@missnobody731 - Tumblr Blog

You knew Caleb had a breed kink - it was why you just had a baby after all.

He loves to grab your hips in his hands and rail his fat cock inside your walls, loves to fold you in half in a mating press and shove his cum in those walls that grip him so good. Loves seeing your tummy bulge with how deep he's buried - fuck Caleb even likes those cute stretch marks you get when you're pregnant.

"Pregnant with my baby," he'd moan, kissing your tummy, lavishing those sensitive nipples and moaning, his eyes damn near black. Caleb loved getting his pretty Pips pregnant, but what you didn't know was how much he'd love sucking your nipples.

You were so embarrassed when he'd had you riding his cock just a little over a month after your baby - just in time to be cleared for sex, and he'd leaned up and squished your tits in his huge hands - rough from years of training. Calloused thumb swirling your nipple as his cock made you re learn its shape, those violet eyes dilated.

"That's it, slutty cunt missed me, huh Pips?" He whispered, sitting up and dragging you down on his girthy length, sucking a nipple into his hot mouth. "mmm..."

That's when Caleb tasted your milk for the first time, moaning and sucking harder, making you dizzy from how sore they were from breastfeeding. You'd tugged at those soft brown locks of hair, trying to get him to stop, but Caleb was drunk off your damn taste.

"It's so sweet, fuck..." he'd dragged you down and you rolled your hips, head falling back for more of his rough suction, his mouth quickly moving to the other, milk just dripping down his lips. "Fuck I can't get enough."

"Y-you can't... Caleb..." You sucked in a breath through your teeth. "Fuck feels s'good... ngh!"

After that Caleb was just done for, every chance he got once you put the baby to bed he was sucking your milk, you'd brush his hair back and arch for more, especially when his fingers fucked into your sore little cunt. "Caleb you can't just drink it all!"

"I can't help it," he grins up at you now, fingers scissoring in and out of your messy cunt. "You love it, hmm?"

"N-no," you're lying and he knows, you blush when you do, but when he sucks again you fucking soak him, letting him drink all your sweetness right down his thirsty throat.

"Mmm... gonna make you a mommy again..."

"Again!?" He's chuckling, literally drunk from your tits that are so full, pulling back and kissing you, letting you taste it, hands gripping them rougher to make them drip more. "Ngh!"

"Need them to stay full, honey," he's swirling the beads of milk around your areolas, sighing. "So pretty, and your tummy all full, round with me again?"

"N-not this quick," he has your thighs spread with the fat head of his cock gliding through your syrupy mess, hair falling over a brow - he looks all cute and boyish when he's being a deviant. "Caleb, please..."

"Please what, honey? Use your words," he whispers, teasing your cunt even more with the tip - barely pressing in just to pull back with a filthy pop of that ridge slipping from your greedy hole. "No baby this soon, want me to pull out, too?"

"No, no," he smirks and shoves his cock fully inside, bottoming out with a sharp thrust, groaning at the sight of your tummy moving with him. His fingertips brush your little stretchies from the baby hungrily.

"All mine, my baby inside you again, huh? You want my cock, my cum, want me to wreck your insides pretty?"

"Please, please," you're lost when he's doing just that, fucking into you and squeezing your tits, your milk squirting down and dripping for his hungry mouth, making him moan as he slurps it all up. Your nails dig into his back, making him even thicker inside you.

"Gonna keep you pregnant - hah," he's grinning against your skin, swirling that milk all around and fucking your cunt harder, watching your cute fucked out little expressions. "Keep drinking you, make you a mommy over and over. Yeah, Pips?"

You're dazed and fucked out, just how Caleb likes you. "Mhm."

"Such a good girl f'me," you melt under the praise, cunt spasming when he flips you on top and tugs you down, putting your tits right back in his face. "Lemme drink more, please?"

How he can give you violet puppy dog eyes while sucking all your milk and pumping more cum in you unprotected - well it's just a problem.

****

well my ovulation had to go to Caleb in anticipation of his myth tmrw - blame @uhnosav for this too hehe

sinkuna

Caleb is clueless to how big his dick is ♡

୨୧ ― Caleb has spent his entire adolescence and young adulthood rejecting every admirer who threw themselves at him- returning their homemade lunches, turning down their confessions, never once letting anyone get close enough to touch him like that.

He was too focused. Too loyal. Too busy dreaming about the girl who'd grown up beside him, the one whose birthday made up half of his passwords.

His girl.

And now, finally, after all this time, he has you exactly where he's dreamed of you for almost a decade- beneath him, looking up at him with those wide, trusting eyes.

God, she's really here. She's really letting me-

His internal thought cuts off when he hears your sweet voice.

"C-Caleb-," you whine pitifully, fat tears beginning to bead along your lower lashes as you squirm beneath him in his apartment you've slowly been turning into a home... "I- I don't think-"

"What's wrong?" He sounds almost boyish in his confusion, purple eyes soft with concern as he brushes sweaty hair from your forehead, "Did I do something-"

"S'too big."

He blinks, tilting his head like the adorable idiot he is, "I'm... no, I'm sure I'm average? I mean, I haven't really compared, but…" his words trail off…

Caleb can do nothing but stare...

How your poor little cunt is struggling, quivering, lips stretched obscenely trying to swallow the first few inches of him...

His length is ridiculous- he realizes that now with sudden, dawning clarity, watching nearly half of his shaft still jutting out from where your bodies meet.

Despite how wet he's gotten you with his fingers and tongue and desperate grinding- despite the slick mess coating your inner thighs, the way you'd gushed around two of his knuckles, the way you'd soaked his chin when he'd eaten you out… you're still barely able to take him.

He'd always assumed those whispered comments from classmates back in high school were idle gossip. Locker room flattery he was too humble to believe -even now during showers on the fleet-. Girls giggling behind cupped hands, guys clapping his shoulder with that knowing look...

But now-

Fuck.

Now he understands as he watches you try to adjust.

Watching how your belly flutters with each shallow breath, watching your thighs tremble where they're spread wide around his hips. Watching the visible bulge of himself pressing up against the soft give of your lower stomach when he sinks another inch deeper and you let out this broken little whimper that makes his balls tighten.

f1hazexoxo

you like it? - f1 drivers text au

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. When you sending a picture of your new lingerie drives them crazy. pairing: f!reader x f1!boyfriend genre: spicyyy drivers mentioned: cl16, ln1, ka12, ob87, cs55, op81 authors note: i just realized i really like making text aus lol expect a few in the next upcoming days! ill try to include more drivers, hope you enjoy x .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

amourtoken

do you have any thoughts about kimi with a breeding kink?

I have PLENTY OF THOUGHTS ABT THIS trust me bb I'll go more in depth when Its not midnight but im so sleep deprived and in love w my sweetest italian I cant help it

*MDNI, NSFW BELOW THE CUT*

harrysfolklore

oscat - op81

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

You struggle to get your key in the door while balancing groceries and a very vocal cardboard box. When you finally manage to stumble into the apartment, Oscar looks up from his laptop, then does a double-take.

"What," he says slowly, "is that noise?"

The box meows in response.

"Funny story," you begin, setting down the groceries. "Remember how you said I shouldn't go grocery shopping when hungry because I make impulsive decisions?"

"YN."

You open the box carefully, and a small orange cat pokes its head out, looking around curiously.

"What is that?"

"Our cat!"

"Our what?"

"His name is Oscat!"

fawnsaccharine

imagining a pussy-drunk March..

laying under you in his bed while you sit atop him, sinking down onto his thick cock. it stretches you open so perfectly, making you both groan.

you slowly lift up, up, up, all the way to his needy tip, before sinking back down. your slick coats him, your body squeezes around him, and hes losing his fucking mind.

