pokes out again, tasting the corner of your mouth, and his eyes flick down.
“There’s still some—” He trails a thumb along the edge of your lips, catching the mess and rubbing it gently against your bottom lip. You shiver, lapping up what’s left of his cum.
“I thought it’d taste worse,” you say after a moment, honest and curious.
Oscar huffs out another laugh, leaning back on his heels. “What, were you expecting battery acid?”
You snort. “I dunno. It’s kinda… salty?”
Oscar tilts his head, grin lazy. “That’s what I get for not drinking pineapple juice.”
You slap his shoulder, but you’re smiling, and so is he. His thumb swipes again at your mouth, this time lingering. “Still messy,” he murmurs, and he means more than your lips. You’re flushed and blinking slowly, your hand still resting on his thigh like it belongs there.
He kisses your cheek gently. “Come on. Water, now. And then…” He lets the words hang, his voice suddenly quieter. “Then we can talk.”
Because even if your mouth is still sweet with the taste of him, even if his heart’s still sprinting, there’s something else beneath the surface.
Moments later, you’re curled up beside him on the bed, knees hugged to your chest, one of his hoodies drowning your frame. Oscar’s already brought you water, wiped your mouth clean, even insisted you lie down while he fetched you a snack you didn’t ask for. The air between you is light, made tender with the weight of what just happened.
You’re quiet, not awkward exactly, but distracted. Fidgety. Your fingers play with the cuffs of your sleeves like they’re something to disappear into. Oscar watches you closely.
“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”
You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just… yeah.”
Oscar waits. You always do this—start saying something only to retreat, like you’re testing the water first. He lets the silence stretch long enough before trying again. “You’re squirming.”
Your brows lift, startled. He keeps his voice soft. “You’re uncomfortable?”
You don’t answer right away, but you do shift again, thighs pressing together tightly. The tension in your body isn’t something he can ignore. Not after everything. Not with how hard you tried to do well for him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and brushing the back of his hand against your arm. “Talk to me.”
You bite your lip. It takes a breath, maybe two, before you mumble, “I think I made myself sore.”
Oh.
It hits him all at once. How long you were down there, how hard you were trying to do everything right, how nervous you must have been. How wet the inside of your thighs must be now, how much slick had probably gathered with no relief, how the pressure must be lingering between your legs. He swallows, shame curling low in his gut.
“I—fuck. I didn’t think. I should’ve asked.”
“It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to wave it off, but you don’t meet his eyes.
He hesitates.
“I could… help,” he offers, and hates himself a little for how it comes out, too eager and too unsure. He forces himself to do better. “Only if you want. It might help, just—relieving some of that. So you’re not in pain.”
You blink at him. He sits back, pretending like he’s reasoning it out with you, when really it’s all he can think about.
“I mean—Lando’s not gonna be hands-off forever, right?” he says through gritted teeth. “If you’re still planning on saying yes to him. And this way, you’d know what it’s like before he tries anything. You won’t be surprised.”
It’s petty. The words taste like vinegar in his mouth. But it’s the best he can do to mask the heat coiling in his chest.
You contemplate it, glancing at him—quick, uncertain, like you’re scared to name what you want. “Okay,” you say after one too many seconds. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
And Oscar feels it down to the marrow.
Not triumph. Not desire.
Just the raw, aching privilege of being the one you trust to make this feel okay.
Oscar sits beside you, palm warm where it rests lightly against your knee. He’s still watching you too closely, still trying to balance every inch of his desire with the care you deserve. It burns in his chest, the knowledge that you trust him with this. That you’re letting him learn your body before anyone else.
“You know you can stop me at any point, right?” he reminds you, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to go anywhere.”
You stare up at him, so trusting that it’s devasting. “And still no kissing.”
It stings. He smiles anyway. “No kissing,” he agrees.
He lets you lie back on the bed, positioning yourself however’s most comfortable, and then follows your cues. He starts with your arm—his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist, then the crook of your elbow, slow and methodical. His hands are always warm, always clean, always careful. And when you shiver, just slightly, he clocks it.
“That one?”
You let out a low sound of approval. “It’s weird,” you say. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”
Oscar hums, lips parting in thought. He bends to press his mouth to the same spot. Not a kiss, just a hot breath and a drag of his lower lip that makes your arm twitch.
He keeps going, skimming over your collarbones, mapping the line where your shirt starts underneath his hoodie. His hand slides under the hem—slow, deliberate. “Still okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe.
He palms over your stomach first. Then higher. You’re not wearing a bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp.
“Oh.”
Oscar pauses. His eyes flick to yours.
You look vaguely horrified. “I—I think I like that a lot.”
He fights back a grin. “That’s good.”
“No, like. A lot a lot.”
He huffs a breath through his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and cups you properly. Weighs the softness in his hand, just to hear your little intake of breath. “You’re sensitive here?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your nipple.
Your hips shift. “Jesus,” you groan. “Yeah.”
He’s going to file that away forever. Instead of teasing you more, he pulls your hoodie and shirt up properly, lets it bunch above your chest. His hands return, this time more focused, both of them. He tests how you react to pressure, to circular motions, to the pad of his thumb versus the flat of his palm. He listens to every sound you make. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your lashes.
“You weren’t kidding,” he says almost reverently.
You laugh, flustered. “Shut up.”
He leans in, face close enough to see the heat blooming across your cheeks. “I think they’re my favorite thing about you,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“You’re only saying that because you’re touching them.”
“I’m saying that because it’s true.”
You whimper, but you don’t stop him. You arch into his touch. And Oscar knows—this is only the beginning of how you’ll learn each other.
Oscar’s hands settle over your chest, the weight of his palms grounding you as your breath quickens beneath him. He takes his time, leans down just enough to latch his mouth over you. Rolling one nipple between his fingers while his lips drag across the swell of your other breast, tongue flicking just barely where he knows it’ll make you squirm.
The first sound you make is soft. Barely audible. The second is more of a whine, your hips shifting with increasing urgency. He grins against your skin. “Feels good?”
You nod, lips parted, eyes unfocused. “Mhm.”
Oscar’s mouth closes around your nipple, sucking lightly, then a little harder, just to test how far he can push. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize, fingers tugging when he sucks deep and slow. He lets his teeth graze, and you buck beneath him.
“Fuck,” you gasp.
He pulls back slightly. “Too much?”
“No, no,” you say, breathless. “No, it’s—I don’t know.”
He raises an eyebrow and brings his hand lower, resting it over your shorts. You’re panting, devastated in how you’ve unraveled, and Oscar can feel it before he even presses down.
Wet.
When he applies the slightest pressure, you jolt again, eyes wide and embarrassed. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and your mouth opens like you might explain yourself. “I didn’t mean to,” you whimper. “I didn’t think I was that close. I’m sorry—”
He cuts you off, voice low and impossibly warm. “Don’t apologize. That was hot.” Oscar leans in, brushing your temple with his nose. “You got off just from that?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter.
He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, still tracing lazy circles over the damp fabric. “Can I move these?”
He feels you nod, feels the way your voice cracks when you say, “Yeah.”
Oscar is careful, fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging the shorts and your underwear down in one slow motion. The air hits you first, then his gaze, heavy and adoring.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He only settles beside you again, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, already planning how to show you there’s nothing wrong with wanting like this. He watches the way your stomach still flutters with the aftershocks of your orgasm, how your breath stumbles, how your eyes glass over as you try to refocus on him. Your hips twitch when his thumb accidentally grazes your clit.
Oscar shifts closer, his palm warm against your thigh as his fingers trace the soft skin, inching upward like he’s trying to memorize you. Your shorts are pushed down now, panties too, and he still hasn’t looked away from you—not really. He watches the way you squirm, your mouth parting, your gaze flitting from his eyes to his hand like you don’t know which part of this you should be more overwhelmed by.
“You good?” he checks in again.
You nod, then hesitantly add, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”
He smiles reassuringly, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “That’s okay.” A pause, then, gently, “Can I ask something? When you touch yourself… how do you do it?”
The question makes your whole face turn an incandescent shade of pink. You laugh, a little out of discomfort, covering your eyes with one hand. “Oscar.”
“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling, but there’s a real curiosity in his voice now. “I wanna know what you like.”
You mumble something about how you usually just rub circles, nothing fancy. Oscar hums, clearly thinking.
“Like this?” he asks, finally dragging his fingers over your folds, slow and feather-light. He finds your clit with an ease that makes your hips jerk, and he chuckles under his breath. “Jesus. Sensitive.”
You gasp, one hand clutching at the bedsheets. “It’s d-different when someone else does it!”
He’s already testing pressure, rhythm, the edge of your comfort. You try to help, stuttering out what feels good, what doesn’t, but the more he listens, the less coherent you become.
He spreads you open a little further, fingers slick with the mess you’ve already made. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, half in awe. “And this is just my fingers.”
You arch when he grazes your clit just right, thighs twitching as he keeps a steady pressure there. It doesn’t take much before your hips start moving with him, chasing each slow, teasing circle.
“You’re so quiet,” he whispers. “Trying not to make noise?”
You whine, breath catching. “It’s embarrassing.”
Oscar leans over, kisses your jaw. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You don’t have to be quiet.”
Then he slides lower, one finger dragging down to tease your entrance, not pushing in, just circling. Your breath stutters again.
“Here?” he asks, thumb still gliding over your clit.
You nod frantically. “There, there, there—”
He doesn’t push in, not yet. Just keeps rubbing you, watching your thighs tense and your chest heave, and when he finally slips the tip of one finger inside, your whole body jolts.
It’s not long. It’s not even deliberate. Your legs tense, your mouth drops open, and you come a second time with a high, shocked sound, like you didn’t know you were close until it was already happening.
Oscar groans, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching with restraint. He’s hard in his joggers, achingly so, and he has to breathe through it, through the image of you coming around nothing but his hand.
“Can you handle more?” he asks, the pads of his fingers still slick with you. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.
You look at him, dazed but trusting. “I think so.”
He smiles—relieved, reverent, wrecked. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”
Oscar starts slow. He pushes a finger in, shallow at first, just letting your body adjust to the stretch. Then he draws it back out, slick with arousal, and adds another. Your thighs tremble.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than you. “So warm.”
His free hand steadies your hip as he starts to move his fingers—slow and steady, curling just slightly. Then he presses his thumb back against your clit, circling softly, like he’s trying to soothe and tease you at once. The combination makes you cry out, hips jerking, your hands fumbling for something—his wrist, his arm, the bedsheets.
“Oscar,” you pant, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s a lot.”
But you take it. You whimper and clench and rock against his hand, and he watches in disbelief. Watches the way you squirm beneath him, overwhelmed but hungry for it anyway.
“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, kissing your collarbone. “Taking me so well.”
Then, like it’s an afterthought—but it’s not, it never is—he glances up at you again. “Can I try one more thing?”
You hesitate, still breathless, but nod.
Oscar shifts, lowers himself until he’s between your legs, face hovering close to your core. He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Then he ducks his head, mouth closing over your clit.
The instant moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrolled. Your back arches. You grab at his hair, not pulling away, just trying to ground yourself.
He groans into you, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers keep moving, scissoring slightly now, stretching you open as his tongue flicks and presses and licks.
You fall apart. There’s no other word for it. You come again, around his fingers. Crying out, shaking, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.
He should stop.
Your legs are twitching on either side of his head, breath hiccupping in your chest like you’re trying to pull yourself back down to earth. But Oscar can’t. Not yet. Not when your thighs are caging him in. Not when the taste of you is still on his tongue. Salty-sweet, slick, utterly intoxicating.
He licks deliberately, slow and broad this time, from the base of your entrance all the way up to your clit. Then he does it again, fingers still buried inside you, curling with intent.
You let out something between a sob and a moan. “Osc,” you cry, barely a hiccup.
He hums against your cunt. The vibrations make your hips buck.
“You’re sensitive,” he says, voice hoarse. “I know.”
You squirm, trying to close your legs, but his hands are firm, holding you open at the hips. He mouths at your clit with a little more gentleness, his fingers coaxing what else he knows you can give.
“C-can’t,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut.
“Yes, you can,” he breathes, kissing over the swollen bud. “You’re doing so well for me.”
Your fingers tangle into his hair. You’re not pulling him off, but there’s a bit of an edge to your tug. “W-wait, don’t eat me out,” you squeak. “It’s—you don’t know how that tastes—”
He lifts his head just long enough to look at you. His mouth glistens as he grins, just on the right side cocky. “You think I care?”
Your face burns.
“You’re perfect like this,” he says plainly. Then he ducks his head again, tongue working you open, pushing inside while his fingers slide back in, finding that spot again. That one spot that has you gasping.
The overstimulation hits hard. You writhe against the bed, thighs trembling violently as he holds you still. He alternates between licking your clit and sucking it, his fingers never slowing. You can’t form words anymore. All that’s left are fractured sounds, guttural and high-pitched, your hands fisting the sheets.
Oscar’s lost in it. In you. Your taste, your scent, the way you pulse and clench around his fingers, the way your body jerks when his mouth hits just right.
“You’re so good,” he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “So sweet. Can’t believe you’ve never… holy shit.”
When your third orgasm crashes down, full-body and violent, only then does he lift his head. Chin glistening, eyes dark and glassy with want.
Oscar drags himself up your body slowly, carefully, kissing the warm stretch of your stomach and the slope of your ribs, nose brushing against the curve beneath your breast. He keeps his mouth from your lips—like you asked—but not without effort. It’s instinct, habit, the way he wants to kiss you when you’re like this: glowing, boneless, trembling beneath his weight.
Instead, he lets his mouth drag over the skin of your collarbone as he adjusts himself between your thighs. His joggers cling to his hips, but the strain in them is unmistakable. A thick, hard ridge pressed tight to the slick heat of your core.
He rocks his hips forward—just a little—to feel it. To feel you.
Your cry breaks sharp in the air.
“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead falling to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “I—can I? Just—this. Let me have this. Please.”
You nod, too dazed to speak, too desperate to deny him. “Go,” you say, equal parts merciful and needing, “take what you need, Osc.”
Oscar’s thrusts stay controlled, but the friction is filthy. Raw cotton dragging along your clit in time with the heavy flex of him beneath the fabric. You’re soaked and sensitive, and every pass of his hips makes your body jerk, back arching as your cunt clenches around nothing.
His hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you steady as he ruts forward again with a helpless whine. “You’re so good,” he pants. “Being so good for me. Feels like you’re made for this, for me.”
Each grind is punctuated by low groans in your ear, Oscar’s voice dissolving into breathless praise and curses. He presses his forehead to your temple, eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on, to make it last.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you. Just like this. Just—fuck, just like this.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he thinks he could die like this, right here. Held between the ache in his chest and the heat of your cunt under his cock. Still not inside, but it’s enough. Yours to give, and his to ruin.
Oscar doesn’t know if it’s shame or worship that makes him move like this. He kisses down your sternum instead of your mouth, like he promised, but it doesn’t stop his desperation from bleeding into every motion, every panting breath fanned against your skin.
You’re too perfect, with your breath catching in little sobs each time he drags his hips forward. He almost doesn’t hear it over the slick sound of your bodies, but it’s there. You, whispering his name. Moaning it.
“Oscar,” you whimper, nails clawing down his back like you’re marking your territory—and it nearly pushes him over the edge. “Oh my God, O-Oscar.”
He chokes on a groan and hides his face against your shoulder, but the thoughts swarm him. Every disgusting, shameful fantasy he’s kept buried over the years spills into the forefront of his mind.
You, crawling into his lap asking for help like this.
You, naked in his sheets, lips wet and eyes glassy as you beg him to show you how to please someone else.
How many nights has he gotten off to the image of your hands down your shorts, whispering his name without realizing? How many times has he thought about bending you over his kitchen counter, your voice broken and pleading?
This is the closest he’ll ever get. This—this lesson. This half-sin under the guise of helping, of making sure you won’t be surprised when Lando touches you.
He’s not supposed to want it. He’s not supposed to want you.
But your cunt is dripping for him, and his cock is rock-hard beneath his joggers, and when he feels your hips stutter up against him like you’re meeting him halfway, like you might want it just as much as him—
Oscar bites down on the curve of your shoulder, just to keep himself tethered. You cry out, raking your nails down his back so hard it leaves trails of fire. And then he’s coming, rutting forward through the cotton, wet warmth soaking between you two as his body convulses with it.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, he’d do it all over again. He’d do worse, if you let him.
And he still won’t kiss you.
Oscar goes through the motions of aftercare. He’s a lot of nefarious things, but he’s not evil.
The bathroom is still warm with the steam of your shared shower, water droplets clinging to the corners of the mirror. Oscar’s fingers are soft where they glide along the towel he’s wrapping around your shoulders. He crouches a little to meet your eyes, his gaze searching. Not for anything dramatic, but for signs. Of your comfort. Your peace. Maybe even your joy.
You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs tucked in close to your chest, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s rubbing at your calves with another towel, not even bothering to hide the adoration on his face. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since he washed you gently between the legs, murmuring quiet apologies you kept telling him weren’t needed.
Oscar sits on the edge of the tub eventually, elbows on his knees, letting out a breath like he’s been carrying the world. The silence stretches in a syrupy way. You’re the one who breaks it.
“You don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you groan, cheeks flushed. “Like I’ll float away.”
He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’m not letting you float away.”
You try not to melt, fidgeting with the edge of the towel instead. You’re smiling now too, though, and it knocks him out.
“Hey,” he says, gently. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”
You glance at him, waiting.
“Don’t ever settle for someone who doesn’t treat you like this. Okay?” Oscar manages. “Like you’re precious. Like they know how lucky they are just to get to hold you.”
Your mouth trembles a little, and he catches it with his thumb before it can turn into something shaky. His touch stays steady, thumb against your cheekbone.
“That goes for Lando, or anyone else,” he goes on. “If they don’t take their time with you—if they don’t care to learn what you like, how to care for you—then they shouldn’t get to have you.”
You blink rapidly, eyes too bright. “You’re going to make me cry,” you complain, but the appreciation bleeds into the curve of your laugh.
Oscar kisses your shoulder, still damp from the towel, and whispers, “You deserve only the best of things. Always.”
You lean into him then, and his arms wrap around you like they were always meant to. “Thank you,” you sigh into the crook of his neck. “You’re the best friend ever.”
Does it sting to hear? Of course.
But, like we’ve established—Oscar is a patient man.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The selfish, godforsaken truth pulses in his chest like a second heartbeat:
Oscar hopes you’re ruined for anyone else. ⛐
box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.
the sequel to fast learner! ⸻ you end up on oscar’s doorstep after your date with lando.
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x best friend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 8.2k.
ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp, soft dom!oscar-ish, oral [f & m], fingering, cum play, virginity loss. inexperienced!reader, oscar talks you through it, oscar is a 🤏 teensy bit mean, just pure smut :(, lando haunts the narrative. it is not required to have read fast learner before this, but good for context.
ꔮ commentary box: i think fast learner is currently the most interacted with fic on my blog right now, which is insane. i still don’t see myself as a particularly articulate smut writer, but the people have asked!!! and i shall deliver!!! enjoy the last part in this duology 😵💫 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
There’s not a lot of things Oscar gets jealous of.
At least, that’s what he tells himself while tying his shoelaces, tugging the laces tighter than necessary. Each knot is cinched with the same precision he uses to silence thoughts he doesn’t want. Jogging is supposed to help—burn off the excess, give him something to focus on besides the way the apartment still smells faintly of you.
He hasn’t seen much of you since that night. That night when you’d come to him, asking to learn. All in the name of preparing you for another man.
Since then, there’s been a few texts. A few half-hearted excuses. Enough distance to make him think maybe that night was the sort of temporary madness you’d both agreed never to name out loud.
Oscar pulls his hood up, fingers brushing over his headphones, ready to escape into the evening when the knock comes.
He freezes.
The sound is small, hesitant. He knows it’s you before he even checks the peephole. He opens the door, and you’re there. Date-ready. Hair smoothed, eyes lined in careful strokes, lips with the faintest sheen of gloss. A dress he’s never seen before, soft fabric skimming your thighs. It’s unfair, the way you look; it’s as if you’ve been painted in brighter colors just to remind him of what doesn’t belong to him.
He clears his throat. “Date’s over?” His voice is neutral, practiced. It’s the only way he knows how to speak to you now.
You shift your weight, the heel of one shoe scuffing against his doormat. “Yeah.”
That’s all you give him. No explanation. No mention of Lando’s name. Just yeah.
Oscar steps back, lets you in. He doesn’t say anything about how you smell like wine and night air, or how the curve of your wrist looks delicate as you shrug off your jacket. He doesn’t comment on how you’re beautiful in a way that feels deliberate tonight, not accidental like when you used to sprawl across his couch in joggers and a hoodie.
Instead, he nods toward the kitchen. “Want some water?”
You glance at him, searching his face for something he doesn’t offer, and then you nod. “That would be nice,” you say with devastating, uncharacteristic gentleness.
Oscar turns, every movement measured, deliberate. He doesn’t let himself look too long at the way your dress rides up when you sit on his kitchen stool, or how your knees press together like you’re still wound tight from the evening. He just fills a glass and sets it in front of you.
It feels like waiting. Again.
Oscar leans against the counter, arms folded, watching the way condensation gathers on the glass you haven’t touched. The silence stretches, taut as fishing wire. He lets it spool out until it feels almost unbearable, then cuts it clean with a simple question. “So,” he starts, “how was it?”
You look up, startled, as if you hadn’t expected him to ask. Your lips part, gloss catching the light, before you settle into a shrug. “It was fine,” you say. “Dinner was nice. Lando picked a place by the port, really good seafood.”
“Sounds riveting.”
You shoot him a look, but there’s no heat in it. “He was funny,” you add, softer. “He made the waiter laugh more than me, which was kind of impressive. And he—he opened doors. Pulled out my chair.”
“Chivalry’s not dead,” Oscar murmurs. He watches the way you twist the edge of your napkin-creased jacket on your lap. “What else?”
You glance away, as if cataloguing the evening in your head. “We walked after. Down by the water. He told me about some race weekend stories. Stupid ones, mostly. Stuff he probably shouldn’t tell a first date, but…” You pause, a small smile flickering before it slips. “That was it.”
Oscar hums. He waits, patient, until the question itches out of him anyway. “Anything happen?”
The words hang there. He doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t need to.
Your expression shifts, frustration surfacing in the downturn of your mouth. You set the glass down harder than you meant to, water sloshing against the rim. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
There’s a furrow in Oscar’s brow now. “What do you mean?”
You draw in a breath, shaky. Your nails tap against the counter, a restless rhythm. “I don’t know. I thought it would feel different. Special, maybe,” you huff. “But it was just… dinner. Talking. Laughing. The whole time I kept waiting for something to click, and it didn’t.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He only watches you, the weight of your words settling heavy in the space between you, like the air before a storm. He stays very still, the kind of stillness that costs him effort. You’re watching the countertop when you finally come clean.
“It felt different when Lando… when he tried things.”
His chest tightens. “Different how?” The words come out flat, careful.
You shake your head quickly, defensive. “I don’t know. Just—different. Not the same.”
Oscar’s jaw works, a muscle twitching. He keeps his tone even. “You can be honest.”
“I am being honest,” you protest, but your voice is small. Your fingers knot in the hem of your dress like you’re afraid it might betray you.
He pushes off the counter, crossing the space between you in slow, measured steps. Close enough that he can see the flush creeping along your neck, the uneven rise and fall of your chest. Close enough to feel the static hum of your nerves.
“Tell me,” he says lowly. “What did he do?”
Your eyes dart up, wide, then away again. “He… he held my hand first. Brushed his thumb over my knuckles. It should’ve been sweet…” You trail off, frustrated, as if the words won’t line up.
Oscar reaches down, takes your hand gently in his, thumb dragging once over the ridge of your knuckles. Slow. Patient. He watches your breath stutter. “Like this?”
You nod faintly. “Yeah. But when you do it, it feels—different.”
Oscar doesn’t answer. He only watches you, expression cinched, while his thumb continues its quiet path across your skin. You inhale shakily, grazing your own forearm in a way that’s almost hesitant, “Then he… he touched my arm. Here.”
Oscar mirrors it immediately, his fingers gliding along the same stretch of your skin. He notes the way goosebumps rise under his touch, the way your shoulders stiffen and then loosen in the span of a breath.
“Like that?”
“Yeah,” you whimper. “It didn’t—it didn’t feel like this.”
“What else?”
You hesitate, cheeks heating. “He tried to put his hand on my thigh.”
Oscar’s eyes drop, briefly, before returning to your face. He waits for your permission, silent but present. When you give the smallest nod, he lowers his hand, resting it carefully over the fabric of your dress, just above your knee.
The room goes very quiet.
His palm is warm, grounding. His voice is barely above a whisper.
“Here?”
You release a breath that trembles.
“There. Exactly.”
Oscar doesn’t let himself react. Not yet. He only presses a fraction more firmly, thumb brushing once against the inside of your knee. “Keep talking,” he says softly. “Tell me everything you he did.”
You speak carefully, as if each word costs something. “After dinner, we… we walked back,” you stutter. “To his apartment.”
The words knock something loose in his chest. He tightens his grip without meaning to, fingers pressing harder into the fabric of your dress. He draws in a sharp breath through his nose, tries to even it out. “What happened there?” The question lands harsher than he intends, clipped at the edges.
Your eyes flick up to him, gauging. “Not much. He—he tried. He touched me again. Higher.” Your hand gestures vaguely toward your hip, uncertain.
Oscar’s jaw is set, but he obliges. His hand slides upward with a deliberate pace, heat trailing in its wake. It’s not smooth this time; his touch borders on rough, betrayed by the envy he’s choking on. You don’t flinch. If anything, your breath catches in a way that makes restraint harder.
“And?”
“He leaned in. His face—t’was close. His breath on my neck.”
Oscar closes the space without thought, lips brushing the line where your shoulder meets your throat. The contact is soft, but his breath is unsteady, his mouth lingering too long to pass as imitation alone.
“Did it feel good?” Oscar asks, even though he’s not sure if he wants to hear the answer.
You nod, barely. You sound frustrated when you repeat, “But it was different.”
The word scrapes him raw. Different. He keeps his mouth at your neck, lets the silence stretch, teeth grazing lightly in a moment he almost doesn’t control. His lips hover, ready to retreat.
“Did you kiss?” The question is strangled, not neutral this time.
You stammer, something shameful burning in the pause. “I… well—when he—Osc…”
Oh. There it is.
Oscar had every part of you except that. You’d let him use your mouth, let him eat you out and make you come more than thrice, but that’d been your line. No kissing. You’d been so adamant on saving that for Lando.
It’s enough to make Oscar pull back, breath drawn through his teeth, face shuttering. Hurt threads through the restraint, makes him shift as if to step away.
But your hands snap up, clutching at his shirt, holding him there. “Don’t.” Your voice trembles with urgency, raw enough to strip his defenses. “Don’t go, Osc. I—I’m sorry. I need you. Need you to make me feel good.”
Your grip moors him, the plea louder than the warning bells in his head. He stays where he is, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. He’s close enough to feel your heartbeat thrumming against his own, his own control threatening to crash and burn.
Oscar reads the frustration etched into your face. The tension in your jaw, the restless shift of your hands. He makes a choice.
Without a word, he guides you toward the couch. His grip is firm but careful, a silent insistence, and when you sink onto the cushions he urges you onto your back. The air between you tightens, charged with everything unsaid, every flicker of doubt folded into silence. “You want to feel good?” he exhales, resolving himself to this.
He leans over, lips brushing your skin in a scatter of deliberate touches. Your temple, your jaw, the line of your throat, the slope of your collarbone. Never your mouth. The discipline is calculated, punishing for him, but necessary. His voice weaves between the kisses, low and even, a steady counter to your anxious form.
“Breathe. I’ve got you,” he mumbles into your shoulder.
Each kiss is an anchor, each word a tether. You keen softly, the sound breaking like relief, as though his touch is holding you together where you might otherwise unravel. His hand settles over your chest, palm spreading warm against the swell of your breast. The weight steadies you, and the subtle pressure draws out a shudder. When his thumb ghosts across your nipple through the fabric, the sound you make trembles on the edge between sob and sigh.
“Easy,” he murmurs, though his own control feels stretched thin, fraying at the edges with every soft plea from you. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”
He trails lower, mapping a path with his mouth. A slow, devotional descent. Each press of his lips feels catalogued, a point of reverence along your body. Your dress rides higher under his hands, and your body arches, seeking the path of his mouth. By the time he reaches the band of your underwear, your breathing is ragged, your body taut as a bowstring.
Oscar pauses there, a deliberate hesitation, lips brushing the edge of the fabric. He inhales once, catching the warm scent of you, and then mouths over the thin cotton, tasting heat through the barrier.
Your hips jerk helplessly at the first press of his tongue, the fabric dampening under his insistence. He keeps his pace unhurried, deliberate, savoring each broken sound torn from your throat. There’s something obscene about this—Oscar, eating you out through your underwear. His nose bumps against your clothed clit and you end up gasping, the sound going straight to Oscar’s cock.
“P-please.” Your voice cracks on your words as you squirm. “Oscar, please. Take them, hng, off.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, searching, as if confirming that you mean it. When he sees nothing but your absolute wreck of an expression, he obliges without hesitation, sliding the fabric down your thighs, letting his fingers trace as he goes. He tosses it aside, then returns to where you need him without so much of a preamble.
When his mouth closes over you properly, the difference is devastating. His tongue works with a precision that borders on cruel, deliberate strokes, designed to unravel you piece by piece. He revels in the way you break apart almost instantly, body seizing around the edge of pleasure before he’s even slipped a single finger inside. The sound you make cuts through him, raw and pleading.
Maybe you’re all wound up. Maybe Oscar’s just that good. But you’ve barely gotten out your warning of “I’m c-close,—I’m coming!” before you’re finishing on his tongue, coating the lower half of his face with slick. Oscar hisses, hips jerking uselessly against the bottom of the couch as his cock blurts precum into his boxers.
Your cry vibrates against his skin, and he slows, intending to retreat, to give you air. But then your legs clamp tight around his head, pulling him closer with surprising strength. Your hand fists in his hair, tugging him down, your voice wrecked and demanding.
“Don’t stop,” you say, delirious and wretched. “More, please.”
Oscar exhales hard against you, the sound swallowed into your skin. “Greedy,” he grunts, his fingers curling into the cushions. “My greedy, greedy girl.”
Despite his taunt, he surrenders to your demand, his restraint dissolving under the urgency of it. His tongue moves deeper, firmer, coaxing new sounds from you, while one hand steadies your hip against the couch and the other slides lower, testing the threshold of your body.
He presses a finger inside at last, slow but inexorable, careful even as desire frays his patience. Your body clenches around him immediately, another tremor racing through you, sharper, stronger. “Fuck,” you whine. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuck.”
He feels the way you pull him deeper, the way your thighs shake against his shoulders, and knows—knows with absolute certainty—that you won’t let him leave you unfinished, won’t allow him distance or mercy until he’s given you everything you’re begging for.
And so he obeys, mouth and hand working in rhythm, every movement tuned to the breaking point of your need, every sound you make pulling him closer to the edge of his own restraint.
Oscar works you open, his fingers moving with careful deliberation, easing into your heat as if he has all the time in the world. He keeps his eyes fixed on your face as he sucks at your puffy clit, reading every flicker of response. Every now and then, he pulls away from your cunt to coax at you. “Relax,” he says. “Don’t think too hard.”
You clench around him, body betraying every ripple of sensation. When he adds a second finger, his pace remains unhurried, letting you stretch around the intrusion. His thumb brushes absently against your hip as if grounding you. Then, almost casually, his voice slips into something sharper.
“Did he get to touch you like this?”
The question makes you seize, walls fluttering around his fingers. Oscar notices instantly. His mouth curls faintly, a trace of humor at the corner of his restraint. “No?” he hums. “Thought so.”
You whimper, eyes squeezing shut. He gives you a reprieve, his tone softening, coaxing again. “Don’t hide. You’re fine, baby. You’re doing so well for me.”
Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, each motion caught between desperation and shyness. He resists the pull to lean up, to kiss you where your mouth waits. Instead, he lowers his head, mouth brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. His tongue drags slowly over the outline of your nipple, and he feels the shiver ripple through you.
“I remember you said you liked it here,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before catching the peak gently between his teeth through the cloth.
You arch beneath him, the sound you make breaking high. His fingers never stop, stroking deep and steady, dragging you toward the edge with a patience that borders on cruel. Every time you falter, his mouth presses reassurance into your chest, lips moving over you in silent comfort.
When you finally splinter apart again, the sound is half cry, half sob, your body convulsing around his hand. Oscar holds you through it, fingers working you down from the peak, his mouth still warm against the front of your dress. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull back. He stays exactly where you need him, watching you unravel, the taste of control sharp in his own mouth.
Eventually, Oscar eases his fingers from you slowly, careful not to startle the sensitivity still clinging to your body. He straightens, dragging in a breath, and shifts as though to stand. “I should get something. Clean you up,” he says, already calculating where he left the towels.
But you’re faster, desperate in the way your hand fists into his shirt and pushes him back down onto the couch. His body lands with a muted thud, surprise flashing across his face. it’s quickly replaced by something darker when he sees the look in your eyes.
“I don’t want that,” you say, voice ragged. “I want—let me… let me do something for you.”
Oscar opens his mouth to protest, but you’re already tugging at the hem of his shorts with clumsy urgency. The fabric resists, and you wrestle with it, your impatience almost endearing. He doesn’t help you. He only watches, lips quirking, chest rising with controlled breaths. Deadpan, he manages, “Careful. You’ll rip them.”
You glare up at him briefly, flushed and determined, before dragging the shorts down in a single tug. His thighs flex as the fabric gives way, and the moment his boxers are revealed there’s no hiding the strain of him, pressed against the thin cotton, already thick and demanding. There’s a wet spot where he’s been leaking since the moment he started touching you.
Oscar doesn’t flinch under your gaze, unembarrassed by his own arousal. If anything, there’s a flicker of satisfaction in the way your eyes widen slightly, the way your breath hitches.
“It’s not your first time seeing it,” he points out.
“I know,” you say, “but it’s still a fucking monster.”
God, you’re going to be the reason why Oscar’s ego swells. You sink to your knees before him, hands trembling. The sight coils heat low in his stomach. When you reach for him, tugging his boxers down just enough to free him, Oscar has to resist the urge to finish then and there.
For a second, he considers teasing again, a quip already at the tip of his tongue. But then your mouth closes over him, tentative and eager, and the air leaves his chest in one hard exhale. His head tips back against the couch, jaw slackening.
You’re clumsy, a little unsteady, but you remember what he showed you that first time. How to take him in slowly, how to hollow your cheeks, how to use your hand where your mouth can’t reach. The effort makes his stomach tighten, every shift of your tongue pulling another groan from his chest.
Oscar’s hand finds the back of your head, his touch featherlight. Not to force, only to guide. His voice, rougher now, doesn’t even sound like him. “Good. Just like that,” he praises. “You remember.”
His breath stutters when you hum around him, your inexperience outweighed by the urgency in every movement. He keeps his eyes half-shut, fighting the wave of pleasure threatening to undo his composure, clinging to the rhythm you’re building with every pull of your mouth.
Oscar lets his head fall back against the couch, thighs tight, breath staggered. You’re on your knees between them, clumsy but determined, your mouth stretched around him in a way that sends him perilously close to unraveling. He keeps his voice low, guiding, the same steady tone he used that first time.
“Yeah, that’s it. Hand at the base, keep the rhythm slow. Use your tongue—good. Just like that.”
You hum at the praise. He forces himself to keep speaking, because silence might ruin him faster. “You’re doing so well. ‘S exactly how I like it.”
But then the thought slithers in, uninvited: Lando.
Oscar should keep it buried, but his chest tightens, his jaw clenches, and before he can stop himself, the question bursts out in between restrained gasps. “Did you and Lando… did you get this far?”
You still instantly.
You pull back, lips swollen, breath uneven. Your eyes meet Oscar’s, and then they avert. Something dangerous sparks inside of Oscar’s chest. “Oscar,” you say, “I—I’m sorry—”
He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t need the details of how you were on your knees for another man mere hours ago. Oscar instead cups the back of your head and pushes himself back past your lips, shutting you up. The first thrust is shallow, cautious. He checks himself, checks you.
“You stop me if you need to,” he rasps. “Understand?”
You nod around him, eyes wide, obedient. Only then does he let go.
Oscar moves with care but without hesitation, hips rolling slow and deliberate, feeding himself into your mouth. The wet sounds of it fill the room, obscene and intimate. He watches your throat work, the tears at the edges of your lashes as you fight to keep up, the spit slicking your chin. Each time you gag, he withdraws slightly, only to guide you back down with a rougher groan.
His thoughts blur between what is and what isn’t. Between your mouth now, and the unbearable image of you on your knees for someone else. “Did you make those sounds for him?” Oscar hisses. “Did he know how desperate you get when you’re full?”
Your fingers claw at his thighs, head shaking in futile denial, but you don’t stop Oscar. You take it, all of it, until he feels your breath hitch in sync with his own. He knows he’s close. Too close.
He drags you off at the last second, jaw clenched. His hand fists over himself in rapid, desperate strokes. He comes hard across your dress, streaks of white catching on the fabric that only minutes ago had been pristine from your date.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his breath, ragged and uneven, and the sight of you below him. Knees on the floor, lips parted, dress ruined. His pulse thrums with jealousy, with relief, with something he refuses to name.
His mind clears, and he’s immediately mortified. “Shit,” he spits. “I’m sorry. God, I’m—”
Oscar’s working through his apology when you get to your feet. He blinks as if stunned, because instead of recoiling at the ruin of your dress, you tug at the straps and peel it off your body in one fluid motion.
The fabric lands in a heap at the floor, forgotten. He’d taken off your underwear earlier, and—Jesus Christ—you’re not wearing a bra. It means you’re left in nothing, naked in Oscar’s living room with his cum across your collarbone.
“Don’t apologize,” you say, your voice quick, almost breathless. “I don’t care about the dress. I just… I want this.”
You climb over him, straddling his lap, and the press of your bare skin against his leaves him winded. His cock twitches despite him having just finished, the line of him sliding against your folds as you start to move. The slick drag makes both of you shudder.
“I want this,” you murmur, grinding down harder, your voice fractured. “Hold me?”
His hands find your waist automatically, holding you steady as if you might slip through his grasp. The friction is unbearable, almost too much, and Oscar feels his eyes sting, vision blurring at the corners. It’s too close, too raw, and still he doesn’t let go.
“You feel… fuck, you feel good,” you gasp, burying your face against his throat. “This is what I needed.”
Your words lance through him sharper than the drag of your body. He tightens his grip, near desperate now, whispering into your hair as your rhythm falters into primal need. “Take what you need,” he says raggedly. “Take all of me.”
Oscar braces himself as you move over him, the steady grind of your hips unrelenting, intent. He can feel every shiver of heat dragging across him, every fractured breath you spill against his skin. It’s catastrophic in its simplicity. How you don’t ask for more, don’t demand what he can barely restrain from giving.
Instead, you work yourself against his lap until your body seizes again, breaking open on top of him.
He’s hard, painfully so, but he leaves it, neglects the throbbing insistence in favor of wrapping himself around you. His mouth finds your shoulders, the curve of your neck, his lips ghosting where words won’t reach. He breathes you in, steadying himself against the weight of your release. Your trembling ebbs, little by little, your breathing dragged back into rhythm as though he’s guiding you down from the height with each kiss he presses to your skin. His control feels thin, stretched, but it holds, because he’d rather let you come apart in his arms a thousand times than take a single step too far.
Eventually, you lift your head. Your faces are close, so close he can count the flecks in your eyes, the flush still blooming across your cheeks. The pause hangs sharp between you, a silence taut with everything he’s refused himself.
“Oscar,” you whisper, and he’s convinced his name has never sounded this good.
You lean in, decisive, breaking the line he’s held so stubbornly. Your mouth finds his, soft and insistent.
Oscar’s breath stutters, heart collapsing into the space you’ve crossed.
The kiss doesn’t end quickly. It stretches, deepens, becomes something unruly in its patience. Your mouths fit, pull, linger, testing how far the line bends now that it’s been broken. Oscar’s hands cradle your back, your jaw, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold every part of you. The air tastes of want and restraint, of everything he’s been trying to keep buried.
When you finally break for breath, your voice is small and uncertain. “Do you… want it to happen here?”
Oscar almost laughs, a dry sound caught between disbelief and need. “On my couch?” he says. “Not a chance. You’re not having your first time like that.”
Before you can protest, he’s already shifting, sitting up with you still wrapped around him. His arms tighten, lifting you with an ease that makes you breathe out a giggle. The movement is careful, deliberate, his control stitched into every step toward his bedroom.
He lays you down gently against the sheets. You’re sprawled there, bare, the trust in your eyes knocking the breath out of him more than your body ever could. He strips his shirt without ceremony, the fabric tugged over his head and discarded to the floor.
You reach for him instantly, tugging him down until his weight settles against you. Your mouth finds his again, hungry, pulling him deeper into the choice you’ve already made.
Oscar doesn’t give in to your urgency, not yet. You can feel the weight of him pressed against your thigh, the undeniable strain of his body saying he wants it as much as you do, but his hand moves first. His fingers slip between your legs, familiar now. The touch is enough to make you whimper, enough to make your plea stumble out again.
“Oscar,” you pout, “I want it now.”
He grins a bit. “And you’ll get it,” he laughs. “But not until you’re ready. I’m not ruining this for you by rushing.”
Two fingers slide in, slow, deliberate. You clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging lightly over skin, every inch of you fighting between relief and impatience. He keeps the pace unhurried, his voice steady against the tremor of your breath.
“Let me do this,” he says. “You’ll thank me for it.”
When he works a third finger into you, the stretch draws a gasp, your body tightening around him. He leans in, lips brushing your ear, tone quiet but merciless. “That’s it. Open up for me, baby. If you can’t take this, you can’t take me.”
You cling harder, muffling a moan against his throat. He takes the sound as surrender, his free hand guiding yours down to his cock.
“Touch me while I’m touching you,” he instructs. “Wrap your hand around me—there, good. I want to, ah, feel you while ‘m working you open.”
Your movements are hesitant at first, but his groan betrays how quickly you’re finding him. He praises you between breaths, the restraint in his tone fraying. “Good girl,” he grunts. “That’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
His fingers curl inside you at the same time you squeeze him in your hand, the rhythm pulling him closer to the edge of patience. Still he doesn’t let go of the pace, steady and sure, determined to shape you to him.
“I’m going to finish again,” you warn, voice shaking with pleasure and impatience.
Oscar laughs breathlessly. “Do you prefer I start edging you?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Oscar withdraws his hand abruptly, the sudden absence making your body clench around nothing. You start to protest, the sound caught in your throat, but then you see him reaching toward the nightstand. His intent is obvious, clinical—responsible in the way you always knew he would be. A condom. Of course.
Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist. His eyes flick to you, brows raised. You hesitate, then force the words past the heat rising in your chest.
“I… I want to feel all of it.” The admission is soft, halting. “I’m on the pill. I just—” Your voice falters, nervous under the weight of what you’re asking. “I want it like that.”
Oscar stills, every line of him taut. For a moment, he looks at you as if trying to read whether you understand the gravity of it. His throat works, but no objection comes. Instead, the hesitation breaks into something rawer, hungrier.
He surges forward, the restraint he’s clung to unraveling in one pull of his mouth against yours. His hands frame your face. When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, his voice is rough with certainty.
“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he grunts. “I’m the cleanest driver on the grid.”
Oscar holds himself above you, every muscle drawn tight, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on your face. Not on your body, though the sight of you spread beneath him is enough to undo him entirely, but on your expression. The subtle flickers of nerves and want, the way your lips part around a breath that doesn’t quite make it out.
The first push is only his tip, and already you’re thrashing under him, your hips jolting, your breath breaking apart in little gasps. He stops instantly, teeth gritted, forcing his own body into check. His voice comes out broken. “Breathe, baby,” he coaxes. “Let me in.”
“I’m trying,” you choke out.
Your legs tighten around him, a plea and a tether both, and he presses forward again, his chest brushing yours as if the closeness alone might ease you open. He whispers between kisses at your temple, your cheek. “You’re fine. You can take me. We’re gonna make you take me, yeah?”