"fuck, baby.. fuck.. please dont tease," he groans, big hands clasping onto your hips.

but you arent even teasing. youre riding him, clutching at his thick forearms while you move. but its not enough for him.

pleasure is hot as it pulses through him, straight to muddle his brain. he groans and grips your hips tighter, his own hips twitching up. he cant help it.

he tries to be patient, tries to let you lead, but when his hips start to buck and thrust up into your wetness, he cant control it.

with heavy groans, he guides you on his cock, bouncing you while he thrusts again and again.

https-piastri

A Moth To A Flame // OP81

pairing: oscar x step-sister!reader

summary: things are going great with your boyfriend of three years, lando norris. or at least that is what you think. your step-brother oscar has a different opinion.

warnings: SMUT!!!! cheating, step sibling trope, he refers to himself as her brother like twice, but it’s more so ironic and bitter than a FR thing ya know? forbidden romance, THEY DID NOT GROW UP TG!! public sex, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, creampies, cum play, p in v, unprotected sex, pwp, language

wc: 7.6k

title: moth to a flame— the weeknd

a/n: hi, this is my humble introduction to the world of f1 smut. i hope you enjoy this as much as i did :3 im very open to requests and feedback from anyone!!!

ivywritesfanfiction

Drag Path

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female reader Word count: 7.4k Summary: After crashing out before the Australian Grand Prix even begins, Oscar somehow keeps it together through the paddock, the cameras, and the long ride home. But the second the apartment door shuts behind you, all that heartbreak finally catches up with him. Tags: so much angst, hurt/comfort, post-race heartbreak, vulnerable oscar piastri, soft intimacy, some smut, cockwarming, i'm not sure what else... A/N: how are you all doing after australia's 2026 race? cause i'm not okay at all. I ended up writing this at 7 a.m., so it might be full of mistakes and full nonsense. I was sleepy af, sorry

You knew something was wrong before anyone said it. Maybe it was the sound.

Not the crash itself, you didn’t hear that at first, not really, not in any clear or recognizable way. Albert Park before a race was too full of noise for one impact to make itself distinct. There were engines whining through their pre-race procedures, helicopters somewhere above the circuit, the constant hum of a crowd too excited to ever truly settle, the clipped, rushed voices of team personnel speaking into headsets as if the whole paddock operated on one continuous breath. Everything bled together into that familiar Formula 1 chaos.

But then the rhythm of it changed. It was slight. Brief. A shift in the current. The kind of thing nobody else would notice unless they were already looking for him in every passing second.

You were. Of course you were. You had been for the last fifteen minutes, standing just on the edge of where you were supposed to be, hands clasped so tightly in front of you that your knuckles ached, pretending to be calmer than you felt. The pre-race tension had been alive under your skin all morning, part nerves, part excitement, part the very specific ache that came from caring about someone who got into a Formula 1 car for a living and then calling that feeling love.

Oscar’s home race. You had repeated the words so many times over the weekend that they had almost stopped sounding real. His home race. His city. His people. The race that mattered in a different way than the others did, whether he admitted it or not.

And, because he was Oscar, he had not admitted it. Not properly. Not in any way the cameras could clip and replay.

He’d shrugged off every question with the same dry, even tone he always used when people pushed too hard. Yes, it was nice to be home. Yes, the support had been great. Yes, it was special. No, he wasn’t approaching it differently. No, he wasn’t feeling extra pressure. Just another race, really.

You had nearly laughed the first time he said it in front of a microphone. Just another race.

As if he had not spent Thursday night lying next to you in the dark, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped across your waist, staring up at the hotel ceiling while the city glowed faintly through the curtains.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” you’d murmured, half asleep.

He’d gone still beside you. Then, after a pause: “Didn’t know that was possible.”

“With you it is.”

He’d turned his head to look at you then, expression unreadable in the dim room, though you could feel the corner of his mouth threatening to lift.

“Interesting diagnosis.”

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally lying down.”

You had smiled into his shoulder. “That doesn’t stop you from being nervous.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then his fingers had tightened lightly against your side, almost absentmindedly, and he’d said, very quietly, “It’s a lot.”

That was the closest he had gotten to saying it.

For anyone else, it would have been nothing. Barely a confession at all. A throwaway comment. An understatement.

For Oscar, it may as well have been a full emotional monologue. It’s a lot.

That was how he told you things mattered. In small sentences. In restrained ones. In words so careful they almost hid the truth instead of revealing it. If someone didn’t know him, really know him, they would miss it entirely. They’d think he was detached, or unemotional, or simply too cool to care.

But you knew better. You knew the version of him no one else got. The version who let silence do most of his speaking, but always touched you when he needed grounding. The version who got sharper when he was stressed, not cruel, never cruel, just more clipped around the edges, as if he was trying to keep every feeling compressed into as little space as possible. The version who would never ask for comfort directly but would drift closer to you, shoulder to shoulder, knee brushing yours, hand resting at the back of your neck for one second longer than usual. The version who cared so much it leaked out only in the places he thought no one was looking.

So yes, you were watching for him now. Watching the timing screens when you could. Watching the monitors. Watching the movement in the garage. Watching for the car, the helmet, the impossible flash of papaya that your entire body had become trained to recognize before your brain did.

And then everything shifted. One of the McLaren engineers went very still. Another voice came sharply through a headset. Someone swore under their breath. Your stomach dropped before your mind could form a reason. You stepped forward instinctively, eyes darting to the nearest screen just as the replay appeared. The world narrowed.

There he was. Oscar’s car at the exit of Turn 4, angled wrong in a way your body understood as danger before your thoughts caught up. One ugly, sickening moment of lost control, the rear stepping out, the correction not enough, the car sliding with all the awful inevitability of something already decided. Then the wall.

The impact wasn’t the biggest you’d ever seen. It didn’t need to be. It was enough. Enough that you felt all the air leave your lungs at once. Enough that your fingers went numb. Enough that for one horrible second you forgot where you were standing, forgot the people around you, forgot that the race still existed and the paddock was still moving and you were supposed to remain composed because this was Formula 1 and drama never stopped the machinery of it. You stared at the screen as if staring could undo it.

He’s okay, was your first thought. It came not because you were calm, but because you had to think it immediately or else nothing in you would function. He got out. That mattered.

You saw the replay again. Saw the car still. Saw him climbing free. Saw the movement of his body that told you he wasn’t physically hurt, not in any obvious way, and the relief hit so hard it almost made you dizzy.

Then came the second wave. He’s out. The home race. The first race of the season. Before it even started.

Someone near you said, “Oh no.”

Another voice, too professional, too steady, was already talking through damage assessments. Front-right suspension. Significant impact. That’ll be game over. No coming back from that on the reconnaissance lap. Brutal.

Brutal. You hated how ordinary the word sounded in the middle of something that felt catastrophic.

The monitors kept moving. Camera angles switched. Commentators filled the silence. Somewhere out on the grid the rest of the field continued existing, because of course they did. Formula 1 never paused to mourn one person’s disaster. It simply absorbed it and moved on.

Your body did not know how to do that. All at once, the whole paddock felt too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who were not him.

You took a step back, then another, eyes still fixed on the screen as though he might somehow reappear and tell everyone it was fine, it was fixable, there’d been some mistake, the car could be repaired in time, the race could still happen.

But the image changed. Oscar, helmet still on, walking away. Not running. Not gesturing. Not putting on any kind of visible performance of frustration or devastation. Just walking.

Your throat tightened painfully. Because there it was, that terrible, controlled stillness you knew so well. Even from a distance. Even through a screen. Even after a crash that had ended his race before it began, he looked composed. His posture straight.

He was already pulling the walls up. And you knew, with dreadful certainty, that by the time he got back to the paddock, everyone else would see a driver handling disappointment professionally. You would see Oscar trying not to break open in public.

You started moving before you consciously decided to. Nobody stopped you. Maybe because they knew who you were. Maybe because everyone in that garage had their own version of panic to manage. Maybe because there was no universe in which anyone would have looked at your face in that moment and thought, yes, let’s delay her.

The walk back through the paddock felt impossibly long and unreal. You could hear pieces of conversation as you passed, fragments that snagged against your skin.

“...home race too...” “...such a shame...” “...just lost it...” “...what a nightmare...”

You wanted all of them to shut up. Not because they were wrong. Because they were saying it too easily. There was a strange cruelty in how quickly other people could summarize someone else’s heartbreak. Package it. Narrate it. Turn it into a line for television, a talking point, a tragedy with convenient wording.