Each inch feels impossible, a stretch that makes your nails dig crescents into his back. He winces, but it anchors him, sharp pain grounding him against the molten pull of your body. He eases in further, patient even as his control frays, every fraction of movement wrung out with care.
By the time he bottoms out, he’s trembling with the effort of holding still, your nails sunk deep into his skin. He presses his forehead to yours, swallowing hard against the rush of heat and relief, and murmurs, “There. You’ve got all of me now.”
Oscar stays still, every nerve alive, forcing himself into patience. Your body tightens, then loosens by degrees, your small sounds shifting from ragged gasps to something softer. He keeps whispering into the space between you, his voice low, coaxing. “Okay?”
For a moment, it feels endless, this suspended stillness. But then you nod, eyes opening to meet his. “I can take it,” you say shakily. “You can move.”
He exhales like it’s a prayer answered. The first motion is cautious, a shallow pull and press, barely any distance at all. He watches every twitch of your face, every flicker of response, adjusting to each of them as though you’re speaking without words. The restraint is brutal, but he clings to it, steady as he eases into a rhythm.
“How do you feel?” His voice is strained, though he tries for evenness.
Your arms are tight around him when you whisper back, almost breaking on the word. “Full.”
Something inside him gives at that, a low groan caught against your throat. He presses deeper, still careful, but there’s no hiding how the praise slips free of him now. “That’s what I wanted you to feel,” he pants. “You’re taking me so well. Hold on, okay?”
You cling tighter, nails biting into his skin, your body arching up to meet his slow thrusts. Every movement is tempered with care, yet each one builds, layering want against want against want. And through every shiver, every tremor, he stays with you, guiding you through the rhythm as though the only thing that matters is that you feel exactly how completely you belong here, wrapped around him.
Oscar keeps himself buried inside you, but the tension beneath his restraint is starting to fracture. He reads the nerves in you easily—the way your nails bite deeper into his shoulders with every whispered praise, the way your gaze flits between his face and the place where your bodies are joined.
He softens his voice, keeps it steady, but something slips through, unguarded. “Did you ever imagine Lando…?”
The name lands like a stone. Your body jerks, clenching tight around him, your voice breaking into a startled sound. “Don’t,” you start, but it’s too late.
The reaction shoots straight through Oscar, sharp as a blade. Jealousy floods him, sudden and unrelenting, and the careful pace he’s kept wavers. He drives into you harder, sharper, as though punishing the question, punishing the thought, punishing himself for even letting it out.
Your eyes widen, shame flickering there, but your lips part only to release a choked whimper. Oscar’s jaw locks. He knows you’re innocent—knows he has no claim over you, not yet—but the flare in his chest won’t quiet.
“You probably did,” he grits, but he doesn’t slow. If anything, his rhythm grows more pointed, his hips snapping with a certainty that shakes the frame of the bed. “But it’s, ah, me you’re in bed with right now, isn’t it? You let him sit there thinking he had a chance.”
He feels the shift in you before you even make a sound. The sharp edge of pain softens, melts into something that has you arching into him rather than shying away. Your muscles spasm around his cock, and the sensation drags a hiss from his throat. He’s watching your face, the tremor in your lip, the way your lashes tremble like you can’t decide whether to keep your eyes on him or shut out the weight of what you’re feeling. Every flicker of your expression is another pull at the tight wire of his restraint.
He doesn’t give you the chance to retreat. His words press harder than his body does, voice curling against your ear like a hand forcing you open. “Is this what you wanted from him? For him to fuck you like this?”
You shake your head, desperate, breath breaking as you whisper, “Don’t mention—please don’t—” The plea collapses into a moan, traitorous in how it curls upward, shivering with pleasure. The contradiction only fuels him. His chest tightens with the knowledge that you can’t control how your body answers for you.
“Why did you even go?” His voice is low, rough, each thrust punctuating the question, each movement heavier than the last. “Why let him put his hands on you when this—” He pulls nearly all the way out before sinking back in, groaning when you grip down on him. “—is what you needed?”
Your thighs quiver around his hips, caught between wanting to deny him and wanting more of what he’s doing to you. Your head tips back against the pillow, throat tight, a cry caught halfway between shame and want. You manage another broken, “Stop—” but it’s ruined when you keen at the very next stroke.
Oscar’s mouth twists into something almost like a smile, except there’s no humor in it, only disbelief at how much he wants you undone, how much he’s willing to press until you admit it. “You don’t want me to stop,” he hisses against your jaw, his teeth grazing lightly before he pulls back enough to see your expression. “You’re clenching around me just from hearing his name. Fucking pathetic.”
The words make you shudder, your voice faltering, caught between begging him not to speak and begging him not to stop. Tears catch at the corners of your eyes as you writhe beneath him, pulled taut between shame and unbearable want. Your nails leave crescents on his back, dragging against the sweaty heat of his skin, your body betraying every protest your mouth tries to form.
His jealousy distills into possession, every thrust stamped with claim. “You feel that?” His hand slides higher up your thigh, gripping hard to pull you open wider for him. His voice carries both accusation and hunger. “This is mine. Not Lando’s. Not anyone’s. Just mine.”
You writhe, nails dragging red crescents into his back, and he swears you’re holding onto him like the words themselves tether you in place. Your head tips back, throat bared, and the sounds you make tumble out helpless, unrestrained. Each noise cuts through him, proof that the truth is already written into your body.
“Tell me,” he pushes, eyes narrowing as he watches every shift in your expression. “Tell me this is what you want.”
“Yes—” The word bursts out of you like air from underwater. “It’s you, Osc. Only you.”
The admission strikes him deeper than he expects. His chest feels tight, almost painful, but the drive in him doesn’t falter. He leans down, fucking you with a rhythm that borders on desperate. His breath comes ragged, his words breaking between thrusts. “Good. I’m going to make sure you don’t forget that.”
You’re shaking now, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing holding you together. Oscar watches you unravel beneath him, every gasp and tremor etching itself into him like proof. His jealousy burns into reverence, frustration transmuting into a kind of worship he can’t disguise. He moves with a force that feels inevitable, each stroke declaring what he can’t stop repeating in his head—you’re his, his, his.
The sound of your moans mixes with his labored breathing, the room thick with the truth neither of you can take back. Oscar, locked on your face, feels the words steady inside him as certain as the rhythm of his body: this is where you belong, and he’ll carve that into you until there’s no space left for doubt.
Oscar feels the rush building, heavy and urgent, the rhythm of your body pulling him closer with every clench, every tremor that runs through you. His jaw locks as he watches you, the way your chest heaves, the way your thighs tremble, the way you give yourself over despite the fracture of your voice. He buries himself once more, feels the fluttering heat of you clamp around him, and it nearly breaks his control.
With a groan, he drags himself out at the last second, fist tight around his throbbing cock as he spills hot over the trembling swell of your cunt. The sight of it—your body marked, flushed, spasming for him—makes his chest cave with something tighter than relief, something dangerous in its pull. His stomach knots, heat spreading in waves as he drags his release across your skin, unable to look away.
His breath comes ragged, his hand steadying against your thigh as though he’s holding himself up. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his temple, his eyes locked on you even as he fights to catch air. He’s still watching you, as though the mess he’s made of you isn’t the end but only the beginning of something he can’t stop wanting, can’t stop chasing.
Oscar doesn’t catch it at first. Your voice is thin, words running over themselves, half-formed and tumbling out too quickly. It’s only when your hand presses against his chest like you’re holding him back from some invisible blame that he realizes—you’re apologizing.
The sound of it is almost frantic, defensive. “It was good,” you’re saying, “so, so good. I don’t know why—why I didn’t—”
For a moment, he just stares at you. And then he laughs, low in his chest, the sound warm and unbelieving. He leans down until his breath touches your cheek, where he plants a chaste kiss. “You think that matters?” he says, affectionate even now. “You think that changes what this is?”
“I didn’t—” you start, voice cracking. “I thought I was supposed to. I don’t want you to think I can’t—”
He kisses you before you spiral further, steady, grounding, as if he can bring you back into yourself. When he pulls away just far enough to speak, his voice carries that clipped, dry calm he uses when he’s stating the obvious. “Not everybody finishes from penetrative sex. Doesn’t mean you won’t. Doesn’t mean I’m leaving you like this.”
“But it was good,” you insist, almost pleading, your eyes wide on his. “I swear it was. I don’t want you to think you didn’t—”
“I know it was,” he cuts in softly, thumb brushing your jaw. “I could feel you. I know.”
Your confusion flickers in your eyes, brows drawing, lips parting like you’re about to question him. He doesn’t let you.
His hand slides lower, steady and practiced, and then you gasp when his fingers press into the swollen heat of your clit. You jolt under him, body clenching again, impossibly sensitive. “Oh my God. Oscar.” The words spill out helpless, half a whimper, half a plea.
He’s using what he left on you, slick and messy, his touch circling slow until you’re trembling. He spreads his cum over your clit, using it as lubrication. “You don’t have to—” you try to protest again, but your voice breaks into a moan, betraying you. “Oh, that—d-don’t stop, please—”
Oscar covers your mouth with his, kissing the sound away, swallowing every broken noise like he’s collecting proof. He doesn’t waste time. He already knows where to go, what to touch, how to have you spiraling under him, and he gives it to you.
His hand cups your breast, thumb teasing over your nipple until it pebbles; the way you arch into his palm makes heat flare sharp in his chest. He bends his head, mouth closing over the soft swell of you, sucking your nipple between his teeth just to hear the strangled gasp you give. Every sound you make feels like it brands him, burns straight through to the core. Your fingers claw against his shoulders, needy, almost frantic, and it only spurs him on.
His other hand works between your thighs, sliding through the mess there with slow, unhurried strokes, each one sinking deeper, curling until your back bows. The glide is obscene, slick with his cum and yours together, the sound wet and shameless. His cock twitches against your thigh, leaving streaks of warmth, and he grinds it there deliberately. Just so you feel every throb of him, just so you know what you’re doing to him.
“Look at that,” he mutters, voice rough, caught between reverence and taunt. “Taking me back in. You’re so selfish, aren’t you? Can’t get enough of me, even now.”
He presses deeper, fingers curling hard, knuckles dragging against your walls until your whole body trembles around him. His cock smears more of himself over your skin, leaking hot against you. “That’s it—suck my fingers in, take it all,” he pants. “You like that, don’t you? Me pushing my cum inside of you.”
You moan something that could be his name, cracked and broken, your thighs trembling around his wrist. The sound pulls a low laugh from him, muffled against your breast where he leaves another sharp bite. “Let’s use our words, baby. Do you like the way I fill you up? Do you like it when I use you?”
Your voice stumbles over itself, wrecked, words tumbling free without shape until finally, you choke out, “Please—yes, I love it, I love it—”
The admission guts him. His cock throbs helplessly, smearing precum down your thigh in messy streaks as his fingers drive harder, deeper, fucking his cum inside you. He can feel how soaked you are, how your body can’t decide whether to cling tighter or push for more. His mouth roves hungrily across your skin—breast, collarbone, throat—kissing, biting, soothing as though he can’t bear to leave any part of you untouched.
“That’s it,” he rasps, need fraying his voice. “So fucking tight on my fingers. Drenched for me. You’re going to come all over me, aren’t you? Going to fall apart—the way Lando couldn’t get you to.”
The pressure builds quick, relentless, your body clutching at his hand as though terrified of losing it. You’re babbling again, high and frantic, words dissolving into cries that he swallows with desperate kisses. His thumb circles your clit, merciless, coaxing the tension until it breaks sharp and overwhelming.
Your body locks hard around his fingers, pulsing, dragging every spasm out of yourself against the unyielding curl of him. The sound you make is ragged, shivering straight into his mouth as your nails rake down his back, carving him open.
He keeps working you through it, dragging you over the edge until the last tremor leaves your thighs quaking, your body limp beneath him. When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, your face is flushed, damp with sweat, lips parted and wet from his kisses. His fingers are still inside you, glistening, holding the mess of both of you there as though he doesn’t want to let go. His cock presses hot and swollen against your thigh, twitching with every shallow breath he takes, but he doesn’t push it further. Not yet.
Later, steam fogs the small bathroom, curling around Oscar as he steadies you under the warm spray. His hands are careful, washing away every trace with a gentleness that surprises even him. You sway, drowsy on your feet, so he holds you closer, lips brushing your temple. He rinses you slowly, as though there’s all the time in the world, as though this moment deserves to stretch itself out and live in memory.
He doesn’t let you lift a finger after. He steers you to the kitchen, pressing snacks into your hands before you can protest, watching with satisfaction as you eat what you can. There’s a stubborn part of you that insists you’re fine, that you don’t need this much fuss. “It was just sex,” you huff, cheeks tinged with pink. “It’s not like I’m sick or anything.”
He only shakes his head, that small, flat smirk pulling at his mouth. “Humor me.”
When he’s finally satisfied, he shepherds you into his bed, piling blankets over you until you’re swaddled in them. You laugh at the absurdity, muffled under the layers, but he only tucks the edges tighter, leaning down to kiss your cheek.
“This is ridiculous,” you protest.
“Not ridiculous,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s necessary.”
You end up face-to-face, eyes soft and heavy-lidded. The air hums with something softer now, the tension dissolved into intimacy. His fingers trace idle shapes against your arm, a rhythm meant to soothe. You search his expression, trying to pin down what comes next, but he beats you to it.
“We don’t have to know right now,” he says, voice low, steady. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. Whatever this is.”
There’s nothing left in you to argue.
Warm, fed, and cocooned in him, you let your eyelids drift down.
Just before sleep pulls you under, you murmur drowsily, “You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”
He only smiles, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He’s not even sure if you’re awake to hear his response.
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
word count: 35.3k
warnings: cursing and alcohol use
includes: childhood friends to lovers, heavy angst, pining, soulmate!au if you squint, groveling!oscar, journalist!reader, and down bad oscar
summary: when oscar and you reunite after a decade of being apart things are different. yet there’s parts of both of you that cling on to the past and a connection that neither of you can deny that makes things in the present even more difficult. everything in you tells you to not let oscar back in, but all he wants is to have is his other half back. can a bond that was once broken ever be mended? you don't think so, but oscar is determined to prove you wrong.
a/n: hi!! i'm back!! so i started writing this in april and it took me the whole season to finish it...per usual lol. anyways this is my lonest fic i've ever written! so grab a snack and get comfy because this is wild ride. i hope you all enjoy and as always please let me know what you think! comments, reblogs, and asks mean the world to us writers! <3
masterlist
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sometimes there are people that enter your life and you think there’s not a chance that you won’t have them forever. That there isn’t a thing in this world that could separate the two of you, but the universe has its plans set in place the minute that person enters your orbit and there isn’t a thing you can do about it.
Some people you do have in your life forever– while others you only have for a set period of time. And sometimes if you’re lucky the people who leave you come back eventually. The world works in mysterious ways and people drift apart, chapters close and new ones begin. It’s life.
Although you never thought Oscar Piastri would just be a chapter in your life.
Oscar and you had known each other since you two were in diapers. The Piastris were your next door neighbors and your parents had become great friends with them before either of you were in the picture. When both of your Mums fell pregnant around the same time they were ecstatic, the thought of their little bundles of joy having a friend just next door was a match made in heaven. Oscar and you ended up being just around four months apart in age and you never let Oscar forget that you were the older one.
From learning to walk and talk, learning your ABC’s, the arrival of siblings, birthdays, first days of school. If there was something that was to be remembered or commemorated– Oscar and you were side by side for all of it.
There wasn’t anyone you were closer with in the world than Oscar.
Your sister and Oscar’s sisters came a close second, but at the end of the day Oscar and you were each other’s person.
When Oscar started to race RC cars you helped him build a makeshift track in his backyard and when he made the move to actual karting– well it was a surprise to no one. He’d always been a little nerd about cars as a child and somehow had wrangled you into finding an appreciation for it at least. Your younger sister and Oscar’s sisters happily didn’t show as much interest.
The smell of exhaust and the sound of go-kart engines had become things you found comfort in when you were younger. Weekends spent with the Piastri’s at whatever race Oscar had entered into were some of your favorite memories as a child. From the ages of 10 to 14 there wasn’t a summer that wasn’t filled with racing. The unforgiving Australian sun would beat down on the track and you’d still sit there, sunkissed and supportive, your eyes glued to Oscar’s kart the whole time.
As the two of you got older and Oscar really started to take racing seriously your support never wavered, if anything it got stronger. You could tell even from a young age that Oscar Piastri was going to be somebody. And every March when the roar of the Formula 1 cars echoed through what was practically your backyard and you two sat in the grandstands you both knew that someday Oscar would be in one of those twenty cars that flew through Albert Park.
You just didn’t think for him to get there– that it would take him away from you.
The technicalities and culture of single seater racing was something you had no knowledge of. All you knew was that you loved to watch Oscar race, and loved to watch racing in general. So why should you at age fourteen know that racing in Europe would open so many new doors for Oscar and that it was inevitable that he move there to further his career.
Even as a young child Oscar had been attuned to other people’s emotions. He was the calm in most chaos and could read the ones closest to him like a book. Which makes his decision to not tell you about him leaving until the night before the dumbest idea he’s ever had. He should have known how you would react and maybe this dumb decision was also a form of self preservation.
If he didn’t tell you then maybe him leaving wouldn’t be real and if he didn’t tell you till the last minute then none of your shared memories towards the end would be tainted with the dark cloud that is your other half moving across the country. In the end no matter how mature Oscar was for his age– he was still a fourteen year old boy trying to figure out how to tell his favorite person that he was moving 10,000 miles away and that he didn’t know when he would be back.
The old swingset creaked beneath him as his feet lazily dragged through the grass. The sun was beginning to set over the coast and the slight chill in the air let him know that summer was coming to it’s end, just like his life here. He’d texted you to come over ten minutes ago and with each passing minute he was that much closer to not even telling you about him leaving. He can already imagine the look on your face when he tells you and it makes his stomach churn.
He hears the back gate open and then latch as it swings back closed. Your footsteps shouldn’t be making any sound against the plush grass, yet to Oscar it sounds like you're stomping with the force of an elephant as you make your way towards him. His grip on the metal chains were so tight that his knuckles had turned white and when he hears you sit in the empty swing next to him he thinks his heart is going to pound out of his chest.
“Sorry, I had to help Mum with the dishes before I came over.” You’re met with silence and a blank faced Oscar, who isn’t even looking at you. You lean forward slightly in the swing to get a good look at his face and he won’t even make eye contact with you. “What’s wrong?”
Your mind starts going through endless possibilities, it wasn’t like Oscar to not say anything to you and now you feel guilty for not getting here sooner– he clearly has something going on. Did a grandparent die? The family pet? Does he have a terminal illness?
“Oscar what’s going on?” You pry again.
“I’m going to England.” He blurts it out so fast you can barely understand him, but Oscar figured it was like ripping off a bandaid– get it over as quickly as possible.
“What did you say?”
“I said I’m going to England.” He still won’t look at you and he knows it’s cowardly, but he can’t help it.
You give him a strange look, why is he acting so weird about a trip to England? It’s just a vacation before school starts back up– at least that’s what you think he’s implying at first.
“Ok– how long are you guys going to be gone? Do we need to watch Rosie?”
He finally works up the nerve to face you and you can’t believe he seems to be in this much agony over going to England on vacation. Little do you know that in a few seconds you’re going to wish all that was happening was a vacation.
“You guys won’t need to watch Rosie because I’m the only one going to England.” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and before you can ask a follow up question he goes and rips your heart out. “Y/N– I’m moving to England.”
Your brain can’t seem to process the information and your mouth tries to form words, but all you can focus on is the word moving. Not visiting or going on a holiday– but moving. As in leaving Melbourne and making a new home someplace without you right next door.
He starts to ramble on about how it’s crucial for his racing career and that if he stays in Australia he won’t move up through the feeder series like he needs to. It’s all background noise as you try to come to terms with the fact that your best friend– your other half practically is moving half way across the world. “Dad’s going to stay with me for a couple months until I get settled, but I’ll be back for the summer and Christmas and maybe some other school bre-”
“When are you leaving?”
Oscar pauses for a moment, knowing this is what is really going to hurt you and he hates that he waited so long to tell you. “First thing in the morning.”
You feel your stomach drop and a ringing start in your ears. Not only was he leaving, but he was leaving without giving you any warning. Oscar had given you no time to savor your last moments together– instead he’s tainted them. The two of you lock eyes and you hate how he’s looking at you– like you’re some dog that’s on its last leg and getting ready to be loaded into the car to go get put down. The realization hurts and the lump in your throat only seems to be getting bigger as you really come to terms with the fact that everything is going to change between you two now. He’ll have a new life and you’ll become that girl he grew up with. A memory, pages in a scrapbook, a chapter in his life.
You’re pissed and upset, but Oscar Piastri is not going to get any tears out of you this evening. You’ll wait until you’re back in your room, with your One Direction pillow case to cry into and a Mum who will ask what’s wrong.
“Why’d you wait until now to tell me?”
Oscar shrugs, a lump as equally as big had formed in his throat as he watched you silently process the bomb that he’d dropped. He hated that he had to leave home– leave you, but he loved racing and he wanted to do what was necessary to make his dreams come true. “I thought that maybe if I didn’t tell you our last couple days together wouldn’t be ruined by knowing that I was leaving. I just wanted things to be normal.”
“Well things are never going to be normal again Oscar.” You counter.
And he knows that, but he doesn’t want to admit it. So he chooses to say nothing, instead he just stares back at you, memorizing every detail of your face, down to the last freckle.
On the other hand at age fourteen you feel like a lot of things are the end of the world, but god if this didn’t feel like it to you. You were so mad at him for keeping this from you and you want to be a brat and ice him out, but it’s Oscar.
Your Oscar.
So you hold it all in and try to enjoy what little time you have left with him. “You’re gonna hate England. It rains all the time.”
Oscar smirks a little at your comment, he thinks that maybe this won’t absolutely destroy the both of you. “It rains all the time here too.”
“Yeah, but it’s cloudy and grey there.”
“Then I’ll fit right in.” He’s referring to how he never tans, not even in the Australian sun and when he sees you smile a little the lump in his throat starts to shrink.
He promises to Facetime and text, anything to keep in contact and says that any chance he can get to come home and visit he will and you tell him not to forget about you when he gets his Formula 1 seat. It’s all a formality– the things you say to the other person when they announce their departure from your life.
Eventually the stars make their way into the night sky and Oscar knows he has to be up early for his flight in the morning, but he wants to soak up every last minute with you that he can. “I’m leaving at seven in the morning if you want to come over and say goodbye before I leave.” Oscar states as the two of you stand by the back gate, trying to stay out for as long as possible.
“Yeah I’ll be over.” You state before letting the gate close behind you.
“Goodnight.” Oscar says as the two of you stand separated by the fence.
“Night Osc.” Your voice is soft and gentle and Oscar knows you’re acting like this isn’t killing you, mainly because he’s trying to act like it isn’t killing him either.
He watches you as you cross over into your yard all the way until he sees you disappear through your backdoor. He stands there for a second, trying to capture this moment in his mind. This is one of the last times he’s going to see you for who knows how long and he doesn’t want to forget it.
That night you cry into your Mother’s arms while Oscar packs and repacks his suitcase until he can’t think straight.
Morning arrives in the blink of an eye and before the sun can even make her grand arrival in the morning sky Oscar’s parents are loading up the car with luggage. He’s stalling–his eyes constantly shooting over towards your front door, hoping that any second you’d walk out that door and come give him a hug goodbye. But you don’t come over and Oscar almost misses his flight waiting for you. He starts to go over and knock on your door, but his Mother stops him dead in his tracks. “Let her have her space honey. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”
There’s no hugs or goodbyes exchanged. No texts or calls. Just Oscar standing there facing your house with his suitcase, hoping, praying that you would come out and at least say bye. Time runs out and he ends up watching your houses fade away into the distance from the backseat of the car.
This was the official start of a new chapter in his life and as his Dad turns onto another street and he can no longer see your house or even his own he knows this is the end and beginning. He’s leaving behind his family, his childhood memories, everything he’s ever known to chase his dream.
But most importantly he’s leaving you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar has always been able to adapt to things quickly in life. There was no tantrum thrown when each of his sisters arrived. There was no first day of school meltdown picture to be found. He took to karting like a fish takes to water. And so Oscar really thought that this move to England would be a piece of cake– but he was dead wrong.
He missed home.
He missed you.
England was depressing and not even the prospect of racing could cheer him up, not until you finally reached out to him. Which was a week later.
Oscar swore the sun had never shone so bright in England as it did the day your name popped up on his phone. It was a simple text– how’s England? But Oscar treasured it like it was the winning lottery numbers.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into your old habits and sometimes it was like you both were just right next door and not across the globe. As the weeks turned into months Oscar slowly started to feel more at ease. Racing and school took up the majority of his time and when he got the chance the two of you would talk, but that would soon come to an end.
His first year away Oscar came home for what seemed like every school break and it was great to be able to see him and you two spent as much time together as you could. It was Oscar and you– just like old times. But even with things seeming like old times, there was still that looming cloud hovering above you, knowing that Oscar would eventually leave again.
Then as those months turned into years, life and the distance between the two of you started to take its natural course. The calls stopped, texts were either unanswered or boiled down to birthdays and holidays, flights home weren’t booked. Oscar was making a life for himself and he’d clearly settled into the English boarding school lifestyle all while pursuing his racing dreams. You on the other hand were also living your life, just 10,000 miles away. You were passionate about your education and had made new friends that as far as you know weren’t going to move across the globe.
To say you still didn’t keep tabs on Oscar as the years passed was a straight up lie. Social media and Oscar’s sister Hattie kept you in the loop even without the communication from Oscar, maybe it was a little sad, but you don’t just get rid of that connection you have with someone overnight– or in your case years.
So when Hattie lets it slip one night that Oscar is bringing home his girlfriend for Christmas in a couple weeks you aren’t the least bit surprised. Oscar may not have been the best social media user, but his private instagram showed a whole different side of him. You’d started to notice the same girl that seemed to be in all his group photos with friends at parties and then eventually they’d be next to each other in group photos, looking more than friendly.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that seventeen year old Oscar had bagged himself his first girlfriend. Her name was Lucy and she was gorgeous and clearly had a brain on her. You may have done some digging on her one night when you were feeling a little depressed, which was a bad idea in general. You hadn’t spoken an actual word to Oscar in lord knows how long and yet you felt this possessive wave wash over you and you hated yourself for being like that. Oscar had his new life and you had yours, yet at times you still felt like you were still fourteen when it came to anything pertaining to Oscar.
You smile at Hattie, plastering on fake enthusiasm towards the fact that Oscar was coming home, but only to show off his new girlfriend. Not to come see you, because god forbid he come see you. The resentment and abandonment issues you’d harbored against Oscar had truly come to light in recent days– since the announcement of his trip home with his girlfriend in tow. It wasn’t fair to his girlfriend and in all honesty it wasn’t fair to Oscar, communication is a two way street and you had stopped reaching out too. There were clearly some deeper feelings that were arising over this, ones you wouldn’t come to realize until years later.
Your Mum is the second person to mention Oscar’s big trip home to you and you once again plaster a fake smile on your face and tell her that you can’t wait to see him- fully knowing that you’ll find an excuse to miss the already planned joint family dinner. In another universe it would be like old times on Christmas, but this is the same universe that ripped your person from you, so the flu would be making an appearance this Christmas alongside Oscar’s girlfriend.
Christmas arrives and so does this stomach bug that you can’t seem to shake. Of course you don’t want to risk getting everyone else sick, so Christmas Eve night is spent alone, in your room. You’re grateful that your Mum doesn’t push you to suck it up and just go. You know deep down she knows you aren’t really sick and the real reason as to why you aren’t going, even though you won’t admit it to yourself either. Cult classic Christmas movies play continuously as you stuff your face with the extra sugar cookies your Mum didn’t take next door. It’s about as depressing as you can get on Christmas Eve, spending it alone out of spite, but you're seventeen and there wasn’t any other logical solution than to play fake sick.
The opening title to Elf starts to play on the TV when your phone dings, the text notification lighting up your phone. You glance at it, not really bothered to reply to whoever is trying to reach you, but the name that illuminates across the screen makes you do a double take. Your hand whips out from under the blanket and grabs your phone.
oscar: you’re missing out on your mum’s sugar cookies. the candy cane one still looks like a penis even after all these years.
Your heart is pounding out of your chest as you read the text over and over, making sure you’re not hallucinating. How dare he just text you out of the blue like that? Text like you two haven’t gone almost two years without speaking regularly. It’s annoying and you hate how much it affects you. How you can’t seem to get your emotions in check when the mere mention of him is brought up.
you: eat an extra one for me. i’ll be puking my guts up if i try and eat one of those tonight.
You take a deep breath and press send, reaching for one of the cookies to occupy you while you wait for the inevitable no reply. He’s probably laughing it up with his girlfriend over your Mum’s horribly shaped, but delicious, cookies. It should be you over there, yet here you are being pathetic and hiding.
oscar: feel better soon.
you: thanks.
You toss your phone back onto your bed, before wiping the excess cookie crumbs from your shirt.
What a shitty Christmas.
Your Mum and Hattie don’t really mention how Oscar’s visit went or how you somehow avoided him like the plague the whole time he was home, considering you live next to each other, and for that you are thankful. When he leaves back for England a few short days later you pretend not to care that it coincides with your birthday. Not that you would be up for celebrating with him if he even offered, but the fact that he didn’t even send a birthday text after texting you out of the blue on Christmas Eve has you wondering if he knew you weren’t sick.
Oscar always could see through your bullshit when you two were younger and you knew he knew that you wouldn’t miss Christmas Eve even if you had the bubonic plague. It was your favorite time of year and he never let you live down the year you had been so sick that you’d practically lost your voice, but still insisted on singing Last Christmas with your froggy voice– thus the Kermit nickname that stuck with you for a year was born.
There wasn’t anyone that you knew everything and nothing about at the same time like Oscar Piastri. To you he’ll always be fourteen and you think that’s why you’ve had such a hard time with this adjustment of him not being in your life even years later. Because to you– the Oscar that you know– wouldn’t have forgotten about you, but the sad part is that is the Oscar you know. The seventeen year old Oscar has every part of fourteen year old Oscar in him and when you finally accepted that and let go of what you once knew life seemed to get easier or you were just getting older. Either way you weren’t going to miss another Christmas because you didn’t want to face the boy who ripped out a piece of yourself and took it with him to England.
The following spring Oscar doesn’t come home for your graduation from high school or even send you a congratulations text and that summer when he comes home to celebrate his graduation you’ve already moved out.
The best decision you ever made was to move out as soon as you could. As much as you loved the Piastri’s, being next to them was a constant reminder of Oscar and once you started University you really wanted a fresh start. You wanted to start this new chapter in your life Oscar free. You’d spent all of your teenage years trying to adjust to not having the person in your life that you thought would be there forever.
It was an adjustment being away from home, but god did you thrive once you got settled. This was the place you were going to become you– to make your mark on the world and plan for the future. You just didn’t think that future would somehow involve you being at the 2025 Australian Grand Prix.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You’d graduated from your University at the top of your class with a degree in journalism and you’d landed a job at one of the top establishments in Melbourne not too long after graduating. You were passionate about journalism and wanted to cover the world’s historical events. The things you see in LIFE magazine or The New York Times. Never in your life did you think you’d be sent to cover the events of the freaking Australian Grand Prix.
When the email came across your laptop first thing in the morning you thought it had been sent to the wrong person and you replied to your boss with a– was this meant to go to me? Only to be met with– Yes. I heard through the grapevine you have connections to the Piastri’s. Give me a one on one with Oscar and coverage of the weekend and we’ll talk about that promotion
You read the reply from your boss about a hundred times before realizing this was real life and not a hallucination. You wanted to die. This felt like a punishment and you were drawing a blank on what you did to deserve it. At this point in your grown life Oscar wasn’t even an afterthought. You were twenty-four years old. You hadn’t thought about him in the way you used to since before you started University. Yet, it makes your stomach twist a little at the thought of seeing him again all these years later.
Of course his face was plastered all over the city the past couple years when Grand Prix time came around, but you’d grown to see his face as some random model that you see in every store advert. Not the boy you once knew everything about. That Christmas Eve six years ago was the last time you had any communication with Oscar and now you’re going to have to show up at his work and act like you were just any other journalist.
Life really was a bitch sometimes, but you were a grown woman and god dammit if you weren’t going to suck it up and get that promotion. You didn’t go through four years of schooling and horrible internships to lose a promotion because of Oscar Piastri.
Your Mum was the one to break the news to you about Oscar finally getting a seat in Formula 1. It was text on a random Tuesday afternoon and you remember feeling genuine happiness for him in the moment. It was something he’d wanted since he was a kid and to see him accomplish his dreams no matter how you felt about him or how you two had fallen out didn’t matter at that point in time. Because all you saw was the two of you as children and weekends spent watching Oscar karting, the yearly paddock adventures during the Grand Prix weekend. It’s bittersweet because you thought you’d be there beside him when he got to that moment in his life, but for him to get there he had to lose you.
For a brief second you think about texting him and congratulating him, but you talk yourself out of, hell you didn’t even know if he still had the same number all these years later. You like his iconic tweet involving Alpine, lost in the thousands of other interactions, and leave it at that.
The week leading up to the race weekend you theorize how this is going to happen, every possible outcome and by Wednesday you think you might start balding from how stressed you’ve made yourself, but you weren’t going to back out at the last minute. You were going to walk into that paddock tomorrow morning with your head held high and give the best damn coverage of the weekend and interview with Oscar that the world has ever seen.
Well that was the plan.
You’d made it to Albert Park without a hitch and triple checked that you had everything you could possibly need before you left your apartment. You made your way to the paddock entrance, trying to blend in as much as possible. That is– until your pass won’t scan. You try holding it at every angle against the scanner and the pillar consistently lights up red, you even go as far as trying a different entry lane and you’re still met with the glaringly red denial of entry. You feel like all eyes are on you and you’re sure everyone thinks you're some freak that’s got a bogus pass and is trying to sneak into the paddock, but your pass couldn’t be more legit.
There’s hundreds of cameras waiting at the entrance to get the first pics of the drivers entering the paddock for the first time this weekend and you’re praying that Oscar doesn’t show up during all of this. A worker starts to come over after watching you struggle for what seemed like forever, but before they can even speak a British accent sounds off behind you and then a burst of McLaren orange shows up in your peripheral vision. You panic for a minute thinking it’s Oscar, but then you realize he’s not British and that it’s his teammate Lando.
He puts his pass up to the scanner and is met with the same fate as you. “Oh my god how have they not fixed these. Start of the new season and it’s not working, once again.” The two of you make eye contact briefly and he notices you’ve been dealt the same cards. “Yours not working either?” He asks, completely ignoring the entourage he has surrounding him trying to get his pass to scan for him and the worker quickly coming to his aide, unlike you who had to wait. You shake your head no at him and try your pass one last time for good measure– no entry once again. “I’m just squeezing past the turnstile. I’d do the same if I were you.”
You watch as the curly haired driver squeezes his way between the metal turnstile and the wall before immediately being swarmed by fans who don’t know what personal space is and photographers trying to get the perfect shot. You decide the chaos of Lando arriving is the perfect opportunity for you to sneak in and so you squeeze through, not as easily as him though, who seemed to have the waist of a Victoria Secret model. You weren’t going to waste anymore time, figuring that if Lando was here then Oscar surely wasn’t far behind.
As you walk through the paddock memories of the last time you were here flash in your mind. A lot had changed since then– in your life and in the paddock. You didn’t think back then that this is how your life would have turned out. Sure you figured Oscar would be here, but you didn’t think you’d be here under these circumstances or that Oscar and you weren’t glued at the hip anymore.
The hustle and bustle of everything starts to get overwhelming and the idea of seeing Oscar again after so long is actually starting to become a reality. The nerves were settling in and you could feel your stomach twisting the closer you got to the media area. There aren’t many other reporters and media personnel when you enter the room so you seize the opportunity to lay claim to the seat in the last row, practically tucked into the back corner by the plastic fern.
Oscar was supposed to be in the second set of drivers that had to do the press conference today and you were praying you could hide back here with this fake plant and that he wouldn’t spot you. There’s only five rows of seats and they aren’t very long rows, so chances are he’ll spot you, but hell he probably doesn’t even know what you look like now. So what did you really have to worry about?
The first round of drivers goes by without a hitch and you actually get some good material for your weekend coverage. You’re also proud of yourself for using the lull between panels to get a head start on your work instead of spiraling over seeing Oscar. That is until the doors open and the new set of drivers trickle into the building.
Your eyes are glued to each driver as they walk in and make the short journey to the couches at the front of the room. Kimi, Charles, Max– they all filter in one after the other and you're left waiting for the final person to make their grand entrance. The creaking of the door opening makes your eyes dart over and when the hint of the McLaren team kit peaks through the door frame you feel your heart rate sky rocket.
The moment your eyes lock onto Oscar you think you might have blacked out for a brief second. He’d changed so much since the last time you actually saw him in person. He was a grown man now. Pictures and videos online didn’t do him justice. He had gotten so big. He had the broadest shoulders, the fabric of his shirt straining against the buff muscles of his upper body. His hair had grown out some, it was the same sandy brown color, but more fluffy than when he was younger. And that neck– Jesus that neck of his. It was so damn thick and made the two moles on his Adam’s apple, something you used to love about him, even more prominent.
You’ve been so distracted taking in Oscar’s grand arrival that you don’t even realize the press conference has officially begun until the reporter next to you stands up and starts asking Oscar of all people a question. Which means all of his attention is focused towards the back of the room, the row you’re sitting in, the person next to you. His eyes are bound to wander to the people on either side of that reporter, but still you try to scoot closer to the fake plant, hoping that either the plant hides you well enough or that if Oscar looks to the left and sees you that he doesn’t realize it’s you. You think that the back row has to be far enough back that Oscar can’t clearly see anybody right?
You were so wrong.
The plant does absolutely nothing to hide you either and the two of you lock eyes for the first time in almost a decade.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar Piastri was a patient man. He’d done his time in the feeder series, spent his childhood karting, dedicated his life to be able to chase his dream and after a tricky rookie season and a rough start to his second season this season seemed to be the one he’d dreamed about. The season he’d patiently been waiting for.
He’d been anxious, ready for the season to start and to show everyone what he was capable of, especially in the beast of a car the team had developed, not to mention the first race of the season being his home race. Oscar was ready to put the first points on the board towards the championship title. There wasn’t anything that could throw him off his game this season. Or at least he didn’t think there was.
The walk into the paddock this morning had Oscar filled with excitement. There was nothing like seeing all the fans, especially hometown fans, so ready to cheer him on when he’s out on the track. Autographs are signed, pictures are taken, it’s all second nature to Oscar now. McLaren’s and his own personal social media person are in tow– camera’s in hand capturing all the good content they can to kick off the season. Even though it’s only media day it’s still a jam packed schedule and his press officer makes haste to fill him in on his day as they sit in McLaren’s hospitality unit.
“You’ve got team content to film first thing this morning, then the press conference at one, and then this afternoon there’s a one on one interview we’ve set up with a local journalist. Sort of like a hometown special thing for your home race. Should be good publicity and a good piece for you to ramp up excitement for the season.” Sophie, his press officer states.
Oscar nods as he shovels another forkfull of eggs into his mouth. Sounds like a normal media day to him– except it’s not.
Content filming is Oscar’s own personal nightmare. Lando makes it easier when they do joint content, but when he has to film solo stuff he wants to jump off a cliff, but nonetheless he powers through and grabs a quick lunch before heading to do the press conference. Oscar is the last driver to arrive and he’s not late by any means, but when he passes through the double doors and sees the room full of press and the other three drivers already on the couch waiting for him he puts a little pep in his step and scurries towards the empty spot next to Charles.
As Oscar gets settled into his spot his eyes scan the room. The front row is filled with some familiar faces, veteran reporters that have been doing this their whole lives and are there to cover every race weekend. The room is pretty full, there’s only about five rows of chairs so there’s quite a few people standing along the sides too. Oscar’s gaze wanders through them as questions are rattled off to the other drivers. He starts to daydream, thinking about what his Mum is going to make for dinner tonight since he’s back home for the weekend when the sound of his name being called out snaps him out of his trance.
“Oscar. We all know it’s the start of the season, but McLaren has been predicted to be the front runners this season. Will there be anymore Papaya Rules or will we get to see a distinct number one and number two driver this year?”
Oscar focuses his vision to the back row where some guy with a big beard and round eyeglasses is standing up, notebook in hand waiting for some headline worthy answer from him. Oscar takes a deep breath, a small smile on his face as he gets ready to recite the pre-rehearsed PR answer that’s been drilled into him.
“Well– it is still very early. We haven’t even got a practice session in yet. But the team of course will assess everything after every race and it’s always been–” Oscar’s eyes wander to the left as he rambles off the textbook answer to the reporter, but who he locks eyes with has him stumbling over his words. He does a double take at first, surely thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no he’d recognize that face anywhere.
Y/N.
Even without seeing you in person for god knows how long he still kept tabs on you through social media, but to see you in person, in the flesh has his mind scrambled. What were you doing here of all places? He feels his heart pounding in his chest and for a moment the two of you are like deer stuck in the headlights of a car. His mouth feels dry and his fingers grip the microphone like it’s about to run away from him.
He feels a light elbow shove from Charles and realizes he hasn’t finished answering the poor reporter's question. “Um sorry.” Oscar states, clearing his throat before continuing. “Yeah it’s always been said that Lando and I are free to race so really we are just going to have to see how the season plays out.” Oscar quickly spits out some bullshit to finish answering the question. He prays no one else has any questions for him– he doesn’t think his brain can focus on anything else right now besides you.
He’s trying to not be creepy and constantly stare at you, but god he hasn’t seen you in forever and you’ve changed so much. He’d always thought you were beautiful, but to see you become this breathtaking woman, to see you grow into yourself is something he never thought he’d get to see in person. He figured he'd be keeping tabs on you through social media for the rest of his life. Although he always had a feeling that you guys would reunite when the universe wanted you to and apparently the 2025 Australian Grand Prix was that moment in time.
The press conference wraps up a few minutes later and Oscar is quick to his feet, hoping to catch you before you leave, but as soon as the cameras stop recording Oscar watches as you scurry out the back door and into the abyss that is a Formula 1 paddock.
Oscar is sure he’s made some fans and photographers upset on his journey through the paddock and back to Mclaren’s hospitality, but he doesn’t have it in him to play good racing driver and act like his whole world hasn’t just been turned upside down. The sound of the door to his driver's room finally closing behind him is the only thing that brings Oscar a small amount of solace at the moment. He needed some time alone to process what had just happened, he felt like he had more adrenaline coursing through his veins than when he stepped out of the car after a grueling race. The cool material of his physio table helps to somewhat ground him and just when he lays his head back on the makeshift towel pillow there's a knock on the door.
He groans at the sound, he couldn’t even get five minutes to himself?
“Yeah?” Oscar hollers as he slowly sits up on the table, his legs now dangling from the side.
The door opens and in comes Lando with a half eaten Kinder bar in his hand only to see a disheveled Oscar in front of him. “God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Looking a little paler than usual there, Oscar.”
A humorous scoff comes from Oscar towards Lando’s remark. “I think I might’ve.” He doesn’t have it in him to elaborate or even tell Lando that the person he once considered his person randomly showed up at the press conference moments ago after not seeing you for almost a decade. He’s thankful when Lando doesn’t pry to know more and starts going on about something pertaining to their passes.
“Nick has our new passes. I don’t know if yours didn’t work this morning, but mine didn’t. Although seeing a hot reporter while I was stuck this morning did make things a little better.”
For some reason Oscar is curious about this hot reporter that Lando mentions, it was nothing out of the blue for Lando to casually talk about how attractive some women are, but he has an inkling about the identity of this one. “What was she wearing?”
Lando shrugs as he takes a bite of his kinder bar. “Blue shirt, black pants, hair up in a clip. She looked to be around our age. Why did you see her too?” Lando states, a smirk slightly stretching across his face over the idea of Oscar also thinking you were hot.
Oscar immediately knows Lando is talking about you and it goes straight through him. He starts to get defensive, but then he realizes that Lando doesn’t know who you are or that Oscar knows who you are. No use creating an awkward situation over something like this, so Oscar bites his tongue. “I might have.”
Lando nods at his younger teammate, he was awkward sometimes, but this was a new awkward for Oscar. Lando knew there was something more going on than what he let on, but Lando wasn’t going to pry. If Oscar wanted to tell him something he would, so he throws the wrapper of his Kinder bar in the little trash can in the corner and reminds Oscar about the passes one last time before heading back next door to his driver's room.
A deep sigh escapes past Oscar’s lips as the door closes once more. He pulls his phone out of his pants pocket, his body almost moves in autopilot, clicking on your contact and pulling up a new text conversation. His thumbs hover over the keyboard, his brain is fighting with his heart as he types, deletes, and retypes the same message about a million times it seems. He doesn’t even know what to say to you, hell he isn’t even sure if you still have the same number as when you were fourteen, but he’s praying you do as he finally hits send on the most thrilling thing he’s done in a long ass time.
Oscar: hey this is oscar. i’m hoping this is still your number, but i’m almost positive i saw you at the press conference earlier. if that was you i’d love to get some coffee or something and talk. if that wasn’t you then disregard this message lol.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It was a miracle that you had found a secluded place in the paddock, away from all the prying eyes and cameras to have your mental breakdown. You really weren’t sure if you were going to throw up, shit yourself, or maybe do both. The simple connection you felt between Oscar and you just by making eye contact had your head spinning and your gut churning. The ding that sounds off from your phone only makes things worse. Of course you never deleted his contact, even after all these years, but honestly that wasn’t saying much. You still had your Girl Scouts leader’s phone number from when you were twelve.
His name glares from your phone screen as you sit against the back of some building by the dumpster. You don’t want to open it, afraid of the can of worms it will open if you do, but the curious part of you wants to know so badly what he wants. Like ripping off a bandaid you tap the text notification and your eyes quickly scan the screen.
You’d always wondered what would happen when Oscar and you would reconnect, so many nights as a teenager were spent imagining the perfect scenario, the same nights you let yourself miss him and stop putting on the facade that you didn’t care. There were a million scenes that you’d imagined, but you never thought you’d be in your twenties or that it would be at the Australian Grand Prix. You don’t want this to change your life, it’s not fair that Oscar can just seem to come and go from your life when he wants. And you know if he actually wants to reconnect– that part of you that you keep locked away, the part of you that still wants him in your life will overpower every step you’ve taken to move on with your life. You don’t want him to come in and taint everything you’ve accomplished without him by your side.
There isn’t time to respond to his text or even panic call your sister, because when you glance at the time it’s almost three. You should have been getting prepped for the interview fifteen minutes ago and now you are going to be late. Of course, because what else could go wrong today?
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar sits in the stiff chair, listening to Sophie say something to him about what not to say in his interview as they wait for everything to be set up. It goes in one ear and out the other because all he can think about is you at the moment. This will probably be the worst interview he’s been a part of, but he can’t help it, all he wants to do is talk to you right now. Not some forty year old man who thinks he knows him because they are both Australian. The guy is already running late, so that right there tells Oscar this is going to be a wash. He’s about ready to ask Sophie if this can be rescheduled when he hears the door open and the most angelic voice echo through the room.
There is a part of Oscar that thinks he may be dreaming again, that this whole day is just one big elaborate dream. Never in a million years did he think you’d be the one that was interviewing him. His mouth goes dry at the sight of you and he’s sure his jaw has dropped. Your cheeks are flushed, surely from running here and your hair has fallen out of the clip you've previously adorned, soft curls frame your face as you adjust the strap to your bag on your shoulder.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. First time here, I had trouble finding my way around.”
Oscar clocks the lie immediately, sure it was probably the first time being here as an adult, but the two of you were here so many years as children, so no it wasn’t your first time here.
“No problem, I think the cameras and everything just finished getting set up, so we should be good to go. If you want to take the seat across from Oscar. I’ll let you get ready and we will begin.” Sophie states, before grabbing a folder of what you were sure were important press documents, from the table next to Oscar.
You can feel Oscar’s eyes practically burning holes into you as you sit down in the chair opposite of him. You pretend to not notice as you set your bag down gently on the carpeted floor, quickly rummaging through it to find your notebook. It’s like clockwork, the way you set your phone on the small table next to you, the record button is pressed, and your notebook is opened to the correct page in what seems like record time.
There is still a part of you that thinks maybe you can act like you don’t know Oscar, but the moment you look up for the first time since sitting down and see those honey brown eyes that you once knew so well, you know there’s no use in even trying to fake it with him.
“Hi Oscar.”
To hear you say his name after so long should not have Oscar feeling this way.
Have him flustered like a teenage boy.
He hasn’t seen you in forever, he’s lived a whole new life without you, had a long-term girlfriend, done so many things without you in his life. Yet you seem to have this power over him even after all these years.
You two were always just friends, but anyone with two working eyes, hell even one, could see that Oscar had always had a soft spot for you, and deep down the both of you knew, even as kids, that your connection went way deeper than friendship.
Only who would have thought that connection would still be there after almost a decade of no contact.
“Hi Y/N.”
Silence falls between the two of you and Sophie looks on strangely from across the room. Shy– fond smiles creep onto both of your faces and Sophie is beyond confused as to what is going on. “Do you two know each other or?”
“We grew up together.” Oscar replies without taking his eyes off of you.
You aren’t sure what’s come over you– after being in Oscar’s presence for a mere few minutes it’s like the built up resentment you’ve harbored towards him over the years isn’t there. Maybe it’s the initial shock of seeing him again after so long, all the good memories and the hope that you two will reconnect and that maybe it will be like old times may be overpowering all the bad feelings and memories you’ve had.
Sophie slowly nods, the sight in front of her is not one of two old friends, but more like people who were more than friends or at least had some history. The energy between the two of you was charged like a live wire.
“Well that’s nice, but we should get this interview going.”
Hearing Sophie’s words breaks you out of your Oscar trance and has you coming back to reality. You were here to work at the end of the day and your promotion is riding on the quality of this interview.
You start with the basic questions to get both of you warmed up and as the interview progresses you start asking the more hard hitting ones. It’s going great and both Oscar and you are comfortable, laughs are shared and you know this is going to be a hit with your boss and the public. That is until you reach your last question and you know that as soon as the words leave your mouth and process through Oscar’s mind that it was maybe too personal to ask.
“Well Oscar, it’s been a pleasure being able to sit down and have this chat with you. I think we’ve gotten to know a little more about the man from Melbourne, but I have just one more question for you today.”
Oscar nods, “It better be a good one. Best for last as they say.”
You smile, glancing down at your notebook to verify the question before looking back at Oscar. “You’ve clearly come so far in your career and to be a Formula 1 driver is a dream that so many children have, but the smallest percentage of them actually get to fulfill that dream. Obviously everything that has happened in your life happened for a reason– to get you to this point in your career–to be one of twenty. But looking back, if there was one thing you could change that’s happened and still end up where you are today, what would it be?”
Oscar shuffles uncomfortably in his chair as he internalizes your question. You could hear a pin drop. It was so silent in that room, the atmosphere had gone from light and friendly to awkward and tense.
He immediately knows what the answer would be and it brings up every bad memory and emotion he has associated with that time. He clears the slight lump forming in his throat as he tries to figure out how to word this without airing out his and your personal business for everyone and their mother to hear.
“Um– well I’d have to say I wouldn’t have moved to England at such a young age to do Euro karting. I had a whole life that I abandoned. People I abandoned.” He looks you directly in the eye when he says it and he’s trying to say everything he never got to say through these code words, trying to express how he feels through his eyes, but he knows until he gets to actually talk to you it’s not going to make that big of a difference. “If I knew what I knew now and if I knew I could still fulfill my dreams I would have stayed in Australia.”
You don’t even know what to say, your throat is tight and your head is spinning. Oscar was talking directly to you– about you. He wasn’t just answering the question, he was trying to clear the air. Maybe you had indirectly added that question in hopes that he would answer the way he did. That even after all these years your thoughts that he maybe regretted leaving you behind were true and that the pessimistic ones that squashed those ones down were ones of self preservation in case he didn’t regret leaving.
“Well thanks for sitting down with me today Oscar and even getting a little deep here at the end. Wishing you the best luck this weekend and for the rest of the season.”
You quickly wrap up the interview, not even responding to Oscar’s response to your last question. The cameras are turned off and the crew makes quick work to pack everything away. Sophie mentions something to Oscar about a last minute team debrief before everyone leaves the track today before heading out the door.
Oscar makes no effort to get up and leave and you may have been packing up your things at a snail’s speed. Neither of you say anything, waiting for the other to be the first one to speak up. It’s not until the cameramen leave and you grab your bag to also leave that Oscar speaks up.
“Come to my parents for dinner tonight?”
You freeze, stunned at the words that come out of his mouth. The grip on your bag tightens and a tight lipped smile appears on your face. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got so much work to do tonight.” You had barely been able to handle seeing Oscar today, the idea of being back at the Piastri house with everyone again would be pushing yourself beyond your limits.
He knew he was pushing the envelope by asking you that and he knew your first response would be to decline, he can’t necessarily blame you, but he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “Please. My Mum would love to see you, see both of us back at home for dinner. It would be like old times.”
That’s the problem you think… it would be like old times.
You open your mouth to decline once again, but Oscar beats you to it. “I also think we should talk. Just the two of us.”
There’s a million reasons you can think as to why you should not go to this dinner tonight, but you make the mistake of looking Oscar in the eyes and those damn eyes of his always have worked their magic on you. “Alright. I’ll be there.”
Oscar’s never looked more thrilled and he immediately pulls out his phone. “Great. I’ll text Mum and let her know you’re coming. She’ll be so happy.”
Well there’s no getting out of this now that Nicole has been informed.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The drive back to your apartment takes twice as long as it normally would– gotta love Melbourne this time of year. The only upside to this is that once you do get home you don’t have time to sit and turn yourself into an anxiety induced mess. You have just enough time to change your outfit and freshen up your hair and makeup before heading back out the door. The entire drive to the Piastri household is spent blaring music to try and distract you from how nauseous you feel. It doesn’t work and as you turn onto the street that held so many memories you swallow down the bile threatening to rise.
As you pull into the Piastri’s driveway you notice the lights are off at your childhood home. Which undoubtedly means your family is here too– great.
The five minute pep talk you give yourself as you sit in their driveway does nothing to calm your nerves, in fact the more you talk about not being nervous, the more nervous you get. You know you’ll be getting a text from someone soon asking where you are– that someone more than likely being Oscar and you don’t think you can handle him worrying about where you are at the monument. So you kill the engine, glance at yourself in the rearview mirror, take a deep breath, and force your legs to carry you to the front door.
Years ago you would have just walked right in, but things have changed and so you knock on the solid wood door. Hoping that maybe no one would answer and you could turn around, get back in your car, and be back at home in your pajamas. But of course you can hear the commotion already going on inside and in a few short seconds the door is opening. You don’t even think about the possibility of Oscar being the one to open the door and you pray to any god that’s listening that it isn’t him on the other side.
The sight of Hattie in front of you was proof at least someone was listening and your nerves subside for a moment. Grins adorn both of your faces as she pulls you into a bone crushing hug. The two of you hadn’t seen each other since last Christmas. Once you had moved out your communication with Oscar’s sisters had dwindled. Sure you guys kept in touch through social media and Hattie and you occasionally would text, but you think they all knew because of their brother they’d eventually see less of you. You loved all three of them like your own sisters, but they were all unfortunately victims of association to Oscar.
“Oh my god I’ve missed you!” She exclaims as she’s still holding you hostage in her arms. “Come on– come in. Everyone else is already here.”
The moment you step foot into the Piastri household a wave of nostalgia washes over you. This house held so many childhood memories that you would think it was your own home. The times you all would get yelled at for running around the house. The time you were playing hide and seek and Hattie got locked in the coat closet in the hall somehow. Or when Oscar and you somehow let a stray dog into the house– Nicole was beyond pissed about that.
You take it all in as you follow Hattie down the hall and into the kitchen, not much has changed since the last time you were here years ago.
As you make your grand entrance in the kitchen it feels even more like old times. Nicole and your Mum are sitting at the island– wine glasses in hand as surely chat about the latest neighborhood gossip. Your Dad and Oscar’s Dad Chris, are getting ready to throw something on the grill. Your sister Sam, Edie, and Mae are digging through the pantry, complaining about how long it’s taking for dinner to take. And Oscar– is nowhere to be found?
It’s at that moment that you remember one important detail about Oscar.
His girlfriend.
How could you forget about his girlfriend?
There’s no way she would miss his home race. They are probably up in his room right now.
Before you can spiral and think about how awkward this night is going to be and how you never should have agreed to come you hear your name being called and excited gasps echo through the kitchen.
“Y/N! Darling!” Nicole comes barrelling towards you, arms wide open as she pulls you into a hug. “When Oscar texted me earlier that you were coming for dinner I thought I was dreaming! It’s so nice to have everyone here all together again. Reminds me of old times.”
Mae and Edie are next in line to give you a hug and Chris says hello while chopping up some vegetables.
You move to linger near your Mum, hoping she’ll ease your nerves and of course like the Mother she is, she notices straight away. She wraps her arm around you and presses a light kiss to your temple. “Hi sweetie. I’m glad you came.”
Sam gives you a questioning look from across the kitchen island– a raised eyebrow thrown your way as she munches on some pretzels. You give her one back that says you’ll talk later–you’re sure there will be even more to unpack after tonight.
“Y/N honey would you like a glass of wine?” Nicole offers as she’s already grabbing a spare glass from the cabinet and popping the cork on a fresh bottle. You figure some wine might loosen you up– make this evening a little more bearable. So, you take her up on her offer and take a gulp of the sweet liquid.
A lull in the conversation allows for Sam to start talking about some crazy thing that happened at her job the other day and honestly you’re grateful to be able to just lean against the counter, sipping your wine, and not having all the attention on you.
Three Sam stories and a glass and a half of wine later you’re feeling more than comfortable. The wine and no sign of Oscar for the last hour has your nerves settled and your giggles echoing through the kitchen. Edie had brought up the time that Hattie and you thought it would be a good idea to try and dye her hair pink without Nicole knowing. Long story short the bathtub got stained pink and the dye didn’t even stay in Hattie’s hair.
“Don’t forget that Rosie somehow ended up with dye on her fur and that’s how Mum found out.”
The sound of Oscar’s voice behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin. You slowly turn around to see him standing in the doorway with a smug smile on his face as he stares directly at you.
You almost feel like your feet are cemented to the tile floor– like you’re frozen in place as you make eye contact with Oscar, like there was no one else in the room but the two of you. You pretend not to notice the little bit of relief that washes over you when you don’t see his girlfriend in tow, but you won’t hold your breath, she could show up at any minute.
“Oscar! Nice of you to finally join us now that the hard work is done and it’s time to eat.” Chris’s voice breaks you out of your trance and your eyes quickly flicker down to your glass. Your face feels hot and it’s totally because of the wine and not anything else– right?
You hear Oscar rattle off something about having to stay later at the track– last minute media duties as he helps his Dad carry the food to the table in the dining room.
The speed at which you hurry into the dining room and sandwich yourself between Mae and Sam so you don’t end up having to sit next to Oscar is slightly embarrassing. You watch as the other empty seats get filled one by one, but the one thing you don’t think about is who is going to sit across from you. Of course the final seat open is the one across from you and the one person left to sit down is Oscar.
Honestly you think it would have been better to sit next to him, you weren’t even thinking about him sitting across from you and how you’ll have to look at him the whole duration of the meal.
The beginning of dinner isn’t horrible per say, you focus on eating and trying to not make eye contact with Oscar. Everyone is mostly enjoying their food, not talking much, and you think maybe it might not be as bad as you fear. That is until Nicole asks a question that has everyone’s eyes darting towards you.
“So Y/N. We knew you went to school for journalism, but we didn’t know you were going to do sports journalism. According to Oscar you were at the track today and you guys did a little interview together? Does this mean we’ll be seeing you at all the races?”
You smile softly, embarrassed that the topic of conversation has turned towards you. “Um, yeah I hadn’t planned on doing sports journalism at all. I wanted to be in like war torn countries or reporting on major historical events. But I’m still considered new enough that I basically have to take what my boss gives me.” You push around the green beans on your plate as you talk, your eyes occasionally flickering around the table looking at each person.
“The Australian Grand Prix is a historical event.” Oscar chimes in with a teasing smile painted across his face.
Which makes you want to fling a green bean across the table at him.
Before you can make a smart ass comment back to him Nicole chimes back in. “Well I’d like to personally thank your boss for making you cover the race. I’ve missed having you around Y/N.” Nicole pauses a moment as she looks at you with the most sincere look you’ve seen from her. You watch as her eyes travel across the table and land on her son. “Missed having Oscar here– having both of you here.”
You think that if she could reach both of you she’d have you both wrapped up in her arms and you can see the raw emotion on her face as she keeps looking at both Oscar and you. There’s something inside of you that tells you to look at Oscar and when you work up the courage to direct your line of sight towards him you see those big brown eyes of his already staring into your soul.
Unbestowed to Oscar and you, everyone else at the table is witnessing the thing they knew would happen all along. Your Mum and Nicole share a knowing glance and your siblings try to stifle their giggles at how obvious it is.
When Oscar and you lock eyes it's truly like you both forget there are other people near you. There’s a connection that everyone else can see, but the both of you seem to be blind to it, or you’re just refusing to feel it. It’s been that way with you two for as long as anyone can remember and the fact that you guys haven’t seen each other in almost a decade and it’s still the same has both of your Mothers more than smug about how right they were about the two of you.
“Well dinner was delicious. Thank you for having us over.” You Dad is the one to break the silence and your eyes immediately dart away from Oscar, cheeks flushing as you realize that you’ve just gotten lost in Oscar’s eyes in front of everyone. You stare down at your mostly empty plate, moving around a stray green bean with your fork.
“Thank you, it was a lovely dinner. Like I said, it was just so nice to have us all here together again.” Nicole reiterates as she begins to gather empty plates from the table. “I also made tiramisu, so no one try and skip out early!”
You make quick work to start helping clear the table and even go as far as starting the dishes, anything to not have to face Oscar. Your cheeks are still hot as you scrub the dinner plates, your mind is anywhere but here at the monument and you don’t even realize you’ve been washing the same plate the whole time until you feel the touch of a gentle hand on your shoulder. You jump slightly, dropping the plate into the sink, not realizing how zoned out you really were. Turning slightly you see your Mum standing behind you, a look of concern and understanding painted across her face as she presses a hand towel towards you.
“Honey, why don’t you go out back, get some fresh air. Nicole and I will finish this up.”
Your Mum is a woman that you don’t want to argue with when she tells you to do something. So, you nod, knowing she knows how in your head you are and gladly take the towel from her– wiping the soap suds from your pruned fingers.
The sun is just starting to set as you step onto the back patio, the sliding door closing behind you. There’s a slight breeze in the air and the cooler evening weather is some relief to your rosy cheeks and clouded mind. You’re just about ready to take a seat on some of the patio furniture, when you hear a sound reminiscent of your childhood.
Towards the back of their property you spot a rusty old swing set– the breeze had caused the swings to move– loudly squeaking as they do. The once vibrant red swing now showed signs of weathering, rust peaking through where the paint had come off. It had provided years of entertainment and went through multiple children and even with it showing signs of wear, it still stood strong in their backyard.
A small smile finds its way onto your face as you make your way towards the swingset, memories replaying in your mind as you sit in one of the empty swings. The chains creak as you move your feet, making the swing go higher and higher. You watch as the sun sets and the sky paints a picture of pinks and oranges for you to admire. For a good while you feel a sense of peace wash over you, being out here alone, reconnecting with a part of you that you haven’t felt in a long time.
But all peaceful monuments eventually get ruined.
You hear the sound of the patio door sliding open and then close, you don’t even have to turn your head to know who's come to ruin your alone time. The sound of his footsteps feel like they are shaking the ground as he travels across the patio, down the steps, and onto the grass. You keep your eyes focused on the worn patch of grass below you– your sneakers scraping against the dirt as you slow down.
He passes in front of you and from the corner of your eye you see him sit down in the swing next to you. Silence hangs between the two of you for what seems like forever. The pretty painting in the sky has been replaced by stars and neither of you have spoken a single word– that is until Oscar finally plucks up the courage.
“I still can’t believe you’re a sports journalist now, specifically a F1 reporter. Never thought we’d reunite via interview.”
You scoff, slightly rolling your eyes while you still look at the ground. “Don’t worry this weekend is a one time thing– I won’t be at any of the other races.”
Oscar frowns slightly at your tone and how you’re implying that he wouldn’t love to see you in the media pen every race weekend. He in fact feels quite the opposite about having you around and your sour mood that is heavily radiating off you has him confused. Sure things were bound to be a little awkward between the two of you, how long had it been since you’d seen each other? But this was more than awkward, this was resentment and Oscar wonders how things could have done south so quickly since the interview.
Silence falls between you two again for a brief moment and you hope Oscar just gets the hint and heads back inside, but you should know that Oscar is a persistent man and the inevitable heartwrenching conversation is bound to happen.
“You alright?” Oscar pries, his head tilting towards you slightly, hoping that you’ll look over at him and not the ground for at least two seconds. “Did I do something? You seem a little off from earlier today.”
You want to tell him to fuck off and to just leave you out here– alone. The inevitable is going to happen if he stays out here and you really don’t have it in you tonight to have this conversation, to open that can of worms. You still needed time to process everything and you know if you start talking about the past your emotions are going to take over.
“I’m fine, just tired. Today was a lot.”
Oscar nods– he agrees that today was a lot, but he can’t help but feel like there's something deeper going on with you. Instead of bothering you some more he decides to switch the conversation to something more basic, but oh boy was he wrong to do that.
“God, I’m surprised this swing is still standing. How much time did we spend on this thing as kids? Seems like we were always out here, but I can’t remember the last time it was actually used.” Oscar states as he looks around at the rusty old swing set.
That comment. The nonchalantness in Oscar’s voice. It all makes something switch in you. You finally look up from the ground to find him already staring at you. There’s a blank expression on his face, like he didn’t just crack open your deepest wound. It fills you with even more rage. You knew as soon as you opened your mouth there was no going back and that in the end you might lose Oscar again, but the years of pent up emotions and hurt override every instinct for you to bite your tongue.
“Are you fucking kidding me Oscar?”
Your tone is harsh and cold and it makes Oscar flinch slightly, his hands gripping the chains of the swing tighter. He doesn’t even get the chance to reply before you’re opening your assault on him once again.
“You don’t remember the last time we were out here? When you ripped my heart out. When you told me you were leaving for England the following morning and you didn’t know when you’d be back. Cause I’ll sure as hell never forget it.”
You can feel the anger coursing through your veins, the years of acting like Oscar leaving and ghosting you didn’t absolutely kill you. Sure maybe bombarding him with this probably wasn’t the way to go about it, but you’ve held it in for so long and he unfortunately struck the wrong nerve tonight.
Oscar freezes– he can see how upset you are and he feels like a piece of shit. Never in a million years would he ever forget that night, it haunted him for years, and he realizes he really should have chosen his words more carefully moments ago. But he also wasn’t expecting the conversation to go south so quickly. Sure things were a little awkward between the two of you, but that interview went so well earlier and dinner was great, he never expected for the night to have ended up here.
“Y/N– I could never forget that night. That’s not what I was referring to. I still feel horrible about how I went about telling you that I was leaving. I should have gone about it differently, believe me, the guilt ate me alive over the years.” He was telling the truth, the hurt look on your face all those years ago killed him. He hurt the person that meant the most to him and lost you in the process of his own actions down the line.
And now it seems he’s going to be reliving that night almost ten years later.
Oscar can see the same hurt in your eyes as he did that night and he should have known that if he wanted to have you back in his life, that he was going to have to face what happened between the two of you.
“You say you’ll never forget that night, but you forgot me Oscar. Even that first year when you came back home it wasn’t the same, half of you was with me and the other half was back in England. God, you were everything to me and you just left me behind like I was some old toy.” You can feel the angry tears start to form and you try to blink them back, not wanting Oscar to see you cry.
Oscar feels somewhat cornered, sure he was a stupid fourteen year old and yes he fucked up, but he felt like you also forgot about him at the end of the day.
“I get I fucked up and I’ll own up to that, but the phone works two ways Y/N. You could have reached out to me too. Our falling out isn’t all on me.” He pauses, pondering if he should even say what else he is thinking, but he figures the way this conversation is going, what's a little more fuel to the fire? “I also don’t know where this hostile attitude is coming from either. I get things are going to be awkward between us, but my bad choice of words does not warrant this hostile attitude. I mean everything was great at the track and dinner was good so tell me what happened to that Y/N? Because this Y/N in front of me right now is not the Y/N I remember.”
You can see the anger starting to show on Oscar now too and you’re positive this isn’t going to end well.
“You’ve clearly never seen a reporter do their job before have you? It took every ounce of willpower to actually show up to the track today. To show up to your house and act like me not seeing your or talking to you in almost a decade didn’t fuck with me horribly. I knew seeing you again would bring up all these emotions I’ve pushed down over the years. I mean fuck Oscar the first chance I got to move out I took, I couldn’t even stand being near your family, your house, it all just reminded me of you and how the person who meant everything to me dropped me like an old toy they didn’t want anymore. ”
You pause for a moment, trying to collect yourself, but it’s becoming damn near impossible. “I stopped reaching out when you did. I wasn’t going to waste my time and make myself look desperate when you had stopped responding. You’d clearly made a life for yourself without me and all I was going to be was the girl you grew up with.”
A single tear finally breaks free and Oscar watches as you quickly wipe it away–turning your head away from him.
“And to answer your question–I guess I’m not the same person you remember, but that’s because of you Oscar.”
Oscar feels a pang shoot through his heart– to hear you say these things has his emotions going in every which direction. Never in a million years did he realize you had felt that way or been affected so deeply by him leaving. Sure he had gone through rough patches, especially in the beginning, but he had racing, new people in his life, and a million other things to distract him from the empty part of him that you once called home.
He doesn’t even know what to say to you, he wants to reassure you, to apologize for being such a fuck up all those years ago, but he thinks the thing that sticks with him more than the others is that you think that you’d just be a memory of his, someone he grew up with. Oscar always knew that eventually you two would find your way back to each other, he didn’t know when or where, but he knew what you two had, your connection was one that wasn’t meant to only last for such a small part of your lives. It was a connection that would span lifetimes and universes. Even if it didn’t seem like it right now.
“You know you’ll never just be the girl I grew up with Y/N.” Oscar’s voice is soft as he speaks and it makes even more tears start to fall.
You take a deep breath as you wipe away the tears with the sleeves of your shirt, debating on whether or not to bring up something else that happened when you two were fourteen, but then you figure you might as well just get everything else out in the open tonight.
“Do you remember what happened the week before you left? That night at Hannah Payne’s house?”
Oscar feels his heart skip a beat, he doesn’t even want to talk about this right now, it makes his choice of how he told you about him leaving seem like an even bigger asshole move.
“I do remember it.” Oscar says sheepishly.
You laugh dryly as you replay it all in your mind. “When you kissed me you fully knew you were going to leave that following week.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
How Oscar and you ended up at the most popular kid in your grade, Hannah Payne’s house that weekend was beyond both of you, but you were and you were both way out of your limit. A game of seven minutes in heaven gets brought up and you think you’re going to shit yourself. You’d never kissed anyone before and so you start to spiral from that, but then you think what if no one even wants to kiss you, so then you start to spiral even more.
Your mind is spinning as fast as the old coke bottle on the floor and when it’s finally your turn to go you have to stop your hand from shaking as you reach out and twist the bottle. You try to calculate who it might land on as it slows down, hoping it’s not the kid who used to eat his boogers when you were younger, but the person it comes to a halt in front of is somehow worse than the booger eater.
Teasing ohhhs and giggles echo through the basement as your eyes travel up from the bottle and land on Oscar. You see a blush creep onto his cheeks, but even with the teasing he quickly stands up from his spot on the floor and crosses the threshold to stand in front of you– hand outstretched for you to grab onto.
You intertwine your fingers with his as he pulls you up from the floor and you two make your way to the old storage closet in the corner.
If it was anyone else you wouldn’t be feeling like your heart is about ready to beat out of your chest as the closet door closes behind you, but it’s not anyone else, it’s Oscar.
Oscar.
Your person.
No big deal right?
You’ll just tell him that you guys can stand there chest to chest for seven minutes in silence and everything will be totally fine.
Except you never open your mouth– you stand there like an idiot.
Oscar doesn’t say anything either for the first few minutes, but then he breaks the silence. “Do you think anyone else did anything?”
You laugh a little, fully knowing Hannah for sure did with booger boy. “Oh without a doubt.”
Oscar pauses for a second and you can tell something is on the tip of his tongue, even in the dark. “Do you think we should do something?” He finally chokes out, his voice cracking at the end.
If there was ever a time in your life where you thought you were going crazy– it was this moment. You know you didn’t hear him correctly, there was no way he was asking what you thought he was asking. Your response seems to die in your throat every time you go to open your mouth. He was kidding right?
Oscar wasn’t asking to kiss you right?
You feel his hand cup your cheek and you realize this is definitely happening.
“Can I kiss you?”
There’s a brief moment where you think you blacked out, his words going in one ear and out the other. “You want to kiss me?” You barely squeak out.
You can sense the eye roll and smirk on Oscar’s face even in the dark. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want to Y/N.”
The boy in front of you has been your best friend since birth, he’s your other half, he’s your everything. One little kiss won’t drastically alter things will they? You’d be lying if you said there weren’t times where you felt like your connection with Oscar was more than friendly, but you were only fourteen. What the hell did you know?
“Well what are you waiting for?”
That night Oscar and you shared your first kiss with each other. Blushed cheeks and giddy smiles adorned both of your faces as you eventually exit the closet, but the next day the both of you act like nothing ever happened. Like that kiss hadn’t altered so many things for both of you.
You weren’t going to be one to bring it up to Oscar back then, especially if you didn’t know if he felt the same things you did, but then he goes and leaves you the following week. Which confirmed the fear that had been clouding your brain that whole week.
That Oscar really didn’t care about you and that him kissing you meant absolutely nothing– even though it meant everything to you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar had a handful of regrets in life and while some of them were not that big on the regrets scale– the two or he guesses he should say three involving you were the worst.
It’s no secret that he regrets leaving you or at least leaving you the way he did and then basically cutting contact with you after a year, but the one regret he really has is kissing you all those years ago.
He didn’t regret it in the way it sounds because truly he would have kissed you a million times over, but it’s the timing of it that he regrets.
You two were so young back then and he knows a first kiss is special and it eats at him the whole week leading up to him leaving. Knowing that you two had formed this even deeper bond now and that he was going to break it, but at the end of the day he was just a kid, and the consequences of his actions didn’t really resonate with him at that point in time.
“God Y/N we were fourteen– we were kids.” Oscar really doesn’t know what to say, because truly at the end of the day they were just kids back then and he was a kid who had fucked up. He wasn’t saying he didn’t, but he was asking for a little grace.
His response makes you even more angry, yes you understood you guys were young, but at that age when anything like that happens to you– it’s gonna leave a scar. “You were my first kiss Oscar. How do you think that made me feel at fourteen? To have the person who meant the most to you kiss you then leave you for a decade?”
Oscar in a somewhat opposite way has the same scar as you, but his is more self-inflicted, and if he could take it all back he could. If he could go back in time and fix everything then maybe this wouldn’t be happening right now. But he knows that’s not possible and that everything that’s happened to you two has happened for a reason and that you’re both here, in the backyard of his childhood home right now because the universe wants you to be.
Silence falls between the two of you as crickets and the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze fill the void. He doesn’t even know how long you guys have been out here, but he knows it’s been longer than he’d expect. He knows this conversation is just going to continue to go in circles and there would be no resolution worked out tonight.
“Y/N look at me.” He demands with a gentle voice.
Your head raises slowly and his heart breaks at just how wrecked you look. This conversation had clearly taken a toll on you and he hates that in the end it’s him who’s gotten you to this point.
“You know I regret how things turned out between us with every fiber of my being. I said it in the interview earlier and I’ve said it now. I fucked up and I’m owning that, but I don’t know what you want me to do to make this better. We were kids back then and now we’re adults and I get that you’ve been holding on to this for years, but we’ve got to work past this.”
He pauses briefly, trying to gauge how you're taking this. “You don’t understand how happy I was to see you today, to get to talk to you. I’ve got you back or at least I think I do and I’ll do whatever I need to to keep you, but you’ve got to give me some grace. I’m owning up to my fuckups, but if you want us back like old times you’ve got to tell me what you want out of this conversation.”
Your head is pounding and your eyes are still blurry with tears. You sit there and listen as Oscar talks to you and when he mentions old times you want to bash your head against one of the metal poles.
There’s never going to be a point where Oscar and you in any capacity will be together like old times. You can try and replicate it, try and do the same things, but the old times were in the past for a reason. Things change, life progresses, things will never stay the same forever no matter how hard you try to hold onto them.
And no matter what happens– things will never be like old times between Oscar and you.
“I don’t know what I wanted out of this conversation Oscar. I guess for you to finally see how fucked up I’ve been since you left. For you to see how pathetic I am that I can’t get over the kid I grew up with moving away over a decade ago. For you to hear that I’ve held on to this grudge and at times wished I’d never met you because even after all these years you have this hold over me and I hate it. You’ve dictated my life for years without even being in it Oscar and it drives me fucking nuts.”
You take a deep breath, leaning back to look up at the stars in the sky. “I don’t know if there is anything for us after this conversation is over. Do you really think I can get over all this resentment I’ve harbored towards you.” Your eyes glance over at Oscar and you swear you see a single tear roll down his cheek.
“Deep down, if you feel the same way as I do, then yes.”
The sound of the sliding door opening breaks you out of this bubble you’ve been in with Oscar and you hear Nicole holler from the patio. “I’ve saved you two some tiramisu. You better get in here and eat it– I don’t think I can hold Sam off much longer.”
Oscar hollers something back to her so she’ll go back inside and when you hear the door slide close you push yourself up out of the swing. This was your sign to go home– no tiramisu will be consumed tonight. All you wanted to do was crawl in bed and never leave it.
There are no goodbyes exchanged, just Oscar watching you leave, but when you reach the back gate he speaks up.
“I know you feel our connection, even if it’s deep down buried under a hundred other things. What we had or what we have doesn’t just go away Y/N.”
You pause, hand frozen on the latch, but you don’t acknowledge him, no matter how right he is. There’s nothing else left in you for tonight. So the gate latches closed behind you and a wave of deja vu washes over Oscar as he remains glued to the swing.
He hopes you’ll just stay at your old house for the night, thinking it might help for whatever reason, but then he hears your car start out front and sees the headlights light up the street as you leave him behind.
When he finally works up the courage to make his way back inside the get together is still in full swing. No one notices him come in except for your sister who he knows was probably peeking through the window at you two outside alongside his sisters. He acts like he doesn’t see Sam staring him down as he makes haste to head up to his room. The old stairs creak beneath his feet as he begins his ascent and he’s almost halfway up them when his Mum’s voice stops him dead in his tracks.
“Where’s Y/N? Did you guys eat dessert?”
“No–she went home. I’m going to bed.” Oscar’s voice is monotone as he gives his Mum a blunt and straightforward answer. He doesn’t even bother to turn around to look at her as he continues his journey up the stairs. He didn’t have it in him to be bombarded with questions about you right now and he knew his Mum meant well, but all he wanted to do was climb into his bed and sleep on this.
Not only did he have this conflict with you now, but he also had the race this weekend to take into account. He needed to have a clear head for this weekend, but his brain was just clouded with you.
He’s sure he’s tossed and turned in his bed about a million times, but sleep still won’t greet him with open arms. His mind won’t shut off and all he can think about is how broken you looked earlier and how it's his fault. He wants to make things right, wants you to be back in his life permanently, but he’s scared too much damage has been done and that you won’t ever be able to get over how things ended up between the two of you. Hell, he’d get on his knees and beg for you guys to even just have a fresh start, but he knows you’re always going to carry that emotional baggage with you, and that you undoubtedly have abandonment issues now.
Back then Oscar did struggle a lot with not having you around, but he had racing to distract him, new friends, and eventually a girlfriend. There wasn’t anything in England that reminded him of you but his memories, your contact in his phone, an occasional social media post, and the fact that his Mum mentioned you more than what was necessary. There were no ties to you and even the strongest bonds weaken over time. He never thought about how you felt, how everything back home would remind you of him, how almost every aspect of your life he’d somehow tainted. In
Australia he was everywhere without even being there and he realizes that's why you took the move so much harder. You never really could move on with your life when he loomed at every corner. England allowed Oscar to start a whole new chapter in his life– a chapter without you in it. You’ve been stuck in the same chapter ever since he left.
He should have known that Christmas he brought his girlfriend home, when you faked being sick, that things had shifted between the two of you. He knew as soon as his Mum told him that you wouldn’t be joining them because of some stomach bug that you were faking it. He knew you too well. Hell would have to freeze over for you to miss Christmas with everyone. He’d tried to reach out, wanting to see if you’d nibble on his texts, but you only doubled down on the being sick ploy.
It was a weird Christmas that year and it wasn’t that he didn’t love his girlfriend back then, but it felt weird to see her sit in the seat you always sat in at the table, and for them to make fun of the penis looking cookies your Mum would bake every year. It was like you were there, but you weren’t.
And that’s when he realizes after being with his girlfriend for almost five years– that he’d used her to replace you in his life. They’d broken up last year– a mutual break up that ended on decent terms, but it makes his stomach flip to come to terms with this after so long. He’d found someone that could fill the void of you in his life and so yes he missed you and looking back he felt horrible about what he did, but that’s why he didn’t necessarily take the ghosting as much to heart as you. He had someone and as far as he knew you’d never had a boyfriend.
He flips back over on his side, his eyes scanning the shelf along his wall that’s been illuminated by the moonlight. Trinkets from his childhood, racing mementos, and any other thing he thought deserved a home resided on that shelf. A glimmer reflecting from the shelf peaks his curiosity and it wasn’t like he was on the verge of sleep so he swings his legs out from under the covers and walks over to the shelf.
There sitting on the dusty old shelf was something Oscar thought he’d lost years ago.
The summer when Oscar and you were twelve your families went on a trip together to Italy and in some tourist trap shop you two had found some simple red threaded bracelets. You’d always wanted to have matching bracelets with Oscar, but he hated wearing them. Somehow you’d convinced him to get these, it was a simple string, barely anything to it, he probably wouldn’t even feel it on his wrist is what you’d told him. So you both walk up the counter and Oscar hands over some Euros hoping it will be enough to pay for them. The lady behind the counter smiles at the two young kids standing before her and when she sees what they are trying to buy she smiles even more, gently sliding the bracelets back towards the kids.
“Sono gratuiti.”
Oscar and you don’t know a lick worth of Italian besides the basics and so Oscar assumes he owes her more money, he can barely get the bill out of his pocket before the lady shakes her head and speaks in a thick accent.
“Free.”
You both look at each other, eyebrows raised, unsure if she’s actually saying what you think she said. “Free?”
The lady nods, pushing the bracelets even further towards the edge of the counter. Oscar and you decide to grab the bracelets and leave before she changed her mind.
Those bracelets left neither of your wrists for a good two years, but the month before Oscar left for England he’d lost it. He looked for it everywhere, distraught over not knowing what happened to it. He assumed it had broken and just fell off his wrist and he had no idea how he was going to tell you. Luckily for him he was able to keep it hidden, long sleeves were his best friend, and then when he left he assumed you’d eventually stop wearing it. He just never expected to find it sitting on his shelf in his room all these years later.
He grabbed the bracelet from the shelf wiping the dust bunnies from it before sliding it over his hand and tightening it around his wrist. As silly as it seemed, the moment he slipped the bracelet on he felt a sense of calm wash over him, like a piece of him that had been missing was put back into place. He twisted the red piece of thread around his wrist, feeling as it rubs against his skin. How such a simple thing held so much power he didn’t know, but if there was one thing he could take as a good sign from today– it was finding this bracelet.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The morning sun is a harsh wake up call as you peel your face from your desk. Instead of coming home last night and just going to bed you decide to pull an all nighter and work on the content you’d gotten from the day. Sure seeing Oscar’s face was like a punch to the gut everytime, but what went down last night was not going to stop you from doing your job. You were getting this promotion even if it caused you your sanity.
Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you grab your phone and when you see the time you surely think it’s wrong or you’re still half asleep. You rub your eyes even harder, but the time on your phone stays the same.
Fuck.
You should have been at the track thirty minutes ago.
Shit shit shit.
You somehow make yourself look presentable in under fifteen minutes and are out the door and on your way to Albert Park without thinking about having to face Oscar again today.
Traffic is horrendous per usual and by the time you make it to the track FP1 is set to start in about fifteen minutes. You’d missed out on any pre-practice content, but you’d be set for the post practice sessions.
You watch the practice session from one of the viewing areas and it’s surreal to see Oscar actually out there doing what he’d always dreamt of doing. No matter what had gone down last night there's still that part of you that cares about Oscar and you know just how much all of this means to him. You just wish you’d been there to support him through it all.
The practice sessions go by fairly fast and you head towards the media pen ready to face the impending doom of seeing Oscar for the first time since last night. You were confident enough yesterday to act like everything was peachy with him, but after you took off the mask last night you weren’t sure you could put it back on.
The first driver to come up to your spot is Carlos and he’s the perfect driver to help you get warmed up.
“Hi Carlos. So first two practice sessions in the books as Williams driver and you seem to already be in tune with the car. Great sessions from you today– does that make you feel hopeful for qualifying tomorrow?”
There’s not many people in the world who can make you nervous or make you blush just by looking at you, but good lord if Carlos Sainz wasn’t one of them. He definitely knew how to use those big brown eyes to his advantage and you have trouble trying to maintain your professional composure.
“You’re new aren’t you?” He asks– a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“I am.”
“I was going to say– I definitely would have remembered you from previous seasons.” He pauses for a moment and you honestly don’t even know what to say to that, so you just smile and pray you’re not as red as a tomato right now. “But to answer your question, yes I’m feeling hopeful for quali tomorrow. The team has made some amazing developments over the winter and if I can bring these practice results over to quali and race results then it’s going to be an amazing season. So yeah I can’t wait to get out in the car tomorrow and see what I can do.”
“Thanks for your time Carlos, best of luck tomorrow.”
He nods smiling back at you and as he walks off you wonder if he’s like that with every reporter.
You’d interviewed a handful of other drivers after Carlos and how you’d yet to spot Oscar is beyond you. Maybe he’s avoiding you–which you aren’t complaining about. You got the one on one done yesterday so you weren’t obligated to get anything else from him from this weekend– barring that he wins.
There’s other people wrapping things up near you and you take that as a sign that it’s time to call it a day. You’re packing up your bag when you see a flash of McLaren papaya out of the corner of your eye and you immediately turn your back hoping it’s not Oscar and that it’s either an employee or his teammate. The sound of a British accent and the mention of the name Lando from the person next to you lets you know at least it’s not Oscar, but you don’t want to risk turning around and finding him standing there next to him, so you grab your bag and hightail it out of there.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
That night as you're sitting on the couch in your apartment, scrolling on your phone as some random reality tv show plays in the background, a call from your boss comes through that ultimately changes your life forever.
“Hello?”
“Y/N. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, but I need to talk to you.”
You sit up from your slumped position on the couch as worry washes over you. Are you getting fired? Did the interview with Oscar tank, did your work from today not meet his standards? It was very unlike him to call you, especially this late at night. The idea that this could be a call with good news didn’t even register as a possibility in your mind.
“No, you’re fine. What’s going on?” You reply back timidly.
“Well as you know the interview with Oscar has been posted and all your reports from today as well…”
He’s dragging it along and you already knew your boss was a sadist, but this is just confirming it in your mind. “And?”
“And I know I said if you do well this weekend then you’d be getting that promotion– more traveling, deeper storylines to follow and all that good stuff.”
“There’s a but here isn’t there.” Your tone is already defeated, knowing that even if you had delivered some riveting journalism this weekend he still wasn’t going to give you that promotion.
“But– the weekend isn’t even over and you’ve already blown me away with the pieces you’ve put together. That interview with Oscar is trending worldwide, we’ve never had this much engagement on our socials before. I knew you’d do well with this Y/N, but I never thought you’d give us social media trending interviews. I’m proud of you.”
You sit frozen on the couch, you heard him correctly right? You pull your phone away from your ear and go to Youtube, searching for the interview with Oscar. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head when you see the view count on it.