You pushed past another cluster of personnel and finally reached the quieter stretch nearer the back of the McLaren area, where things became less performative, less visible, more real. That was where you stopped. Because there he was.

For one moment, all you could do was look at him. Oscar had changed out of his helmet and balaclava, though he was still in his race suit, unzipped to the chest. His hair was damp at the edges, flattened and out of place from the helmet, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that might have been heat or adrenaline or anger or all three. One of the team members was speaking to him, something logistical, probably, something about the car, the debrief, the sequence of what happened, but Oscar only nodded once in response.

Calm. Neutral. Controlled. He looked devastatingly put together for someone whose day had just imploded. And maybe nobody else would have noticed it, but you did: the tension in his jaw, the way one hand flexed once at his side before going still again, the slight blankness behind his eyes that meant he was no longer really seeing the people in front of him. He was enduring them. Your chest hurt.

As if sensing you before he actually saw you, Oscar turned his head. Your eyes met. Something changed in his face. Not a lot. Not enough for anyone else to clock it. But enough.

The set of his mouth loosened by a fraction. His shoulders dropped, not visibly, not dramatically, just the smallest release, a silent acknowledgment that you had arrived and, with you, the need to keep every part of himself rigid had shifted.

The team member followed his line of sight, looked at you, and immediately said, “We can pick this up in a few minutes.”

Oscar gave a short nod. Then the person stepped away. And suddenly it was just the two of you. For half a second neither of you moved.

You had imagined all weekend what this race day might feel like, thrilling, stressful, emotional, maybe triumphant if luck and speed and strategy all aligned. You had imagined hugging him after qualifying, after the anthem, after the race. You had imagined the grin he might try to suppress if things went well. The dry comments. The almost-smiles. The way he always acted like praise slightly inconvenienced him even when you knew he secretly liked hearing it from you. You had not imagined this.

You crossed the space between you first. Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just directly, like the answer to a question neither of you needed to ask.

When you stopped in front of him, you saw the composure up close and hated it for him. Hated how practiced it was. Hated that he could wear it so well. Hated that he clearly thought he needed to.

“Oscar,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.

His gaze flicked over your face, taking you in with that same contained focus he used for everything important. “Hi.”

The word was so absurdly normal that you almost laughed. Or cried. Maybe both.

“Hi?” you repeated, your eyebrows lifting despite yourself.

One corner of his mouth moved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Not my best entrance.”

That did it. The ache in your chest sharpened into something unbearable. Because of course he would do that. Of course the first thing out of his mouth would be a joke so dry it barely counted, delivered in that maddeningly even tone that pretended this was manageable. Pretended he was manageable. Pretended if he said something understated enough, it might shrink what had happened into a thing you could both survive standing up.

You stared at him for a second, eyes stinging, and said softly, “That’s what you’ve got?”

He held your gaze. “Still workshopping it.”

Your expression must have cracked then, because his own shifted immediately. The joke vanished. Not entirely, there was always something wry about Oscar, some dry thread woven into everything, but what replaced it was quieter. Gentler.

“Hey,” he said.

You pressed your lips together so hard they hurt. He looked at you for one long second, then stepped forward and reached for you first. That was all it took.

The moment his arms came around you, your own went around him with far more force than you intended, clutching at the back of his race suit as if you needed to physically confirm he was whole, really here, not injured, not lost to the violence of that impact or the cruelty of how sudden everything had been.

He made a soft sound, almost a breath, almost surprise, but then his hands settled firmly against your back.

And there it was. Not the version of him the cameras got. The real one. Still composed, yes. Still holding himself together with that iron restraint that seemed built into his bones. But no longer entirely alone inside it.

You buried your face against his shoulder. The fabric of the suit smelled faintly of heat, fuel, and him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His grip tightened slightly. “You didn’t crash the car.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

You let out one wet, helpless laugh against him, which was probably his intention. He always did that, slid something dry and understated into the moment not to dismiss your feelings, but to keep them from drowning both of you. It was one of the strangest, most tender things about him. Oscar did not do emotional flooding. He did emotional triage. A perfectly timed comment, a brush of his thumb over your side, a quiet sentence that somehow gave you room to breathe again.

But this time, even with him holding you, you could feel how hard he was working. Every muscle in his body seemed controlled. Measured. Contained. You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was infuriatingly calm. His eyes were not. Not because they were watery, they weren’t. Oscar would sooner evaporate than cry in the middle of the paddock with half the world watching. But there was something shuttered there, something carefully locked down, and you knew him well enough to understand how much force it took to keep it all behind that expression.

You reached up and touched his cheek. The contact made him go still in a different way. Not frozen. Just attentive. As if every one of your touches registered somewhere deeper than the rest of the world ever got access to.

“You don’t have to act like it’s fine with me,” you said quietly.

His eyes flicked away for one second, then back.

“I know.”

“You’re doing it anyway.”

“I’m trying not to throw a tantrum in public,” he said.

“I hate this for you,” you whispered.

That hit him. You saw it happen. A tiny shift. Barely anything. The muscles in his jaw tightening once. His gaze dropping to somewhere near your shoulder before coming back up.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “It’s... not ideal.”

The understatement was so aggressively Oscar that, under any other circumstances, you would have rolled your eyes. Instead tears finally spilled over. His entire expression changed.

“Oh, no,” he said, and there it was, that immediate, almost reflexive redirect toward you. The instinct to manage your feelings before his own. “Don’t do that.”

You gave a broken laugh, wiping furiously at your cheek. “Don’t do what?”

“That.”

“What, have emotions?”

“Preferably fewer, yes.”

Despite everything, a tiny huff of laughter escaped him.

You stared at him in disbelief. “You are impossible.”

“I’m aware.”

“You crashed on your way to the grid at your home race and somehow I’m the one being told off.”

“I’m not telling you off.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m being very gentle,” he said.

You looked at him for one beat longer, then shook your head and laughed again through the tears because he was infuriating and because he was trying, in the most Oscar way possible, to save you both from the full weight of the moment flattening you.

The laugh seemed to ease something in him. Just a little. His hand came up to brush his thumb under your eye, catching the edge of a tear with surprising softness for someone still wearing the emotional armor of a man trying not to implode.

“Better,” he said.

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You are internally.”

“Possibly.”

You let out a breath that shook on the way out. Then the reality of it all settled back over you, heavier now for having briefly cracked.

“The race hasn’t even started,” you said, almost to yourself.

Oscar’s expression stilled. “No.”

Your throat tightened again. “You didn’t even get to—”

“I know.”

The words weren’t sharp, but they stopped you. Not because he was angry at you. Because he couldn’t bear hearing the rest of the sentence out loud.

You saw it instantly and wished you could take the unfinished words back. He noticed the regret on your face right away, of course. He always noticed everything with you, even when he acted like he didn’t.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers resting there, warm and grounding.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t. You both knew it wasn’t.

But what he meant was, I know what you were trying to say.What he meant was, don’t make this harder for yourself.What he meant was, I can’t hear the shape of the loss spoken too clearly yet, so please love me gently.

You understood him in all the languages he never used out loud. So instead of finishing the sentence, you stepped closer again, resting your forehead lightly against his.

For a moment you both fell quiet. In the distance, the atmosphere of the paddock shifted again as the race drew nearer to starting. You could feel time moving now, cruel and practical. Oscar would have to go soon. There would be obligations. Interviews. Team meetings. The sterile language of incident analysis. He would have to relive what happened in detail, likely more than once, for people who needed information, content, narrative, closure.

He would do it well. That was the worst part. He would be articulate and measured and maddeningly calm. He would probably downplay the emotional side of it all so expertly that half the paddock would walk away thinking he was taking it fine.

You touched his wrist gently. “When press is done with you...”

He looked at you.

“Don’t disappear into your own head, okay?”

One side of his mouth tipped faintly. “No promises.”

“Oscar.”

“I heard you.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It usually is.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He looked almost amused, but there was affection underneath it. “I’ll come find you.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if you decide to be all stoic and emotionally unavailable?”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“It’s accurate.”

“Debatable,” he said again.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick and soft. “Come find me anyway.”

His hand squeezed your waist once. “I will.”

The second the apartment stopped echoing with the sound of the door closing, Oscar looked like he couldn’t hold himself up under the day anymore.

It was in the way he stood there for one suspended second too long, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on nothing. Like he’d gotten himself all the way home on pure discipline and now that there was no audience left, no reason to keep the seams of himself stitched shut, his body didn’t know what to do next.

You barely had time to say his name before his face changed. Not all at once. That was the heartbreaking part. It happened in pieces, like even his breakdown had to fight through layers of restraint first.

His lips pressed together too hard, then trembled. His throat worked around a swallow that clearly hurt. His eyes went glassy, then wetter, then bright enough that you could see him realizing he wasn’t going to stop it in time.

“Oscar,” you whispered, already moving toward him.

He shook his head once. It wasn’t a no. Not really. It was more helpless than that. More like please don’t look too closely, because if you do, I’m gone.

Then his mouth quivered. Actually quivered. And the sight of it hit you so hard your own breathing caught.

He turned his face away immediately, one hand coming up like he could hide the evidence after the fact, but you had already seen too much, the shine in his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the awful effort in every muscle of his face.

“I’m okay,” he said, and the words came out thin and shredded, the last syllable cracking in a way he clearly hadn’t meant to let happen.

Your heart broke cleanly in two.

“No, baby,” you said softly, reaching for him. “No, you’re not.”

That did it. His expression folded in on itself with this small, terrible kind of collapse, brows pinching, lips shaking harder, breath stuttering in and not quite coming back out right. He looked furious at himself for it instantly. Ashamed. Like the fact that he was standing in his own apartment with wet eyes and a trembling mouth was somehow one humiliation too many on top of the rest.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, too quickly, voice breaking again. “I just—”

He stopped because he couldn’t finish. A tear slipped out. He made this tiny, wrecked sound in the back of his throat, half frustration, half pure hurt, and turned away from you fully then, dragging a hand over his face as if he could physically wipe the whole thing off himself.

You reached him just as his breathing started to go uneven.

“Oscar—hey, hey, come here.”

He bent toward you like he didn’t know where else to go. His forehead nearly hit your shoulder. His hands gripped at your arms, then your waist, then the back of your shirt, like he needed to anchor himself somewhere and you were the first solid thing his body recognized. The first shaky breath left him against your collarbone, then another, and then he was crying in earnest, still trying so hard to keep it quiet it made the whole thing worse.

There was something devastating about the way Oscar cried. Even now, even cracked open, even miserable, he was still trying to minimize it. Trying to make himself smaller inside it. Like if he kept the sounds tiny enough, kept the shaking under control, kept his face hidden well enough, maybe this wouldn’t count as really losing it.

But he was. He was losing it. And you held him through every second of it.

“It’s okay,” you whispered into his hair, your hand spread between his shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He clutched you harder.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice breaking around the words. “I know this is—”

“No.” You pulled back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to hear you. “Don’t. Do not apologize.”

His lashes were wet, cheeks flushed, lower lip trembling so badly now that he finally just bit down on it like that might stop it. It didn’t. If anything it made him look even more fragile, like someone trying desperately to hold a door shut against something too strong on the other side.

“It’s embarrassing,” he whispered.

The confession came out in pieces. Small. Barely audible. Mortifying to him, obviously.

You shook your head immediately. “No.”

“It is.”

“No, baby.”

His face twisted. “I’m standing here crying because I binned it before the race even started.”

The sentence came out ragged, anger at himself tangled up with hurt so badly there was no separating them.

You touched his cheek with both hands. “You’re standing here crying because you’re heartbroken.”

His eyes shut like even hearing the word was too much.

“I didn’t even get to start,” he said, and that was the rawest version of him yet, no polish, no detached analysis, no sarcasm left to hide behind. Just pain. “I didn’t even get one lap. One race. Just... gone.”

Your own eyes stung instantly. “I know.”

“It was home,” he said, voice cracking so badly on the last word that he stopped and pressed his mouth together again, hard, like he could physically keep the rest inside.

But it was already spilling over. He covered his face with one hand, shoulders hitching once, then again.

“Hey,” you murmured, reaching up to gently catch his wrist. “Come with me.”

He didn’t really respond. He just let you guide him. That alone told you how far gone he was.

Usually, even upset, Oscar would still have some instinct to straighten up, to say he was fine, to insist he could walk on his own, sit on his own, manage it. But now he just followed the pressure of your hands like he didn’t have enough left in him to pretend otherwise.

You led him down the short hallway toward the bedroom, one hand in his, the other on his arm. His breathing was still uneven, and every so often he’d drag in one shaky breath that sounded almost steady until the end of it broke apart.

By the time you reached the bed, he looked wrecked.

“Sit down for me,” you said softly.

He did. Almost instantly. He sat on the edge of the bed like his legs had finally given up on being useful. Then, before you could even move in front of him, he bent forward and covered his face with both hands. The sight of that nearly undid you.

Oscar, who hated being visibly emotional, who hated being watched when he was vulnerable, who would rather evaporate than be dramatic in front of anyone, was sitting on the edge of the bed with his face hidden in his hands because he couldn’t keep himself together anymore.

You climbed onto the bed behind him immediately. The mattress dipped under your weight, and then you were wrapping both arms around him from behind, one across his chest, the other around his waist, pulling him back against you as tightly and gently as you could.

The second you touched him like that, he broke harder. His whole body folded into the hold as if he’d been one second from coming apart completely and your arms were the only thing that kept him from it. His hands stayed over his face. His shoulders shook. The sound he made was still small, still so controlled, still so him, but it was unmistakably a sob this time, dragged out of him against his will.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you whispered, tightening your arms around him. “I know. I know.”

He shook his head under his hands.

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder blade, holding him tighter. “You don’t have to hide.”

He gave a broken little laugh-sob into his palms that sounded horribly ashamed.

“I look ridiculous,” he said, words muffled.

You closed your eyes for a second against the ache of it. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

He sounded like he hated how young and wrecked his own voice had gone.

You slid one hand up from his chest to his wrist, thumb brushing there gently. “Oscar.”

He didn’t move his hands. So you kissed the back of his shoulder instead, then the line of his neck, then just stayed there with your mouth near his skin and your arms around him, making him feel every possible version of I’m here.

“You don’t look ridiculous,” you murmured. “You look devastated.”

His breathing hitched hard.

“It mattered to you,” you whispered. “It still does.”

That got another shudder through him. He dropped his elbows to his knees, still covering his face, and you went with him, arms tightening around his middle from behind, practically wrapped all the way around him now. You could feel each uneven breath under your forearm. Could feel how hard he was trying to calm down and failing every time he got close.

“I should be over it,” he said into his hands.

“No.”

“It’s stupid.”

“No.”

“It’s just one race.”

You pressed your cheek to his back again. “It was your home race.”

He went very still after that. Then his mouth trembled visibly behind his hands, enough that the heels of his palms shifted with it.

“It was supposed to be good,” he whispered.

And there it was. Not the crash. Not the replay. Not the debrief. Not the headlines. That.

It was supposed to be good.

The quiet hope underneath everything. The one he’d tried so hard not to name all week. The thing he’d denied in every careful media answer. The thing he’d only let you see in tiny moments and half-sentences and restless silences in the dark.

It was supposed to be good.

You tightened your hold on him until you were almost trembling with it. “I know, baby.”

His next breath shook all the way through him.

“I needed it to be good,” he said, and the voice that came out barely sounded like him anymore, so cracked, so small, so hurt you had to blink back tears immediately.

“Oh, Oscar.”

He finally dragged one hand down from his face, only to wipe harshly at his cheek and then cover his eyes again like he couldn’t bear the idea of being seen like this. “I’m sorry.”

You sat up slightly behind him and kissed the side of his head. “Stop apologizing to me.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I know.” Another kiss. “But you don’t owe anyone an apology, least of all me.”