1.2 million views and it was just posted this morning. You click on the comments and just about every other one is mentioning something about how Oscar is looking at you with heart eyes or how you two get on so well and then there’s one comment that throws you for a loop.
Someone was basically airing all your information and how you grew up with Oscar. People were beyond weird on the internet, but that does explain the amount of new followers you’ve gained on Instagram today. You assumed they were all bots– not Oscar Piastri fans.
“Y/N? Are you still there? Y/N? Hello?” The sound of your boss hollering your name through the speaker breaks you from your scrolling, but you just put him on speaker phone so you can continue reading the comments.
“Yeah, yeah I’m still here. I’m just surprised by how much this has blown up, it was just posted this morning.”
“You did great work kid and it shows. Connections will get you everywhere in life– keep that in mind.”
There’s no response from you– you’re still scrolling endlessly on your phone. Somehow someone had found an old picture Nicole had posted on Twitter and figured out you were the extra unknown person in the picture. You’d been tagged in it what seemed like a hundred times– was this going to be your life now? An extension of Oscar forever?
You were your own person at the end of the day and you weren’t going to let people start the narrative that you got to where you were in life because of Oscar, because that’s one big fat lie.
“Now– I was going to talk to you about this when you came back to the office next week, but I feel like the sooner we do the better– even if it is over the phone.” There is another pause and you swear if this isn’t him telling you you’ve got the promotion, especially after your privacy is currently being heavily invaded in a way because of him, then you might just quit on the spot. “That promotion. It’s yours.”
You feel the air escape your lungs and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest, you’d done everything to get to this moment and it all had finally paid off. That is until your boss continues speaking.
“Although it’s not what you’ve exactly been working towards. You’ll be traveling like you wanted, but not in the way you think. The sports division of the company was so impressed with your work that they are offering you a full time position as their main Formula 1 reporter. Which means you’d be going to every race this season to cover it.” He pauses letting you take this all in.
“It’s a one year contract and listen I know this isn’t what you really wanted, but Y/N you’ve got a real natural talent for this kind of reporting. I think you’d really excel in this division of the company and not to mention the pay increase you’d be getting. I know this isn’t the news you were expecting, but I really think you should take this opportunity.”
At first you’re pissed and rightfully so, you’d worked so hard to get this promotion and the one you’re offered isn’t even the one you wanted. But then the wheels in your brain start turning and you start to weigh your options. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t ever thought about doing sports journalism. It had crossed your mind multiple times during high school and college, but the only sport you’d ever found yourself knowledgeable on was Formula 1.
Sure, you could have done a little broadening of your horizons, but you’d only ever really loved F1 and that stemmed from Oscar, who you were trying to create a life without being reminded of him 24/7 and well look where that’s gotten you in the end. You knew this opportunity was one too good to pass up, but at the same time you were still passionate about the other form of journalism that you’d fallen in love with. If you took this job, would that eradicate the possibility of you ever being taken seriously in other kinds of journalism? You weren’t sure and it made your decision that much harder. Because in the end and Oscar issues aside you had genuinely enjoyed covering the events of the race weekend so far.
There were so many what ifs floating around in your brain you knew you couldn’t give your boss a sure thing answer right now. Could you handle seeing Oscar for however many weekends out of the year after not seeing him for almost a decade? You needed to talk to someone about this and get out of your brain, you just only hoped your boss would give you a couple days.
“Do I have time to think this over or not?”
“They want a decision by the time you come back to the office on Monday. Think it over, it is a big decision, and I’ll see you on Monday alright?”
“Okay thanks.”
The line disconnects and you’re stuck sitting there thinking– what the hell just happened?
You waste no time texting your sister an SOS text which means she’ll be over as soon as she can with a bottle of wine and some snacks.
It shouldn’t take her long to get to your apartment from her University, even with grand prix weekend traffic, but when you hear a knock at your door moments later you think she must have already been on her way over when you sent the text because there was no way she got here that fast.
When you swing open the door you're expecting to see your little sister standing there, wine bottle in hand with a bag full of goodies. Instead you’re met with the complete opposite.
Standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hands, pink and white tulips to be exact, is Oscar. He’s got a sheepish smile on his face and the apples of his cheeks are flushed. He was the last person you expected to be standing behind that door.
“What are you doing here?” Your tone is harsher than expected, judging from the drop of emotion on Oscar’s face, but genuinely what the hell was he doing here?
His free hand awkwardly rubs the back of his neck as his eyes quickly dart in every direction but you. “Um- well I know last night was a rough night for both of us and I know showing up with flowers doesn’t change anything, but I’m hoping it’s a step in the right direction. I wanted to have a conversation with you, I wanted to talk now that everything from before is out in the open.”
Your grip on the door tightens, part of you wants to slam it in his face for showing up uninvited and thinking that after the night you two had that you’d want to see him so soon. But then there is that part of you that still cares about Oscar, still knows that connection is there deep down no matter how hard you want to push it down.
The two of you stand there for a moment in your doorway and then Oscar gives you that soft smile that’s always given you a funny feeling and slightly pushes the flowers towards you. “Please, just ten minutes and then I’ll leave.”
You grab the flowers from him, admiring them for a moment before looking back up at him. “You remembered?”
Oscar shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I remember everything about you Y/N.”
You want to hate how he’s breaking down your walls and you really do try and resist, but Oscar has always been your weakness. “Ten minutes Piastri that’s it.”
He slowly enters your apartment, glancing around at the various knick knacks placed around. Oscar doesn’t know what adult you is like, but from the little things that catch his eye around your apartment he sees parts of you that he knows. The record player in the corner with a massive music collection below it– you’d always been a music lover and Oscar can’t recall how many playlists you’d made for him on your old ipod.
The two of you would always be sharing a pair of earbuds instead of just playing the music outloud, you claimed it sounded better, even with just one ear hearing the music, while Oscar was just happy to be spending time with you. The snoopy plush sitting on the couch– every holiday season you’d force Oscar to watch the Charlie Brown movies with you and to this day if he sees anything snoopy related he always thinks of you.
Oscar watches as you pull out a vase from one of your cabinets and take the time to meticulously arrange the flowers in it. He’s trying not to stare, but there’s something about seeing you in such a natural state, your hair up and pajamas on, that makes him think you're the most beautiful girl in the world. He doesn’t want to seem like a creep and get caught staring so he sits on the couch next to Snoopy and waits for you to join him.
Meanwhile you’re moving at a snail's pace when it comes to putting these flowers in a vase. You don’t want to sit on the couch with Oscar and talk to him. There’s been no time for you to process anything and now you’ve got this promotion to think about– Oscar showing up tonight was the last thing you needed right now.
There’s a funny feeling you get in your gut when you glance up from the flowers to see Oscar sitting on your couch like he’s been here a million times before. It drives you crazy that even after all these years apart and how much you want to resent him that even if it’s tiny moments like this– there’s still that level of comfort and familiarity between the two of you. It’s something that will be there forever between the two of you. How deeply you’re ingrained into each other and it makes you want to throw up.
You’ve rearranged the flowers a dozen times by now and you know you’ve got to get this over with– you’ve got to be a big girl.
Oscar’s head turns at the sound of your slipper clad feet shuffling across the floor towards him. “Thanks for the flowers by the way. They’re lovely.”
He gives you that polite smile that he always does and tries to ignore the way his heart beats a little faster when you choose to sit next to him on the couch instead of the chair. “Of course. It’s the least I could do.”
Silence fills the space between you two– which is a common occurrence these days. Then you realize that he’s had to have asked someone where you live because you sure as hell didn’t mention it to him in the forty-eight hours since you two have reunited.
“How’d you figure out where I live?” You turn your body to face Oscar, your leg crossing under the other.
“Um I may have asked your Mum” He admits sheepishly.
Of course your Mum told him. You loved her and she understood you more than most people, but she also didn’t know that Oscar and you had gotten into that heated conversation last night or how much he really truly hurt you.
“Oscar, why are you here?” Your tone sounds defeated already and you’re afraid this is going to be a repeat of last night.
Oscar sighs deeply as he now finally turns to face you– mirroring your position on the couch. “I know last night was rough and if we are being honest with each other, it had to happen. We needed to get everything out in the open for us to even have a chance at getting back to how things used to be. And I know I’ve said this a ton, but I am so sorry about how things turned out between us, how I handled me moving away. It wasn’t fair to you. I got to go off and follow my dreams and while I did miss you it was easier for me I didn’t have any connections to anything in England.”
He hopes you’re really taking what he says to heart, but he wouldn’t blame you if you just ignored him either.
“I got to start fresh and build a whole new part of my life. I never thought about how you were stuck back in Australia with the old parts of me, stuck with memories and a life that involved me, but that I wasn’t there for. I abandoned you and I never meant to. But I think Y/N– I really truly think that maybe this was supposed to happen this is the universes fucked up plan for us and that we were meant to reconnect. I’d been thinking about you more this past year than ever since I moved and now this? It can’t be a coincidence. I know it will take some time, but I want you back in my life Y/N. Forever this time.”
A deep emotional breath rattles through your body as you process Oscar’s spiel. He says all this stuff, but does he really mean it? You’ve built up so many walls around yourself when it comes to Oscar you aren’t sure you can ever fully trust him again and if you do let him back in you think you might always be scared he’s going to leave again.
“You know Oscar for a while I had convinced myself that you were dead. It was easier for me to deal with the fact that you had stopped talking to me because your were dead rather than you not talking to me because you’d fucked off to England.”
Oscar can’t lie– that was a real punch to the gut to hear you say that. The more he chips away at you the more he learns just how much he hurt you and it fucking kills him.
The air is thick with tension and Oscar is afraid of what else is going to come out of your mouth. He watches as you chew at your bottom lip, a nervous habit you still haven’t kicked even after all these years. He knows the gears are turning in your head, knows there’s so much you want to say to him, but you’re scared.
You lean your head back, looking up at the ceiling as you try to conceal the emotions you’re feeling. You weren’t going to cry, not already.
“This is a lot Oscar it really is. We just saw each other for the first time in like a decade yesterday and you’re going on this big rant about how I was supposed to be put through some emotional warfare for us to be friends again in the future? I’ve got so much shit to work through when it comes to you and I mean why are you so adamant about me being in your life again? You’ve got everything you wanted without me– you’re a driver for a top team in F1, you’re rich, you’ve got a loving girlfriend–”
“I’m not with her anymore. We broke up last year.” Oscar interjects with a little more enthusiasm than you would think when talking about a break up of a long time partner.
The news of Oscar being a single man should not have much of an effect on your right? The weird feeling coursing through you right now is just surprise and nothing else. At least that’s what you tell yourself. The way he was so eager to tell you that she wasn’t in his life anymore meant nothing really. If anything he’s probably still in love with her, you don’t be with someone for that long and still not have lasting feelings.
“Oh, sorry to hear that.” Slips from your mouth, even though deep down you know you really don’t mean it.
He shrugs it off, acting like it was nothing.
“I’m so adamant about you being in my life again Y/N because I’ve realized there’s no one that compares to you– to the connection that we have. You’re my person and you always have been.”
“Oscar, this connection that you keep talking about, you’re thinking about what we used to have, back when we were kids. I mean you say this stuff but how can you be sure? What if things aren’t the same?”
He knows he’s got a long way to go with you, but he knows what he feels isn’t wrong. He just wishes you’d give him at least an inch to work with here.
“I know how I feel Y/N. What we had when we were kids was something beyond a normal friendship: we were an extension of one another– my other half. That doesn’t go away, no matter what has happened.”
He pauses for a moment as the two of you make eye contact and he can see how you want to trust him. He can see it in your eyes, but the walls you’ve built up are strong.
“I know you feel it too. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it even when you’re mad at me and you’ve got every wall you’ve ever built up, but there’s a little crack that light shines through and that light is the part of you that you’ve kept safe from the hurt. The part of you that is still connected to me.”
The tears that you’ve held back so well start to build up in your eyes and you hate that Oscar can read you so well still to this day. He’s right and you despise how right he is, but no matter how right he is and how you feel about him.
You’ve got to protect yourself at the end of the day.
“I can’t get hurt again Oscar. Say I let you back into my life, how will I know you won’t leave me again? I can’t handle that again. I mean fuck I’d dreamt about how it would be if we ever reconnected when I was younger, but older me has to protect the younger version of herself that’s still inside me. I don’t know what to do. My brain says one thing my heart says another. It’s all too much too fast. I want to believe you, I really do, but the hurt part of me and the fact that we just reconnected yesterday is throwing me all these red flags. You have to understand how I’m feeling Oscar.”
Oscar sees the first tear fall from your eye and without even thinking twice he reaches out and gently wipes it away from your cheek. “Y/N. I’m not going anywhere. I promise. If it takes the rest of my life for you to let me back in or for us to get back to how we used to be. I don’t care– I’ll still be here right by your side.”
Out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of something on Oscar’s wrist as he moves his arm back into his personal space. Your breath catches in your throat and your stomach damn near falls out of your ass. You do a double take, thinking there is no way you’re seeing what you think you’re seeing. But you’d recognize that bracelet anywhere. The matching one was just in the other room, tucked away in a box of things from your adolescence. You were a hoarder of things that held memories so it was no surprise to anyone that you still had yours, but for Oscar to still have his and be wearing it? You were beyond shocked.
“You still have that?” You ask timidly, like it’s a weapon that’s going to hurt you, but honestly that bracelet could cause more damage to you than a gun right now.
Oscar’s eyes follow your line of sight and when they land on his bracelet clad wrist he instinctively reaches down to play with the excess string.
“Yeah. Found it in my old room last night, I thought I’d lost it right before I left for England.” He pauses, twisting the thin bracelet on his wrist. “If you ask me, it’s a sign. What are the chances of me finding half of our matching bracelets that I thought I lost years ago on the same day you came back into my life?”
You’re at a loss for words. Those bracelets meant everything to you back then and you’d still wore yours for a good year after Oscar left, even after seeing him not wearing it when he came home to visit. It meant more to you than it should have and to see him sitting here in your apartment with it on is throwing you for a loop.
“Um– am I interrupting something?”
Your little sister's voice snaps you out of whatever bubble Oscar and you had found yourself in and it’s times like this that you regret giving her a key. You quickly stand up acting like Oscar and you had just been caught having sex. “No, you’re not interrupting anything. Oscar was just getting ready to leave.” You ignore the little flash of hurt on his face, he really didn’t expect for you three to hang out did he?
“Um– yeah. I was getting ready to leave.” He stands up awkwardly from the couch, smoothing out his shirt as he heads towards the door. “Thanks for talking to me Y/N.” He looks back at you and you give him a small smile. “See ya Sam.” Oscar nods towards your sister as he walks past her.
The door closes behind him and you plop back down onto the couch with a loud sigh.
“Alright, spill the beans. What the hell is going on?” Sam demands before heading towards the kitchen to grab the wine opener and two glasses.
“Sam everything is so fucked up it’s not even funny.”
The two of you are up till the early morning as you tell your sister everything that had happened in the last 48 hours. There isn’t a detail you leave out and by the end of it you do feel better, but not 100% clear on what you should actually do. Unfortunately you don’t think you’ll ever be completely certain on things when it comes to Oscar or this job promotion, but if there was one thing Sam was good at, it was telling you how it was. She never sugar coated things– it was the little sister in her.
“You’re never going to know until you try. I know it’s scary and I know you don’t want to get hurt again, but I also grew up with Oscar and you’re literally my sister. I know you sometimes more than I think I know myself. You guys have always had this weird thing about you, like some connection that no one else can even compare to. And I think that if you don’t let Oscar back in you’re going to regret it thirty years from now and if you don’t take this job you’re going to regret it. Live a little Y/N. And if it all ends tits up again you can at least say you tried and I’ll be here as a shoulder to cry on before I go beat Piastri’s ass.”
“I’m scared.”
“That means you’re human.” She reaches out for your hand, squeezing it tightly in hers, a sign of reassurance. “Ultimately it’s up to you, but just know I’ll support you no matter what you decide– Oscar wise and job wise.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Probably be stuck in a perpetual 'what if’ that consumes your whole life.”
You roll your eyes at your younger sister. “Alright it’s time for bed.”
Sam crashes in your spare bedroom while you sit and contemplate life in yours. The box at the top of your closet is taunting you as you sit on your bed wide awake. The box that was home to that bracelet and so many other things. You sit and try and talk yourself out of getting it down, but it was no use, seconds later you’re on your tippy toes grabbing the tattered box from the shelf.
The box was practically a time capsule and when you opened it you were hit with a wave of nostalgia. Old pictures, concert tickets, trinkets, souvenirs from trips, and at the bottom of the box was that one thing you were looking for.
The bracelet was definitely looking worse for wear with some fraying thread and a little stain on one spot, but for being over a decade old you couldn’t complain. It held a special place in your heart and so you really didn’t care what it looked like.
You hold it in your hands, your fingers toying with it as you reminisce. Then without even thinking about it you slide it over your wrist. You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you put it on, maybe some giant explosion of feelings? A glowing sign in your mind that would tell you the right thing to do? It really lacked luster when you put it on, but it wasn’t about how it felt when you put it on, it was about knowing that Oscar had his on too. That you two were somehow connected again, even if it just was through a bracelet. It was something just for you two and that’s what made it special. A sign that maybe Oscar was right, maybe he was going to stick around this time.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The morning arrives way faster than you were expecting, but it had been a late night, a very late night. The reflection in the bathroom mirror is a rough one and when you go to try and tame your bed head you catch sight of the red string on your wrist. Your breath catches in your throat once again and everything from last night comes rushing back. Your head was already pounding from the wine you were drinking like juice last night. Then factor in your conversation with Oscar and your boss and it feels like your head is about ready to pop.
By the time you make it to the track your headache has subsided some thanks to tylenol and a greasy breakfast, but you can’t stop replaying the events of last night. You know you’ve got to push it all down and enter your work mode, but God if Oscar’s plan was to get into your head last night, then he had succeeded.
The last free practice session of the weekend has Oscar leading the times and it’s got you filled with hope for qualifying. You know practice sessions don’t mean everything, but you can’t help but feel like he’s going to put it on pole in a few short hours.
You’d never wanted him to come to the media pen in between sessions so badly up until now and of course he doesn’t. You just wanted to wish him good luck, give him a little reassurance, but you knew he was probably busy analysing data with his team and every other thing a Formula 1 driver does.
No matter how many demons you were fighting with right now when it came to Oscar you still cared and you were happy to see him do well.
Qualifying arrives before you know it and by the time the last laps start being ran in Q3 you think you’re not going to have any fingernails left. You want him to get pole so bad, it’s his home race, he’s dreamt about this since a kid. It’s been close between Lando and him the whole session and when Oscar crosses the finish line on his last effort his name goes to the top of the timing board– he’d done an extraordinary lap. But in a matter of seconds it’s taken right from underneath him by his teammate. Lando crosses the finish line and beats Oscar’s time by a hair.
You already know Oscar’s going to be beating himself up about this. You remember how he was in karting, always calm and collected in front of others, but when it was just the two of you or when he was around the people he cared about he’d finally let down his facade. P2 was still such a good spot to be starting from tomorrow, he was on the front row, but even without talking to Oscar for so long you know how badly he’s wanted this and you know he’ll be hurting deep down.
The media pen is in full swing by the time you spot Oscar walking in, race suit hanging low on his hips, cheeks flushed. You try not to stare, as he makes a b-line for you, not wanting him to know you spotted him as soon as he walked in.
You immediately switch into professional mode as he stands in front of the barrier that separates the two of you. “Hi Oscar.”
When Oscar walked into the media pen his eyes immediately scanned the area for you. He wanted you to be the first person he talked to– he needed to see your face. He spots you within seconds and makes haste to head towards you before another driver plants their feet in front of you. He finds it endearing how quickly you switch into your reporter mode and a small smile finds its way onto his face as you greet him. You ask him the expected questions about his quali session and he finds that it doesn’t hurt as bad to talk about losing pole with you than it would with anyone else.
Your right hand reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear as you ask some question about his last sector in Q3 and that’s when Oscar sees it.
The red bracelet– on your wrist.
The question goes in one ear and out the other because all he can focus on is that damn bracelet. To see you wearing it, especially out in public, has Oscar feeling more than hopeful about finally breaking down your walls. He’s not getting too ahead of himself because he knows he still has a long way to go with you, but you deciding to look for that bracelet last night and then deciding to go ahead and wear it speaks volumes about how you are feeling towards him.
The disappointing loss of pole isn’t at the forefront of his brain right now– that’s something to rume about with the team later, right now he had this to enjoy.
“Oscar did you hear me?” Your voice breaks him out of his trance.
He smiles, cheeks getting red from embarrassment now rather than the exhausting quali session. “Sorry, yeah. It was a great last sector, just couldn’t extract that little extra bit that Lando did in the car. But I’m ready for tomorrow and see what I can do out on the track.”
That evening you get a text from Oscar that simply reads– nice bracelet.
It’s just a text that contains literally two words, you shouldn’t be smiling at your phone the way you are. Especially over something Oscar sent you, but you can’t help it. He’s being his old charming self and the walls you’ve built up are coming down like they’ve been built out of paper. It scares the shit out of you– how fast he’s worming his way back in and how you really aren’t putting up a fight. Although you guess those walls really never stood a chance when the person you’d built them against was the one who would always know how to break them down– no matter how long you’d been apart.
You consider not responding, but your fingers are typing before you even decide what to do.
Just something I found from ages ago.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The following day brings heartbreak.
You should have known that when you awoke to the sound of rain pelting against your windows that it was a bad sign, but you tried to remain positive, knowing that it would probably clear up by race time.
You were wrong.
The race had been going well for Oscar, considering the track conditions, and he was in the hunt for the win. You’d never been so anxious watching him race before and you knew it was because of your knowledge on how much winning his home race meant to Oscar. To start off the season with a win and it be his home race would be such a good start to what you knew was going to be an amazing season for him.
That is until lap 44.
The rain had started to come down faster and you could see the puddles starting to form on parts of the track. You can hear the murmurs of the other reporters around you questioning if race control is going to intervene or let fate decide the outcome of this race.
It’s not even ten seconds later that you hear hollers from the crowd and you know in your gut what’s happened before you even look up at the screen. The sight of Oscar’s McLaren stuck in the grass makes your stomach drop. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go for him. You can only imagine how his family is feeling right now and you wished you were with them right now instead of being stuck working.
The yellow flag graphic flashes on the screen where he’s gone off the track and you know it’s a matter of time before a safety car comes out. You aren’t even sure what to think at the moment, things were so weird right now between Oscar and you and hell you weren’t even really sure if there would be an Oscar and you again after this weekend was done. But right now you’re hurting for the little boy you once knew. The one who would drag you alongside him to the Grand Prix every year and when the winner would take the top step on the podium he’d always say that was going to be him one day. And now when he’s so close to making that dream a reality– it’s been ripped out of his hands.
The sound of the crowd is deafening and when the stream finally shows you what is happening you aren’t the least bit surprised. Oscar’s giving it everything he has to get that car out of the grass and after a few attempts he’s back on the track.
He wasn’t going down without a fight.
That was the Oscar you’d always known. Determined. Strongwilled.
Even if he’d place P20 he could at least say he finished the race and you knew he’d use this as fuel for the remainder of the season.
Your fingernails are practically gone by the time the checkered flag flies and Oscar has somehow finished in the points. It’s not the outcome anyone who supported him wanted, but given the circumstances he’d turned this shit situation into at least one with some points.
The media pen post race is of course in a frenzy, but there’s only one driver you want to talk to.
You spot him as soon as he walks in– looking disheveled and defeated. His PR training is already on display as soon as he knows the cameras are on him. He’s allowed to be upset, but not too upset. Don’t talk badly about the team or try to blame anyone else, but don’t be too self-depreciative. It’s been ingrained in him since his early days in Formula 1.
That all goes to shit as soon as he locks eyes with you.
His demeanor instantly softens when he sees you standing there. He’d just lost out on winning his home race, surely already getting slammed online and he knows there’s a handful of reporters waiting to rip into him, but none of that matters when he’s got you here, looking at him like it doesn’t matter that he spun out at his home race and almost had to retire, you’ll be here no matter what.
The moment you start speaking he goes on autopilot– the PR trained side of him taking over, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still here. Still seeing the way your eyes soften towards him or the way you’ve been saying nothing but positive things to him. Even after all these years of being apart you still know how to console Oscar after a shit race. Even if you’re limited with your words and actions.
Your free hand had been resting on the barrier between Oscar and you for the duration of the interview and you pretend not to notice Oscar’s hands that are also on the barrier and how his pinky finger keeps brushing against yours ever so often. The little sparks that radiate through you every time the tiniest square inch of your skin meets his is embarrassing.
What the hell was going on with you?
You should be prioritizing getting the most out of this interview with Oscar because at the end of the day you were here to work and your career came before anything that had to do with him. Yet you find yourself stumbling over your words when he hooks his pinky finger around yours, like he’s trying to find comfort in you while still remaining professional.
Oscar doesn’t even really realize he’s practically enveloping your hand until he’s finally being ushered on by Sophie to the next interview and he almost has to remove his hand from on top of yours. It’s something he’d always done with you, found comfort in physical contact. Oscar was never big on physical affection growing up, sure he hugged his family, but with you it was different. It was almost like second nature for the two of you to be in contact somehow.
Sure your parents joked about the two of you being attached at the hip, but sometimes it was like you really were. Personal space was not a word that Oscar and you were familiar with and it really resonated with how the two of you at one point in time felt like home to the other. That you were so in tune with each other that a simple touch could bring you a sense of comfort that nothing else in the world could.
As Oscar walks over to the next interview he realizes that apparently old habits do die hard.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It’s a busy afternoon as you finish up your work and send off everything to your boss for it to be finalized. You can’t believe the race weekend is over or that you reported on the whole weekend to begin with. Never in a million years would you think you would have ended up here in your career, yet here you are.
The promotion is still weighing heavy on your mind and honestly you had fun this weekend, but that doesn’t mean you’d enjoy doing this for every race right? You wouldn’t enjoy traveling the world on your employer's dime and having a career that thousands probably dream about having right? You’d have to see Oscar all the time and that’s certainly something you’re not sure you can handle– at least that’s what you’re telling yourself.
You decide to push the debating on the promotion to the back of your mind, you had until the morning to decide, and honestly you think you just might flip a coin to decide. Although sitting in your apartment just lets your brain think about it more so you decide to go for a drive, get some fresh air, and listen to some music. Sure the traffic will be horrendous, but you think anything will help you calm your brain more than just sitting in your apartment.
The Melbourne roads decide your journey for the night and you finally start to feel a little at ease as the fresh air billows through your car and your playlist fills your ears. Somehow you end up in your childhood neighborhood and your car somehow parks itself in your old driveway. You want to act like your car drove you here against your will, but you were turning the wheel, subconsciously wanting to come and see him.
He’s in the exact place you expect him to be when you glance into their backyard, the rusty swing giving away his location just from the sound alone. Your feet carry you up the driveway into your backyard, through the shared gate and into the Piastri’s backyard before you can talk yourself out of it. Deep down you knew he’d need you and even if you weren’t going to admit it you needed him just as badly.
His head is hung low as he sluggishly swings back and forth. It’s a sight to see really– a grown man on a swingset, but you join him looking as equally as ridiculous. Oscar’s head perks up at the sound of someone sitting in the swing next to him, but he already knew who it was before he looked up. He wasn’t trying to be out here throwing himself a pity party, but damn did today hurt. He knew he had it in him to win today, luck just wasn’t on his side.
“Hey.” You’re the first to speak up.
Oscar glances over at you and gives you a small smile. “Hey.”
You know he probably doesn’t want to talk about what happened today. He’s had to talk about it a million times, but on a personal level you want to check in with him.
“If you just want to put today behind you I get it, but if you want to vent, I’m here.”
Oscar shrugs, he doesn’t really know what else there is to say about what had happened. He wants to scream and say how unfair racing is, but that’s not going to do any good. He’s just got to channel how he’s feeling into the rest of this season, use this as fuel as what he's working towards. “It fucking sucks I’m not going to lie, but I’ve just got to move on and look forward to the rest of the season. Can’t change anything now. Even if I would have given anything to win today, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
You nod in an understanding way. “One bad race, really means nothing right now. Which I really wouldn’t even say was that bad of a race. You went from almost being out to getting the car back onto the track and getting into the points. I know it wasn’t a win, but you still had a hell of a drive today Oscar. I’m still proud no matter what because I still remember the little boy who wanted to achieve this dream more than anything and look at where you are now.”
A brief moment of silence falls between the two of you as Oscar internalizes your words. It means more to him than you would think to hear you say that you’re proud of him. Even after how bad things ended up to hear you say that and for him to know you’re being sincere means more than a win to him at this point.
“You being here tonight with me means more than you’ll ever know. I know things are still a little weird between us, but sometimes I still need my best friend Y/N.”
This conversation was quickly turning away from the race today and into one about the two of you, which is how all of your conversations with Oscar seemed to end up these past couple of days. You feel the early stages of tears starting to well up in your eyes and you hate how emotional you can get.
All those years that you just needed your best friend start to replay in your mind. You needed him when you were fourteen and he’d just left for England. When you were sixteen with no date to homecoming. When you were eighteen and had just graduated. When you were twenty and feeling more than lost at University. And now at twenty-four you need him more than you’ll let yourself realize. Except this time he’s here and you don’t know how to fully let him back in. To dive back in without a life jacket.
“I needed my best friend I don’t know how many times Oscar and you weren’t there. I’m scared because I’m getting that feeling again like I need you and I’m so used to just dealing with things and experiencing things without you, but you’re here this time, and I don’t know what to do.”
Oscar frowns at your response, to hear you vocalize just how much hurt you’ve been dealing with kills him everytime. He wishes he could snap his fingers and everything would be alright, but he knows that can’t happen.
“This time I’m staying for good.” He wants to reach over and take your hand in his, intertwine your fingers and never let go, but he knows that would be too much. “What’s going on? Let me in Y/N– please.”
You want to trust him you really do, but god the trust issues you have are ridiculous. You don’t respond, you just look at him and he knows what you’re thinking. He knows this is going to take time.
The two of you sit in silence for a good while, staring up at the stars, until you finally bring up the thing that’s been drowning your thoughts since Friday night.
“My work is offering me a promotion.”
Oscar’s eyes light up for the first time tonight. “That’s amazing Y/N.”
You shake your head at his response, your eyes trained on your hands that have found a home in your lap. “It’s not the promotion I was expecting.” Osar furrows his eyebrows in confusion and you take his silence as a sign to continue. “I’ve always wanted to do high intensity journalism– war torn countries, national geographic stuff like that. But my boss called me the other night and said that our interview had gone so well and that my other content was so good that the sports division of the company is offering me the position to be their full time F1 journalist.”
Right off the bat Oscar’s first thought is for you to take the promotion. It’s selfish reasoning, but if you did he’d be able to see you so much more and that’s something he’s never going to say no to. But the rational side of him knows you’re probably at war with your mind right now and his selfish wants are not what you need to hear right now.
Although there isn’t a doubt in Oscar’s mind that you wouldn’t absolutely dominate this promotion if you accepted it. You were a pure natural this weekend and handled the hectic weekend better than some seasoned journalists. He knows deep down though that he’s one of the big reasons as to why you’re so hesitant to accept the offer and it kills him.
“I still think it’s amazing Y/N. It might not be exactly what you wanted, but I think it’s a good sign that you’re getting offered this after just one weekend. Imagine what your life could be like a year from now.”
You knew Oscar would be nothing but supportive of the idea of you taking this promotion, maybe you shouldn’t have come to him with this. “It’s not what I wanted though. I mean this weekend was great and everything just felt natural like I’d been doing this for years, but what if this is a one off thing. Like what if I get to the next race and it’s just a shit weekend for me?”
Oscar stifles a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve just described the life of a race car driver.”
An irritated eye roll is thrown in Oscar’s direction at his comment. “No but seriously Osc, I can’t deal with the what-ifs. I mean what if taking this eliminates my chances of doing other kinds of journalism?”
Oscar acts like hearing you call him Osc for the first time in over a decade doesn’t make his heart race. It was a slip of the tongue he’s sure– falling back into old habits. But he can’t help but feel like it’s a win for him, to have you reverting back to old nicknames so quickly. He’ll always be your Osc even when you're both old and grey.
He quickly brings himself back to reality and out of his dreamland, you needed him right now and he was going to be here to listen and tell you what you needed to hear. “But what if you don’t take it and you lose out on the opportunity of a lifetime?”
You don’t give an answer to his hypothetical scenario, choosing to anxiously pick at your fingernails instead.
“I honestly think you’ve already made up your mind Y/N. How many times did you mull over things as a child and make a big deal out of it? You’d have Sam and I going through every possible outcome and the whole time you’ve had your mind made up since the beginning. Go with your gut– take the risk or don’t. You always took what Sam and I said into consideration, but at the end of the day it’s your choice.”
Your front teeth tug at your bottom lip as you take in what Oscar’s told you. He wasn’t wrong. You’d been so caught up in the Oscar aspect of all of this that you were letting it cloud what this opportunity could do for you instead of take away. Deep down you knew you were leaning more towards taking the job.
The feeling you had this weekend was indescribable and to be that excited to do your job should be a good sign– at least you think it is. Oscar had just made everything more conflicting for you and you were able to find other things to pile on to not make it seem like it was just Oscar preventing you from taking this job.
How your life had been practically turned upside down in a matter of four days was beyond you, but you think maybe what Oscar has said the other night might have had a little truth to it. Maybe this all was meant to happen in the way it has. Maybe Oscar was supposed to come back to you and this was the plan for you two all along. Maybe it’s your way of coping with how fast everything seems to be moving or how you can’t seem to stop Oscar from just climbing back into his home behind your ribs no matter how hard you try.
You’re still hurt and mad at him from how things went down between the two of you, but god how you’ve missed having him around. You know there’s so much now that you don’t know about him, but there’s parts of him that are never going to change, the parts of him that you kept to yourself, the parts you held onto for safe keeping as the years without him passed.
You don’t want to get hurt again– you never want to feel the way you did all those years ago. And if you take this job you know it also means that you’re willing to fully let Oscar back in, maybe not right away, but you know you have a weakness when it comes to him and it’ll happen eventually. But you think you won’t ever find the connection you have with Oscar in someone else and if the universe is giving you guys another chance, then you’d be a fool not to take it.
“When do you think you’ll be back in Australia?” Your hands grip the metal chains of the swing tighter, scared of what his answer is going to be.
“Depends on if I get to see you or not. If I get to see you I’ll be home after China. If I don’t then probably not until the season’s summer break.” He’s teasing and you want to slap that stupid smirk that you secretly love off of his face.
“Well who knows if I’ll be around during your break so guess it’ll probably be a year from now until we see each other again.”
Oscar rolls his eyes at your dramatics before getting up from the swing and extending his hand out for you to take. “Come on, miss dramatic. It’s late and you’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. You’re gonna need all the sleep you can get now, trust me the jet lag is killer.”
You take his hand and he pulls you up out of the swing. “I never said I was taking that promotion Oscar so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
An amused expression paints itself across Oscsar’s face as the two of you slowly walk back towards your car. You aren’t quite ready to leave and Oscar isn’t ready to go inside so the both of you linger by your car. It’s like a scene out of a movie– Oscar’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets while you lean against your car. The only thing that fills the air is the sound of a dog barking in the distance and the gentle night breeze. There’s a giddy feeling that radiates through you, that any normal person would call butterflies, but that’s totally not what you’re feeling right now– right?
Oscar gives you that shy little smile and you can sense him moving closer ever so often. The energy between the two of you is charged like a live wire and you can feel your heart beating in your ears. You know what’s about to happen, but this can’t be happening right now– it can’t be. This is your best friend that yes you kissed when you were fourteen but you were kids and this is way more serious this time around. Yet with all the panicking you find your heart overriding your mind and when Oscar cups your cheek with his hand you lean into his touch.
“Osc-”
He shakes his head not wanting to hear your protests. “Have you ever thought about what things might be like if I had never moved to England? Or maybe if I would have pulled my head out of my ass and kept in touch with you?” His voice is almost a whisper. His free hand lands gently on your hip and he’s practically got you caged against your car.
Oscar was so close you could count every individual eyelash that adorned his eyes. “All the time.”
“I’d like to think things would be different.”
You shake your head at him, there was no use dwelling on what could have been. “We’ll never know Oscar.”
“You never thought about what things would be like between us?”
You notice how his eyes flicker from your eyes then back down to your lips ever so often and it causes a shiver to run down your spine. “Us?”
Oscar nods and you can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows, nervous to hear your answer.
“Maybe when I was younger, especially after you kissed me at Hannah’s house, but Oscar we’re grown now. Any little feeling I’d had disappeared the moment you got with Lucy and god Oscar you were with her for so long. Those feelings don’t just go away just because you’ve broken up.”
“She never meant as much to me as you.”
You scoff and Oscar’s hand drops from your face, but moves to mirror the other on your hips. “Don’t say that. You were with her for five years, Oscar. Don’t put her down to try and suck up to me. If I really meant that much to you then you would have never gotten with her.”
“You know you’ve always been my person– my other half. There’s always been that connection between us Y/N.” Oscar knows he’s being pathetic and more than likely making a fool of himself, but in the heat of the moment he just turns feral and thinks that after four days of reuniting that it's a good idea to try and make a move on you.
“You’re talking about me like I’m your ex or the one that got away. Oscar, I'm your best friend. We’ve never been anything more and if this is the time you decide to tell me you’ve got feelings for me this is one hell of a time. I just got you back– don’t try and rush into something over all these heightened emotions.”
You push Oscar away as you come back to reality and realize this is not how you want this new chapter with Oscar to begin. You aren’t sure how you exactly feel about him, if it’s romantic or lust or just seeing someone you used to call home after so long. Everything is heightened at the moment and it’s like you’ve been running on adrenaline all weekend.
“You’re telling me you don’t feel the connection between the two of us?” Oscar asks, desperation laced in his voice.
The adrenaline you’ve been surviving off of is starting to wear off and you can feel the tiredness setting in, your brain is fried. “I don’t know how I feel Oscar. A couple weeks ago I would have never thought I’d be here right now with you. I was living my life without you and I was fine. Now I guess the universe thought we needed to reunite and you’ve come crashing back in head first. I can’t differentiate my mind from my heart half the time and I want to hate you so bad sometimes, but then I’m around you and things just feel right. So god forbid a girl wants some time to process things.”
Oscar can see how everything is really taking its toll on you and the regret starts to set in. He never meant to make things harder for you. He’d gotten way too ahead of himself and took things a little too far too fast. He’s just so scared to lose you again that he doesn’t realize he’s being a little overbearing. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve just gotten too wrapped up in having you back and trying to process how I’m also feeling.”
You can see the regret in his eyes and you never wanted Oscar to feel bad for expressing his feelings, but it’s too much for you right now. You’re still trying to work through trusting him on a friendship level and you hate to say it, but if he actually did have feelings for you romantically you think you might doubt that too.
Seeing a familiar person, a person you were once so comfortable with after so long and then add on that fact that he’s probably still not over Lucy. To you the only logical explanation is that he’s using you as a rebound. And that is not something you could handle on top of everything else. It’s best to nip that in the bud before you find yourself stumbling down that dark path that will eventually hurt you more than anything in the end.
You move to stand by your car door, initiating the end of this conversation for the night. “I care about you so deeply Oscar, even after all that’s happened, don’t think I don’t. I’ve just got shit I’ve got to work through. If the universe is giving us this second chance to have each other back in our lives, let’s try to not fuck it up again. I need my best friend first and if it ever gets to something beyond friends then okay, but we can’t rush into something we both aren’t ready for. Don’t ruin everything because we were caught up in the moment.”
He knows you’re right and he wants to kick himself for turning a decent night with you into this, but he guesses if he hadn’t then he would never know how you felt. “So much has happened I keep forgetting it’s only been four days since we reconnected.”
You just want to move on from this conversation, if you don’t it’s going to just keep going around in circles. “Well this season is gonna seem like an eternity if we keep the same timeline going.”
Oscar’s eyes widen and he cocks an eyebrow at you in question.
You open your car door, hesitating slightly before getting in. “I’ll see you in China, Piastri.”
Even with the news of you practically being with him for the whole year he’s still reeling from making a damn fool of himself moments ago. You can tell he’s in his head and maybe you were a little harsh with him, but he needed to know how you felt and if there was one thing you were going to be with Oscar it was honest.
“We’re gonna be okay. We’ve just gotta give each other time.” You reassure him before you leave Oscar standing in the driveway.
Oscar watches you the whole time and when he finally can’t see your car he then treks back inside.
God help him.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
As the season progresses you start to get into the groove of your new job and by the time summer break rolls around you’d never been happier that you made the decision to take that promotion. It just comes naturally to you and you’ve quickly made a name for yourself in the sports journalism world. Your work is thrilled with the pieces and content you’ve been turning out and you only wish you could have been doing this sooner.
As for Oscar and you– it’s been a journey. The first couple race weekends after Australia were a little weird considering the fact that the two of you almost kissed, but you two eventually got over it. As much as you wanted to keep those walls up, it was genuinely no use. The more you were around him the more you just opened up and at times it was like old times with Oscar. It was nice to just have your best friend back.
Although sometimes at night you’d dream of that moment in Australia when Oscar had you pressed up against your car. You’d wake up flushed and confused, wishing your mind would just let you be for five seconds. It made things harder for you because you wanted to focus on your friendship with him, but you couldn’t help but feel the ache in your chest when he’d look at you a certain way or your hands would brush against his as you walked side by side.
It didn’t help the stuff you’d see online about Oscar and you, people who knew nothing about either of you making outrageous claims. Sometimes though you can’t lie– you’d self indulge in the comment sections of posts.
It was particularly bad after Oscar and you teamed up to do a hot lap video during the Belgium Grand Prix. Of course you two shared your usual banter, but Oscar had decided to be a little shit at the beginning of the video. You’d begged him to not put the pedal to the floor right off the bat, but he’d just looked at you with that sly smirk of his, claiming all he knew how to do was go fast. His eyes never left you as he pressed on the gas, causing the car to go flying and you to let out a scream.
user1: god the way he looks at her when he presses on the gas…. I NEED THAT
user2: can’t lie i’m starting to see what people have been saying about these two. the childhood friends to lovers trope is so strong between them.
user3: heart eyes piastri strikes again and dare i say heart eyes y/n?
user4: i think oscar looked more at her than the road the whole video. he’s down bad fr
The comments have you blushing and you physically have to put your phone down on your hotel bed to calm yourself.
You might be fucked.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
If you would have asked yourself six months ago how do you feel about going on a trip with Oscar to Saint-Tropez and it just being the two of you— you would have said what the fuck why would I be doing that?
Flash forward to now and you find yourself sunbathing on a yacht in the French Riviera with Oscar next to you.
When he asked you a couple weeks ago if you wanted to go with him you’d hesitated– unsure if that was the right thing to do. Things were going well between the two of you, but going on vacation with just him was a whole different story. It was definitely way too soon for you guys to be doing stuff like this, but on the other hand there was a part of you that was giddy at the idea of having some one on one time with Oscar.
So against your better judgment you tell him yes.
Your days are spent lounging around on a yacht, enjoying decadent food, and most importantly realizing you’re in love with Oscar Piastri.
You know it seems fast to say you’re in love with him after only having him back in your life for half a year, and how resistant you were about letting him back in, but the thing is you’ve never not been in love with Oscar.
It’s something you come to terms with three days into the trip and it scares the shit out of you.
You’re out for dinner, some quaint place by the water that only seems to serve meals that you would call a snack, but nonetheless it's beautiful. The sun is setting along the coast and it’s a picturesque scene that Oscar insists you must pose in front of. His phone is pointed in your direction as you smile in front of the sherbert swirled sky.
“Beautiful.” He states as he swipes through the various photos he’d taken.
“Let me see!” You demand, trying to distract yourself from how a single word from Oscar has your cheeks heating up. If he asks at least you can blame it on the wine.
He locks his phone and sets it in his lap, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “No can do, these are for my eyes only.”
“Osc!”