A tiny, wet exhale that might have been a laugh left him, but it dissolved into another broken breath before it could become anything real.

You stayed like that for a while. Wrapped around him. Holding him together. Feeling the worst of it move through him in waves.

Each time he seemed to steady, something else hit him, the memory of it, the humiliation of it, the loss of it, and his shoulders would tense again, his face would disappear more stubbornly into his hands, and you’d just hold on tighter.

“It doesn’t make me think less of you,” you whispered at one point, because you knew him. Knew exactly where some part of his mind had gone. “Not even a little.”

He inhaled sharply, like the sentence had landed somewhere tender.

Then, very quietly, muffled by his palms, “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Your chest ached. “Deal with what?”

“This.” A helpless gesture from behind his hands. “Me being like this.”

You kissed his shoulder again, lingering this time. “I want to.”

He shook his head faintly.

“I do,” you insisted, voice soft but firm. “I want you exactly like this if this is how you need to be. You don’t have to be easy all the time.”

At that, his hands finally slipped down. Not all the way. Just enough to reveal his face. His eyes were redder now, lashes wet, cheeks flushed with humiliation and crying. He looked absolutely wrecked by the fact that you were seeing him like this, and yet underneath that embarrassment there was something else too, something needy and raw and almost disbelieving. Like he couldn’t quite understand how you were still here, still touching him, still looking at him so gently when he felt so broken open.

You moved one hand from around him to his jaw and turned his face slightly toward you.

“There you are,” you whispered.

His lower lip quivered again instantly.

He looked away. “Don’t.”

Your thumb brushed under his eye. “Don’t what?”

“Be nice to me right now.”

The sentence was so painfully him you almost smiled through your tears.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t...” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I can’t deal with that at the moment.”

Your whole face softened. “You can, though.”

“No, I really can’t.”

His voice cracked again on the last word, and the embarrassment that flashed over his face after it made you slide both arms around him once more, hugging him tighter from behind.

“Yes, you can,” you murmured into the side of his neck. “You can let me love you through it.”

He closed his eyes. You could feel the exact second he gave in to the sentence. Not giving up. Giving in. Letting himself be loved instead of trying to outrun it.

His head tipped back against your shoulder, just slightly, an exhausted, instinctive lean into you. You kissed the damp skin near his temple.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Just stay with me.”

He nodded weakly. For a while you simply held him while his breathing settled by degrees. One of your hands stroked slowly over his chest. The other combed through his hair over and over, each pass softer than the last. Sometimes he’d catch your wrist for a second, not stopping you, just holding on. Sometimes he’d tilt his face a little more into your shoulder as if he wanted to disappear there.

He was still embarrassed. You could feel it in the way he kept ducking his head whenever you moved around far enough to look at him. In the way he wiped at his face too quickly, like he hated any visible proof. In the way he kept swallowing back the remains of his crying as if even now he wasn’t sure he was allowed this much. So you loved that part too.

You kissed the corner of his jaw. His hair. His temple. The side of his neck. Each kiss quiet and grounding and full of adoration.

Eventually he turned his head enough that your mouths were only inches apart. His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain, vulnerable, still damp.

“Hi,” you whispered.

A tiny, watery huff left him. “Bit rough.”

You smiled softly. “You’re very brave for surviving me saying hi.”

That got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. There he was. Still wrecked. Still heartbroken. Still needing you. But there.

You touched his cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

He nodded immediately. Too quickly. Like he needed it. So you kissed him. Slow at first. Very gentle. Just enough pressure to let him sink into it.

He exhaled shakily into your mouth, and the sound of it nearly melted you. One of his hands came up and found your arm where it was wrapped around him, gripping there as if he needed an anchor while he kissed you back.

You kissed him again, deeper this time. And Oscar turned into it with heartbreaking need. No teasing. No measured restraint. No dry little comments. Just need.

He shifted, turning more toward you on the bed until he was half twisted in your arms, then fully, and suddenly you were both moving at once, the awkward, eager scramble of two people who only cared about getting closer. He pulled you with him, and you let him, until you were facing each other properly, knees knocking, hands everywhere soft and searching and desperate in that way heartbreak sometimes made tenderness feel urgent.

His hands found your waist and held on hard. You cupped his face and kissed him again, and his mouth parted under yours with the most fragile little breath. He still tasted like tears, like held-back words, like the raw ache of a day gone wrong. Every time you kissed him, he seemed to need more of it, not in a greedy way, just in this broken, clinging way that made your chest ache. Like he was trying to be reassured with touch because words alone weren’t enough.

When you pulled back for air, he followed you an inch, eyes still closed.

You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “Sweet boy.”

He actually shivered.

His forehead dropped to yours. “Don’t call me that when I’m already humiliated.”

You smiled softly. “You’re not humiliated.”

He opened his eyes just enough to give you a look that said clearly, I am absolutely humiliated.

You kissed the pout of his mouth before he could say it. That made him melt all over again.

His arms came around you then, really around you, tight and close, pulling you into his lap as if he could not physically stand another inch of distance. You went willingly, settling against him, and the second you did he buried his face against your neck.

There was something so undone about it. So needy. So unguarded. You wrapped yourself around him instantly.

“That’s it,” you whispered, one hand in his hair, the other rubbing slowly up and down his back. “You can have me. I’m right here.”

He let out a shaky breath against your skin.

“Still sorry,” he muttered, voice muffled into your neck.

You smiled sadly and kissed his temple. “I know you are.”

“For this.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Then, smaller: “Can’t seem to stop.”

Your heart twisted so hard it hurt.

You drew back just enough to look at him and tucked a piece of hair back from his forehead. “Then don’t stop yet. Just let me hold you while you do.”

His face softened with something almost like relief. You kissed him again before he could get embarrassed by that too.

This time the kiss went deeper almost instantly, because he needed it to. Because he was still aching, still shaky, still full of things he couldn’t name without breaking apart again. His hands slid into your hair, clumsy and warm, and for a few seconds it was nothing but mouths and breath and the soft rustle of the bedding beneath you.

Every now and then his mouth would falter, the emotion of the day catching up to him again, and he’d press his forehead to yours with a shaky exhale like he was trying not to cry all over again.

And every time, you’d kiss him softly once, then again, then drag your fingers through his hair and tell him in the quietest voice you had, “I’m here.”

Eventually he pulled back just far enough to look at you. His cheeks were still flushed. His lashes were still damp. He still looked embarrassed, still wrecked, still heartbreakingly soft from crying. And he still needed you so obviously it made your whole chest ache.

“You’re not going to think I’m pathetic for this?” he asked, voice low and rough and terribly sincere.

You took his face in both hands.

“Oscar,” you said softly, “I think you’re the bravest person I know. And right now I mostly think you need to be kissed and held until you stop apologizing for having a heart.”

His mouth trembled again, but this time it was closer to being overwhelmed than ashamed. He leaned into your hands. Then he kissed you first. It was a little desperate. A little messy. Very, very tender. And you kissed him back like you could make a home out of your mouth for him, something warm and safe and only his.

He made a small sound into the kiss, still wounded, still soft, and pulled you even closer, until there was no space left at all. And this time, when his eyes filled again, he didn’t hide. He just let you hold him and kiss him and love him through it.

Then, voice small, painfully honest: “Can I… be inside you? Just to—” he swallowed, eyes glossy, “—feel close. I don’t want to think. I just want you.”

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his jaw. “You can have me. Come here.”

You took off your sweatpants and climbed into his lap gently. After pulling his jeans and boxers down, he helped guide you down onto him as you moved your panties to the side, slow, careful, like you were something holy. You sank onto him fully and both of you gasped, soft and shaky.

He exhaled into your shoulder like he was finally home. No thrusting. Just warmth. His cock deep inside you, your bodies joined, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. He let out a broken breath.

“Feels like I can breathe again,” he whispered.

You stroked his hair, cheek to his temple. “You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”

His fingers pressed into your hips, grounding himself in your presence. Every tiny shift made you both shiver, but neither of you chased friction. The connection was the point, the warmth, the fullness, the intimacy.

Time blurred, soft and slow. You kissed his forehead. He sighed, melting under you inch by inch.

Eventually his hands started roaming, lazy strokes up your spine, thumb circling your hipbone, a kiss to your throat. The kind of touches that weren’t asking, just needing.

“You make everything quiet in my head,” he breathed. “I didn’t know I could need someone like this.”

Your chest tightened. You kissed him, slow, lingering, lips brushing like a confession. He kissed back deeper. Gentle became hungry. Stillness became rocking hips. His hands gripped your ass softly, guiding the smallest motions.

You broke the kiss gasping. “Oscar…”

He rested his forehead to yours, pupils blown wide. “Move for me,” he murmured, quiet but wrecked. “Just a little. Please.”

You rolled your hips, slow and soft. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, fingers digging into your waist. “You are so good to me,” he whispered, praise melting into need. “So warm. So perfect around me.”

The soft rhythm grew, bodies sliding together. No rush. No frantic hunger. Just deep, lazy thrusts, like making love half-dreaming, like your heart was guiding your hips more than your body.

He kissed you again, slower this time, tongue brushing yours like he was tasting comfort. “You feel like home,” he breathed into your mouth.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling lightly, and he moaned. Quiet, broken. He thrust up into you, gentle but deeper. Again. And again. Slow waves of pleasure building like warm honey spreading through your veins.

You gasped into his kiss. “Oscar, that feels—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing down your throat. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

His thumb found your clit, barely any pressure, just enough. Combined with the languid slide of him inside you, it was overwhelming in the softest way.

Your orgasm came slowly, like a tide rising, thighs trembling around him, breath catching as you pressed your forehead to his shoulder. “Oscar — I’m—”

“Come for me,” he murmured, holding your hips tighter, helping you ride the wave. “Just let it happen.”

You melted, unraveling with a whimper, muscles fluttering around him. He groaned into your neck, hips stuttering but never rough, chasing his own release through your pleasure.

He came with a soft broken sound, burying his face in your shoulder like he couldn’t contain it. Warmth. Pressure. Fullness. Two bodies trembling as they fell apart together softly.

For a moment neither of you moved, just breathed, foreheads touching, hearts synced.

He kissed your jaw, your cheek, your lips, slow and reverent.

“Thank you,” he whispered, like you saved him. “I needed you.”

You brushed a curl back from his forehead, smiling softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He guided you down without pulling out, curling you against him, cock still warm inside you, hand on your back like he needed the connection to keep breathing.

“Can we stay like this for a bit?” he murmured.

“All the time you need,” you whispered.

You fell asleep still joined, bodies tangled, love warm and quiet around you.

ferrarifinnick

WEAKNESSES! | CHARLES LECLERC 16

the things that drive charles wild are nearly endless, but one thing you do is more prominent than the rest.

note: a little blurb to get that imagination working. god knows mine is hehe. pure filth ahead.

warnings: blowjobs, erections, face fucking, choking, gagging, handjobs, facials, use of slut, cumplay, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, brief mentions of sex.

0.3k

charles' biggest weakness.

blowjobs. nothing gets his head spinning faster or his cock growing harder than your soft lips.

especially when they're painted pink.

bonus points if you're wearing lipgloss. god, something about pink sticky lipgloss stains on his cock drives him wild.

when he notices it, his hips involuntarily buck up into your mouth.

sometimes he feels bad when you choke unexpectedly on his length, but god do you look pretty when your eyes gloss over with tears.

the sounds of you choking on him are even prettier though.

he likes tangling his hands in your hair.

bobbing your head up and down on him *ugh*

he thinks of sexual power as a spectrum, not a binary. he places himself just barely closer to dominant than submissive, but only barely.

but when he has his hands in your hair, dictating your speed and how much of him you take into your mouth.

fuck.

there's nothing like it.

he especially loves unexpected head.

the sight of you sinking to your knees, peeling off his boxers, big eyes staring up at him as he sinks between your lips FUCK.

when you use your hands and mouth at the same time, his head starts spinning. he's out of control, and when that happens, he can't help but price up wedding rings in his head.

marriage material, he thinks to himself, until you pull out his cock with a pop and pump him until he finishes all over your face.

slut. his slut.

he likes rubbing his cum over your skin like a moisturiser.

at no point does he think to pull up his boxers and leave after he finishes, no. the opposite actually.

his next move is always to return the favour.

panties are no barrier for him. completely off, around your ankles, pulled to the side, charles doesn't care where they are, just as long as he gets access to you.

fingers, tongue, cock, whatever you want he'll give you.

you definitely deserve it.

sainzxn

HELLO omg I got this idea and IMMEDIATELY thought of your f1 drivers react series.

So I was reading a book where the mc (the girl) was at a bar and she was like suuuuper drunk so her bf was called by someone to come get her and when he got there she was like "i have a boyfriend" in like a really drunk way while pushing his chest away as he was tryna help her up to get her home. And he was just so happy and giggly because she'd say to a stranger that she's with him when she's drunk. (Even though she's drunk enough to not realise it's him for a moment.) And I thought it was just such a cute moment, and I'd love to see this with f1 drivers react.

If you do choose to do it could you please do it with KA12, MV33, CL16, LN4, OP81, and any other drivers you wish!!

Thank you!!! 🧡🧡🧡

F1 DRIVERS REACT TO

⪩⪨ featuring: kimi antonelli, max verstappen, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri, lewis hamilton

⪩⪨ synopsis: f1 drivers react to you saying you have a boyfriend to them while drunk.

⪩⪨ genre: fluff

loveandredbull

𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝐵𝑒 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝐺𝑟𝑖𝑑 𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑙 || (𝑂𝑃81 𝑉𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛)

𝐎𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐏𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:You love wearing your boyfriend's merch. And he appreciates it. A lot.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:McLaren (they deserve a warning all their own). Papaya Rules. WAG culture. Oscar is upset. He feels wronged. Y/N is angry. Y/N' has underwear with Oscar's name on it.

ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: This is the result when one of your favorite drivers races for a team you hate. Oscar is a sweet little cinnamon bun (he's 2 years older than me, but nvm), love him.

ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ: MV33 - KA12 - GR63 and LN4 version.

CL16

• Orange had never been your color. That was, until you met Oscar. Just like everything you associated with Oscar, you started to develop a weakness for the color orange.

There was a time when it tired your eyes, you ignored it on any shelf, and it made you startled when you saw it on a billboard. You didn't know why, but you always hated it.

Now, it was the color you constantly reached for when shopping, the one you couldn't stop smiling at, the one that made your cheeks flush with the memory of your boyfriend every time you looked at it, and the one that made your heart blossom.

Over time, this small change started to show up in your home and your clothes. The green dresses, blue t-shirts, purple sweatshirts, white berets, red cardigans, black shoes, and pink hair clips you loved wearing all found their way to the back of your closet with the addition of orange versions.

Your bedroom, once heavily furnished in blue and white, was transformed by the orange flowers Oscar bought you, extending to the paintings on your wall, the hair clips on your dressing table, and the bags hanging on the back of the door.

When you realized you wouldn't be able to see him for weeks, you didn't hesitate to spray the perfume you'd stolen from his room permeating your entire room -and your pillow- .

He noticed. You realized he noticed. He didn't ask. Even if he had, you wouldn't have admitted it. He liked it. You liked it even more. Oscar's presence in your life was reflected in every fiber of your being, and you weren't complaining at all. And he was enjoying it.

• A year and a half into your relationship, your graduation from university coincides with his decision to move to Monaco.

During your video call, Oscar suggests you live in Monaco. You're diving into job postings, both in Monaco and online. You send your CV to every job posting.

Thanks to your successful academic career and the network you've built over the years, your job becomes available about a month later. It's your dream job, a job you've secured based on your skills, a good salary—at least for a recent graduate—and an online job, allowing you to be with Oscar whenever you want.

After the Grand Prix in your home country, Oscar comes to your house to pack your belongings and take you to your rented house in Monaco.

Your home.

Oscar's and yours.

The house where you will live together, grow together, and hold all the beautiful moments you will share together.