A shake of the head and a smirk is all you get in response from him before the waitress comes over to the table. She’d been a little more friendly than necessary with Oscar all evening, while you’d been treated like dirt under her shoe
“Can I interest you in any dessert tonight?” She asks, looking directly at Oscar, not even bothering to shift her glance towards you. On the surface you're calm and collected, but deep down you want to kick the bitch in the shin. You’d been sitting here the whole evening and the only time she acknowledged you was when she came to the table the first time, after that she was laser focused on Oscar. The batting of the eyelashes, the giggling when all Oscar did was ask what she recommended, and the unnecessary reach across him to fill his wine glass you’d been able to just brush off, but the blatant rudeness of acting like you weren’t even sitting at the table with him about sent you over the edge.
Oscar looks at you from across the table, an eyebrow raised in question. He already knew what you wanted, but still gave you the option to choose.
“We’ll have the tiramisu.” You stick out the menu towards the waitress, tone more than shitty, but you didn’t care, she was being rude.
Her head swivels in your direction when she hears you speak and she almost looks stunned like she didn’t even know you could speak. She grabs the menus from you, but still has the nerve to hyper focus back on Oscar.
“Great. That’s my favorite– I’ll have that right out for you.”
A laugh escapes past your lips as she leaves, you just can’t help it, you’re dumbfounded at the lengths some people will go to try and get someone’s attention. You glance up at Oscar and see him staring back at you, a smirk splayed across his face.
“What?” You ask, suddenly defensive.
Oscar leans back in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest with that same shit eating grin on his face. “Oh nothing. I just think someone is a little jealous.”
“Jealous?!”
He nods, clearly amused at this whole situation. “Yes, don’t act like you haven’t been throwing the waitress daggers with your eyes all evening.”
You scoff as you mess with the edge of the linen table cloth, it was clearly more interesting than this conversation. “I have nothing to be jealous about Oscar so I don’t even know what you are talking about.”
Seconds later the waitress comes back with the dessert, making sure to set the plate directly in front of Oscar instead of in the middle of the table. ‘Let me know if you need anything else.”
Your grip on your spoon is so tight that it’s sure to leave an impression. How fucking rude could she be?
“We’ll just take the check.” Oscar states as he pushes the plate towards the middle of the table.
“Be right back!” She brushes her hand against Oscar’s shoulder as she leaves and you wish she’d never come back.
Oscar grabs his spoon and dives into the tiramisu with a smile never leaving his face. He can’t lie and say he wasn’t enjoying seeing you get so worked up over this. To see you so openly expressing your distaste for anyone to try and make a move on him. Even if you weren’t going to admit it– anyone with two working eyes could see it.
Your friendship while it was clearly back, it was still mending. Things had changed between the two of you and you both knew everything wasn’t going to be the same, but the gaps that existed in your friendship had allowed for another form of connection to flourish. The seedlings had always been there, buried deep from years of memories and the universe's divine intervention. The feelings had always peeked out at certain moments in your lives, but were never there long enough to alter your timelines. That is until now.
Oscar had somewhat always assumed that in the end you were going to be the one he’d eventually end up with. If not out of love, but perhaps out of convenience. Like if you were both thirty and still single then you’d get married kind of deal. You were always special to him– his person as he liked to say. And as horrible as it sounds, all the years he was with Lucy, he knew she wasn’t going to be the one he’d grow old and grey with.
So many people especially in the last year of their relationship had asked when he was going to pop the question and maybe he really should have broken it off way before it got to that point, but Lucy and him did make each other happy. And even though the two of you had no contact the whole time Lucy and him were together, there were parts of him that would always belong to you no matter what, and unfortunately Lucy just wasn’t you.
He’d thought about reaching out so many times, but it was never the right time. Racing was his whole life and it was the thing that took him away from you. So until he knew he’d be able to balance both you and racing he kept to himself. He knew you’d eventually come back to him, it was destined to happen. And when he saw you in that press conference in March he knew this was it. This was the universe putting the puzzle pieces together, but when he saw you there was something that came to light. That feeling he’d had many times before that he never could put a finger on, one that bloomed in his chest and traveled all the way throughout his body.
Love.
He was certain and there was absolutely nothing that could change his mind.
Oscar Piastri was in love with you.
He knew it would take you much longer than him to come to that realization, he’d put you through a lot, and he hated himself for it, but this time was different. He was here to stay and with time he knew you’d heal and the next chapter in the book of Y/N and Oscar could begin.
As the months passed he could see the little peaks of light breaking through, the little signs that you felt the same way as him, but he wasn’t going to press, when your heart was ready you’d let him know.
He just never thought the biggest crack would show over some waitress flirting with him.
To see someone angrily eat tiramisu is a sight to see, but Oscar thinks you still look breathtaking regardless of how hard you dig your spoon into it.
“I’m yours Y/N. Don’t worry.” His free hand reaches across the table to softly envelope yours, his fingers slightly toying with the red bracelet that still adorned your wrist. He sees how the blush on your cheeks deepens and how you seem to relax under his touch. Your actions only add fire to the fuel that is Oscar’s desire for you and he prays you come to your senses soon because he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold back how he truly feels.
The waitress comes back shortly after with the check and Oscar knows he’s got to put her in her place. He’d tried to be polite, but the blatant disrespect she had shown towards you was unacceptable in his book. Oscar hands her his card and when she goes to take it from him he holds onto it. She thinks he’s flirting and starts to laugh, but Oscar doesn’t find it funny one bit.
“I hope you don’t treat all of your customers like this– the amount of disrespect you’ve shown her.” Oscar points across the table at you. “The person I care very deeply about, it’s disgusting. You’ve dismissed her all evening and acted like she wasn’t even sitting at the table. She’s the most important person in my life and to see her get treated like that just does not fly with me. So if we could just get the receipt, we will be on our way.”
The waitress truly seems unaffected by Oscar’s reprimanding, you on the other hand are feeling more than flustered. To see him coming to your defense so publically has you hot all over. Oscar’s defended you before, especially when you were kids, but nothing to this extent. Nothing close to the language he had used just now. He was laying claim to you in multiple ways and you loved it.
Before you even work up the courage to look Oscar in the eye again the waitress is back with the receipt. “Have a lovely night.” Is all she says before moving along to one of her other tables.
Oscar scoffs as he tosses the receipt aimlessly onto the table. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, reaching for it to see what the reaction was for. The moment your eyes land on it you audibly laugh.
Call me 123-456-7890 ;)
“The fucking nerve.” You state as the two of you get up to leave. Oscar just leaves the receipt on the table before grabbing your hand in his to lead you out of the restaurant.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The walk back to the villa is slow and…. intimate?
Somehow you’ve got your arm wrapped around Oscar’s as you walk through the streets, the town is winding down for the night, but your mind is still going a hundred miles an hour. You can’t seem to get over that waitress. You don’t know why it bothered you so much. In fact, the majority of the time you enjoyed not being seen, you liked to blend in with the crowd, but the way she was acting towards Oscar, that is what really bothered you.
You realize that you actually may have been jealous.
When you were younger you really never had to share Oscar with anyone else– it was you two always. Sure your siblings were there, but that didn’t count. You both had other friends, but in all honesty you think everyone back then knew they had no chance in competing with what Oscar and you had. Everyone knew their place and it worked.
Then when Lucy came along Oscar wasn’t in your life at that point. You’d built up so many walls that any ill feelings you had were masked by your issues with Oscar leaving, not the fact that there was someone else in his life. You do guess there was that first Christmas he brought her home that you faked being sick, but you could also blame that on your Oscar issues at the time.
But now that you finally have him back, you’ve realized you don’t ever want to lose him again. You don’t like the idea of someone else being his person, of someone else possibly taking him away from you. The realization scares you, mainly because you’d been fighting how you really felt about Oscar since this past March.
You had wanted to kiss him so badly that night, but you didn’t, and you’re glad you didn’t because it was truly too soon, but you wished maybe you would have come to terms with everything a little sooner instead of pushing them down. Because now as you're walking the streets of Southern France on the arm of Oscar Piastri you’ve realized that you don’t want anyone else to be with him because you’re the one that wants to be with him.
You want Oscar all to yourself.
You wanted him on his worst days and his best days. You wanted to walk down any street with him and know that he’s yours and only yours.
You glance up at him, studying his side profile, his prominent jaw, the moles on his neck, his fluffy brown hair that’s tousled from the wind coming off water. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted. There is no one in this world that could compare to Oscar or the connection that you have with him. When you’re with him you feel at home– like he’s your missing puzzle piece.
Oscar can sense your eyes on him and when he glances down at you with his adoring big brown eyes. The same eyes that can bring you calm in the worst cases of chaos. Or the ones that sparkle like diamonds after a big win and you’re the first person he sees. The eyes that look at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars in the sky above.
The realization hits you like a freight train and you can feel the air escape your lungs. This feeling it’s been there all along, deep within your soul, interwoven in your DNA.
You’re in love with Oscar.
Your grip on his arm is a little tighter as you continue your walk, but your eyes never glance back up at him, afraid that if he looked at you again you’d confess your feelings right there in the middle of Saint-Tropez.
Oscar is oblivious to the mental turmoil you’re going through right now and he only finds comfort in the feeling of you pulling him closer. He wasn’t going to complain, any chance to be close to you Oscar was never going to pass up. So he smiles to himself as the two of you continue your stroll back to the villa, only hoping that soon enough you’d accept what the universe had placed in front of you. That you’d feel the same about him as he does you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
When Oscar decides to take a shower as soon as you get back to the villa you’re beyond grateful. As soon as the door clicks shut and you hear the water turn on you’re immediately running to your room and calling Sam.
“Hello?”
“Sam I am so fucked. Like fucked beyond belief.” Your whisper yelling, not wanting Oscar to hear, but wanting Sam to know it’s urgent.
“What’s wrong, are you in trouble? Do I need to come get you?”
You rub your forehead, you don’t even know if you can say this outloud. “No, no. It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is going on?”
You decide to just rip the bandaid off. “I’m in love with Oscar.”
There’s silence on the line for a moment and you pull the phone away from your ear to make sure the line didn’t disconnect. Then you hear a laugh echo through the speaker.
“Yeah, no shit.”
“I just told you that I’m in love with Oscar and that’s all you can say? What the fuck Sam!”
You hear her sigh and that irritates you even more for a moment. “Y/N, you’ve always been in love with Oscar. It just took you twenty-four years to come to terms with it.”
“I haven’t always been in love with him.” You immediately protest.
“Yes you have. I know my big sister better than anyone. I mean you both have been in love with each other for as long as I can remember. Maybe when we were kids it wasn’t necessarily romantic love, but there’s always been something different about the two of you. How many times did you two get pretend married when we were little? Talk about predicting the future.”
“I said I had feelings for him, not that I was marrying him!”
“You actually said you were in love with him, not that you had feelings for him. That’s a big difference.”
“Sam! I’m spiraling right now and you are not helping me whatsoever!” You’re trying not to raise your voice, scared that Oscar would be able to hear you from the room over, but your little sister was being a pain in the ass right now.
“If I didn’t want to help you I wouldn’t have answered the phone at seven in the morning. Thank you very much.”
A grimace finds its way onto your face– you’d forgotten all about the time difference in your hectic frenzy to call her. “Sorry, I forgot about the time difference.”
You hear her sigh and then the sound of rustling, meaning she was probably getting up out of bed. “I know you’re freaking out, but Y/N this and I’m not even exaggerating when I saw this, your soulmate we are talking about. I mean fuck you’re literally on vacation with just him in the south of France– talk about romantic. Tell him how you feel, because I know he feels the same if not even more crazy about you. You deserve to be happy and as much as I wanted to kill Oscar all those years ago when he left, the progress the two of you have made to rekindle your connection in such a short amount of time, tells me that maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder. He looks at you like you're the center of his universe, put the poor guy out of his misery and tell him that you love him back. I know it’s scary to come to terms with all of this, especially after everything, but babe those feelings have been there the whole time. It’s always been Oscar and Y/N in this lifetime and everyone after that.”
Sam’s words weigh heavy on your mind as you pick at the frayed stitch on the duvet. “I guess I should tell you that we almost kissed back in March.”
“You guys almost kissed and you’re just now realizing you’ve got feelings for him?!”
“I don’t know! I thought back then it was because of just reuniting with him and emotions were heavy. We were caught up in the moment.” You pause briefly, that night replaying in your mind. “But thinking back to then, in his own way he did kind of admit to wanting to be with me, but we’d just met again a couple days before that and I just brushed it off as heightened emotions.”
Sam groans loudly. “I love you, but you’re literally the dumbest person I know right now. If you don’t go tell Oscar how you feel right now I’m gonna get on the earliest flight to you and force you two to admit your feelings.”
A sudden knock at your door causes you to jump, a small yelp escaping past your lips. “Sam I’ve got to go, I'll talk to you later!” You don’t even give her time to hang up, just ending the call and tossing your phone on the bed.
“Come in!” You holler with an unsteady voice and rapid heartbeat. God you pray Oscar hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time.
The door slowly creaks open and Oscar peaks his head in. “Hey I was going to watch a movie, but the tv in my room isn’t working, and the couch in the living room was clearly not made for comfort. Do you want to watch one in here?”
Of course he’d want to watch a movie in your room, meaning it would be just the two of you, in your bed.
“Sure.” You barely croak out.
Oscar walks in and you have to hold back the groan that almost escapes past your lips. His hair is messy, not pushed back like normal and slightly down in his eyes. He’s got on a plain black t-shirt that’s so snug on his biceps you think it might bust and some grey sweatpants that are hanging dangerously low on his hips.
When he slides onto the bed next to you it’s like you’re frozen in place. His aftershave is drowning your senses and you know there is no way you can sit through a whole movie with him right next to you like this.
“What do you want to watch?” Oscar asks, grabbing the remote from the nightstand.
“I don’t care.” You lean back against the headboard, eyes straight ahead at the TV, not daring to look over at him.
Oscar eventually decides on some random Marvel movie and you’re too in your head to even know what’s going on, even though your eyes haven’t left the screen.
You haven’t dared to move an inch, you could feel the heat radiating off of him, hear his breathing. Hell if you tried hard enough you’d probably be able to hear his heart beat. Just the other day this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but things have clearly changed.
“Everything alright?” Oscar asks, his knee slightly bumping yours to get your attention.
“Just peachy. Why?” You reply, eyes still glued to the TV, body stiff as a board.
He furrows his eyebrows at you, he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye the whole time. You’d been acting like he was some stranger and he wondered if he’d done something wrong. He had you wrapped around his arm on the way home and now you were acting like he had the plague or something.
“You’re acting strange. You’re sitting here like a statue, like I’m some stranger. Did I do something wrong or?”
You shake your head, eyes still forward. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Osc.”
He’s not buying it one bit, he can see straight through your lies, you’ve never been a good liar. He reaches over– his hand settling on your thigh. The simple action makes every nerve in your body feel alive.
“Well something is wrong. You wouldn’t be acting like this if there wasn’t. Talk to me.”
He’s not going to drop it– you know Oscar too well. He’s going to sit here and bother you until you finally break down and talk to him, except this time your issue is him.
“It’s fine Oscar, I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.”
The movie is paused before you know it and Oscar is scooching closer to you on the bed. If there was something going on he wanted to be here for you. “You know you’ll feel better if we talk about it.”
In any other situation he would be right, but this isn’t any other situation. You feel his fingers gently toying with the frayed strings of your bracelet and it makes your situation that much harder. Every little action of his is clouding your mind and you really need time to process everything without him right next to you, touching you, his warmth radiating around you.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath– trying to ground yourself. If you tell him how you feel this is going to change everything. You think that’s what scares you the most, the idea that maybe you’ve been reading everything wrong with Oscar and that he doesn’t feel the same way. That if you tell him that you’re in love with him he’s going to turn you down and you’re going to lose him again.
Or what if you guys do give it a shot and things don’t work out and you can’t even reconcile a friendship at the end? Everyone around you says you’re meant to be together, but only the universe can decide that, and leaving things up to fate makes your stomach churn.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” His voice is soft and you feel his fingers hook under your chin, forcing you to look at him.
The moment you lock eyes with his big brown ones you know you’re a goner. Any instinct you had to wait and think on how you actually feel has vanished. You can’t help it, he makes you feel comfortable, he’s like home to you. You know there is no going back from this, but like Sam has told you, you’ll never know if you don’t try.
“You.”
Oscar feels his heart rate speed up a little, was this a good or bad response? He’s almost too afraid to ask.
“Did I do something? Was it dinner? I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner. I should have requested a new waitress.” He’s panicking slightly, worried that he’d fucked things up.
You gently shake your head at him, he thinks he’s fucked everything up, but it’s you that’s about to drop a bomb. “It was dinner, and the walk back from dinner, that night after the race in Australia, the tulips you gave me, that party at Hannah Payne’s house. “You pause, reaching out and looping your finger around the excess string of Oscar’s bracelet. “These bracelets that have withstood time, and god Oscar the way you look at me like I’m the center of your universe, how you’ve made these last six months the best months of my life. That's all I can think about. You’re all I can think about.”
He thinks he knows what you're alluding to, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself, he wants to hear you say it. Wants to hear you vocalize how he’s felt for what seems like an eternity.
His hand slowly reaches up to cup your face, his thumb gently rubbing across the apple of your cheek. “Say it– please say it.” His voice is laced with desperation, desire, everything he’s ever wanted is in the palm of his hand, but he’s got to hear you say it.
You close your eyes, leaning into Oscar’s touch. Blindly you reach for his free hand, lacing your fingers with his, and it’s like your hand is made to fit perfectly with his. When you open your eyes and see him looking at you with nothing but pure adoration, like he’d worship the ground you walk on, you know what you’re about to do is right. This is what is meant to happen. Oscar is yours and this time you’re not going to let him get away.
“I’m in love with you Oscar.”
If Oscar hadn’t known any better he would have thought he died and gone to heaven. To hear you say those words to him was like music to his ears. To get the confirmation that what he felt was mutual, but also that his inkling that you felt the same was true was a feeling he’d never felt before.
“Say it again.” Oscar asks, high on the feeling in his chest.
You smile, laughing a little at how giddy he was. “I love you.”
If Oscar could overdose on hearing you say that he might have to go to rehab, but for right now he’s going to savor this moment. He looks at you, hair still tousled from the wind at dinner, rosy cheeks, and a glimmer in your eye that Oscar thinks could make even the sourest man swoon. You were breathtaking in every way and he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his voice filled with desire.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
In a split second Oscar’s lips are on yours and you waste no time in kissing him back. You two were clearly making up for lost time. It was passionate and loving, like you both were trying to convey how you’d felt over the years. His hands cupped your jaw, deepening the kiss. If there was one thing you knew to be true it was that kissing Oscar Piastri was like nothing you’d experienced before. It was nothing like that night in that cramped closet. This kiss was real and filled with unspoken words.
You pull away reluctantly, your forehead resting against his as you both try to catch your breath. “I love you.” Oscar breaths out, a giddy smile on his face.
There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he didn’t feel the same now, but to hear him actually say it to you had your heart feeling like it was about ready to burst out of your chest. “Well I’d like to hope so.” You joke, smiling back equally as big at him.
Oscar lays down on the bed, his arms open as an invite, which you gladly accept. It’s crazy how it seems like Oscar and you were made for each other, how you just fit into his side like a missing puzzle piece, but you do and nothing in the world feels better than being in his arms. You can hear his heartbeat beating against his chest. It’s strong and steady, grounding you, bringing you back down from this la-la land of love you’re in.
You glance up at him and find him already looking at you. “Promise me you aren’t going to leave me again. I can’t go through that again Oscar, especially not now.” Even after all of this the fear of him leaving is still a demon you have to deal with.
He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I promise. You’re stuck with me forever now.”
“Forever?”
Oscar reaches for your left hand, his fingers gently toying with your ring finger. “Forever.”
three years later
The Piastri household looks like a house straight out of a Christmas movie. Everyone has gathered for the yearly celebrations and after a delicious dinner and some gift giving the evening has started to wind down. Oscar and you are cuddled up on the couch, eating some of your Mum’s sugar cookies, penis shaped and all. You two have been waiting for everyone to gather in the living room for a game of pictionary, you’ve got something you’ve been wanting to announce, but Nicole is taking forever in the kitchen. After what seems like an eternity you see her walk in and you glance over at Oscar, who takes the hint to get everyone’s attention.
“Hey everyone!” The chatter stops and all eyes are focused on him. “So Y/N and I have been waiting until we were all together to tell you guys-” He looks back at you, his hand reaching out for you as you stand beside him. You’d taken the split second that all the attention was on Oscar to slip the ring that had been in your pocket all evening onto your ring finger. Both of your families are on the edge of their seats, the anticipation killing them. You look over at Oscar, who’s only smiling back at you with the biggest grin on his face.
You take a deep breath before quickly raising up your left hand and wiggling your ring finger towards everyone.
“Oh my god! You’re engaged?!” Sam yells, nearly breaking the sound barrier.
The room erupts into squeals and gasps, happy energy radiating all around.
“Well actually…” Oscar trails off.
“We’ve been married for a couple months.” You state, laughter lacing your words.
Even more gasps fill the room and Oscar and you just can’t help but laugh. It happened on a whim a couple months ago. There was a break in the racing schedule and Oscar and you took a trip to Lake Como. You know both of you knew you’d eventually get married, that was established pretty early on, but when you two have one of your late night deep conversations and the topic of why wait to get married got brought up, you both thought why are we waiting?
So the next day you got married in some little chapel and the rest was history. You had decided to keep it a little secret for a while, it was just something for Oscar and you to enjoy, but you knew you couldn’t hide it forever. So you both decided Christmas would be the best time to announce it.
Your Mum and sister are the first to come attack you with a hug, tears are streaming down your Mum’s face and all you can do is comfort her. “My baby, I can’t believe you’re married!”
“Don’t worry Mum, we’re going to have an actual wedding this summer.” You knew your family, well actually both of your families would want you guys to have an actual wedding. It was something Oscar and you had discussed beforehand. Deep down you wanted a wedding too, but you wanted to have that special moment that only Oscar and you shared also.
Sam hugs you tighter than you think is even humanly possible. “Told you you’ll never know until you try.”
“I know, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
One by one everyone comes to congratulate you and you can feel the tears starting to well up from the pure joy you’re feeling. To have not just your family love you, but also Oscar’s is the biggest blessing you could ever ask for. Nicole is the last person to come see Oscar and you and you can tell by the look on her face that she’s holding back tears. “I hope you know I always knew Oscar and you were going to end up together. Call it Mother’s intuition, but there’s no one else I could imagine my Oscar with. You’ve always been like a daughter to me, but now I get to actually call you one.”
You look over at the man you love– your husband and you feel nothing but pure adoration. He’s everything you could have asked for and more. It took some time and rough patches to get where you are, but you wouldn’t change it for the world. This is how your life is supposed to be and if you tried to change it, you don’t think you’d be standing here next to him right now, with this rock on your finger. Oscar has always been your person and now he always will be.
And you realize that Oscar Piastri was never just a chapter in your life– he’s the whole book.
oscar piastri has somehow become part of the leclerc family, just… not for the reason everyone assumes.
pairing: oscar piastri x leclerc!fem reader
requested: yes!! hope this delivers
warnings: use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline for plot purposes, oscar piastri leclerc propaganda, mentions of alexandra and other members in charles’ family. also this is just for fun and obviously fiction, i'm not trying to reflect any person in real life ‹3
a/n: helloooo i promise i didn’t die. i’m slowly restarting requests <3 also brace yourselves because the next request i'm posting is pure angst...
MY MASTERLIST
oscarpiastri
Monaco
liked by ynleclerc and 424.325 others
oscarpiastri Another Monaco podium. On to Barca
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username1 i love you so much 🥲
username2 so nice to see oscar with his dad on the podium
ynleclerc 👏 ❤︎ liked by the author
⤷ username3 omg i didn’t know y/n and oscar were even friends
⤷ username4 the leclercs fully adopted him this weekend i fear
username5 1681 podium we cheered!!!
username6 father and son celebrating on the podium together
f1 The Piastri-Leclerc genes are strong 💪
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ynleclerc
Monte-Carlo, Monaco
liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 193.264 others
ynleclerc weekends at home 🤍
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username1 i missed you in the paddock pls don’t disappear again
alexandrasaintmleux ❤️❤️❤️❤️
⤷ username2 the most gorgeous girls
⤷ username3 i love their friendship
username4 my favorite leclerc, no competition ❤︎ liked by the author
arthur_leclerc Where did you get the cap?
⤷ ynleclerc some small brand
⤷ arthur_leclerc That's my cap
⤷ ynleclerc prove it
yourbff FORZA FERRARI
username5 i spot the same bracelet from charles’ post
⤷ charles_leclerc She stole it
⤷ ynleclerc borrowing isn't stealing
⤷ charles_leclerc It's been 3 months
⤷ username6 NOT THREE MONTHS 💀
username7 oscar likedddd
⤷ username8 they're probably just friends through charles and arthur
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ynleclerc updated their story
❤︎ liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and others
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oscarpiastri
Hope they made you smile 😊
⤷ ynleclerc
maybe he just has good taste?? idk sounds possible
charles_leclerc
Did he send the giant bouquet on purpose to earn points or is this just his style?
⤷ ynleclerc
you literally know him
⤷ arthur_leclerc
That’s why I’m shocked
He used to be a dork who laughed at everything I said
Now he’s sending coordinated bouquets from Barcelona like some kind of professional romantic
arthur_leclerc
I can’t believe Oscar Piastri is sending my sister flowers
⤷ ynleclerc
i’ll let him know the approval committee said yes
lorenzotl
He has good taste
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alexandrasaintmleux
I love you 🫶🏻
oscarpiastri
Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya
liked by leclerc_pascale, ynleclerc and 1.011.608 others
oscarpiastri Enjoyable one that
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username1 p1 baby let’s gooooo
username2 you did it amazing im so so so so proud of you
username3 awwww charles’ mum liked this
⤷ username4 he’s fully integrated into that family it’s so sweet
username4 did i see…. ABS 🤯
ynleclerc well deserved 🥹🧡
⤷ oscarpiastri Thank you!
username5 that’s my world champion right there
charles_leclerc 👏👏👏 ❤︎ liked by the author
⤷ username6 charles supporting his adopted son
⤷ username7 this will never not be funny
username8 finally a smile 🙂↕️
arthur_leclerc Congrats 👏 ❤︎ liked by the author
username9 the entire leclerc family is in these likes i love it
⤷ username10 he’s one of them now
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op81updates
liked by username1, username2 and 187.44 others
op81updates oscar in a recent interview revealing that his french is actually quite good because charles' mum cuts his hair and doesn't speak english so they communicate in french 😭 #CanadianGP
Interviewer: "Last time we spoke, your French was a work in progress. How's it coming along?"
Oscar: laughs "I think my French is actually quite good now! Well, better than it was."
Interviewer: "Have you been practicing?"
Oscar: "Yeah, I've had some help and I've been putting it to use."
Interviewer: "Oh? How so?"
Oscar: "Well, I get my haircuts from Charles' mum, and she doesn't speak a single word of English."
Interviewer: surprised "And she understands you?"
Oscar: smiles "She does now! Took a bit at first."
Interviewer: "The Leclerc family must really like you."
Oscar: "I hope so."
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username1 mr worldwide (0.000000001% french)
username2 okay so the thread about yn and oscar is making more sense now
username3 hope he's getting a family discount at least
⤷ username4 FAMILY DISCOUNT I'M SCREAMING
⤷ username5 if he's dating yn he better be getting it for free
username6 they really get along well and that makes me soooo happy
username7 THAT'S SO FUCKING CUTEEEE
username8 well he IS a leclerc so that makes sense to me
username9 oscar piastri leclerccccc
username10 i really need to hear oscar speaking french
username11 omg pascale still cuts his hair I MOVED
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ynleclerc
So Easy (To Fall In Love) - Olivia Dean
liked by oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and 127.849 others
ynleclerc this n that
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username1 the third pic 👀
username2 soft launching is an art form and she’s mastered it
alexandrasaintmleux 😍😍😍😍 ❤︎ liked by the author
username3 who’s the mystery man in pic 3
charlotte2304 Très belle 😍 ❤︎ liked by the author
yourbff he’s getting better at taking pics finally
⤷ ynleclerc yes i’m training him well
username4 WAIT OSCAR’S SISTER LIKED THIS
username5 i’m connecting dots 🕵️🕵️🕵️
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oscarpiastri
liked by ynleclerc and 881.626 others
oscarpiastri Prep week 💪
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username1 IS THIS WHAT WERE DOING NOW
username2 i hate when they know.
ynleclerc WJD+}.sS..DKFKR
this comment has been deleted
username3 learning the art of thirst traps you’re doing great keep it up
username4 oh my god did anyone saw y/n’s comment before she deleted it
⤷ username5 YES IT WAS JUST KEYSMASH I HAVE THE SCREENSHOT
⤷ username6 she really said sjdkfksk and then DELETED
⤷ username7 can’t blame her 😭😭
⤷ username8 i’m starting a new rumor as we speak
⤷ username9 y/n girl... come back... we’re not judging...
⤷ username10 proof she’s just as down bad as the rest of us
⤷ username11 she’s one of us fr
username12 never let your hair see a pair of scissors again!!
username13 i understand the product placement but ain’t nobody looking at that damn water bottle
⤷ username14 REAL
⤷ username15 what water bottle
username16 oscar you didn’t even TRY to pretend this was about training
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ynleclerc updates their close friends story
❤︎ liked by yourbff and others
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ynleclerc and alexandrasaintmleux updated their story
❤︎ liked by hattiepiastri and others
username1
are you going to spa??
⤷ ynleclerc
can’t wait!!
kikagomes
see you soon😍
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username2
spa weekend?
oscarpiastri
liked by ynleclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 687.254 others
oscarpiastri Tough opponent on the way to Spa charles_leclerc
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username1 LEOOOOO omg cutie
username2 wait does this mean y/n and alex were with them??
⤷ username3 i think so, alex posted charles with leo on a plane and y/n posted clouds from a plane
⤷ username4 THEY WERE ALL TOGETHER
lando you lost to a dog ❤︎ liked by the author
username5 so we’re all just ignoring that oscar charles y/n and alex flew together
ynleclerc he won every round
⤷ oscarpiastri Can confirm
username6 Y/N WAS THERE I’M UNWELL
username7 sidequests??
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ynleclerc updated their story
❤︎ liked by arthur_leclerc and others
username1
best track on the calendar
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username2
girl we KNOW you’re not only there for ferrari don’t play with us
oscarpiastri
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps
liked by ynleclerc, nicolepiastri and 1.273.830 others
oscarpiastri Did I mention I like Spa?
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username1 oscplaining was done
ausgp This win ATE ❤︎ liked by the author
username2 goat doing goat things
nicolepiastri So proud!!
⤷ oscarpiastri ❤️
username3 the way y/n was supporting charles but also probably dying to celebrate with oscar
ynleclerc you may have mentioned it
⤷ oscarpiastri Once or twice
⤷ username3 at this point you two just need to confirm it
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ynleclerc and oscarpiastri updated their story
❤︎ liked by charlotte2304 and others
⤷ ynleclerc
you literally exposed us to 50 million people so no
charles_leclerc
Where's my invitation to this dinner?
yourbff
why is he holding you like you're about to LEAVE he's got a grip
friend1
relax bro aint nobody takin her from u
username1
IS THAT OSCAR'S HAND
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username2
OSCAR AND Y/N POSTING AT THE SAME TIME THIS IS NOT A DRILL
oscarpiastri
liked by ynleclerc, lando and 2.847.936 others
oscarpiastri Summer break so far ☀️
tagged user: ynleclerc
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username1 OSCAR PIASTRI HARD LAUNCH
username2 HE REALLY JUST DID THAT
username3 oscar really said I’M MARRIED 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
ynleclerc 🤍☀️
username4 i thought he was becoming a bonus leclerc brother not… this????
⤷ username5 we were NOT expecting this from him but we will adapt
username6 can oscar fight??? 😮💨
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ynleclerc
liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 325.793 others
ynleclerc my family approves 😋
tagged user: oscarpiastri
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username1 i’m pretending not to scream at the last pic thanks
charles_leclerc ✅
⤷ arthur_leclerc ✅
⤷ lorenzotl ✅
username2 remember when she keysmashed on his gym post and we all knew
oscarpiastri They do?
⤷ ynleclerc you passed the test months ago
⤷ oscarpiastri Could've told me that
⤷ ynleclerc where's the fun in that
username3 "my family approves" girl they ADOPTED him
Summary: you meet Oscar exactly once when he breaks your nose with a football in the paddock. You meet him exactly twice when he breaks it again with his elbow in a hotel room. Some love stories start with a meet-cute. Yours starts with a medical bill and the world’s most apologetic future World Champion who keeps turning your face into a crime scene. (He’s really, really sorry about it.)
The air in the paddock is thick with a nervous energy you can almost taste, a metallic tang of anticipation mixed with the sweet, acrid scent of high-octane fuel and burning rubber. It’s a symphony of controlled chaos. The low, guttural growl of an engine being tested somewhere down the pit lane rumbles through the soles of your shoes. Team personnel, clad in vibrant, logo-splashed uniforms, move with a crisp, clipped purpose that makes you and your friend, Beth, feel like you’re wading through a current.
“I can’t believe this is real,” Beth whispers, her voice tight with awe. She clutches her phone like a holy relic, trying to discreetly film everything without looking like a complete tourist. Which, of course, is exactly what you both are.
“Try to act like we belong here,” you murmur back, though your own eyes are as wide as dinner plates. You’re scanning the river of people for a familiar face, a flash of papaya, a shock of blond hair. Winning these paddock passes felt like a one-in-a-billion lottery ticket, a glitch in the universe that accidentally spat you out into the heart of the circus.
And then you see them.
Just ahead, in the wide expanse of asphalt between the impossibly sleek, futuristic structures of the McLaren and Red Bull motorhomes, are Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris. The tension of the impending qualifying session seems to have bypassed them entirely. They’re in their full race kits, minus the helmets, their hair damp with a pre-race sweat. A simple black and white football bounces between them.
It's a lazy, fluid rhythm. The ball arcs from Lando’s knee to Oscar’s chest, where he cushions it dead before volleying it back with the inside of his foot. They aren't speaking, just moving in the easy, comfortable silence of longtime teammates and friends. It's so disarmingly normal, so achingly human, that it makes your breath catch in your throat. This isn’t something you see on a broadcast. This is a stolen moment, and you’re a thief for watching it.
“Oh my god,” Beth breathes, fumbling with her phone. “Get a picture.”
“No, don’t,” you hiss, grabbing her arm. “Let them have their space. We’re not supposed to …”
Your words are swallowed by the scene. Lando laughs, a bright, familiar sound that makes your stomach flutter, as he attempts an overly ambitious flick. The ball spins wide, and Oscar jogs a few steps to intercept it, his movements economical and precise. He stops it with his right foot, a picture of calm concentration.
He looks up, just for a second, and his eyes — cool and impossibly focused — sweep over the area. They don't linger on you. You're just part of the scenery, another face in the blur. He gives Lando a small, almost imperceptible smirk.
“Getting sloppy, mate,” Oscar calls out, his voice a low, calm murmur that barely carries over the ambient noise. The Australian lilt is subtle, but it’s there.
Lando grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security. Show me what you’ve got, then.”
Oscar juggles the ball once, twice, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. It’s the smile you’ve seen in a hundred post-race interviews — reserved, a little shy, but genuine. He shifts his weight, positioning himself for a clean pass back to Lando, who’s now standing a good twenty feet away, near the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality suite.
This is the moment the universe decides to stop glitching and start actively conspiring against you.
From Oscar’s point of view, it’s a simple calculation. A routine he’s performed thousands of times. He sees Lando, sees the space, gauges the power. His mind is already halfway to the garage, running through the qualifying plan, sector by sector. This is just muscle memory. A final, mindless release of nervous energy before being strapped into a carbon fibre rocket ship.
He draws his right foot back. The motion is clean, fluid, athletic. It should be a perfect, low chip that lands right at Lando’s feet.
But a mechanic from another team, his arms laden with a stack of tires, cuts directly through Oscar’s intended flight path. A sudden, unexpected obstacle. Oscar’s brain registers it a millisecond too late. He tries to adjust, to pull back, but the command is already halfway to his foot. He overcompensates. Instead of a soft chip, he connects with the ball with the full force of his instep. The connection is too clean, too powerful.
The ball doesn't arc. It shoots. A black and white missile.
It rockets past the mechanic, past a startled-looking influencer who ducks instinctively, past the spot where Lando was standing.
And it flies directly towards the two girls who had stopped to watch, the ones who were trying to look like they belonged. The ones with the wide, starstruck eyes.
From your perspective, time slows to a thick, syrupy crawl. One second, you’re admiring the effortless grace of a world-class athlete. The next, a sphere of stitched leather is expanding in your vision at an impossible, terrifying speed.
There is no time to react. No time to raise your hands, to turn your head, to even flinch.
There is only the ball.
And then, a concussive, explosive thump.
A universe of white-hot, blinding pain erupts from the bridge of your nose, radiating outwards through your sinuses, your teeth, your skull. The sound is less of a crack and more of a wet, sickening crunch that you feel deep in your bones. Stars, genuine and cartoonishly bright, burst behind your eyelids. The world tilts on its axis, the vibrant colours of the paddock smearing into a nauseating blur.
Your hands fly to your face, a useless, reflexive gesture. You feel a gush of warmth spill over your fingers, slick and hot.
“Oh, God!” Beth shrieks beside you.
Your knees give out. The meticulously clean asphalt of the paddock rushes up to meet you, and you land hard, the impact jarring your already screaming head. You’re on all fours, head bowed, the world a dizzying, spinning mess. A low moan escapes your throat, a sound you don’t even recognize as your own.
The world outside your personal bubble of agony is a sudden explosion of chaos.
“Oh, bloody hell!”
The voice is Oscar’s, sharp with a kind of strangled panic that is utterly alien to his public persona. The calm is gone. The focus is shattered.
Footsteps pound against the pavement, frantic and fast.
“Oscar! Mate, what did you—Oh my God.” That’s Lando, his voice an octave higher than usual.
Two pairs of race-booted feet skid to a halt in front of you. You can’t look up. Your entire consciousness has shrunk to the throbbing, shattered epicentre of your face. You can feel the blood dripping from your chin now, spattering onto the pristine ground.
“Are you alright? Oh God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Oscar is kneeling in front of you, his voice urgent, laced with pure, undiluted horror. He’s reaching out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you.
You try to answer, to say “I’m fine” out of some deeply ingrained, polite instinct, but the only thing that comes out is a choked, wet sob. The taste of salt and iron floods your mouth.
“Is she okay?” Lando asks, his voice tight with alarm. He’s addressing Beth, who is now kneeling beside you, her own face pale with shock.
“I-I don’t know! You hit her in the face! With the ball!” Beth’s voice is shaky, accusatory.
“I know! I know, I didn’t mean to!” Oscar sounds desperate. “It was … I was aiming for Lando. Someone walked in the way. I’m so, so sorry.”
He shifts his weight, getting closer. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his fireproofs, a strange counterpoint to the coppery smell of your own blood.
“Can you look at me?” He asks, his voice softer now, but no less panicked. “Please? We need to see how bad it is.”
You shake your head, which is a colossal mistake. A fresh wave of agony and nausea washes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold the world together.
“Don’t move your head,” he says quickly. “Okay, okay, don’t move.”
“Her nose,” Beth says, her voice trembling. “I think … I think it’s broken.”
A heavy silence hangs in the air for a beat, thick with the unsaid. Oscar lets out a low curse under his breath.
“Right. Okay. Medic. We need a medic,” he says, his voice taking on a new urgency. He turns his head. “Zak! Arthur! Can we get a medic over here? Now!”
His voice, usually so measured, cracks with the strain. He’s yelling now, and you can feel the vibrations of it in your chest. You’re dimly aware of more people approaching, of the circle around you tightening. The low murmur of the paddock has been replaced by a focused, localized clamor. Your personal, humiliating clamor.
“What’s going on here?” A new voice, this one with an American accent. Sharp, authoritative.
“I hit her with the ball, Zak,” Oscar says, his voice strained. “It was an accident. I think her nose is broken. We need a doctor.”
“Jesus Christ, Oscar.”
You risk a glance, cracking one eye open. Through a watery, blood-tinged haze, you see the concerned face of Zak Brown looking down at you. Behind him, more McLaren personnel are gathering, their faces a mixture of alarm and professional concern.
This is a nightmare. This is a fever dream. You’re bleeding all over the ground in front of the McLaren motorhome, with half the team, including both drivers, staring at you like you’re a car crash. Which, you suppose, you sort of are.
“It’s okay, we’re getting someone,” Lando says, trying to be reassuring, but he just sounds as freaked out as everyone else. “They’re coming. Just stay still.”
“I am so, so sorry,” Oscar repeats. It seems to be the only thing he can say. He’s still kneeling there, a few feet away, looking utterly helpless. His face, usually a mask of calm composure, is etched with guilt and raw panic. He looks younger than he does on TV. He just looks like a kid who has made a terrible mistake and has no idea how to fix it.
“You’re bleeding a lot,” Beth says quietly, her hand resting gently on your back. “Can you try to tilt your head forward a little? Not back.”
You follow her instructions numbly, letting your head hang as more blood drips onto the asphalt. Each drop feels like a confession of your own mortification.
A woman in a McLaren polo shirt with a radio pressed to her ear arrives. “Medical team is on their way. They’ll take her to the care centre.”
“Oscar, Lando, we need you in the garage,” Zak says, his voice firm but not unkind. “Qualifying starts in twelve minutes.”
“No,” Oscar says immediately, shaking his head. “No, I’m not leaving. I did this.”
“You are,” Zak insists. “There’s nothing you can do here now. The medics will handle it. We have a session to prepare for. Let’s go.”
“Zak, I just broke a girl’s nose,” Oscar argues, his voice rising in disbelief. He gestures wildly at you, a crumpled, bleeding heap on the ground. “I can’t just walk away and go drive a race car.”
“You absolutely can, and you absolutely will,” another voice cuts in, this one belonging to a man with a clipboard and a stern expression. Your brain vaguely supplies the name Andrea Stella. “Let the medical professionals do their job. Your job is in that car. Now.”
He puts a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Lando is already being herded away by another team member, casting a worried look back over his shoulder.
“Go on, Lando. Get your head in the game.”
“Is she gonna be okay?” Lando asks, his eyes wide.
“She’ll be fine. Go.”
Oscar doesn’t move. He’s still looking at you, his expression a chaotic storm of regret and frustration. “I can’t just go.”
“Oscar.” Stella’s voice is iron. “Now.”
He gives Oscar’s shoulder a gentle but insistent tug. The finality in the gesture is clear. Oscar knows he’s lost the argument. His shoulders slump in defeat. He looks utterly wrecked.
As Stella begins to pull him to his feet, Oscar leans forward, his eyes locking with yours for the first time. You’re still looking at him through a curtain of pain and tears, but you see the raw apology in his gaze. It’s so intense it almost hurts as much as your nose.
“Wait,” he says, resisting the pull for one last second. He addresses you directly, his voice low and rushed. “Please, don’t leave. After qualifying, I’ll … I’ll find you. The medical tent, okay? I’ll find you there. I promise.”
He searches your face, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement, some sign of forgiveness you are in no condition to give.
“I am so unbelievably sorry,” he says again, his voice cracking on the last word. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”
And then he’s gone. Pulled away into the current of the team, swallowed by the urgency of the sport, leaving you on the cold, hard ground with the smell of his fireproofs, the echo of his panicked promise, and a face full of shattered bone and blood.
Two uniformed medics arrive, their movements calm and efficient in the wake of the storm. They begin asking you questions, their voices a soothing drone that you can’t quite process. Beth is answering for you, her voice still shaky but getting stronger, more assertive.
They help you sit up, pressing a wad of gauze to your nose that you immediately soak through. The world is still spinning, but the sharp edges of the pain are beginning to dull into a deep, throbbing ache that seems to have taken up residence in your entire skull.
As they gently help you to your feet, preparing to walk you to the medical centre, your gaze drifts towards the McLaren garage. For a fleeting second, you think you see him, a flash of papaya orange standing by the entrance, looking back towards you before being pushed inside.
Then the garage door rolls down, a final, definitive curtain on the most surreal and painful ten minutes of your life. And you’re left with only one thought, circling endlessly in your concussed, throbbing head.
Oscar Piastri broke your nose. And he promised he would find you.