If someone had told you a year and a half ago that you'd start building a life with that guy you first met at a cute little café, who couldn't look you in the eye for more than two seconds and couldn't speak to you without blushing, you wouldn't have believed it.

When you go to the other room to get the empty boxes, leaving him alone, he gets up to wander around and explore.

He knows your room from your video calls and from when you hosted him for a few days when he came here for a race last year. But he hadn't had a chance to look at it in detail.

He notices a few changes. The orange that's starting to dominate your room, along with the blue and white. He sees the bag you've hung behind the door. The small McLaren car hanging next to it, and the string of beads attached to it with his name and number written on it.

His gaze wanders to the side. The shelf where his books are kept. A small square of embroidery. It's on the corner of a shelf. You've embroidered his car and his team on it.

He knows you love crafts, but he's never seen like this ones.

Things about him.

Your made it.

Then he turns around and sees a pile of stuffed animals on his bed. But one catches his eye: a croissant plush with a McLaren hat on it. The room is surrounded by things that represent him. Every little detail makes his heart beat faster and his love for you reach deeper levels.

When you walk in with a few boxes, you see the croissant plush he's holding. "Oh, so you found my sleeping buddy."

He turns to you. A smug smile crosses his face. But his cheeks are flushed again. "I didn't know I inspired your decor; I'm honored."

You laugh and begin to unpack. "If you're so happy, I'll definitely ask for your opinion on our new home."

Our home.

Hearing it from you nearly makes his faint. "I'm at your service, ma'am."

You two's laughter echoes through the room. You take a deep breath as he turns to grab the other box.

Thankfully, he didn't see the underwear with his name on it.

This will be a surprise for the first night in your new home.

• Before you met him, McLaren was just a car brand you'd heard of. Right now? You hated them so much. You hated them for how they always made Oscar's shoulders slump when he came home after a race, for the hurt look in his eyes when he stepped onto the podium, which he smiled at but tried to hide, for every shred of hope he'd built up little by little each week, only to be meticulously crushed by his team each time. Anger boiled in your blood. Your hands were shaking with rage.

And you had to keep your anger bottled up because of the camera shone in your face every time you showed up to appease a handful of parasocial fans obsessed with WAGs. Don't show anything. For Oscar. For his reputation. That's what matters. You came here for him. He needs you. You need him too.

P2.

That wasn't bad. His result wasn't the problem, anyway. Even if he knew he'd finish last, you would have taken your place next to him. But that wasn't the point.

He started the race from pole. Start? Smooth. Every lap he took, every corner he took for 25 laps was flawless. Not a single mistake. Perfect consistency. And on lap 26, McLaren pits Oscar. Pit stop time:

4.7

Fucking 4.7 seconds. Lando's Pit stop time one lap earlier:

1.9

His pit stops are always faster.

His victories are always celebrated louder.

His talent is always talked about more.

Oddly, things always work out in his favor.

Just like right now. Lando, two seconds behind Oscar, takes the lead due to a botched pit stop.

Just like last race, when Red Bull, trailing behind, asked Oscar to give up his position so he wouldn't overtake Lando in the championship.

Just like Oscar, who wanted to stay out due to rain in the first race, was pitted, and Lando, who wanted to pit, was told to wait his turn. And a lap later, the red flag goes up. Lando wins again.

If it hadn't all happened, or if you were somewhere else, you might have thought it was an unfortunate glitch, but you're in the garage, and you can hear the smiles and laughter, even if quiet, and their applause. You don't turn around. You don't look at them. You don't make a scene. You want to do it, but your anger and frustration are crushed beneath the weight of contracts, promises, financial and moral obligations. You grab your bag and approach Oscar's car.

He sees you. You approach him and wrap your arms around his neck. From the outside, his face is unreadable. Oscar, with his usual "poker face." Oscar, nicknamed "Raikonnen's Younger Version" for not showing his emotions. You feel the tremors in his hands and shoulders when he returns your hug.

Neither of you says anything. What is there to say? He climbs onto the podium. His face is expressionless. He looks at the people below. Then Lando comes out. His team is there, applauding, crying and screaming with joy. But none of them look at him. None of them are there for him. After the second half of the season, they don't even try to hide it anymore.

He picks up the trophy and lifts it. Only one person. Only one person is truly applauding, screaming with joy, the joy reaching their eyes.

It's you.

Only you.

You're aware of everything. And he knows you've turned this into a battle for him. At first, you were quiet, shy. You didn't come to races very often; if you did, you'd come in casual clothes, trying to stand off to the side, leaving the stage to him and avoiding the cameras. You'd talk quietly to him in the garage so as not to disturb anyone. You didn't post much on social media.

As things progressed, you realized his situation. You saw the injustices with your own eyes.

Something stirred within you.

And then something changed in you. He noticed it. You came to his races more often. You always wore clothes with his name on them. The necklace with his name on it never left his neck. In the garage, your tone would change, especially if there were team members around you, becoming louder and more intense.

"I support you."

"I'm always with you."

"Go show everyone who the next champion is."

You were sure you'd be at the front of the podium, right there with your team and in front of the cameras. After each race, you started sharing stories on IG.

"Perfect as always."

"You're amazing."

"Wow! Another victory? You're lucky to have this guy, @mclaren."

You wanted them to hear, to know. Oscar Piastri isn't alone. There's someone who loves and supports him. No matter what.

And he knows that everything you do, the actions you take, the noise you make, the effort you put in, is for him. He knows he's not doing it just for Oscar Piastri, but for "Oscar."

And he smiles. Not because he got on the podium or won the trophy.

It's because you're there.

Because you're his.

He smiles.

At the end of the day, you are the only person, other than his family, that he trusts and believes in your support and love for him.

liafics

☆ lia's birthday & christmas advent calendar

day 3: dad x oscar (op81)

⋆ ‧ ⋅ ☾ ‧ ⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ‧ ⋅

☆ warnings: breeding kink, unprotected p in v, dad!oscar, domestic intimacy, possessive undertones, pent up tension

⋆ ‧ ⋅ ☾ ‧ ⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ‧ ⋅

being a dad somehow fits him better than any racing suit ever could.

you watch him from the doorway as he kneels down beside the toy box, sorting little plastic animals back into their sections.

of course, oscar organised them into sections.

his forearms flex under the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pale and stupidly strong. he turns towards the baby monitor and scans the screen, checking the little red light twice. always twice, total dad mode.

responsible and steady.

you’re leaning against the hallway wall, watching him. he’s doing it so effortlessly, just focused on being a good dad like it’s nothing.

and it’s the nothing of it that gets to you. so hot and he doesn’t even realise it.

the quiet competence and the gentle firmness. the casual expectation of taking care both you and your daughter, without expecting praise for it.

he’s humming some house tune under his breath as he keeps tidying up. an adorable dork, and you swear it shoots straight to your core. because he’s so calm, so collected, and just so the man of the house.

you’ve barely had time for each other these past weeks. parenting, work and simple exhaustion. the kind of exhaustion that before you had your daughter, you would settle by ruining each other senselessly. but now, it's different. you have to keep it in, let it build.

but tonight, something cracks.

maybe it’s the way he lifted your daughter earlier, one hand supporting her back and the other slipping through her curls so gently. maybe it’s how he kissed the top of her head and whispered something soft you couldn’t hear. maybe it’s how he handled bedtime with his warm voice, steady hands and incredible patience. and maybe, it’s because he looked so fucking attractive doing it.

you’re fucking starved for him.

he stands and stretches a little. his arms over his head as his shirt lifts, showing that line of delicious skin above his waistband. lean stomach and waist. but your eyes settle somewhere else. on those thick, strong thighs.

fuck.

“osc?” you call, voice not as steady as you’d hoped.

he turns and gives you that soft dad smile, the one that always warms your chest.

“everything okay?” he asks whilst moving toward you, hands already reaching to touch your hips in that unconscious way he always does.

god, those hands.

“mhm,” you hum, stepping closer. “just watching.”

he laughs under his breath, eyes dropping in that shy but not too shy way. he knows exactly what you’re doing, and where this is going.