***
The world inside the McLaren garage is a pressure cooker of sound and motion. The moment Oscar’s MCL39 rolls into its bay, it’s swarmed. Fans whir, laptops are flipped open, and a dozen sets of hands descend on the car. He kills the engine, the sudden silence in his ears a deafening roar. For the last hour, his universe has been nothing but the scream of the engine, the voice of his race engineer, and the laser-focused task of wrestling two-tenths of a second from a strip of asphalt.
But the bubble has burst. And the first thought that crashes into his brain, more potent than the G-force he just endured, is your face. Crumpled. Bleeding.
He unbuckles his harness with frantic, clumsy fingers and rips his helmet off. The cool air of the garage hits his sweat-soaked hair. His trainer, Kim, is there instantly, holding a water bottle and a towel. Oscar ignores them both. His eyes find Lando, who is already clambering out of his car a few feet away, being mobbed by ecstatic engineers. P1. Lando got pole. The garage is electric with it.
“YES, LANDO! GET IN!”
“MEGA JOB, MATE! MEGA!”
Lando is grinning, a wide, euphoric smile as he’s pulled into a series of back-slapping hugs. He’s earned it. He was flawless.
Oscar feels a pang of something that isn’t jealousy. It’s a hollow, churning guilt. He finished P2. It feels like ash in his mouth. He knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his gut, that the pole position was lost in the twenty feet between his foot and your face. He was distracted. He drove angry. Angry at himself, at the stupid football, at the entire godforsaken situation. He’d left a girl bleeding on the ground. How could he possibly find the last few thousandths of a second after that?
“Good job, Oscar! P2, fantastic result for the team,” his engineer, Tom, says, clapping him on the shoulder.
Oscar just nods, his eyes still fixed on Lando, who is now being handed the black P1 cap for the post-qualifying interviews. An idea — a terrible, frantic, brilliant idea — sparks in Oscar’s mind.
“I need that hat,” he mutters.
“What?” Tom asks, leaning in closer over the din. “Need a what?”
But Oscar is already moving. He pushes past Kim, past Tom, and stalks towards the celebratory huddle around Lando. He’s a man possessed. Lando sees him coming, his grin faltering slightly at the wild, haunted look in Oscar’s eyes.
“Osc, mate, we did it! Front row!” Lando shouts, ready for a hug.
Oscar doesn’t hug him. He reaches out and snatches the P1 cap right off Lando’s head.
“Hey!” Lando yelps, his hand flying to his now-bare head. “What the hell?”
“I need this,” Oscar says, his voice tight. He turns, his eyes scanning the garage like a hawk. He spots a PR officer, a young woman named Annie, who is holding a clipboard and a black Sharpie. He strides over to her.
“Annie, give me your marker.” It’s not a request.
She blinks, startled. “Uh … Oscar, the media pen is waiting for …”
“The marker,” he repeats, holding out his hand, his expression bordering on unhinged. She wordlessly hands him the Sharpie. He clicks it open and shoves it, along with the cap, back into Lando’s chest.
“Sign it,” he commands.
Lando stares at him, utterly bewildered. He’s surrounded by cheering mechanics, Zak is beaming, and his teammate looks like he’s in the middle of a nervous breakdown. “Sign … my own hat?”
“Yes. Sign it. Now.”
“Why?” Lando asks, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern. “Are you okay? You look a bit … traumatized.”
“I am traumatized!” Oscar hisses, his voice low and intense. “I am responsible for a traumatic event that has caused trauma. For which I need to atone. Sign the hat, Lando.”
Lando, deciding it’s easier to just go along with whatever strange ritual this is, takes the pen and scribbles his signature across the brim of the cap. “There. Happy?”
Oscar snatches the signed cap back. “No.”
He looks down at his own feet, at the custom-fit, fire-retardant race boots. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place in his frantic mind. It’s weird. It’s definitely weird. But he’s committed now. He leans against the workbench, unzips the boots, and pulls them off, his sweaty socks steaming in the cool garage air.
“What are you doing?” Tom asks, his face a perfect mask of professional confusion. “Oscar, we have debrief in twenty.”
“I can’t.” Oscar is holding the signed cap in one hand and his race boots, which smell faintly of rubber and foot, in the other. He looks around, his eyes landing on the head of hospitality, a perpetually unflappable man named Bradley. Oscar makes a beeline for him, his socks sliding on the smooth concrete floor.
“Bradley!”
Bradley turns, one eyebrow raised at the sight of his driver in his socks, clutching a bizarre assortment of items. “Oscar. Congratulations. Shall we arrange the usual for your family?”
“No. Yes. I mean, later. I need something else,” Oscar says, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I need two VIP passes. The full experience. Paddock Club, garage tour, the works.”
“Of course. For which race?” Bradley asks, pulling out his tablet.
“I don’t know yet,” Oscar says, shaking his head. “She gets to pick. The girl. The one I hit with the ball. She gets to pick any race on the calendar, and she and a friend get the best tickets you can possibly imagine. Money is no object. Bill it to me, I don’t care. Can you do that? Just have the vouchers or whatever ready. I’ll let you know the names and the race later.”
Bradley looks from Oscar’s wild eyes to the boots in his hand and seems to make a swift calculation that arguing is futile. “Consider it done, Oscar. I’ll have a confirmation packet drawn up.”
“Thank you,” Oscar breathes, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turns to leave.
“Oscar!” It’s Zak, his arm outstretched to stop him. “Media pen. Let’s go. Great day for the team.”
Oscar sidesteps him. “Can’t. Sorry, Zak.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? It’s mandatory.”
“I have to go find her,” Oscar says, as if this is the most logical explanation in the world. He waves the boots and cap. “I have to apologize.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He pushes through the throng of people at the back of the garage, ignoring the calls of his name from his engineers, his PR team, his trainer.
“Oscar, your cool-down!”
“Oscar, Sky Sports is waiting!”
“Oscar, for God’s sake, put some shoes on!”
He’s a blur of papaya and white, a man on a holy mission, sock-footing his way through the most exclusive square kilometer in sports. He strides past the other motorhomes, earning more than a few strange looks. He doesn’t care. He has a singular destination. The medical tent.
***
The medical tent is an oasis of calm, antiseptic silence. The contrast to the paddock is so jarring it makes your head ache, or maybe that’s just the broken nose. You’re sitting on the edge of a narrow bed covered in crinkly paper, a large, intimidatingly white bandage taped across your face. Underneath it, your nose is packed with what feels like a metric ton of cotton. You can’t breathe through it, so you’re forced to take shallow, open-mouthed breaths that make your throat feel dry and scratchy.
The doctor, a kind woman with gentle hands and a calm voice, has just finished explaining that yes, it’s definitely broken. A clean break, she’d called it, as if that were some sort of consolation. She’d given you a dose of a powerful painkiller that has wrapped your brain in a thick, soupy fog, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain into a distant throb. Two magnificent black eyes are beginning to bloom across your cheekbones, a colorful testament to your terrible luck.
“Well,” Beth says, trying for a light tone and failing miserably. She’s perched on a plastic chair beside you, scrolling nervously through her phone. “On the bright side, you met Oscar Piastri.”
You shoot her a glare that you hope conveys your deep and profound unimpressedness. “He tried to decapitate me with a soccer ball, Beth. That’s not ‘meeting’. That’s an assault.”
“A very apologetic assault,” she counters. “He seemed genuinely horrified. And, you have to admit, it’s a way better story than just getting a selfie.”
“I’d rather have the selfie and an intact nasal cavity,” you mumble, your voice nasally and thick.
You look down at your shirt. It’s spattered with blood. Your favourite shirt. You feel a fresh wave of misery wash over you. You just want to go back to your hotel room, order a disgusting amount of room service, and sleep for a week.
The flap of the medical tent is thrust open so violently it makes you jump. And there he is.
Oscar Piastri, in the flesh. He’s still in his race suit, though it’s unzipped to the waist, revealing the sweat-damp base layer underneath. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed with exertion and something else — anxiety. His eyes, clear and startlingly intense, immediately find yours. He’s holding a hat, a pair of racing boots, and he isn’t wearing any shoes.
He just stands there for a second, panting slightly, taking in the scene: you, looking like you just went ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer; the sterile white walls, Beth, whose jaw has dropped.
“Hi,” he says, his voice breathy. He takes a hesitant step inside. “They said you were in here. I am … God, I am so sorry.”
He walks towards you, his socked feet silent on the linoleum floor. He stops a few feet from the bed, looking utterly lost.
“Your face,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He winces, as if looking at you is causing him physical pain. “It’s … is it broken?”
You nod slowly, the motion sending a dull throb through your skull. “Clean break,” you manage to say, the words thick and foreign in your mouth.
“Bloody hell,” he breathes, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “I knew it. I am so, so, so sorry. There is nothing I can say to tell you how sorry I am. This is entirely my fault. I’m an idiot. I was just messing around and I wasn’t paying attention and … I’m so sorry.”
He’s rambling, his usual calm, measured speech pattern completely gone, replaced by a torrent of panicked apology. He seems to remember the items in his hands, thrusting them forward like a bizarre peace offering.
“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”
He holds out the cap. You stare at it. It’s the P1 hat. Lando Norris’s signature is scrawled across the brim.
“Lando got pole,” he explains, as if this makes perfect sense. “So this is his hat. I made him sign it for you.”
You take the hat from him, your fingers brushing his. His hand is warm and slightly calloused. The gesture is so surreal, so utterly insane, that a small, hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat. It hurts your nose, so you cut it off with a wince.
“And these,” he says, crouching down and placing his race boots carefully on the floor beside the bed. They look impossibly light, crafted from some space-age material, and are caked with dust and grime from the track. “They’re my boots. From today. I finished P2 in them.” He pauses, looking at the boots, then back up at you. A flicker of self-awareness dawns in his eyes. “That’s … that’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Giving you my sweaty shoes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just felt like I had to give you something. Something from today. As an apology. It was a stupid idea. You can throw them away if you want. Or sell them. I don’t know.”
You and Beth just stare at him. Oscar Piastri is on the floor of the medical tent, having a minor existential crisis over the appropriateness of giving you his shoes. The painkillers, the broken nose, the sheer strangeness of the last hour — it all combines into a feeling of complete and utter detachment from reality.
Beth finds her voice first. “You … you ran here in your socks?”
Oscar looks down at his feet as if just noticing them. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I did. I was in a bit of a hurry.”
He stands up, looking deeply uncomfortable and out of place. He’s a finely tuned athlete, a man who operates with millimeter precision at 200 miles per hour, and right now he looks like a teenage boy who just accidentally crashed his dad’s car.
“That’s not the real apology,” he says quickly, trying to recover. “The real apology is … I spoke to our hospitality manager. And I have arranged for you and your friend,” he glances at Beth, “to be my personal guests at any race for the rest of the season. Or next season. Whichever you want.”
You blink. The fog in your brain parts for a moment. “What?”
“Any race,” he repeats, his earnestness radiating off him in waves. “Monza, Singapore, Vegas, Abu Dhabi … your choice. We’ll fly you out, put you up in a hotel, give you the full VIP Paddock Club experience. Garage tours, pit lane walks, everything. The best tickets money can buy. Which is good, because I’m buying them.” He swallows, his gaze fixed on you. “I know it doesn’t fix … this,” he gestures vaguely at your bandaged face. “But it’s the only thing I could think of to even begin to make up for it. For ruining your day. Your face.”
He trails off, looking miserable.
The silence in the tent stretches. Beth looks at you, her eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them. This is a grand gesture of epic, romcom-finale proportions. It’s ludicrous. It’s insane. It’s also … incredibly, unbelievably sweet.
“You’d really do that?” You ask, your voice small.
“Of course,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “You can pick tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever you’re feeling up to it. Just let my team know. They’ll handle everything.”
You look down at the P1 cap in your hands, then at the race-worn boots on the floor. He broke your nose, and in a fit of panicked guilt, he’s offering you the world on a silver platter. He blew off his media duties, ran across the paddock in his socks, and is offering an apology so extravagant it’s almost comical. And all you can see is the genuine, gut-wrenching remorse in his eyes.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say.
A visible wave of relief washes over him. His shoulders, which had been tensed up to his ears, drop an inch. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, a little firmer this time. You’re still in pain, you’re still miserable, and you have a long, painful week of recovery ahead of you. But in this strange, quiet, antiseptic-smelling tent, something has shifted.
The story of the day you went to the Grand Prix is no longer just about how you got your nose broken by a stray football. It’s suddenly about something else entirely.
***
The Abu Dhabi air is a thick, humid blanket, clinging to Oscar’s skin as he walks from the driver’s room to the garage. The sun has begun its slow, spectacular descent, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and purple that reflect off the glass facades of the Yas Marina circuit. It’s beautiful. He doesn’t notice.
His world has shrunk to the size of a pinhead. All that exists is the next few hours. The start sequence, the tire strategy, the delicate, brutal dance of managing a Formula 1 car on the absolute ragged edge for fifty-eight laps. The weight of the World Drivers’ Championship presses down on his shoulders, a physical, tangible thing. It’s all come down to this. Him and Lando. Teammates. Friends. And for the next two hours, his only rival.
“Hydration good?” Arthur, his trainer, asks, falling into step beside him. “Energy levels?”
“Fine, Arthur. I’m fine,” Oscar says, his voice flat. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, a deliberate tunnel vision designed to block out the swarm of media, the sea of faces, the sheer, overwhelming scale of the moment.
He’s been in this bubble all weekend. He’s barely spoken to anyone outside his core engineering team. He eats, sleeps, and breathes data, telemetry, and strategy. He’s built a fortress in his mind, and the walls are a thousand feet thick. Nothing gets in.
But as they round the corner, cutting past the sprawling McLaren hospitality suite, a crack appears in the wall.
It’s just a flash. A flicker of movement on the terrace, a woman turning her head, her laughter catching the light. For a single, crystal-clear moment that seems to exist outside of time, his eyes lock on her. She’s wearing a simple black dress, her hair is down, and she’s smiling a smile so bright it seems to generate its own light. There’s a faint, silvery scar on the bridge of her nose, almost invisible unless you were the one who put it there.
His heart stutters. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots through him.
It’s you. The girl with the broken nose. The girl from that qualifying session months ago, the one whose face has been a recurring, guilt-ridden image in the back of his mind. He hasn’t heard a word since his team’s legal department confirmed you had accepted the VIP package. He’d asked Bradley a few times which race she’d chosen, but Bradley had been evasively professional. “We’re handling it, Oscar. All sorted.” He’d eventually dropped it, figuring you’d chosen a race earlier in the season and he’d simply missed you.
But there you are. Here. Now. On the most important day of his professional life. And you look … whole. Healthy. The bruises are gone, the swelling is a distant memory. He’d only ever seen your face contorted in pain, and now, seeing it relaxed and happy, is a revelation. You’re beautiful. The thought is so clear and intrusive it knocks the breath out of him.
“Oscar, let’s go. Andrea’s waiting.” Arthur’s hand is on his arm, gently but firmly steering him forward.
Oscar tries to look back, to get a second glance, to confirm that his pressure-addled brain isn’t just conjuring ghosts. But the angle is wrong, and a throng of guests blocks his view. You’re gone.
“Did you see …” He starts, but trails off.
“See what?” Arthur asks, his eyes scanning the area for a potential threat or distraction.
Oscar shakes his head. “Nothing. Thought I saw someone I knew.”
It couldn’t have been her. It’s too much of a coincidence. His mind is playing tricks on him, manifesting his lingering guilt at the worst possible moment. He dismisses it, shoves the image down, and rebuilds the wall in his mind, brick by painstaking brick. He can’t afford the distraction. Not today.
By the time he straps into the car, the ghost is gone. All that remains is the pinhead. The start lights. The engine. The championship.
***
The race is a fever dream. A relentless, high-speed chess match where every move is made at 200 miles per hour. Lando gets a better start, nosing ahead into Turn 1. Oscar’s heart is in his throat, but he holds his nerve, slotting in behind him. The gap between them for the next forty laps is never more than two seconds. They are perfectly, brutally matched.
He lives through the radio, Tom’s voice a calm, steady anchor in the screaming chaos.
“Okay, Oscar, Lando is pitting. It’s go-time. We need everything you’ve got.”
He pushes. He drives with a controlled fury, his hands a blur on the wheel, his inputs impossibly smooth. The tires scream, the car slides, but he holds it, wringing every last millisecond out of the machine. The pit stop is a symphony of motion, over and out in 2.1 seconds. He emerges from the pit lane just as Lando’s papaya car flashes past. Still P2.
The laps wind down. Ten to go. Five. Three. The gap is 0.8 seconds. Lando’s tires are beginning to fade. Oscar’s are, too, but he can feel he has more left. He can see Lando sliding in the low-speed corners, fighting the car. The opportunity is coming.
Two laps to go. He gets a massive exit out of the chicane, the DRS on his rear wing snaps open, and he’s a rocket ship down the back straight. He pulls alongside Lando, wheels inches apart. For a moment, they are perfectly level, two friends, two teammates, fighting for the ultimate prize. Oscar brakes later, deeper, forcing his car up the inside into the hairpin. He makes it stick. He’s in the lead.
The final lap is the longest of his life. He doesn’t breathe. He just drives, his focus absolute. He crosses the finish line, and the world explodes.
“YES! YES, OSCAR! YOU’VE DONE IT! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION!” Tom’s voice is raw, shredded with emotion.
A sound rips from Oscar’s throat, a strangled, guttural sob of pure relief. He’s screaming, crying, laughing all at once. The weight that has been sitting on him for months, for years, for his entire life, simply evaporates. He is floating.
“Thank you, guys,” he chokes out, his voice thick. “Thank you, everyone. Unbelievable. Just … unbelievable.”
The cool-down lap is a blur of waving flags and cheering fans. He pulls into parc fermé, right under the P1 sign. He sits in the car for a long moment, head bowed, hands still gripping the wheel, trying to absorb the impossible reality of what he has just achieved. 2025 Formula 1 World Drivers' Champion.
The hours that follow are a chaotic whirlwind of joy. He’s mobbed by his team, lifted onto their shoulders. He hugs his parents until his ribs ache. The podium ceremony is a champagne-soaked dream. He stands on the top step, the Australian anthem playing, and searches the crowd, a sea of celebrating faces. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.
He finds Lando in the hallway before the media pen. There are no cameras, just the two of them. Lando is sitting on a bench, staring at the floor, the P2 cap in his hands. The fierce joy of Oscar’s victory is immediately tempered by the quiet pain of his friend’s defeat.
“Mate,” Oscar says softly, sitting down next to him.
Lando looks up. The disappointment in his eyes is vast, but there’s no anger. Just a deep, weary sadness. He manages a small smile.
“World Champion, huh?” He says, his voice quiet. “Sounds good.”
“I’m sorry,” Oscar says, and he means it.
Lando shakes his head. “Don’t be. You drove a mega race. A mega season. You earned it.” He bumps his shoulder against Oscar’s. “Just … do me a favour and get slower now you’ve won one.”
Oscar laughs, a real, genuine laugh. “No promises.”
The team celebration in the garage is pure pandemonium. Music blasts, corks fly, and Oscar is passed from one champagne-drenched hug to another. He celebrates with every mechanic, every engineer, every member of the hospitality staff who helped get him here. It’s a roaring, joyous, exhausting blur.
Hours later, the official team party at a beachside hotel is in full swing. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving Oscar with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, floating sense of peace. He’s done it. The goal that has consumed his entire life has been achieved. He feels a quiet sense of what now?
He’s nursing a beer, having switched from champagne hours ago, leaning against a pillar and just watching his team celebrate. Zak is telling a story, gesticulating wildly. Andrea is smiling, a rare and genuine sight. Lando is in the middle of a dance circle, looking like he’s put the day’s disappointment behind him for the night.
“You’re not celebrating,” a voice says beside him. It’s Tom.
“I am,” Oscar says with a smile. “Just quietly. Soaking it in.”
“Well, soak faster. A few of us are heading to W. Some of the other teams are there. It’s the unofficial end-of-season party. You should come.”
Oscar hesitates. All he wants is his bed. But he’s the World Champion. He can’t very well go to sleep before midnight.
“Yeah, alright,” he says. “For a bit.”
***
The club is a different world. It’s dark, sleek, and cavernous, the bass of the music a physical vibration in his chest. The air is cool and smells of expensive perfume and cocktails. It’s packed with the familiar faces of the F1 paddock, all letting their hair down now that the season is finally over. He gets a fresh drink — just a sparkling water, he’s had enough alcohol to last a month — and finds a quieter corner, a leather booth overlooking the chaos of the dance floor.
He watches the pulsing lights, the shifting bodies. He feels strangely detached from it all, an observer in his own victory party. He’s happy. He’s ecstatic. But he’s also just … tired.
And then he sees you.
It’s not a fleeting glimpse this time. You’re standing near the bar with your friend, Beth. You’re talking to one of the Williams mechanics, your head tilted back as you laugh at something he’s said. The strobe lights catch the silver of the scar on your nose. It was you. He wasn’t hallucinating.
His breath catches in his throat. The exhaustion, the detachment, the quiet haze in his mind — it all vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden focus. It’s you. You’re here.
He watches you for a long moment, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it didn't on the final lap. You look incredible. The simple black dress clings to you in all the right ways, and your smile is just as dazzling as it was from a distance. The memory of you, crumpled and bleeding on the asphalt, feels like a scene from another lifetime, a different reality. It’s hard to reconcile that girl with the confident, radiant woman across the room.
He has to go over there. He has to say something. But what? Hi, thanks for coming. Sorry again about the horrific facial injury I inflicted upon you.
He takes a deep breath, pushing himself out of the booth. He feels more nervous now than he did on the starting grid. He weaves his way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving you. As he gets closer, you turn your head, your gaze sweeping across the room.
Your eyes meet his.
The recognition is instant. Your smile falters for a fraction of a second, your eyes widening slightly. The world seems to slow down, the thumping music fading to a dull, distant hum. There is only the crowded space between you and the sudden, undeniable charge in the air.
He stops a few feet away from you. The mechanic you were talking to says something, but you don’t seem to hear him. Beth notices his approach and her jaw drops for the second time in your shared F1 experience.
“Hi,” he says, his voice coming out a little hoarser than he intended.
“Hi,” you reply, your voice a low murmur that he has to strain to hear over the music.
A small, hesitant smile touches your lips. “Congratulations, World Champion.”
The two words hang in the air between you, a fragile bridge across the noisy chasm of the club. Your voice is calm, a little wry, and it cuts through the fog of victory and exhaustion in his head like a searchlight.
“Thanks,” Oscar manages to say, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. He takes a step closer, a magnetic pull he has no intention of fighting. “I, uh … I didn't know you were here. I thought I saw you earlier, before the race, but I figured I was just …”
“Hallucinating?” You finish for him, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Under the circumstances, I wouldn't have blamed you.”
“Something like that,” he admits, a faint blush rising on his neck. “I asked my team which race you’d picked. They never told me. I guess they didn't want the man responsible for your facial reconstruction getting distracted on the biggest day of his life.”
The joke is clumsy, landing with a thud, and he immediately regrets it. He winces, waiting for your reaction. But you just laugh, a genuine, warm sound that makes the knot in his stomach loosen just a little.
“Probably a smart move on their part,” you say. “Though you should know, my nose was reconstructed with titanium. It’s stronger than ever. You could probably hit it with another football and it would be fine.” You pause, your eyes twinkling. “Please don’t test that theory.”
“I will never, ever go near a football again,” he says, his voice so serious it’s almost a vow. “I swear. I’ve been having nightmares about it.”
“Really?”
“Not really,” he confesses. “But the guilt has been … significant.” He looks at you, properly looks at you, taking in the reality of you standing in front of him. “How is it? Your nose, I mean. Honestly.”
You reach up and touch the bridge of your nose, a light, unconscious gesture. “It’s fine. It aches when it’s about to rain, which makes me feel like I’m eighty years old. And I have this scar.” You lean in a little, tilting your head into the light. “See? The doctor called it a ‘character-building imperfection’.”
He leans in too, his gaze dropping to the faint, silvery line. It’s barely visible, delicate and fine. To him, it looks less like an imperfection and more like a brand, a permanent reminder of his own catastrophic clumsiness.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “For that. For all of it.”
“You gave me a VIP tour of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and Lando Norris’s sweaty P1 hat,” you counter, your tone light. “I’d say we’re almost even.” You glance down at his feet, then back up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “I did end up selling the boots, by the way. Paid my rent for five months with a tidy profit left over. So, really, thank you.”
A surprised laugh escapes him. It’s the first time he’s laughed freely all night, a real, unburdened sound. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” you say with a perfectly straight face, which then breaks into a wide grin. “Of course I’m kidding. They’re sitting in a box in my closet. Beth wants me to build a shrine.”
The easy back-and-forth feels shockingly natural, as if you’ve known each other for years, not just two bizarre, traumatic encounters. The noise of the club, the press of the crowd, the weight of his new title — it all fades into the background. There is only this bubble of space around the two of you.
“So,” he says, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, to keep you here. “Did you enjoy the race? Apart from the constant, looming threat of airborne sporting equipment.”
“It was incredible,” you say, your eyes lighting up. “Watching it from the garage, hearing the comms … it’s a completely different world. And that last-lap overtake was …” You shake your head, at a loss for words. “I think my heart stopped.”
“Mine too,” he admits.
An electric silence falls between you. The music swells, a wave of bass washing over the room. He sees Beth make eye contact with you, raising her eyebrows in a silent, questioning gesture. You give her a subtle shake of the head, a silent command to stay put. You don’t want to leave. He doesn’t want you to leave.
Maybe it’s the six glasses of champagne he had since the podium. Maybe it’s the dizzying, surreal euphoria of achieving his life’s dream. Or maybe it’s just the simple, undeniable fact that he feels more drawn to you than anyone he has ever met. But the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
Your eyebrows shoot up. The playful smile on your face is instantly replaced by a look of amused surprise. “Get out of here? Mr. World Champion, are you asking me back to your room?”
His face flames. Hearing it said so bluntly makes it sound impossibly forward, ridiculously arrogant. “I … yes?” He stammers. “Is that too much? I’m sorry. I’m not usually … I mean, I’m not good at this. The talking. The … this.”
You watch him, a slow, appraising smile returning to your face. You see the confident, untouchable athlete dissolve into a flustered, awkward guy who looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. It’s surprisingly, disarmingly endearing.
“You win the biggest prize in motorsport,” you say, tilting your head. “And the first thing you want to do is go home with the girl whose nose you broke. That’s either incredibly romantic or you have a very specific fetish.”
He chokes on air. “It is absolutely not a fetish.”
“Good to know,” you say, your smile widening. You take a small step closer, closing the remaining space between you. The scent of your perfume, something light and floral, cuts through the stale air of the club. “My hotel is on the other side of the island.” You pause, letting the statement hang in the air. “I assume yours is closer.”
Relief, potent and dizzying, floods his system. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Much closer.”
“Alright then, champion,” you say, your voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. “Lead the way.”
***
The walk back to his hotel is a blur. You slip out a side door, escaping the party unnoticed. The night air is warm and still. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to. The space between you crackles with a nervous, excited energy. His hand keeps brushing yours, sending little jolts up his arm. In the elevator, he finally gives in and takes it, his fingers lacing through yours. Your hand is warm and fits perfectly in his.
His suite is vast and impersonal, a generic landscape of beige furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering marina. The remnants of his race day are scattered around — his helmet on the coffee table, his champagne-soaked race suit slung over a chair.
He closes the door behind you, and the silence is suddenly immense. He feels that same awkwardness creeping back in. He’s a world champion in his own territory, and yet he feels like a teenager on a first date.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “This is … the room.”
You turn to face him, a soft smile on your face. You slowly walk towards him, your eyes never leaving his. “It’s a very nice room, Oscar.”
You stop directly in front of him, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You reach up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. His breath hitches.
“For the record,” you whisper. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
And that’s all it takes. The last of his reservations dissolves. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is both hesitant and hungry. It’s a kiss that tastes of champagne and victory and a strange, shared history of accidental violence. It’s messy and desperate and absolutely perfect.
His hands go to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your arms snake around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepens, a silent communication of all the things left unsaid. It’s a release of months of tension — his guilt, your pain, the bizarre, undeniable pull that has existed between you from the moment a football left his foot at the wrong velocity.
Clothes become an inconvenience. The zipper of your dress is cool against his fingertips. The buttons on his shirt give way under your impatient hands. A trail of discarded fabric marks your path from the door to the bedroom. You tumble onto the enormous bed, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.
The world outside, the championship, the parties, the press — it all ceases to exist. There is only the soft light from the window, the cool cotton of the sheets, and the intoxicating feeling of your skin against his. His confidence returns, not the arrogance of an athlete, but the quiet certainty of a man who knows he is exactly where he is supposed to be.
Every touch is electric, every kiss a discovery. He feels the delicate, raised line of the scar on your nose under his thumb and a fresh wave of tenderness washes over him. He wants to erase the memory of the pain, to replace it with nothing but this.
Things escalate, the pace quickening. The soft, tender exploration gives way to a deeper, more urgent need. He’s on top of you, propped up on his elbows, his body caging yours. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire, a small, trusting smile on your lips. The sight of it, of you looking at him like that, makes his head spin.
He leans down to kiss you again, wanting to devour you, to pour every ounce of his victory, his relief, his sheer, overwhelming joy into that single point of contact. He’s lost in the moment, a universe of sensation.
He shifts his weight, wanting to pull you closer, to deepen the kiss, to feel every inch of you against him. It’s a sudden movement, fueled by passion and adrenaline. A clumsy, uncoordinated shift.
His right elbow, moving faster than he intended, slips.
There is a sound. A wet, sickening crunch.
It’s a sound he knows. A sound that is seared into his memory. It’s the sound of bone breaking. It’s the sound of your nose.
For a split second, neither of you moves. The world freezes. The passionate, heavy breathing in the room is replaced by a stunned, absolute silence.
Then, a sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly to your face, just as they did that day in the paddock.
Oscar’s blood runs cold. A wave of ice-water horror crashes over him, extinguishing the fire of passion in an instant. He scrambles back, his limbs trembling.
“No,” he whispers, the word a strangled, pathetic sound. “No, no, no, no, no.”
You’re sitting up now, hunched over, your hands cupped over your face. You’re completely still.
“Are you …” He can’t even finish the sentence. The question is too horrifying, too absurd. His mind is short-circuiting. This isn’t happening. This is a stress dream. A nightmare brought on by too much champagne and not enough sleep. It cannot be real.
Then you lower your hands.
A single, perfect drop of crimson blood falls from your nostril, landing starkly against the pristine white of the hotel bedsheet. Another follows, and then another.
You stare down at the spreading red stain on the sheets, your expression not one of pain or anger, but of something far stranger. It’s a look of cosmic disbelief.
You slowly lift your gaze to meet his. He looks absolutely shattered, his face pale with a terror so consuming it seems to have aged him ten years in ten seconds.
A long, heavy moment passes. You take a slow, shaky breath.
And then you speak, your voice eerily calm, laced with a thread of galactic-level exasperation.
“Oscar,” you say, looking from the blood on the sheets to his horrified face. “You really need to stop making a habit out of this.”
Oscar’s brain ceases to function. The words you speak — so calm, so absurd, so utterly unexpected — are a foreign language he cannot process. He just stares at you, at your face, at the blood on the sheets, and his entire world, which just moments ago had been a triumphant, glittering pinnacle, collapses into a black hole of pure, unadulterated horror.
“I … what?” He says, his voice a choked whisper.
“A habit,” you repeat, your voice still unnervingly steady. You press the corner of the duvet to your nose, wincing as the fabric makes contact. “You know, something you do regularly. Like brushing your teeth. Or, in your case, shattering my nasal cartilage.”
The clinical, detached way you say it finally snaps him out of his paralysis. He lurches into motion, a frantic, chaotic scramble.
“Oh my God,” he says, stumbling out of the bed and frantically looking around the room as if the solution to this nightmare is hiding behind a lamp. “Oh my God, not again. I can’t—this isn’t—I am the worst person on Earth.”
“You’re not the worst person on Earth, Oscar,” you say, your voice muffled by the duvet. “But your spatial awareness in moments of passion could use some work.”
“Ice!” He exclaims, a single, brilliant thought piercing the fog of his panic. “We need ice.” He runs to the minibar, yanks it open, and starts pulling out tiny bottles of vodka and overpriced chocolate bars, searching for the microscopic ice tray. “And a doctor. I’m calling Dr. Hughes. He’s the team physician. He’ll know what to do.”
He finds his phone on the nightstand, his fingers shaking so badly it takes him three tries to unlock it.
“Oscar,” you say, your voice firm, cutting through his rising tide of panic. He freezes, phone halfway to his ear, and looks at you. You’ve lowered the duvet. The bleeding is worse now, a steady drip. But your eyes are clear and focused. “Do not call the McLaren team doctor at three o’clock in the morning on the night you won the World Championship to tell him you broke my nose. Again. During …” You wave a hand, searching for the right word. “… an intimate moment.”
He stares at you, the logic of your words slowly penetrating his thick skull. You’re right. The PR fallout from that phone call would be apocalyptic.
“Right,” he says, lowering the phone. “No team doctor. Okay. Right. So, a hospital. We’ll go to a hospital. I’ll get the car.” He starts pulling on his trousers, which are inside out. He doesn’t notice.
“Okay,” you agree.
“I am so sorry,” he says, the words a desperate, repeating mantra. He finally gets his trousers on the right way and shoves his feet into his shoes without socks. “I don’t know how this happened. My elbow just … slipped. I wasn’t—I would never—I swear to God, I’m not normally this … hazardous.”
“I believe you,” you say, and the strange thing is, you do. This wasn’t malice. It was just a freak accident of physics and passion. A one-in-a-billion recurrence.
He finds one of his McLaren hoodies, still smelling faintly of champagne and sweat, and gently helps you put it on over your head. The gesture is so tender, so careful, it’s a stark contrast to the accidental violence of moments before. He helps you off the bed, his arm securely around your waist, treating you as if you’re made of spun glass.
The journey through the silent, opulent hotel and down to the underground car park is a surreal pantomime of stealth and urgency. He has you tucked under his arm, your face hidden in the hood, while he scans every corridor for potential witnesses. They make it to his McLaren, and he settles you into the passenger seat with the care of a bomb disposal expert.
The drive to the hospital is silent for the first five minutes, the only sound the hum of the tires on the immaculate Abu Dhabi asphalt and Oscar’s frantic, shallow breathing. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.
“This is, without a doubt, the weirdest night of my life,” you say, finally breaking the silence. Your voice is thick and nasally. You’re holding a wad of tissues he grabbed from the hotel room to your face.
He flinches as if you’d slapped him. “I am so, so, so sorry, Y/N.” He uses your first name, and the sound of it in his mouth, so earnest and broken, makes something in your chest ache.
“I know,” you say softly. “You keep saying that.”
“It’s all I can say,” he replies, his voice cracking. “What else is there? ‘Oops’?”
A small, painful laugh escapes you. “Probably not ‘oops’.”
“I just,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I win the World Championship. My lifelong dream. And hours later, I’m in a rental car, driving the beautiful girl I was in bed with to the emergency room for the second face-breaking incident I have personally caused her. How is this my life?”
“Maybe you’re cursed,” you suggest. “Maybe you made a deal with the devil. He gives you a world title, but you’re doomed to be a menace to my specific nose for all eternity.”
He glances at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips before being immediately extinguished by a fresh wave of guilt. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little bit funny,” you insist. “The universe has a strange sense of humor.”
The emergency room at 3:41 AM is the same in Abu Dhabi as it is anywhere else in the world. The lighting is a harsh, unforgiving fluorescent. The air smells of disinfectant and quiet desperation. A handful of other people are scattered around the waiting room, nursing their own late-night maladies.
The check-in process is a masterpiece of awkwardness. Oscar tries to handle it, but he’s so flustered he can barely remember his own name, let alone yours. You end up taking over, calmly explaining to the triage nurse that you had a … fall. And that yes, you think your nose is broken again.
You sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, a strange island of high drama in a sea of mundane misery. Oscar doesn’t sit. He paces. He walks back and forth in a three-foot space in front of you, a caged, miserable animal. Every few laps, he stops, looks at you, and opens his mouth as if to apologize again, but you just give him a look, and he resumes his pacing.
A man with a dislocated shoulder, his arm in a makeshift sling, squints at Oscar. “Hey, are you …”
Oscar freezes, his face paling. “No,” he says quickly. “I’m not.”
The man shrugs and goes back to staring at the wall.
After what feels like an eternity, a nurse calls your name. Oscar is on his feet instantly, his hand on the small of your back as he guides you into the examination area.
The doctor is a young, efficient man with tired eyes. He listens patiently to your story about “falling” and then gently probes your face. Oscar hovers by the door, radiating an aura of guilt so powerful it feels like it’s sucking the oxygen out of the room.
“Well,” the doctor says, shining a light up your nostrils. “It seems you have a talent for this. It’s broken. Again. Same place.”
“A talent is one word for it,” you mumble.
“We’ll need to set it,” the doctor says calmly. “It will be unpleasant, but it’s better to do it now. A local anesthetic to numb the area, and then a quick, firm … reset.”
Oscar makes a small, strangled sound from the doorway.
“Would your … friend like to wait outside?” The doctor asks, glancing at the pale, sweating World Champion.
“No,” Oscar says immediately, his voice stronger than you expected. “I’m staying.”
He walks over and stands beside you, taking your hand. His palm is clammy, but his grip is firm and steady.
The anesthetic shots are sharp and stinging, but soon a welcome numbness spreads across your face. The doctor picks up a tool that looks like something from a medieval torture chamber.
“Okay,” he says. “A deep breath. This will be quick.”
Oscar’s grip on your hand tightens. The doctor places the tool inside your nostril, and with a swift, brutal movement, there is a deep, resonant CRACK that you feel all the way down to your teeth.
Your entire body convulses, a strangled cry escaping your throat. But it’s Oscar who flinches harder. His eyes are screwed shut, his face a mask of pure, empathetic agony, as if he felt the bone grate back into place himself.
And then it’s over. The doctor is taping a fresh, clean bandage across your nose. The sharp, blinding pain is already receding, replaced by the familiar, deep, throbbing ache.
They leave you in the room to wait for discharge papers. Oscar pulls a stool over and sits in front of you, still holding your hand. He looks utterly defeated. The euphoria of his championship victory is a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, sterile, self-inflicted nightmare.
“I felt that,” he says, his voice a raw whisper. “When he … set it. I felt it. And seeing you … the look on your face …” He shakes his head, unable to finish. “This is all my fault.”
“We’ve established that,” you say, your voice gentle. You squeeze his hand. “Oscar. It was an accident. A ridiculous, statistically impossible, cosmically stupid accident. But it was an accident.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, looking up at you, his eyes swimming with a vulnerability you’ve never seen. “It happened. Twice. I hurt you. Twice. The first time was bad luck. The second time is a pattern. I am officially a health hazard.”
He lets go of your hand and stands up, resuming his pacing in the small room.
“I shouldn’t be around you. Clearly. I’m dangerous. I’m like a walking cartoon anvil.” He stops and faces you, a look of grim resolution on his face. “After I take you back to your hotel, I’ll arrange a flight for you and your friend. First class, anywhere you want to go. A vacation to make up for the ruined vacation. And I’ll cover every medical bill, now and forever. And then … I’ll stay away from you. For your own safety.”
He says it with such finality, such certainty, that it feels like a punch to the gut. An ache, far deeper than the one in your nose, spreads through your chest. The thought of him just disappearing from your life, of this bizarre, chaotic, and strangely wonderful connection just ending here, in this sterile room, is unbearable.
He thinks he’s doing the noble thing. The right thing. And it’s the last thing in the world you want.
He’s waiting for you to agree, to accept his terms of surrender. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.
He looks so lost, so convinced that he’s poison. All the confidence of the champion has been stripped away, leaving only the awkward, earnest, and catastrophically clumsy man underneath. He turns to look out the small window at the slowly lightening Abu Dhabi sky. He’s given up.
It’s your turn to be brave. Or stupid.
“Oscar,” you say. He turns back to you, his expression guarded. “Before you banish yourself to a remote island for my protection, can I ask you a question?”
“Anything,” he says.
“That night at the club … before all this,” you gesture to your face, the room. “When you asked me to come back to your room. Why did you?”
He looks confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what was the reason? Was it because you felt guilty and you were just trying to complete the apology tour? Was it because you’d just won the biggest race of your life and you were drunk on champagne and adrenaline and I was just … there?”
He stares at you, processing the question. He walks back to the stool and sits down, his eyes locked on yours.
“No,” he says, his voice low and firm. “No. It wasn’t guilt. The guilt was there, it’s always going to be there. And it wasn’t the win. That was … that was all just noise.” He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “From the moment I first saw you — I mean, really saw you, at the club, smiling — I couldn’t think about anything else. I haven’t been able to. I felt … I don’t know. I’m not good with words. It was just a feeling. That I had to talk to you. That I wanted to be near you. It had nothing to do with your nose or the championship. It was just … you.”
The sincerity in his voice is a palpable thing. It fills the small room, pushing back against the smell of antiseptic and the hum of the hospital.
He takes a deep breath, like a driver on the grid waiting for the lights to go out. It’s a moment of bravery. Or stupidity.
“Y/N,” he says, your name a quiet prayer. “When we get out of here, and after you’ve had time to heal, and after you’re sure you don’t want to file a restraining order … will you go on a date with me? A real date. In public. During the daytime. With no beds or footballs anywhere in the vicinity.”
The question hangs in the air, audacious and hopeful and completely insane.
You look at him — this brilliant, talented, disastrous man who has twice broken your face and is now, against all logic, asking to see you again. A slow smile spreads across your lips, pulling at the tender skin around your mouth.
You tilt your head, your expression a perfect mix of amusement and affection.
“Is that because you’re trying to break my nose for a third time?” You ask. “Going for the hat-trick?”
The anxiety on his face vanishes, replaced by a sudden, startled laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. He shakes his head, a look of relief washing over him.
“God, no,” he says, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever touches that nose again. I’ll wrap you in bubble wrap if I have to.”
“Okay then, champion,” you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand again. “It’s a date.”
***
The late afternoon sun is low and golden, filtering through the sprawling branches of the oak trees in Melbourne Park. A gentle breeze, a welcome respite from the Australian heat, rustles the leaves. It’s quiet, peaceful. You’re walking along a gravel path, your hand loosely held in Oscar’s. The familiar, comfortable weight of it is an anchor in your world.
A year has passed since the Abu Dhabi emergency room. A year of tentative first dates — each one meticulously planned by Oscar to be as low-risk and hazard-free as possible — followed by a second date, and a third, until neither of you were counting anymore. A year of falling in love, a slow and steady process that felt as inevitable as it was unlikely.
His life is still a whirlwind of carbon fiber and continents, of qualifying laps and sponsor commitments. But your life is the quiet space he returns to. Your small apartment, which is now cluttered with his belongings, has become his home. The man who was once a face on a television screen now leaves his slippers by your front door and argues with you about who has to unload the dishwasher.
“I’m just saying,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze, “that for a man who can calculate braking points to the millimeter while traveling at the speed of sound, your ability to judge the correct amount of pasta to cook is shockingly poor.”
He feigns a look of deep offense. “It’s called being prepared. What if we have unexpected guests? What if there’s a pasta-related apocalypse? We’re set for a week. You should be thanking me.”
“My thank you is not having to cook for three days,” you concede. “But my Tupperware collection is filing a formal grievance.”
He laughs, a deep, easy sound that you feel more than you hear. He stops walking and turns to face you, pulling you in by your hand. The sun catches the flecks of gold in his eyes. The shy, awkward boy from the medical tent is gone, replaced by a man who looks at you with a quiet certainty that still makes your breath catch.
“Is my subpar pasta-cooking a deal-breaker, then?” He asks, a playful smirk on his lips.
“I’m considering my options,” you say, rising on your toes to kiss him. “But for now, you’re safe.”
He leans in to kiss you back, his other hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. And in that moment, in that split-second of blissful, mundane peace, the universe decides to test you one last time.
From the corner of your eye, you see a flash of neon green.
A frisbee, thrown with more enthusiasm than skill by a teenager on the nearby lawn, wobbles violently through the air. It arcs, dips, and then makes a sharp, unnatural turn, as if guided by the hand of some mischievous god of chaos.
It is heading directly for your face.
Time slows. It’s happening again. The world narrows to a single, incoming projectile. You see the ridges on the plastic, the way it spins, the inexorable physics of its trajectory. You brace for the impact, a phantom ache already blooming in your nose.
But Oscar’s world speeds up.
His kiss hasn’t even ended when his senses scream DANGER. His racer’s reflexes, honed by a thousand start-lights and a million micro-corrections, take over his body. There is no thought. There is only action.
His hand drops from your cheek. In a single, fluid motion that is impossibly fast, he moves. He doesn't just block it. He doesn't just bat it away. His arm extends, his fingers splay, and with the pinpoint precision of a man who lives in a world of milliseconds, he plucks the neon green disc out of the air.
It comes to a dead stop, hovering silently, less than an inch from the bridge of your nose.
A stunned silence hangs between you. The teenagers on the lawn have frozen, their hands over their mouths. The breeze rustles the leaves.
Oscar is panting slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks from the frisbee in his hand to your wide, shocked eyes. He’s holding the plastic disc like it’s a venomous snake he’s just subdued.
You slowly reach up and touch your nose. It’s there. It’s intact. It’s not bleeding.
A slow, bubbling laugh escapes your lips. It starts as a giggle and grows into a full, breathless peal of laughter. You lean your forehead against his chest, shaking with the sheer, cosmic absurdity of it all.
“Oh my god,” you manage to get out between gasps.
“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice tight with a familiar, post-traumatic panic.
You look up at him, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. “Better than okay. My hero.” You tap the frisbee still clutched in his hand. “Look at you. Finally putting those ridiculously fast hands to good use.”
A slow grin spreads across his face, a wave of relief washing over him. He looks down at the frisbee, then back at you, a look of mock-seriousness in his eyes.
“All of it,” he says, his voice a low, dramatic vow. “The go-karting since I was a kid, the years in the junior formulas, the hours in the simulator, winning the World Championship … it has all been a training montage for this exact moment.” He tosses the frisbee dismissively onto the grass. “My life’s purpose is complete. I have saved your nose.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. “My nose and I are eternally grateful,” you whisper against his lips.
“Good,” he murmurs, his smile softening into something tender and real. “Because I plan on keeping it safe for a very, very long time.”
He kisses you then, a kiss that isn’t born of frantic passion or champagne-fueled victory, but of quiet certainty and a shared, ridiculous history. It’s a kiss that tastes like home. And you know, with a clarity that settles deep in your bones, that while your story started with a bang and two clean breaks, it will end with a lifetime of very, very quiet saves.
𝒇𝒕 𝜗ৎ — oscar piastri 𝒙 girlfriend fem!reader / Everyone thinks you’re the sweetest girl in the world. Even Lando said it once: “Oscar, your girlfriend is adorable.” But your boyfriend is the only one who knows how freaking horny and dirty you really get—especially when you’re between the sheets. 1.2k
nsfw tw. Straight-up porn, basically zero plot. Reader’s a girl with a pussy. Dom!Oscar, sub!reader. Rough unprotected sex (wear a condom in real life, guys). Filthy dirty talk with heavy degradation. Spanking, etc. Creampie. Face sitting. Oscar’s a total asshole to her, but it’s all fully consensual. (I know he’s a sweetheart, but shh, let me dream) / English isn’t my first language, I use grammar checkers to translate. Some stuff might sound weird, sorry!
We all hate fake people. Those who pretend to be something they’re not, showing a perfect face to the world while hiding something completely different—even worse—underneath.
Ever since you met your boyfriend, you played the role of the good, innocent, pure girl to perfection. At least until the first time you had sex. Oscar had believed you were the sweetest girl in the world… until he discovered that other side of you. And, to be honest, it didn’t surprise him. No one could really be that chaste in real life.
Everyone talked about how perfect you were, how adorable you could be. They mentioned you as if you were some kind of cloistered nun, incapable of imagining you in a sexual situation. It was like trying to fit two wrong pieces of the same puzzle together.
Oscar used to chuckle to himself every time he heard Lando say how cute you were, how good, how angelic. Ironic, he thought. Too ironic.
Part of your boyfriend hated having discovered that side of you. The one that, during an entire weekend, wouldn’t leave him alone for a second in his own house because you were so turned on that you wanted him to fuck you in every corner.
Or the one where you cried between moans, begging him to give it to you harder, to cum inside you until your pussy overflowed and you kept dripping his cum for days.
You were the same girl his friends considered “adorable,” yes, to the point of calling you “angel” on more than one occasion. But when you were between the sheets, you turned out to be the closest thing to the devil: getting fucked mercilessly, gagged with his cock, or while he ate you out for hours until you cried, begging him to finally let you cum.
This time, you’re crying and kicking, completely exhausted. He’s been devouring you for over an hour. You’ve cum so many times that you couldn’t even count them on your fingers 10 fingers anymore. You’re sitting on his face, and he won’t let you move until he’s satisfied with your taste, until he decides he’s had enough and finally wants to bury himself inside you.
You grind your soaked folds against his pretty face while he swallows every drop of your wetness, sucking your clit over and over until you feel like you’re going to pass out.
You’re already so sensitive that the brush of his tongue almost hurts, but you can take it and more. You still need to feel his cock inside you; you know you have to hold on a lot longer before this ends… though, deep down, you don’t want it to ever end.
“You’re complaining again already. Pathetic. I haven’t even started and you’re already falling apart…” he mocks you with that smile of his, while his hazel eyes gleam with amusement as he looks at you. He runs his thumb over his lips to wipe away the remnants of you, and fuck, he’s so handsome that you clench involuntarily. Though, truthfully, lately just seeing him breathe is enough to make your body react like this.
He spreads your legs wider and positions you better over his face, burying his mouth in your pussy like he can’t get enough. You feel like he’ll never tire of your taste, of how sweet you are to him. It drives you crazy to cum on his lips, because you always end up leaving his mouth a mess of orgasms… and he swallows it all, without wasting a single drop of what you give him.
“You’re soaking my sheets. I can’t even devour you without you drenching everything, can I?” he murmurs in a husky voice as he flips you over on the bed until you’re completely exposed. Your pussy glistens, swollen and throbbing under his predatory gaze. He looks at you like he’s already decided he won’t leave you alone tonight; not until he’s used you so much that you forget your own name, and even his.
You feel vulnerable, maybe too much. His strong hands press against the inside of your thighs, keeping you spread open without letting you close them even an inch. “Keep them like that,” he orders in a low voice. “I haven’t given you permission to hide how wet you are for me.”
You watch as he gives one last lick that rips a scream from you: slow, almost torturous, from your entrance up to your clit, with his tongue flat and his eyes locked on yours. You could have cum just from that image alone. The gleam in his brown eyes, pulsing with pure lust in his dilated pupils. It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your life.
His hands fumble with his belt, clumsy from the urgency. He doesn’t even bother taking off all his clothes; he’s too desperate. Barely half a second later, you feel the tip of his cock sliding between your folds, and the next instant he’s buried in you to the hilt. His thickness and length find the perfect angle, hitting exactly those spots that make you moan uncontrollably.
“You’re clenching so hard… little greedy thing. You’d take anything I give you, wouldn’t you? It’s funny, everyone thinks you’re so sweet. If they knew how easy it is for you to spread your legs for me,” he murmurs almost mockingly as he fucks you like he hates you. Each thrust gets harder than the last.
Your eyes roll back, your ankles dig into the small of his back to feel him even deeper, your torso arches until you’re pressed completely against his chest. He’s fucking you so hard, it feels so fucking good, that your body doesn’t even know how to react anymore.
“Oscar, fuck, it feels so…!” You don’t even finish the sentence: one of his hands slips under your body and he spanks your ass so hard that a scream escapes you. You’d swear he’s left the mark of his palm burned bright red into your skin.
“Shh, baby. Little sluts like you don’t talk, they just take it and endure,” he whispers in your ear with that voice laced with sweet venom that gives you goosebumps and makes you clench even tighter around him.
You’re squeezing him so much you’re practically milking him. He cums in spurts inside you just as your own orgasm explodes against your belly and your pussy contracts so hard it feels like you’re going to break him. He floods you, splashing every corner until you feel yourself overflowing. You’re so full that you know tomorrow, when you get up to go to university, you’ll be leaving a trail of his cum all over the house.
Oscar smiles, scoops up that hot, thick mixture of both your orgasms with his fingers and shoves them straight into your mouth. He makes you suck them clean until they’re spotless, savoring that bitter-sweet taste that floods your tongue. “Poor little thing, you try so hard to be good… Too bad deep down you’re so filthy. And the best part is that you really think no one else notices. You’re not fooling anyone, love. And me least of all,” he murmurs, nibbling on your earlobe until a shiver runs down your entire spine.
And before you even realize it… oops, you’re soaked again.
Yours Truly: I'M NOT READY TO LOSE MV1 BUT I CAN'T WAIT FOR MV33 or MV3 but like why the helly have I not written about my favorite driver??? I've had this in my drafts for months cause max when he's streaming with the camera AT THAT CERTAIN ANGLE has me on my knees and I had to write about it Enjoy 🤍
The hum of the racing simulator filled the dimly lit room, screens flickering with the virtual track of Monza as Max gripped the wheel, his focus laser-sharp on the upcoming Italian Grand Prix.
Shirtless, his toned chest glistened faintly under the glow of the monitors, messy brown hair tousled from hours of immersion. His shorts had ridden up his thick thighs during the long session, exposing the dark happy trail that trailed down from his navel, vanishing teasingly beneath the fabric. He wasn't streaming tonight—just pure practice, no distractions.
Across the room, his girlfriend watched from the couch, her legs tucked under her. She wore nothing but one of his oversized team shirts, the hem brushing her thighs, and a pair of simple cotton panties that clung to her curves. The sight of him like this—intense, sweaty, utterly absorbed—stirred something deep in her core. Her gaze lingered on the flex of his biceps as he shifted gears, the way his abs tightened with each virtual corner. She bit her lip, heat pooling between her legs. Waiting wasn't an option anymore.
Padding quietly over the carpet, she approached from behind, her bare feet silent. Max didn't notice at first, too locked into the sim. But when she slid onto his lap, facing him, straddling his thighs in the racing chair, he glanced up with a soft smile. "Hey, babe," he murmured, his Dutch accent thick with concentration. Assuming she just needed some closeness after her long day, he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head before his eyes flicked back to the screen. His arms stayed loose around her, one hand returning to the wheel.
She melted into him for a moment, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin—sweat and cologne mixed with the faint leather of the chair. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. But the warmth of his body against hers, the hardness of his thighs under her, ignited her impatience. Slowly, she shifted her hips, grinding her panty-covered pussy against the growing bulge in his shorts. The friction sent a spark through her, her clit throbbing against the thin barrier.
Max adjusted without looking down, spreading his legs a fraction wider in the chair to give her more space. "Comfy now?" he asked absently, navigating a tight chicane on the track. She hummed in response, her hands sliding up his bare back, nails lightly scraping his skin. But she didn't stop the subtle roll of her hips, pressing firmer now, feeling his cock twitch and harden beneath her.
Emboldened, she tilted her head, lips brushing the pulse point on his neck. She kissed there softly at first, then open-mouthed, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin. Her mouth trailed lower, nipping at his collarbone before descending to his chest, sucking lightly on the firm muscle over his pec. Max's hands faltered on the controls for a split second, the car veering slightly on-screen. "Fuck, what are you—" he started, voice husky, but he caught himself, eyes snapping back to the race. He swallowed hard, trying to refocus as her grinding grew more insistent, her panties dampening against his shorts.
The tease wasn't cutting it; she needed more. Her fingers dipped to the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down. Max got the message instantly, lifting his hips just enough to let her slide the fabric past his ass and thighs. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already half-hard from her attentions, the head flushed and beading with precum. She wrapped her hand around the base, stroking once, feeling the velvety heat of him pulse in her grip.
Rising up on her knees, she hooked her panties aside with one hand, the cool air hitting her pussy for a moment before she positioned him at her entrance. She sank down slowly, inch by inch, until he bottomed out inside her. A low groan escaped Max's lips as her tight walls clenched around his full length, stretching her deliciously. The sensation was overwhelming—his cock buried deep, filling her completely, her slick coating him.
His thumb hit the pause button instinctively, the sim freezing mid-lap. "Shit, babe, I can't—" he breathed, hands gripping her waist, but she shook her head, leaning in to nip his earlobe.
"Keep playing," she whispered, her voice breathy and commanding. "Focus on the screen. Don't stop for me." She held still, impaled on him, her inner muscles fluttering teasingly around him. The fullness made her ache, but she waited, watching his jaw clench as he fought with himself.
Reluctantly, Max unpaused the game, his eyes dragging back to the monitors. The car lurched forward on track, and only then did she start to move. Lifting her hips, she rode him with deliberate slowness, sliding up until just the head remained inside her, then dropping back down, taking him deep again. The sim chair creaked under them, her shirt riding up to expose the bounce of her breasts with each descent. Sensations flooded her—the drag of his thick cock against her sensitive walls, the way he hit that spot just right on the downstroke, sending jolts of pleasure up her spine.
Max's focus shattered almost immediately. His virtual laps grew sloppy, the wheel turning jerky in his hands as he stole glances at her. He watched the way her pussy swallowed his cock over and over, her arousal slicking their joined bodies, dripping down to his balls. Her panties bunched to the side, forgotten, as she picked up pace, grinding her clit against his pubic bone on each thrust. "Mmm, you feel so good," she moaned, hands braced on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
He tried to mutter something about the race, but it came out as a groan. Every time his cock angled just so, rubbing that deep, inner ridge, she squeezed down hard—her pussy contracting like a vice around him. The pressure was too much; Max's eyes widened as the sim car spun out, slamming into the barriers with a digital crunch. "Fuck!" he cursed, the game glitching to a restart screen.
That was it. His hands clamped onto her hips, fingers bruising as he took control, bucking up into her with forceful thrusts. She gasped, the sudden intensity making her breasts jiggle under the shirt, her head falling back. He met her every descent, his cock pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing over the sim's idle hum. "You did that on purpose," he panted, pulling her down for a messy kiss.
Their mouths crashed together, tongues tangling hungrily as she rode him harder. He sucked on her lower lip, biting gently, while one hand slipped under her shirt to palm her breast, thumb rolling her hardened nipple. The coil in her belly tightened, pleasure building with each slam of his hips—his cock stretching her, the friction igniting sparks that raced through her nerves. Max's breaths came ragged against her mouth, his abs flexing as he drove up, chasing his own release.
She came first, shattering around him with a cry muffled against his lips. Her pussy spasmed wildly, walls gripping his cock in rhythmic pulses, pulling him deeper as waves of ecstasy crashed over her. The tightness tipped him over; Max groaned into the kiss, thrusting erratically before burying himself to the hilt. Hot spurts of cum flooded her, coating her insides, the warmth prolonging her orgasm until she trembled in his lap.
They broke apart, panting, foreheads pressed together as aftershocks rippled through them. His cock softened inside her, their mixed fluids trickling down her thighs. Max chuckled breathlessly, nuzzling her nose. "You made me crash. Twice in one session— that's a new low for quali practice."
She grinned, clenching around him playfully one last time, drawing a hiss from his lips. "Worth it. You were too focused anyway. Maybe we should make this a pre-race ritual—keep you loose."
He laughed, hands stroking her back lazily. "Deal. But next time, wait till I'm in the pits."
pairing: max verstappen x fem!reader
summary: in which you don't read the label on the chocolates OR you and max accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolates and get too horny on vacation.
warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT. all smut. degradation, spitting, fingering, dirty talk, filthy filthy, slight breeding kink, mean!max, edging, language...NOT PROOFREAD (might be some typos or things that don't make sense lol), cute ending
word count: ~3.9k
author's note: SURPRISE!!!! ITS A DAY EARLY ;) this is a continuation to an anon request!!! i wrote a cl16 AND ln4 version of this. UP NEXT: OP81
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You should’ve read the label before eating them.
Some little box tucked in the corner of the welcome basket, tucked beneath bottles of wine and a note from one of Max’s sponsors. You didn’t think about it twice. Why would you?
Just ripped it open with sun-warm fingers and let a piece melt on your tongue. Then fed Max some. Let his lips wrap around your fingers. Slow, tongue brushing against your knuckle. Eyes locked on you.
Humming at how good it was.
You laughed. And neither of you thought twice about it.
You were both stretched out on the daybed, high up in the cliffs, where no one could see you but the ocean. Linen cushions under you, a light breeze, and the ocean humming.
Your body is still damp from the pool. Bikini clinging to your skin tightly. And Max is lying next to you in nothing but a dark pair of swim trunks. Waistband pushed dangerously low on his hips. One leg bent. One arm behind his head. Comfy. Happy.
The way he always is when its just the two of you.
You’d been talking about something. Nothing important. Just a lazy conversation that happens between the stretches of silence.
He’s half-laughing, fingers ghosting down your arm every once in a while.
About thirty minutes go by, and something in you shifts.
It’s not all at once. Slow. A subtle ache in your belly. Your bikini bottoms sticky. A wetness you hadn’t noticed before. Thighs clenching automatically.
Max lets out a breath next to you. Like something in him changed too.
You don’t look over right away. Because the ache doesn’t stop.
It spreads like a fucking wildfire.
Low and deep and pulsing between your legs. As if your body decided to speed past the arousal and straight into desperation.
You try to cross your legs, needing some sort of pressure. But it doesn’t even help in the slightest bit. If anything, it makes it worse.
Then you heard him.
A quiet, “Fuck.”
You turn your head.
He was still laying on his back. But no longer relaxed. In fact he was ramrod straight. Jaw tight. Eyes shut. A hand still behind his head, but the other now fisting the edge of the cushion.
Swim trunks tight over his hips.
And lower….
You swallowed hard.
He turns to look at you, slowly opening his eyes.
“What the fuck was in that chocolate?” He asks, voice rough. Low.
You blink. “I don’t…Uh,…I didn’t read the…”
His gaze drops to your legs. The way your thighs were pressed together like you could stop it. Like you weren’t fucking dripping.
You try to play it cool. Try to make it seem like your cunt isn’t clenching on nothing. Again and again. Begging to be filled.
He feels his cock twitch at the sight of it. Your thighs pressed together like some common whore.
“You’re squirming.”
You breathe in. Swallow.
“I’m just…I’m just hot.”
He hums. But it’s not kind.
And he watches the little shift in your breathing. The twitch of your muscles.
His cock twitches in his swim suit.
And he smirks.
“Just a bit of chocolate and what?” He laughs. “Now you’re lying here thighs pressed together like a fucking slut.”
You flinch. Eyes widening. And he grins even bigger.
“This what gets you wet now?” His voice teasing. “Candy?”
“Max…”
“No. Go on. Tell me.” His eyes trail down your chest, landing on your hips. “Is your pussy this wet because of the candy? Or is it because you let me suck it off your fingers like a good little whore.”
You suck in a sharp breath. Hips jerking.
He laughs. Mean.
“Oh, you liked that, yeah?”
You nod. Whimpering.
He moves closer. Fingers reaching for your skin, pulling your legs apart just a little bit, trailing up your thigh, stopping right near your core.
“Bet if I pulled your bottoms to the side, you’d be fucking leaking onto the daybed.”
And its not a question. It’s a statement.
He’s on his side now. Watching you, propped on his elbow, cock visibly straining against the thin fabric.
“Poor, liefje.” He coos. Mockingly. “Trying so hard to act normal. Bet your pussy’s fucking pulsing.”
You moan, barely. Head falling back. Chest rising.
“Go on, pretty. Rub your thighs together all you want. Let that needy little cunt grind against nothing. See if that makes you feel any better.”
“You’re being mean.”
His smile twists. Darker. Meaner.
“You should’ve read the fucking label.”
You don’t speak. You can’t.
“I trusted you, you know?” He mutters. “Handed me that chocolate like it was a fucking game.”
His jaw clenches.
“And now I’m sitting here with my cock fuckin’ aching…and you’re…” He glances at your thighs again for a quick second. “Dripping on the cushions like a fucking whore.”
He shifts, kneeling beside you now. “And the worst part?” He leans toward you. Noses almost touching. “It’s your fault.”
His fingers still rest on your thigh. Squeezing it. Trailing to the fabric of your bikini with two fingers, dragging it. Slow.
Until you’re exposed.
“Oh, fuck me.” He groans. “You’re soaked. Fuckin’ soaked, schatje.”
And he laughs. It’s almost cruel.
“Dripping. All from what? A piece of chocolate and some dirty talk?”
You whimper, hips twitching as the cool air breezes against your hot core.
“You look like you’d let me fuck you right here.”
And you whimper. Pushing your head deeper against the cushion behind you. Sunglasses pushed up on your head.
“Not even trying to hide it, huh?” He spits. “Too fucking dumb from being so horny, yeah? Can’t even keep your hips still.”
You nod. A lot. Fast. It’s almost pathetic.
“You gonna admit it?”
You blink at him. “Admit what?”
“That you’re clenching around nothing. Aching for my fingers. For my cock.”
He leans in closer.
“Say it.” He demands. “Or I won’t touch you.”
Your voice quivers, “Max, please…I’m so wet.”
He raises a brow, smirk growing. “Sorry…what was that?”
You feel your cheeks redden. “I’m wet,” your voice is louder. “Fuck. Max…I’m fucking aching for you.” You sound frustrated. Annoyed almost.
And his smile is wicked. “There’s my liefje.”
“I should make you fuckin’ beg. Keep you like this for hours…because this…” He slips two fingers between your folds. “Is what I have to deal with.”
You jolt from his touch. Whimpering.
“Sensitive already, hm?” He grunts. “Fuck, I could probably make you cum just by spitting on you. Needy little cunt.”
And you try to close your legs. Clench them.
But he grips your thighs and forces them to stay open. Rough.
“Keep them open, schatje.”
His voice is so mean, but it only makes you ache more. “I’m so fucking hard that it’s making me fucking sweat. Can feel my cock leaking.”
Your breath hitches as he sinks his fingers into you.
“You know,” he says, like its a normal conversation. Like his fingers aren’t curling in your cunt. “We’re supposed to be relaxing.”
And his one arm gestures to the view. The pool. The cute villa. The ocean.
“Summer break. No work. No races.” His fingers curl just a bit more. And your mouth falls slack. “Was supposed to be quiet. Easy. Nap in the sun, maybe fuck you slow after dinner.”
He clicks his tongue, eyes dragging over you. The way your tits rise. The way your thighs are twitching. You’re a mess. And he looks fucking furious about it.
“And instead I’ve got this.” And pushes in another finger just to prove a point. It has you jolting.
“Squirming on this cushion like a needy little bitch who can’t sit still.” He huffs. “Legs twitching and pussy leaking in the middle of the day.”
You whimper. Lip quivering.
“My dick’s been leaking since you moaned the first time.”
And you whimper. Quietly. But he hears it. His jaw clenches.
“Max…”
“No. Don’t ‘Max’ me.” He cuts you off. “You did this.”
He leans in closer. Fingers moving with a more hurried pace.
“You fed me that chocolate.” His voice drops. “Now I’ve got my cock pulsing in my suit, you’re cunt’s crying for me, and you expect me to be fucking calm?”
His voice is shaking. Fingers twitching.
Your walls squeeze against his fingers. And he hisses in a sharp breath of air.
“Have to spend my afternoon with a fuckin’ brat whining for my cock.” He places a soft bite on your shoulder. “Like shoving my cock in you is the only thing that will help your poor cunt calm down.”
He can feel your cunt squeezing him. See the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Your cheeks redden. All the tell tale signs.
And he pulls his fingers away. And you cry out from the loss of his touch.
“You don’t get to come yet.” His voice is fucking flat. “Not until I say so. Not until you earn it.”
He presses his fingers back to your cunt, slow. Teasing. “Should rub this needy cunt for hours. Edge you over and over until you’re sobbing for it.”
You let out a small sob, hips grinding against his finger tips.
And he pulls his fingers away almost instantly.
“No.” He grunts.
Presses his soaked fingers to your lips. “Open.”
And you do.
He groans as you suck his fingers. His hips twitching just slightly. Eyes not leaving from his fingers in your mouth.
“That’s it, pretty.”
He palms himself with his other hand, groaning. His eyes darkening. Almost feral looking.
He leans toward your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”
Presses a soft kiss to the nape of your neck.
Lips hovering over you ear. Soft.
“Now say thank you.”
Your narrow your eyes. Fucked out of your mind. Glaring at him.
“Let me hear it. You’re gonna lie here like a good girl, and thank me for taking care of your soaking needy pussy while I’m leaking into my fucking suit."
“Th…thank you, Max.” You whimper. “For taking care of my needy pussy while you’re supposed to be relaxing.” You manage to get out. Sarcastically. Frustrated.
And his cock twitches.
He leans over you now, on his knees, jaw tight. Slipping his hand back down between your thighs. Dragging his fingers between your folds again. Not pushing in. Like he’s testing you.
“Ohhh, liefje.” He clicks his tongue. “you’re lucky I haven’t fucked the attitude out of you yet.”
The air is hot against your skin.
“Messy little thing,” He grunts. Watching his fingers move. Pressing the pads of his fingers against you. Still not pushing in.
Your hips twitch.
“You want it?” He tilts his head. “Want my fingers inside?”
You nod. Begging. Eyes pleading.
And he laughs. But it sounds like he’s struggling. Like he’s using every ounce of control to not push his suit down and fuck you into the cushion.
“My cock’s fucking throbbing, schatje. Feels so heavy.” He mutters. “You have no idea how bad I want to be inside you.”
And he pushes two fingers in. You moan. Back arching. Loud.
And he’s locked the fuck in.
Watching your pussy clench around him. Groaning.
“Fuckin’ squeezing me.”
He moves them, slow. Dragging.
“Y’hear that?” He grunts. “Pussy’s fucking crying for me.”
And you’re gripping the cushion. Gasping. The heat in your stomach building fast.
And he leans over you. Mouth at your ear again. One hand putting his weight onto your thigh.
“Don’t you fucking come.”
Your hips move. You’re so close. Right there.
He drags his thumb to your clit. Circles it a few times. Slow. Fucking brutal.
“You wanna?” He huffs. “Wanna come on my fingers? Soak me like a fucking slut?”
You’re panting. “Please….Max…”
“I know.” He slows his fingers. “I know you need it.”
And he speeds his fingers up. Pushing in and out of you deeper. Curling his fingers.
And right as your body seizes up. Your orgasm about to rip through you.
He pulls his fucking hand away.
And you scream.
Twitching. Clit pulsing.
“Fuckin’ hell…Look what you’re doing to me.” He palms his cock, the fabric stained with a wet spot. And he’s so hard.
His head is cocked. Eyes blown. Fingers covered in your slick.
He grabs your bikini top. Fisting the fabric and shoves it up. Nipples so hard from how worked up you’re feeling. And they bounce free.
He groans.
He palms himself again. Once.
Then reaches greedily, pinches your nipples between two fingers. And you whimper.
“So fucking pretty…look at you…” He whispers, before leaning down and bites.
Not a hard bite. Just enough to make your back arch when his mouth closes around your nipple. Sucking. Tongue swirling. Teeth grazing.
And his other hand returns to your folds. Pushing into your cunt with two fingers. Deep.
He sucks harder on your nipple, groaning against you.
Curling his fingers just right.
And you’re squirming.
“You like this, huh?” He hisses. “Like when I shove your top up and suck your tits like they’re mine?”
“Ye…yeah,” You are gasping.
He groans, pressing kisses to your breasts. “You sound fucking wrecked.”
And he looks kind of calm. His brows are focused like he’s studying. Smirking. Licking his lips.
“Y’gonna come already?”
You nod. And he slows down his movements instantly.
“You think you deserve it?” He pulls his fingers out, slow. Holding them up. “Look at this fuckin mess.”
His fingers are glistening. Covered in you.
He brings them to his mouth. Sucks them fuckin’ clean. Moaning at the taste.
“Fuck, schatje.” He pulls his fingers out with a ‘pop’. “Tastes so good.”
Max moves lower onto the day bed, almost laying down on the day bed.
And then his fingers are back. Pressing into you so filthy that you’re arching. Shoving them deep. Hard. Still slow.
“You wanna come?” He picks up the pace. “Say it.”
You gasp. “Max…please.”
“Not good enough.” And he’s pressing his thumb to your clit. Rough. “Tell me what you want.”
You’re grinding into his hand. Begging for more. Aching.
“I…plea…Max. I need….” You’re breathless. His fingers not giving up. Curling inside of you. “I need to..”
And he laughs.
“Need?” He repeats. “No. You fucking want it. You want to come all over my fingers like a pathetic whore, yeah?”
And the heat in your stomach hurts.
And he leans in. Breath on your cheek. “Don’t.”
Your body jerks against his, about to come.
He pulls his fingers out again.
And you fucking scream.
“Y’gonna come if I put my mouth on you?”
And your breath hitches at the bare thought of it. Eyes glassy. A whimper pushing past your lips.
“Too fucking bad.”
But then he drops between your thighs. And licks.
One heavy drag of his tongue against you. And you careen forward with a sharp cry before falling back down to the cushion.
He groans against you. Hands digging into the skin of your thighs as he opens you wider. As he buries his face into your cunt. Tongue lapping you greedily.
And Max?
He’s grinding himself against the cushion of the day bed. Rutting himself against the bed. Cock dripping against the fabric.
And he’s fucking panting.
“Fuck, baby… fuck. Fuck. I can’t…” His hips are jerking into the cushion. Rutting into it. Desperately. Messy.
Nose nudging your clit. Burying his face into you like he’s feasting.
His hips jerk harder against the cushion, and then he’s fucking coming. His body shuttering as he watches you suck his fingers win.
“Fucking fuck…” His voice is wrecked. “Go on. Come for me…you deserve it. Fuck.”
His thumb drags against your clit again. And your back arches. Thighs clamping around him.
“Oh fuck..fuck…Max.”
“Yeah,” he’s groaning. “That’s it.”
His mouth sucks over your clit. Hard.
And you crash. Pussy clamping down against his fingers. Pulsing. And body trembling.
But he doesn’t give you any time to recover.
He’s breathing hard and his cock is still hard in his soaked suit.
He grabs your hips. Voice cracked. “Get on top of me.”
And you blink. Dazed. “What?”
But he’s already pulling you against him as he sits down. Dragging you over him.
“I need to be inside you,” voice dark.
And when he see’s you hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because your head is spinning. His voice comes out harsh. “Now, schatje.”
You snap back. Don’t hesitate.
“You’re gonna ride me…pull my fucking cock out and sit on me.”
Your fingers push the waistband of his swimsuit lower…and fucking christ. His cock smacks his stomach. Flushed. Red. Leaking.
You wrap your hand around it, and he groans. Head tilted back.
And you sink down on him. Slowly. Trying to take him inch by inch. Tease him a little.
And it isn’t until he’s fully bottomed out in you that he lets out a laugh.
And you feel everything.
You rock your hips only once and Max fucking loses it.
Snaps.
Hands digging into your hips as his rises off the cushions, just a little bit. His grip is bruising.
“Move.” He spits. “Ride me. I don’t fucking care how…just do it.” He’s demanding. Mean. Feral.
And you start to move. Circling your hips. As you pant. Head leaning against his shoulder.
“Fuck…fuckin’ look at you,” He huffs.
You moan. Too loud.
“Shut the fuck up.”
And he slaps your butt. Hard. The sound echoing.
He slams up into you, and you cry out. Eyes rolling.
“Pathetic,” he grunts. “Feel how deep I am, huh? Like my personal fuck toy.”
Your thighs are shaking. Clit dragging against his pelvis as you start bouncing on him.
It’s messy and soooo desperate.
And Max just laughs at you. His neck flushed red.
“I can’t…fuck. I can’t hold…” He bucks up into you. “Too fucking tight, so wet…ride me harder. Please, baby.”
And you do.
You fuck yourself on him harder. Faster. Slamming down on his cock with every single bounce. And you can barely breathe.
You’re babbling. Moaning. Panting. Cursing his name into his shoulder.
“Come with me,” He begs. “Fuckin’ come with me, baby…please…C’mon..”
And you break.
You snap around him. Orgasm ripping through you. Clamping down on his cock so hard that Max shouts. And he spills inside of you.
And its so much.
Hot, sticky spurts pushing deep as he jerks his hips. Your name falling out of his mouth with pleas.
You collapse on to his chest. Trembling.
And Max?
He’s still inside you.
Doesn’t soften. Not even the slightest amount.
Somehow still fucking hard.
And your legs are shaking as he flips you over. Hands gripping your hips like he’s about to destroy you.
You barely manage a breath before he’s shoving your knees into your chest, folding you. One hand pressing into the back of your thigh, holding them there. Your soaked cunt spilling his come down onto the cushion beneath you.
The other wraps around your throat. Pressing.
And he looks like he wants to eat you the fuck alive.
Controlling.
His cock twitches as he presses it back to your entrance. Slamming into you.
And you sob. Back arching. So full and wet.
“Still so tight.” His fingers squeeze your throat just a little bit harder.
And your mouth falls open with a loud moan.
And he spits right into it. Hitting your tongue, dribbling down your lip. And you don’t even have to think about it…you swallow. Lick your lips for more.
And Max moans as if he just came again.
“My god, you’re fucking mine.”
And he fucks into you harder. Relentless. Like he needs to chase this feeling.
“Fuckin’ look at this mess. Hear how wet you are?” Your hands fist the sheets.
“You’re so loud baby. It’s disgusting. This isn’t how a good girl fucks.”
And he slaps your thigh.
You’re panting. Gasping against the grip of his hand. And he feels every breath through his hand.
He leans in close. Voice fucking filthy.
“This is how you wanted it, huh?” Wanted to get me all fucked up.”
He’s cruel. Pounding into you with such urgency as you nod. Lips still parted.
He rubs the pad of his thumb against your jaw. “My filthy fuckin’ slut. Letting me choke you. Spit on you. Pounding you like I’m trying to fuck a baby into you.”
And your walls clench down on him. Hard.
And he snarls. “Ohhh, you like that?” He tilts his head a little. “Want me to fill you up? Stuff you so full. Get you swollen with my baby.”
And you’re twitching now. Moaning. Head tilted back deep into the cushions.
And his hand leaves your throat. Only for a second. Only to slap your cheek. Once. It’s light, but its enough to make your eyes snap back open.
“Eyes on me, schatje.”
You’re dazed. Cheeks flushed red.
“C’mon give it to me.” Max urges you.
And you instantly do.
Your orgasm ripping through you again. Spasming around him. Squeezing him so tight that Max loses it.
He slams in three times. Then groans like he’s been punched. Spilling into you.
You’re leaking. Can barely breathe. And he’s panting above you. Shoulders shaking.
And then he brushes your jaw again. Leaning forward and kisses you.
Soft.
So soft. You whimper against his lips.
And he kisses you slow. Messy. Breathing in your whimpers.
And then he’s kissing you deeper. Like he’s hungry.
Slipping a hand into your hair, the other still at your jaw. His tongue licks into you. And you sigh into him. Melting.
He groans into you.
“Can’t believe how fucking good you feel.” He mutters. “Unreal, baby.”
You whimper. Too sensitive. And he kisses you again. Quick. Soft.
“You okay?” He brushes his noses against you. Kissing the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Jaw. And then under your ear.
You nod. Slowly.
“Good,” He grins. “Because I’m not pulling out yet.”
Then he quiets. Smiles. A real smile. Like something has settled in his bones.
His fingers trace your cheek. Caring.
“You’re gonna marry me.”
You gasp. But you’re not surprised
He kisses your cheek. The crinkled skin by your eyes. Your forehead. Still inside you. Holding you tight.
“You’re gonna wear my ring,” he mutters. “Take my name. And be my fucking wife.”
Your hear pounds in your chest.
“Would you want that?” His voice is low. Hushed against your lips. “Want to belong to me? Forever?”
You nod. A small whimper. “Yes.”
“Say it.” Its a little demanding. But then his eyes soften. “Please?”
“I want to be yours…” Your voice is soft. “Forever, Max.”
He groans, pushing himself in closer to you. His full weight pressing against you now.
“You are.” He pecks your lips. “Every fuckin’ inch of you. It’s all mine.”
He flexes his hips just once. Just enough to make you gasp.
You don't even realise what you're doing. Or maybe you do, deep down.
Smirking too much. Laughing too hard at Lando's stupid joke. Letting Charles hand you his jacket when you pretend to shiver, and keeping it on even after Max appears in the corner of your eye.
You know he sees it. You also know he doesn't say a single word.
Which is somehow worse.
He just stands there, a whole storm behind those blue eyes, one hand in his pocket, jaw sharp and still. He nods once at Charles. Nods once at you. Then turns and walks. And you follow. Like you always do.
He doesn't speak in the lift. Doesn't touch you. Doesn't even look at you when the hotel hallway swallows you both. Just unlocks the door to his suite and walks in, slow and deliberate. You step inside and hear it click shut behind you. Then temporary silence.
"Take that fucking jacket off." His voice is low. Rough. Controlled in that scary way.
You slide Charles's Ferrari jacket off your shoulders and hold it awkwardly.
"Put it on the table," Max says, not moving from where he's standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, hands behind his back like he's the one keeping himself restrained.
You do as you're told.
"Now get over here."
You hesitate, and that's a mistake.
He turns. One sharp look. One long step. And then your back is against the wall and Max's hand is around your throat before you can speak. "You think I didn't see you?" His voice is a growl, warm and dangerous against your skin. "Parading around in another man's fucking team gear?"
"I didn't-"
He tightens his grip. "Don't lie."
You gasp softly, hands bracing his chest, not to push him away, never to push him awaym but to feel something solid, something real while your pulse hammers behind his fingers. "Wasn't lying," you whisper.
"Just stupid, then?" Max leans in, mouth grazing your ear. "You think you can act like that and I'll just let it slide?"
You try to speak, but his free hand slips down between your thighs and grabs, rough and possessive, through your clothes. "You're mine," he hisses, fingers pressing hard against the heat between your legs. "All fucking mine."
"Then prove it," you breathe.
That's all it takes. He spins you around before you've even registered the movement, face pressed to the wall now, cheek against the cool surface as his hand slides up the back of your neck to hold you still. "Spread your legs."
You do. Without hesitation. You feel him behind you: belt undone, trousers shoved low, the hard line of him pressing against the fabric of your underwear.
"Pretty little slut," Max mutters, dragging the material down. "Acting like you don't love when I ruin you."
You whimper when he slides his cock between your thighs, not pushing in yet, just rubbing himself there, teasing your soaked skin.
Then, with no warning, he thrusts in hard. You cry out, the stretch shocking, delicious, and brutal all at once.
"Quiet," he snaps, hand wrapping around your mouth. "Don't want the neighbours hearing how much of a desperate whore you are, do we?"
You moan into his palm as he fucks into you with harsh, punishing strokes, each one slamming your hips into the wall, your hands scrabbling for something to hold. He's relentless. Grunting low in your ear. Telling you how pathetic you are. How wet you are. How he can feel how much you love this. Love being treated like something to use.
And god, you do.
You clench around him and he growls, fucking you harder.
"Touch yourself," he says roughly. "Now."
Your hand snakes between your thighs, fingers frantic, needy.
"Good girl," Max breathes, teeth at your neck now, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. "Come on my cock. Now. Be a good fucking girl and show me who you belong to."
It's too much. You break with a cry, body shaking as your orgasm tears through you, clenching hard around him, soaking him. He fucks you through it, and doesn't stop.
"Max- too much-"
He ignores it. Keeps going. Pulls out for one second just to shove you down over the table, bare chest against the wood, and slides back in with a brutal snap of his hips.
"Didn't say I was done," he mutters, wrapping your hair around his fist. "You wanted me to prove it, didn't you?"
You can't speak. You're shaking, too overstimulated, cum already fully dripping, nails clawing at the table as he pounds into you from behind.
"I'll mark you up so bad no one'll ever dare look at you again," Max snarls. "You'll walk back into the paddock tomorrow and they'll all know who the fuck you belong to."
You come again without meaning to, sobbing out his name, and this time he follows, slamming deep, spilling into you with a low, broken groan, his grip bruising on your hips as he fills you completely. You both stay there, breathless, shaking, and then he pulls out, softening already, and lets go of your hair.
You collapse forward against the table. Max leans down, lips brushing your temple. "Mine," he whispers.
You nod. Still ruined. Still shaking. And still his.
Summary: He wakes you with his hands. You wake him with your mouth. Neither of you wants to leave the bed... but it’s Suzuka.
Warnings: 18+, smut, sleepy sex, oral, semi-dom!Max, slight brat taming
You’re not sure what time it is when Max’s hand slides under the duvet and between your thighs. But you know the way he touches you.
It’s slow at first. Lazy circles over your underwear, warm skin against warm skin, nothing urgent, just exploratory. Like his fingers want to remind you he’s there before anything else. Like he knows you’re not awake yet, but wants to see how far he can take it before you are.
You murmur his name into the pillow. He doesn't stop.
“Max,” you whisper again, shifting slightly under his palm.
He’s already hard behind you. Pressed up close, shirtless, his hips rolling instinctively with every breath you take. You reach for his arm and drag it tighter around your waist.
“Morning,” he says, voice thick with sleep and gravel.
“It’s not even light yet.”
He kisses the back of your shoulder. “Didn’t sleep.”
You hum. “Nerves?”
“No,” he says. “You.”
You smile into the sheets. His fingers dip lower, nudging your underwear to the side. He groans when he feels how wet you already are, hips pushing against the small of your back like he can’t help himself. “Always like this in Japan,” he murmurs.
You shift onto your back, eyes still closed. “You gonna do something about it?”
Max smirks.
Then disappears under the duvet.
You barely have time to react before his mouth finds you. His tongue works in circles, not rushed, not showy, just good. Familiar. He knows your body like he knows a track he’s driven a thousand times. Knows where you’re sensitive, where you twitch, where you melt for him.
You whimper, hand sliding into his hair.
“Shhh,” he mumbles against your skin. “You’ll wake the whole floor.”
“I don’t care,” you pant.
He chuckles, then sucks your clit harder just to shut you up.
You’re panting, thighs tight around his head, trying not to rock too much but it’s impossible, he’s too good. Your legs tremble and your hips lift and you think you might lose it right there but then he stops.
“Max-”
He crawls back up your body, dragging the duvet with him. “Want to fuck you.”
You reach down and grab his cock, stroking once, slow. “Then fuck me.”
He groans again, resting his forehead against yours for a second like he’s trying to hold himself back, but he never does for long with you. You both know that. When he pushes in, it’s all at once. Deep, hard, possessive. You gasp, clutching his arms, back arching. “Always so tight for me,” he growls. “Even in the morning.”
“You love it,” you whisper.
He grins, thrusting again, slow and deep. “Yeah. I do.”
The rhythm builds quickly; not rushed, but deliberate. He stays close, one hand gripping your thigh, the other pressed into the mattress by your head. His mouth finds your jaw, your cheek, your lips, never far. His hips move like he’s still chasing a lap time, chasing you, even though he already has you. And you let him have it all.
The way you whine his name. The way your legs wrap around his waist. The way your whole body gives in.
You’re close again when he says it. “Mine.”
You moan, “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Yours, Max.”
He groans into your neck, hips stuttering. “Fuck- mine.”
You come together, messy and loud, covered in sweat and tangled inblankets. He stays inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. Neither of you move until your phone alarm chirps from the side table.
He groans into your neck. “Race day,” you murmur, stroking his back.
“I hate Suzuka.”
You laugh. “You win Suzuka every year.”
“Exactly. Pressure.”
You roll your eyes. “Well, I just let you relieve a little of it.”
You can see it in the set of his shoulders as he paces the hotel suite, in the way his jaw clenches as he scrolls through his phone, in the restless energy that radiates off him in waves. It's been a brutal triple header, and today's race—a P2 finish that should have been a win if not for a questionable strategy call—has left him frustrated and tense.
"Max," you say softly from where you're curled up on the couch, watching him wear a path in the carpet. "Come here."
"I'm fine," he says automatically, but his accent is thicker than usual, the way it always gets when he's stressed.
"You're not fine. You're going to burn a hole in the floor." You pat the cushion next to you. "Come sit with me."
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, but he comes over, dropping onto the couch beside you. The tension in his body is palpable, his muscles coiled like springs.
You shift closer, placing a hand on his thigh. "You drove brilliantly today."
"It wasn't enough," he mutters.
"It was more than enough. The strategy was wrong, not you." Your hand slides higher, and you feel his muscle jump under your touch. "You need to let it go. Stop thinking about it."
"I can't just—" He stops mid-sentence as your hand moves to cup him through his jeans. His eyes snap to yours, darkening. "What are you doing?"
"Helping you relax," you say innocently, even as you palm him more firmly. You can already feel him starting to harden under your touch. "Unless you don't want me to?"
His hand comes down to cover yours, pressing it harder against him. "I didn't say that."
"Good." You lean in to kiss him, slow and deep, your tongue sliding against his as your hand continues its exploration. He groans into your mouth, his hips shifting, seeking more friction.
When you pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his breathing already heavier. "I want to make you feel good," you tell him, your voice low and sultry. "I want to make you forget about everything except me. Will you let me do that?"
"Fuck," he breathes. "Yes. Whatever you want."
You smile, pleased by his surrender, and slide off the couch to kneel between his spread legs. His eyes widen slightly as he realizes your intention.
"Schatje," he says, his voice rough. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," you interrupt, your hands moving to his belt. "I want to. I've been thinking about this all day. Thinking about getting on my knees for you, taking you in my mouth, making you come so hard you forget your own name."
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his hips jerking involuntarily at your words.
You make quick work of his belt and zipper, and he lifts his hips to help you pull his jeans and boxers down. His cock springs free, already half-hard and getting harder by the second as you wrap your hand around the base.
"Look at you," you murmur appreciatively, stroking him slowly. "So perfect."
He's thick and heavy in your hand, and you take your time, just touching him, learning him all over again even though you've done this countless times before. Every man is different, and Max—Max is responsive in the best way. You can see every reaction play across his face, can feel every twitch and throb under your fingers.
"Stop teasing," he grits out, his hands gripping the couch cushions.
"Patience," you chide, but you lean forward, maintaining eye contact as you lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock from base to tip.
His head falls back against the couch with a groan. "Fuck."
You do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the head, tasting the bead of precum that's already gathered there. Salty and distinctly him. You hum in appreciation, and the vibration makes him curse in Dutch.
"You like that?" you ask, even though you know the answer.
"You know I do," he manages, looking down at you. The sight of you on your knees between his legs, your hand wrapped around his cock, your lips wet and parted—it's clearly driving him crazy. "Stop talking and suck me."
You raise an eyebrow at the command, but you're feeling generous. You part your lips and take just the head into your mouth, sucking gently while your hand continues to stroke the rest of him.
The sound he makes is absolutely filthy, a low groan that goes straight to your core. You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, using your tongue to trace the thick vein on the underside. His hand comes to your hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needs to touch you, to ground himself.
You establish a rhythm, taking him as deep as you comfortably can before pulling back, your hand working in tandem with your mouth. You're making it wet and messy, the way you know he likes it, saliva dripping down his length.
"Fuck, your mouth," Max groans, his accent thick. "So fucking good, schatje. So perfect."
The praise spurs you on. You relax your throat and take him deeper, fighting your gag reflex, determined to take all of him. His grip in your hair tightens, and you can feel the tension in his thighs, the way he's fighting not to thrust up into your mouth.
"You can," you pull off to tell him, your hand never stopping its movement. "I want you to. Fuck my mouth, Max."
"Are you sure?" His eyes are wild, his control clearly hanging by a thread.
"Yes," you say firmly, then take him back into your mouth, deeper this time, and look up at him with permission clear in your eyes.
That's all it takes. His hand tightens in your hair, and he starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing. You relax and let him, breathing through your nose, your hands braced on his thighs.
"Oh fuck," he breathes, his hips moving faster. "Your mouth is so fucking perfect. Taking me so well. Look at you."
You moan around him, the vibration making him curse again. You love this—love the weight of him on your tongue, the stretch of your jaw, the way he's losing control. Love the power you have in this moment, on your knees but completely in command of his pleasure.
You pull back, gasping for air, your hand taking over with firm, fast strokes. "Tell me how it feels," you demand.
"So good," he groans. "Best fucking mouth I've ever had. You're going to make me come so hard."
"Not yet," you say, and lean down to take his balls into your mouth, sucking gently while your hand continues to work his cock.
"Fuck!" His whole body jerks, his hand flying to grip your shoulder. "Schatje, that's—fuck."
You alternate between his cock and his balls, using your mouth and hands in combination, paying attention to every reaction, every sound he makes. You find the spot just under the head that makes him gasp, the pressure he likes on the upstroke, the way he shudders when you tongue at his slit.
"I'm getting close," he warns, his voice strained. "If you don't want—"
You take him deep in response, making your intention clear. You want this. Want to taste him, swallow him down, take everything he has to give.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck," he chants, his hips stuttering. His hand is tight in your hair now, not controlling but holding on like you're his anchor. "I'm going to—schatje, I'm—"
You double your efforts, sucking hard, your hand twisting on the upstroke, and then he's coming with a shout, his whole body going rigid. You feel the first pulse on your tongue, the warm flood of his release, and you swallow it down, working him through it, milking every last drop.
He's making the most incredible sounds—broken groans and curses in a mix of English and Dutch, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You don't stop until he's completely spent, until he's pushing weakly at your shoulder because it's too much, too sensitive.
When you finally pull off, you make a show of licking your lips, swallowing one last time. His eyes are glazed, his chest heaving, his whole body slack against the couch like all the tension has been fucked right out of him.
"Holy shit," he finally manages, his voice wrecked. "That was..."
"Good?" you ask, sitting back on your heels, pleased with yourself.
"Good?" He laughs breathlessly. "That was the best fucking blowjob of my life. You're incredible. Come here."
He pulls you up onto the couch, into his lap, kissing you deeply despite the fact that he can probably taste himself on your tongue. His hands roam your body, clearly intent on returning the favor.
"My turn," he murmurs against your lips. "I'm going to make you feel so good, schatje. Going to make you come on my tongue until you can't remember anything but my name."
"Is that a promise?" you ask, already breathless with anticipation.
"That's a guarantee," he says, and proceeds to make good on it.
Later, much later, when you're both thoroughly satisfied and tangled together in the hotel bed, he pulls you close and presses a kiss to your forehead.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For the blowjob?" you tease.
"For that, yes. But also for knowing what I needed. For taking care of me." His arms tighten around you. "I love you."
"I love you too," you say, snuggling closer. "And for the record, you can have the best blowjob of your life anytime you want."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Careful. I might take you up on that."
"Please do," you say, and mean it.
You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, all the tension and frustration of the day completely forgotten. And if he wakes you up in the middle of the night, his hands and mouth already exploring your body, well—turnabout is fair play.
summary: Because of a stupid argument you're deprived of his attention and start to realise how much you miss it – though you won't extend an olive branch, as you're sure he's wrong. It gets hard to stay mad, when you enter the bathroom and see him in a state that makes your heart beat faster and thighs clench involuntarily.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut with plot, oral (f receiving), p in v, no use of Y/N ("she", not "you"), mentions of argument (over a silly thing), language (come on, it's a smut)
I'm not good at warnings, hope that's all (tell me in the comment if I should add something)
wc: 4.8k
note: English is not my first language, mistakes may occur!
I thought of sex in the shower while writing a fanfic, and as I'm far from that point in the story, decided to do this one–shot. Well, hope you'll enjoy!!! <3
-> General masterlist
~
Another evening, another time trying to focus on the book, but she ended up scrolling Tik Tok. Another time, when getting on bed she wondered whether Max would sleep with her – not quite, cause he would not touch her through the whole night – in the guest bedroom, or maybe just stay up at the simulator and take a quick nap on the couch.
Whatever it was gonna be that night, she was already annoyed. And she knew he was also, but no matter how much both of them hated that tension between them, they were too stubborn to make peace.
It was as if they were waiting to see who would stand it longer.
And it was even more frustrating, because the argument was over a stupid thing.
Over a week ago, she decided to do something new for dinner. She saw a recipe for 'the best lasagna' and wanted to give it a try – also, such a dish would last them for 2–3 days (depending how much Max would eat...).
She was aware they have a bit different tastes on some things, so while she was doing meat sauce, just in case she put a bit on a little plate and carried it to the living room, where Max was on a simulator, shouting at Jimmy to go away from the brake pedal.
"Tell me if I should add something." she said as she handed him the plate.
"Yeah yeah, a moment." Max nodded, taking the plate.
She already turned away to go back to the kitchen, to check on the béchamel. So she didn't see how he put the plate away and completely forgot about it.
As there were no complaints from him, she shrugged and left it as it was.
Everything was nice until dinner came. And she heard those three words:
"Not your best." he said, looking at his plate as if it offended him.
Long ago she got used to his bluntness in everything. Most of the times she liked it, truth is better than bullshitting, and sometimes funny things came out of this. But at that moment, when he used it to describe her cooking, her cooking when she asked him earlier is everything alright, it instantly made her furious.
"You didn't tell me to change anything when I brought some to taste." she said, trying to keep annoyance away from her tone.
"I forgot about it." he shrugged. Shrugged.
What was she supposed to do? Read his mind?
Maybe she could have come to him again and asked did he try it, but come on, he's not 5 years old to forget about one tiny ask. Especially when she brought him a plate, and he had to feel the smell of food.
"Then you have only yourself to blame." this time she couldn't keep cool and way too aggressively used her fork on the piece of lasagne on her plate.
"What got you to experiment today?"
Oh no, that was one sentence too much in her current state.
"Can you at least once appreciate what I do? And stop complaining?"
"I'm just being honest, it's untasty." his steady voice versus her raised one was additionally pissing her off.
"Then eat out."
She got up from the table, took her plate and walked out of the room, couldn't look at him any longer.
Did he go to eat out? No, at least she thinks so, she didn't notice him leaving the apartment. But heard a pan against the stove and frying, so he was probably doing himself something else to eat.
Yeah... And just like that, they were barely talking with each other and not even sleeping together. Right now she wasn't even that annoyed at what he said – though she didn't forget – but at lack of attention. They used to have a pretty rich sex life, and only now she felt how much she got used to it. Especially at that time of the month, when she could look at him with eyes saying: 'Take me right now'.
But she won't give in.
Max might think it's not a big deal – though he tried to fix it at first, hugging to her on the night of that awful day, nuzzling his face in her neck and leaving kisses, but she turned her back on him. No matter how much she wanted to give in, she couldn't give in. But he didn't apologize, just for the sake of peace between them. He stubbornly thought it was okay to tell her that and she overreacted.
She was done for the day, put her phone away and covered herself up to the neck with a duvet. She's not gonna wait and see if he comes to her tonight.
As soon as she closed her eyes, she realised something she forgot.
Brush her teeth.
She usually did it just after a shower, but tonight forgot, as a call from her friend distracted her.
With no other choice – because she couldn't mentally stand the idea of not brushing her teeth – she got up from bed and made her way towards the bathroom, only to groan when she saw the light still on.
The last thing she wanted was to see him. She had to stay strong, stay mad, and the further away it was from their last night together, the harder it was to pretend with him close.
It wouldn't be the first time when she walks in while he's taking a shower, but in current circumstances?
On the other hand, he has been there for quite a while, he definitely already showered – especially that she didn't hear any water running. He absolutely was already in pajamas. Anyway, she could just walk in, take toothpaste and her toothbrush, and leave, right? This one time she can wash her teeth in the kitchen.
She took a deep breath before pushing the doors open. She tried to keep her eyes low, and didn't care about the steam in the room that hit her as soon as she entered.
All it took was for her to notice with the corner of her eye a towel and a little bit of skin, and her eyes involuntarily glanced up.
Max was doing what she came here to do, brushing teeth. In front of the basin, until she walked in looking at the mirror, with a little part of it wiped from the steam. His free hand was on his hip, thumb hooked under the towel that was hanging low on his hips. She could swear she could see some of the little hair, and that itself made your mind wander.
Even though her eyes focused on the lower part, of course she couldn't forget about his chest and how it was a little wet – probably from all the steam in the bathroom and droplets falling from his wet hair.
In the span of a second she felt too hot in her nightdress, though it surely did better at covering her thighs clenching a bit involuntarily than pants would ever do.
And obviously Max had to look at her. As if he couldn't focus on brushing his damn teeth.
"Move." she tried to keep your face while saying that.
She had to do everything to make it normal, while absolutely not feeling normal. So she came up to the basin and reached for her toothbrush and paste, as he made her space to stand next to him in front of the mirror.
Naturally, Max finished faster, and leaned over the basin to rinse his mouth. Until that moment, she kept her eyes at her blurry reflection, but as soon as he leaned, she looked at his back and remembered all the times her nails dug into his shoulders and left marks on his back, as she was whimpering his name in pleasure.
She almost choked on the toothpaste.
Yeah, that was the moment to finish brushing her teeth, no matter if 2 minutes passed already or not.
As soon as he moved from the basin, she leaned to rinse her mouth. At the same time, he wanted to pass behind her, so she slightly bumped him with her ass.
Absolutely. Not. Helpful.
She quickly finished, not even drying her face before leaving the bathroom. She had enough.
Crawling back in bed, she reached over to the nightstand to take her phone. She has to clear her mind, do anything–
Of course the first thing she saw after opening Tik Tok was an edit of him.
And on Instagram? A fan post about him.
She was about to groan, but she saw Max with the corner of her eye, at the threshold, and held it in. He can't see how big effect he had on her.
But damn, why is he standing there? She feels his gaze on her.
Finally she glanced up and before she thought, checked him out again. From that stupidly tilted head with wet hair she wanted to brush and sly grin to toe, as he was leaning against the door frame with arms crossed.
His post–shower state had a similar effect on her as his post–race one. Want to grab him by the collar, hand, waist, anything, and pull him to the bedroom and wherever they could have some privacy.
Glancing back at her phone she already knew she's slowly losing this battle.
"Why are you staring at me?" she murmured, scrolling through posts much faster than she could read them.
"Vice versa."
"I am not."
"You were checking me out."
It's a statement, not a question. Fuck.
Additionally, she heard him take a step towards her.
"You have some problems with vision from all the steam you created in the bathroom." she leaned lower on the bed, shifting and crossing her legs to somewhat help with a burning feeling in her lower belly, and raised her phone higher to cover her face.
Well, not only to cover it, as she opened the camera and was looking at him through it.
And okay... She took a photo. Or two.
Or ten.
"And you have some temperature problems, your cheeks are red."
Before she could react, he was already at the side of the bed, leaning and extending hand to put it on her forehead. She quickly swept it away. But she didn't know it wasn't his main intention. What he wanted was to take her phone away. And he succeeded, as she was too focused on not letting him touch her face.
"HEY! Give it back!" the last time she got up so quickly was when she forgot about the apple pie in the oven.
"What do we have here..." it was obvious how much satisfaction he had from it. He held her phone high over her head and checked the gallery. "Aww, you want to remember this moment?" her whole face was burning at those words, as she still tried to take her phone from him. "Why, when we can create a much better one?"
"Give it back."
"You’re still onto that dinner?"
"You too."
"I just don't feel I have anything to apologize for."
"Then we have nothing to talk about." she snapped back. "Jog your memory on how to put clothes on and leave me alone."
"And let you touch yourself to these photos?" it hit her (especially butterflies in her belly), but she managed to keep her face and cross her arms, to accent her stance. And it worked, Max sighed. "Okay... I could have used better words to describe it. And primarily, I should have tried it when you asked me for it. But admit you overreacted a little, a week of silent treatment over a bad lasagna?"
"It was good." because come on, it wasn't that bad. She ate it without complaining. But eventually, she also sighed. Okay, there was some blame on her too. "Alright. I could have come to you again and ask what you think. But you pissed me off, how casually you forgot when I was trying hard to make something new and nice for both of us."
"And I'm sorry. I really appreciate all you do for me." he tossed her phone on the bed and cupped her face. "How you stay up late at calls with me when I'm away and you can't come with me. How you bring me sweets or other snacks when I'm at the simulator, hell, sometimes even the whole dinner, and don't complain I spend too much time on it. On a side note, guys are jealous of me for all that food. How you always know how to cheer me up when something goes not like I imagined. How you so often prioritize me over yourself, because of my job. It means the world to me, I can't imagine my life without you."
"Except I do complain about the simulator sometimes." she pointed out, but a little smile was already playing at the corners of her lips, as he said all those things.
"But I always make it up to you, don't I?" Max smiled, brushing his nose against hers gently. Then he leaned over and left an open–mouthed kiss on her neck. "Let me do that right now as well." he murmured against her skin, making a shiver come down her spine.
She let him, tilting her head to give him more access. Also she grabbed that damn towel still around his hips, pulling him closer by it. Max's hands immediately went to her waist, keeping her against his chest, as he continued on devouring her neck, drawing quiet sighs from her lips.
"It's illegal to come out of the shower looking like that." she murmured back, her hands travelling up to brush through his hair.
"Then I'll make up for that as well."
Before she could react, he grabbed her by the thighs, just where her nightdress ended, and lifted her up. Automatically she wrapped her legs around his waist and cupped his face, bringing him for a kiss. God, she missed it. Missed his lips on hers, his tongue sliding over her lower lip, asking for entrance she of course gladly granted.
His hot, naked, chest against her, crashing gently her still clothed breasts. Fingers digging into the skin on her thighs, just where nightdress ends, teasing her with soft touches of fingertips playing with the material.
So starved for closeness couldn't help but imagine how it's gonna feel when she'll finally have him inside, the closest two people can be. Additionally, without any barriers – since she got on the pill, she could swear her hunger for him doubled. There was something about feeling him raw, moving inside her, and then the warmth when he came... It often sent her over the edge the second time in such a short span of time.
Those pictures slipping into her mind alongside memories of their past adventures made feel wet and involuntarily want to close her legs, but they stopped against his muscles, as he carried her.
She thought he's gonna drop her on the bed, but instead he walked out of the bedroom. Being in heat she barely registered that until some of the steam still in there hit her. But she didn't protest – on the contrary, it excited her even more.
"So eager for me, aren't you?" Max murmured against her lips, while putting her down on the basin, his hands pushing up her nightdress, visibly as impatient as her. "Missed me so much."
She raised her hands and let him take it off of her and throw it away somewhere, probably close to the linen basket.
"No more than you." she whispered, breathing heavily, as his hands cupped her breasts, fitting so perfect in his hands. His thumbs moving over the nipples, after a moment nipping them gently between thumbs and index fingers, making them hard.
She shivered, her shoulders tensing for a second at the sensation. Meanwhile Max was leaving little marks at her neck, sliding down to the collarbone, nipping softly at her skin with his teeth.
Gently kneading one breast, his lips closed over the nipple of the other, sucking. Her back arched into him, his free hand grabbing her waist to keep her in place for him. She brushed through his still a little wet hair, tugging on them, as he left a hickey on the side of her tit.
She was already breathing heavily, but Max was just starting.
"Tell me what you want." he murmured, snuggling his face between her breasts as if it's the most comfortable place on Earth – well, it probably was (maybe except her soft thighs). She moved her leg against that horrible towel still around his hips, clearly showing she wants it off right now. "Not so quick, darling."
Max chuckled and she could swear that sound went directly to her core. That a little hoarse sound against her skin, also representing how much he enjoyed taking care of her, was enough to whimper at the emptiness between her legs.
If she could at least have a glimpse of what's under the towel... Of course, she saw it many times, but memories aren't as good as seeing it live. And that's what she needs, see him ready for her, maybe with a bit of precum already on the tip, that she would gladly lick off, if she wasn't so starved for him somewhere else already...
He moved lower, tracing with kisses a way down her stomach, as his hands also moved on her sides.
"I need you..." she whimpered, tugging again at his hair, as he deliberately ignored the place between her thighs that at this point was begging for an undivided attention.
Instead Max was leaving kisses on her hips, kneading her thighs or kissing them, even their insides, but no further. His facial hair teasing the skin there only made her lose her mind more.
"Where, sweetie?" he asked, as if he couldn't see her glistening there, smell her beautiful scent that made him want to dive between her thighs and never leave.
One of her hands left his head and grabbed his hand on her thigh, impatiently moving it higher, to the point where her thighs meet. Max let her move his hand over there, and even such little pressure made her lose her breath for a moment.
"So wet for me already?" he pushed just one finger in and only for a moment, to tease her and see how soaked she was.
A soft moan left her lips and fuck, it took all of his self restraint to not give in already.
"Only for you." she praised, closing her eyes and leaning her head back, grimacing a bit as he took his finger out. She's so starved and he dares tease her like that? She'll get back at him, she'll–
"Eyes on me, beautiful." she forced her eyes open and looked down, feeling his hot breath teasing her cunt. As their eyes crossed, he made a deliberately slow slick over all of her with his tongue, she had to really fight to not close her eyes, why leaning into the sensation. "Wanna see your eyes when you fall apart for me."
Another chill of excitement went through her, as he said those words words with mouth against her cunt, sending vibrations all over there. Involuntarily, her legs wanted to close against him, but his hands stopped them, holding them.
"Keep those pretty legs open for me." there was an edge to his voice, as if he was threatening to stop if she didn't listen.
With one hand holding hard on the basin and the other in his hair, she tried very hard to not lose her mind, when Max's tongue was working on her, as if he hadn't eaten anything in days and she was sweets laid out only for him – which she indeed was.
Swirling his tongue around he really looked like he won't ever have enough. He missed that, with face comfortably between her soft thighs, eating out her sweet pussy. He almost forgot how enjoyable this is – even if he's itching to push inside her warmth already.
And sounds she makes, fuck... The moans, the sighs... They way her hand closes on his hair, pulling or pushing him deeper in, when he's sucking on her clit and he sees how hard it is for her to keep eyes on him, while all she wants is to roll them back.
But the best of all? When she comes for his tongue, giving him more of that sweet wetness of hers. How she shivers, the look on her face, especially when he works her through her orgasm.
There is nothing he would like more than to thrust inside her when she's still so responding, stimulated and her walls clenching.
Max got up, wiping his mouth quickly, before claiming her mouth in a kiss, letting her have a taste of herself, which she welcomed, wrapping arms around his neck, one hand's nails digging into his shoulder, another in hair again.
"You made up for like... a day." she said, in a brief moment, when they were catching their breath. Max looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Okay, two days, I'm generous."
"I have to work harder then, give my girl what she wants the most." his hands moved to her thighs again, taking her off the basin. Her legs once again wrapped around him, around hips, moving against the towel that irritated her more and more. "That's it? That's what you want?" he bounced her a little, grabbing her more steadily. "Use words sweetie, I know you can."
"I need you inside me." she was aware what words like this did to him – beside tickling his male ego. If he was already hard, she could now make him painfully hard and desperate for her, just as she still was for him. She leaned, clinging to him closer, her lips kissing his neck, teeth gently nipping the skin. "I need to be full, to wrap around you and never let go."
They got under the shower just after he pulled away the towel and tossed it somewhere away.
Her back hit the cold, tiled wall and she shivered, watching how he reached to turn on water. As the first drops hit her head, she felt even more excited – if that was possible. It reminded her of that one time, when they were away on holidays, in rain...
One of the best sex in her life.
"Temperature's alright?" he asked gently, kissing the side of her face.
Moments like that reminded her that no matter what ideas they get in bed, he'll always prioritize her comfort.
And well, he probably remembers how they don't often shower together, because she prefers her water hot.
"A little..." she murmured, reaching and changing the water for a bit warmer.
"Fuck, that's a few degrees too hot, don't you think?" his hand covered hers. She giggled, seeing him tense as the hot water hit him, and let him turn it down a little, so it's comfortable for both of them.
"Water is not hot enough if it doesn't burn to the bone." she said, still giggling a bit. She pushed some of the hair that fell on her face away, before his hand took that role.
"I'd rather not walk out of here red as a lobster."
Another kiss, wetter than all the others, as now water was falling in cascades over them from the rainshower on the ceiling.
Finally nothing between them, no stupid towel that blocked her way to his member. He pressed her more against the wall, the contrast between the still–cold tiles and hot water made her crazy.
And finally, finally, she could feel he's as much ready for her, as she's for him. A low groan left Max's lips, as she moved her hips against his, encouraging his cock to enter her. What both of them were missing so much over the last days.
"I feel how hard you are." she teased, before swirling her tongue against his lips, especially that freckle she loved to look at and poke so much.
"Whose fault is that, huh?"
"I'm willing to take care of it." she hoped after those words she'd feel him stretching her finally, but no. He was still focused on kissing her while water falls on them and steam rises. "Please, Max..." she added in a desperate tone. She couldn't take it any longer.
Finally her request was granted. He couldn't hold back any longer, not when his name left her lips, when she was looking so delightful with wet hair and water falling down her naked body. Droplets on her lashes, her lips – which were also a little swollen and red from kisses – her shoulders, her breasts...
That sigh would make every man crazy, especially the one so hungry for her, the one who knows it's all for him, only him. Her legs around him, her pupils bigger, her breath short, her heart beating fast, just like his. All that is his doing and for him.
The first thrust is deep and punishingly slow, but already making her arch her back and let out a moan striking straight to his core. Max also made a sound, of course, at how her warm walls welcomed him and closed around so damn good.
There was nothing sexier for her than to hear him moan.
Especially when one of his hands went to hold her hip, so he could thrust into her harder, and she brought his face close, where she could hear him moan right into her ear.
Max bit at her earlobe, not too hard, but enough to make her twitch and grab him harder.
With every thrust there was less and less thought in her head, leaving a pure want to come and release all the tension that's been in her. She couldn't even say what was better – feeling his cock moving out and teasing her entrance or pushing hard into her, stretching her amazingly.
The steady, relentless rhythm had her whimpering and thinking she can't take it any longer. That was an obvious sign to how close she was to coming hard, and the sole thought of it made Max double his efforts.
His hand moved away from her hip, kneading one of her breasts shortly, before travelling down between them, to add pressure to her clit. Her reaction was instant, nails digging in his back, leaving marks and a loud moan that sounded somewhat like his name.
Max turned his head from where she earlier held him to her chest, kissing and sucking on her wet tits and hard nipples. He was as desperate as she was, to make her come, see her tremble once more, and of course feel her clench around him even more than she already does.
When she did, it hit her like a truck – or rather bolide on a flat out – and for a moment she didn't know where she was. She might as well have been in heaven already, for how amazing he made her feel.
Her walls clenched on his cock so delightfully, he didn't last much longer himself, and came buried deep inside her, with a loud groan against her chest.
Feeling that warmth spilling in her was enough to make her shake with pleasure yet again, holding on to him as if he was the only sure thing in this world. At that moment he probably was, when the world was limited only to them and their feelings.
"Apology accepted." she said, still out of breath, brushing hair out of his face and leaving a kiss on his forehead, before he straightened up, visibly in a similar state as hers.
He was still in her, softening, but absolutely not done. Not when he had her like this against him, in a shower, steam around them, and she's still clinging to him like she's begging for more.
"Od darling, but I didn't stop making up to you." Max smirked, what she reciprocated and they kissed again.
The first time Max Verstappen ever looked at you like you were something to be handled—not coddled, not appeased—was the moment you realized you’d finally met your match.
It wasn’t the way his fingers tightened around your wrist when you tried to swipe his phone, or the way his voice dropped to that low, Dutch-inflected warning when you rolled your eyes at him.
No, it was the way he didn’t react at all when you deliberately knocked his water bottle off the table, just stared at you with those icy blue eyes, letting the silence stretch until your skin prickled with something between defiance and dread.
You should’ve known better than to push him—not when he’d just come off a grueling race weekend, his muscles still coiled tight with adrenaline, his patience thinner than usual.
But you’d been trying to provoke him, hadn’t you?
Dragging your nails down his forearm when he ignored your teasing, biting your lip just to watch his jaw clench. The air between you thickened, charged like the seconds before a storm breaks, and when he finally moved, it wasn’t to scold you.
It was to grip your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his, his thumb pressing just hard enough against your bottom lip to sting.
"Always testing," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek, and you shivered despite yourself.
There was no teasing in his voice now, just that quiet, dangerous edge that made your pulse flutter. You tried to twist away, but his other hand caught your hip, fingers digging in with deliberate pressure—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind you who was in control.
The resistance bubbled up in your throat, half-hearted insults already forming, but then he leaned in, his mouth hovering just above yours, and the words died unspoken.
You could feel the heat of him, the way his body caged yours against the edge of the counter, and for the first time in years, you hesitated. Maybe it was the way his chest rose and fell just a fraction too fast, or the way his pupils swallowed the blue of his irises, dark with something you couldn’t quite name.
Or maybe it was the way your own traitorous body arched into his touch, your breath catching when his hand slid up your side, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping every inch of you just to prove he could.
His lips brushed yours, feather-light, a mockery of a kiss—then pulled away just as you leaned in, leaving you chasing nothing but air.
A laugh, low and rough, rumbled in his chest as you scowled, and you hated how your skin burned under his scrutiny, how your pulse hammered against your ribs like a caged thing.
"Patience," he chided, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, down the column of your throat, stopping just above the first button of your blouse.
You swallowed hard, the weight of his touch unbearable, the silence stretching until it was all you could do not to beg.
Then his knuckles grazed the swell of your breast, and you gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet between you. His smile was slow, predatory, as he watched the way your lips parted, the way your fingers clenched uselessly at your sides.
"You always make it so easy," he murmured, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric, the friction just shy of painful. "All that fire, and yet—" His grip tightened, wrenching a whimper from your throat. "One touch, and you’re already falling apart."
You hated him. You hated the way your thighs pressed together, the slick heat between them impossible to ignore, the way your body betrayed you with every ragged breath.
But most of all, you hated how much you loved it—how his dominance felt less like a punishment and more like a revelation, like he was the only one who’d ever truly seen you.
His lips found your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and you shuddered, your resolve crumbling. "Still fighting?" he breathed, and you knew, with terrifying certainty, that you’d already lost.
Your fingers trembled as they gripped the counter’s edge—white-knuckled, desperate—but he didn’t let you hold on for long. One hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling it away effortlessly, pinning it to your lower back.
The other traced the curve of your spine through your blouse, slow and deliberate, the fabric whispering against your skin like a promise.
You arched into him, a silent plea, but he only chuckled, his breath hot against your neck.
"Not yet," he murmured, his fingers sliding beneath the hem of your blouse, skimming the dip of your waist. The touch was maddeningly light, just enough to make your breath hitch, your stomach tighten—but never enough to satisfy.
His palm flattened against your abdomen, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp, and he hummed, pleased, as your hips jerked forward against his thigh. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something dark and possessive. "Already wet for me."
You hated the truth of it, the way your body responded before he even touched you there, before he dragged his fingers through the slick heat between your thighs—before he made you cry out, finally, at the first sharp press of his fingertips.
You tried to twist away, defiance flaring despite the tremble in your legs, but he caught your chin, forcing your gaze up. "Apologize," he demanded, his thumb swiping roughly over your bottom lip.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, but there was no softness in them—only expectation. You hesitated, pride knotting in your chest, until his grip tightened, until the sting of his fingers made your breath hitch.
The moment your whispered "sorry" slipped free, his mouth crashed onto yours, brutal and claiming, swallowing the rest of your resistance.
You gasped into the kiss, his tongue hot and insistent, mapping every corner of your mouth like he was memorizing the taste of your surrender. When he pulled back, your lips throbbed, swollen and tender, and you hated the way your body sagged against him, pliant and eager.
His hand slid down your back, pausing at the curve of your ass before delivering a sharp, stinging smack that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.
You cried out, more from shock than pain, but he didn’t relent—just pressed his palm flat against the ache, fingers kneading the tender flesh as if soothing and punishing all at once.
"Again," he murmured, his voice rough, and this time, your apology came faster, breathless and broken.
His laugh was dark, triumphant, as he tugged your hips flush against his, the hard line of his cock pressing into your stomach.
"Good girl," he murmured, biting down on your earlobe just hard enough to make you whimper—then harder when you tried to shove him away.
The sharp sting radiated through you, mingling with the throbbing heat between your thighs, and you hated how your body arched into the pain, how your fingers scrabbled uselessly against his chest before curling into his shirt.
He released your earlobe with a wet pop, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Still fighting me?" he taunted, one hand sliding between your legs, fingers dipping beneath the lace of your panties to find you dripping.
You gasped, knees buckling, but he held you up effortlessly, his other arm locking around your waist like a steel band. "Tell me," he growled, circling your clit with torturous precision, "do you want me to stop?"
Your denial was instant, ragged, torn from your throat before you could stop it—and his smirk was fucking insufferable. "Didn’t think so," he murmured, dragging his fingers through your slick folds before pressing two inside without warning.
The stretch burned, delicious and cruel, and your moan shattered into a cry when his thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles.
You writhed, torn between chasing the pleasure and resisting the humiliation of how easily he unraveled you, but his grip only tightened, his pace unrelenting. "Look at you," he breathed, watching the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips parted around silent pleas. "So fucking pretty when you break."
His fingers curled, pressing against that spot inside you, and the world blurred at the edges as your back bowed, your thighs trembling around his hand. You were close—so close—but he stilled abruptly, withdrawing his touch just as your hips jerked forward, desperate and empty.
"Max," you choked out, voice raw, but he only shook his head, pressing a single,
mocking kiss to your temple. "Not yet," he whispered, dragging his wet fingers down your throat, smearing your own arousal across your skin like a brand. "You don’t get to come until I say so."
His free hand slid beneath your blouse again, this time bypassing any teasing—just rough, impatient tugs at the buttons until they gave way, fabric parting to expose your heaving chest. The cold air bit at your flushed skin, but his mouth was hotter, teeth scraping over your collarbone before his tongue laved over the sting. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, but he caught your wrist again, pinning it behind you with a warning squeeze.
The counter’s edge dug into your thighs as he pressed closer, the hard ridge of his cock grinding against your hip through his jeans—maddening, deliberate. You arched into him instinctively, but he pulled back just enough to keep the friction teasing, his breath uneven against your ear. "You want it?" he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. "Then beg properly."
A shudder ran through you at the command, humiliation prickling under your skin—but the ache between your legs was sharper, unbearable. His thumb traced your lower lip again, pressing down until your teeth grazed the pad, and you tasted salt, slickness, the faintest hint of yourself. Your resistance crumpled. "Please," you breathed, the word ragged, barely audible—but his grin was feral, triumphant, as he finally, finally unfastened his belt.
The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room, the rustle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough to free himself. His cock brushed your inner thigh—hot, heavy, already leaking—and your stomach clenched at the thought of how he'd stretch you, how he'd make you take every inch with that same ruthless patience. His palm smoothed up your trembling leg, fingers hooking into the lace of your panties, and the fabric tore with a sharp, careless rip that sent a jolt straight to your core. You gasped, but his hand was already between your legs again, two fingers pushing into you without warning, crooking hard against that spot that made your vision whiten.
"You're so fucking tight," he growled, his breath ragged against your neck as he worked his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust. The stretch burned—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how empty you'd been without him—and your hips jerked helplessly against his hand, chasing the friction. He let you, for a moment, before pulling away, leaving you clenching around nothing, your whimper echoing in the stillness.
Then his grip was on your hips, spinning you roughly to face the counter, your palms slapping against the cold marble as he kicked your legs wider. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, teasing, maddening, and you bit your lip hard to keep from begging again. He laughed—low, dark—before driving into you in one brutal stroke, your back arching as he bottomed out, the stretch so intense you sobbed. "Fuck," he hissed, his hands tightening on your waist, hips flush against your ass as he let you adjust—or tried to. You were already rocking back against him, desperate, and his groan vibrated through you like thunder.
"Greedy," he muttered, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in, the force knocking a cry from your throat. His pace was relentless from the start, each thrust punctuated by the sharp slap of skin, the counter digging into your hips with every snap of his hips. You could feel him everywhere—the sweat-slick press of his chest against your back, the bite of his teeth on your shoulder, the way his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking just hard enough to make your eyes water. "Mine," he breathed against your skin, and the possessiveness in his voice—raw, unfiltered—sent you spiraling closer to the edge than any touch ever could.
You tried to muffle your moans against your arm, pride still clinging to the tattered edges of your defiance, but he dragged you upright by your hair, his other hand splaying across your stomach to pull you flush against him. "No," he growled, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers dipped lower, circling your clit with brutal precision. "I want to hear you." The dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you was too much—your legs shook, your nails scraping uselessly at the counter as you came with a broken sob, his name a prayer on your lips.
He didn't let you catch your breath, just tightened his grip on your hip and fucked you through it, his rhythm never faltering even as you writhed against him, oversensitive and trembling. "Not done with you yet," he promised darkly, his free hand trailing up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, bending you over the counter again. The angle was deeper now, his thrusts harder, and you could feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, the stretch bordering on painful. You whimpered, but your hips rocked back to meet him instinctively, your body betraying you even as your pride fought to surface.
Your legs gave out entirely when his fingers found your clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles that sent sparks shooting up your spine. He caught you before you could collapse, one arm hooking under your thigh to hike your leg up around his waist, pressing you even closer, impossibly deeper. The new angle stole the air from your lungs—every thrust hit that spot inside you with brutal precision, and your nails dug into his forearm, your other leg trembling where it barely touched the floor. "Fuck—Max," you gasped, your voice raw, and his answering groan vibrated through you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
He was close—you could feel it in the way his rhythm stuttered, the way his fingers dug bruises into your thigh, the way his breath came ragged against your skin. "Come for me again," he demanded, his voice rough with restraint, and your body obeyed before you could think, pleasure cresting so sharply it bordered on pain. He cursed in Dutch, his hips snapping forward once, twice, before he buried himself to the hilt with a groan, his release spilling hot inside you.
For a moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, the soft drip of sweat from his temple onto your shoulder. Then his lips brushed the nape of your neck, tender in stark contrast to the way he’d just wrecked you—mouth moving over your damp skin like a whispered confession, a counterpoint to the possessive grip still anchoring your thigh around his waist. His exhale shuddered against you, his cock twitching inside you as he softened, and you hated how intimate it felt, how vulnerable—like he’d carved out space inside you and refused to leave.
You expected him to pull away, to let you crumple onto the counter in a boneless heap, but his fingers traced your hipbone instead, slow and deliberate, mapping the rise and fall of your breath. "Still so tense," he murmured, and you stiffened—because of course he noticed, because he always fucking noticed—the way your muscles coiled tight even now, defiance simmering beneath the aftershocks. His chuckle was low, knowing, as his teeth grazed your earlobe. "Even when you lose, you can't stop fighting, can you?"
His hand slid up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest met the cold marble, your spent body pinned beneath his. You hissed at the sudden stretch, the sting of overused muscles—but then his palm came down on your ass with a sharp crack, the pain radiating through you like a lit fuse. "Still clenching," he observed, fingers kneading the sore flesh as you bit back a whimper. "As if you could keep me out."
You turned your head just enough to glare over your shoulder, lips parted for some half-formed retort, but he shoved two fingers into your mouth before you could speak. The taste of your own arousal flooded your tongue, salt and musk, and your cheeks burned as his thumb pressed down on your tongue, holding you open. "Quiet," he murmured, his other hand trailing down the curve of your back, fingertips skating over the dip of your waist like he was counting your ribs. "You’ve had enough chances to be clever tonight."
The stretch of his fingers in your mouth made your jaw ache, your breath coming sharp and shallow through your nose—but worse was the way your hips rocked back instinctively, seeking friction even now. He laughed, the sound dark and pleased, as his free hand cupped your soaked cunt from behind, fingers sliding through the mess he’d made of you.
"Still dripping," he murmured, pressing his thumb against your swollen clit in slow, deliberate circles. "Even after I’ve fucked you senseless." You whimpered around his fingers, humiliation flooding your chest—but your thighs trembled, slickness pooling anew beneath his touch. His breath hitched, grip tightening in your hair as he watched you unravel. "Christ, you’re shameless."
You hated the way your body arched into his hand, how your moans vibrated around his fingers, how your toes curled against the tile. Hated, most of all, the way his gaze burned into you—like he’d won, like he’d always known he would. His thumb pressed harder, the pressure bordering on painful, and your vision whited out as another orgasm ripped through you, silent and devastating.
He held you through it, fingers tangled in your hair, his other hand working you ruthlessly until you sagged against the counter, boneless and spent. Only then did he withdraw, his thumb swiping lazily over your bottom lip as he studied your dazed expression. "Next time," he mused, voice rough with satisfaction, "maybe you’ll think twice before testing me." But the smirk tugging at his mouth told you he knew better.
Your thighs trembled where they pressed against the counter, the marble cold against your flushed skin. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, mapping every shiver as they traveled upward—pausing just below your nape, where his palm settled heavy and warm. "Stand up," he murmured, but it wasn’t a request, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up, knees wobbling as you turned to face him.
The sight of him—hair mussed, lips swollen from your teeth, the sharp lines of his chest still heaving—sent a fresh pulse of heat between your legs. He caught your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the rawness in his eyes made your breath hitch. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb brushing the dampness beneath your lashes. "Still fucking perfect."
His mouth crashed into yours then, possessive and hungry, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that mirrored the way he’d just fucked you—relentless, claiming. You moaned into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as he pulled you flush against him. The taste of him—salt and sweat and something indefinably his—flooded your senses, and you hated how easily you melted into it, how your body arched into his like it belonged there.
Then he broke away abruptly, leaving you gasping, lips parted around nothing but air. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, smearing the wetness there, his gaze dark with something that made your stomach clench. "Still so greedy," he murmured, voice rough with amusement, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your fingers clutched at his shoulders like you might fall without him.
You opened your mouth to retort, but his hand slid between your legs again, fingers pressing against your oversensitive clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. "Quiet," he ordered, his breath hot against your ear as he circled your swollen flesh, slow and deliberate, watching the way your eyelids fluttered. "You’ve had your fun."
The protest died in your throat as his teeth grazed your earlobe, the sharp sting mingling with the relentless press of his fingers. You hated how your hips rocked into his touch, how your breath came in ragged gasps—how utterly, shamelessly you surrendered.
Then he pulled away, leaving you shuddering and empty, your thighs slick with want. His lips curved into that infuriating smirk as he wiped his fingers on your bare stomach, the smear of your arousal glistening under the dim light. "Pathetic," he murmured, but his voice cracked on the word, betraying the same desperate hunger coiled in your gut.
The sound of his belt buckle clinking back into place was obscenely loud in the silence, a cruel punctuation to your unraveling. You sagged against the counter, your trembling arms barely holding you up, the marble biting into your overheated skin. He stepped back, adjusting his shirt with infuriating calm, while you remained sprawled and ruined, your body still pulsing with the aftershocks of his touch.
"You’ll remember this next time," he said, his voice low and rough, fingers brushing your tangled hair away from your face—a gesture so tender it burned worse than any mark he’d left. Then he turned, walking away without another glance, his footsteps echoing down the hallway like a verdict.
The front door clicked shut, and only then did you let yourself collapse, your forehead pressed to the cold counter as your breath finally, violently, returned. The space between your legs throbbed, aching and empty, and you hated how much you already missed the weight of him. Hated, most of all, how his absence felt like its own kind of punishment.
Your fingers trembled as you reached for your discarded blouse, the fabric damp with sweat and smeared with the evidence of your surrender. You swallowed hard—could still taste him, salt and arrogance, clinging to the back of your throat. The mirror across the room caught your reflection, and you barely recognized the girl staring back: lips swollen, hair wild, eyes dark with something between fury and hunger. You looked ruined. You felt alive.
The sound of the shower running snapped your attention to the hallway, steam already curling under the bathroom door. Of course he’d stay. Of course he’d wash you off his skin like yesterday’s race grit. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, the sting a welcome distraction from the throbbing between your thighs—until the water cut off abruptly, and the silence that followed was worse.
You expected the front door to slam. Expected him to leave you coiled tight and furious in the wreckage. But then his footsteps padded back down the hall, slow and deliberate, and you froze when a towel dropped onto the counter beside you, still warm from his body. "Clean yourself up," he said, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier bite. You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Not when his fingers lingered for a heartbeat against the nape of your neck, calloused and tender, before withdrawing.
The front door clicked shut, softer this time, and you finally let out the breath you’d been holding. The towel smelled like him—citrus and something deeper, something you couldn’t name but would dream about later, tangled in sheets that still carried his scent. Your fingers clenched around the fabric, torn between hurling it across the room and pressing it to your face like a goddamn lovesick fool. The choice, like everything else tonight, was stolen from you when your phone buzzed against the marble.
A single message lit up the screen: "Next time, you won’t make it to the counter."