"yeah? what’s so interesting about me tidying up after a toddler?”

everything, literally everything.

“just… you,” you murmur. your fingers brush up his arm, feeling the warmth under his skin. “you look good like this.”

“like what?” he asks, still amused and oblivious to just how far gone you are.

you lean in a little and lower your voice.

“like a dad.”

you watch it hit him. a small stutter in his breath, heat climbing the back of his neck.

“hm,” he says, thumb stroking your hip. “is that what’s gotten into you?”

you don’t bother lying, you just bite your lip and nod.

his hands tighten just enough as if to say i know. just enough to say careful, sweetheart.

you roll your eyes at his nonverbal messages, and his arms are now loosely crossing over his chest. his biceps tightening just a little. he’s teasing, but he’s also reading you, the way he always does.

“you’re turned on.”

it’s not a question. he laughs under his breath and it's not mocking, just soft and a little disbelieving.

“you still get worked up from this? from me putting her to bed and tidying up?”

his thumb strokes your jaw.

“that’s all it takes?”

you nod, heat crawling over your skin. and that’s when his expression shifts.

"i already put her to bed,” he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead touches yours.

your pulse jumps and he feels it.

“and now,” he adds, voice dropping. “i think i’ve got one more girl to take care of tonight.”

your thighs fucking clench.

“osc, baby…”

he chuckles, soft and kind. “i know that look, haven’t seen it in a while.”

you swallow, holding your gaze on him.

“you’ve been… really good to us lately.”

the words fall out before you can stop them, and suddenly you're just rambling whilst so fucking horny.

“like…really fucking good. with her, with everything. and i just-”

he tilts your chin up gently.

“you get turned on watching me be a dad, hm? you know that’s fine, right?”

fuck, he's so calm about it. so collected, like he knew all along.

“come here,” he backs you slowly against the hallway wall, caging you in with an arm on either side of your head. he is not aggressive, he never is. just steady and sure. that firm, gentle control that makes your heart warm and your cunt wet.

his voice is barely above a whisper.

“you’ve been looking at me like you can't hold it anymore.”

“because i can't,” you breathe.

he smiles, all smug, soft and intimate all at once.

“good.”

he kisses you deeply. not frantic or rushed, but patient like he's making up for all the missed time between you. his hand slips under your jaw, guiding your mouth open. his thigh slides between yours just enough to make your breath hitch.

and he feels it, the way your body presses further into his without any shame.

“god, baby.” he whispers against your lips. “i know it's been a while, but god you're so needy. haven’t even touched you and you’re shaking. you haven't been playing with yourself, either?”

“just wanted you, osc,” you murmur, forehead to his chest.

“hm, i know,” he says, brushing a hand through your hair. “and i’m sorry. but i’m here now, yeah? not going anywhere.”

you look up at him softly, and you see it. that quiet masculinity that makes you want to drop to your knees and give him all of you.

“oscar,” you whisper. “i want another baby.”

he freezes, just for a moment. his jaw tightens, not in fear or in shock, but in pure fucking lust.

“yeah?” voice dropping to something deeper. “is that what you want, sweetheart? want me to breed you again?”

you nod, breath shaky. “fuck yes, i want you to give me another one.”

“you really want another one?” he whispers against your throat.

his thumb traces your bottom lip, all slow and deliberate. you suck lightly on the pad of his thumb without thinking.

and that’s it, that’s when his control vanishes.

“jesus christ,” he mumbles against your ear. “you’re really not playing fair tonight.”

he lifts you easily and carries you to the bedroom. he carefully lays you on the sheets and hovers over you, bracing himself on one arm whilst the other runs down your stomach and your hips until he spreads your thighs with a firm, claiming touch.

you grab his shirt all desperate, but he catches your wrists and pushes them above your head as he presses you further into the bed.

“you really want me to give you another baby?” he asks. “or do you just want to be stuffed full of me because it’s been too long?”

your breath hitches.

“both, osc.” you whisper.

he exhales a shaky laugh.

“jesus, you're gonna kill me,” he whispers, eyes dragging down your body. “already trembling from a little teasing.”

“fuck.” you breathe. “it's you. being like this with her, with us, and it just-"

he cuts you off with his mouth against your neck, sucking just enough to make you gasp.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i know baby, i know.”

his hand slides between your legs and he feels how warm your core is. how soft, wet and just so fucking ready you are for him and his cock.

you arch up at the touch, so desperate it’s almost humiliating. he smiles into your skin and his fingers tighten on your thigh.

“i know how to take care of my girls,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. "and i know exactly how to handle you.”

you whimper, and he loves it. he loves the way you react, the way you still come undone so easily for him, even after everything. even after a baby, even after years.

you both have that careful and controlled lust that has been building for so long. he moves with purpose and slow intention as he continues to undress you both.

he finally slides his cock inside you, and you gasp so loud at the blunt stretch that he has to cover your mouth. he laughs softly into your neck.

“quiet, baby,” he chuckles. “the little one is asleep.”

the rhythm is not gentle.

his cock hits your insides so fucking well, so deep as you feel your walls clench around him every single time he thrusts back into you. your back arches, your nails drag down his shoulders and he lets out a soft groan. he's been waiting for this for just as long as you have, to have his cock so deep inside you and be all soaked in your cunt.

oscar holds you down, strong and steady. his hips are still driving into you with controlled desperation as his breath is broken in your ear. his pace turns sharp, the mattress rocking with each thrust. his hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you still. it's not rough enough to hurt, but just firm enough to own you.

“holy shit,” he gasps. “i missed you, i missed this pussy so fucking much.”

you moan his name and his grip tightens on your hips. your cunt clenches again around his cock, too.

“you really want another baby? want me to fill you up again and make you so fucking full of my cum?”

shit.

your nails dig deeper into him, his skin breaking with your nails. you nod and whine and beg, too fucked to answer in a coherent sentence.

"yes, osc please. fuck fuck fuck-"

he buries his face in your neck, thrusts faltering and breath so warm. his hand reaches down to your clit, determined to make you fall apart right in front of him. he wants to show you how good he can handle you, how he can take care of all of you.

“okay, shit. okay, i've got you. i’ve got you, fuck-”

his touch instantly makes your eyes roll back and you finally fall apart under him, with his fingers still pressing tight circles on your clit. you're trembling, gasping into his shoulder as he holds you through it. so steady and gentle.

and when his girl cums and feels good, oscar knows that now he can now let go and feel good too.

“look at me.”

you do. your vision is blurry with the force of his cock inside you and the tingles from your orgasm.

“that’s it,” he breathes, voice cracking slightly. “take it baby, you wanted this.”

your fingers claw harder at his back and he groans. his cock hits deep and raw, before he grabs your wrists again and pins them down to fuck into you even harder.

he's rambling, like he always when he gets so close. you usually find it adorable, but today it's different. he's wrecking your insides.

“you want another baby? you want me to fill you and make you mine again?

your moans and bright doe eyes tell him everything.

“i’m gonna take care of my girl so fucking well,” hips moving faster, almost desperate. “gonna give you everything, baby.”

the room feels hot, air thick and the bed softly creaking. his pace quickens and his restraint falters as his fingers dig once more into your hips. he buries his face in your neck, groaning against your skin as he moves with a rough, frantic rhythm that sends sparks up your spine.

“fuck, baby i'm-”

you arch against him, clinging to him as he loses himself. he cums, his cock spurting thick hot cum inside you with a soft little groan. his forehead pressed to your collarbone, and you can feel the heat spilling deep inside you.

oscar exhales, and you let out a soft whine.

he doesn't pull away, he just stays with you. right there, just feeling at home with you. after some time, he kisses your cheek, all soft and smiling as he glances at his cum that is now dripping from your cunt down your thighs.

“you’re unbelievable, you know that?” he whispers.

you nuzzle into him, feeling so light and warm.

“love you.”

he hums against your skin.

“i love you too. wanna do it again, make sure i give you another baby?"

──── ☆☆☆

liafics

☆ lia's birthday & christmas advent calendar

day 6: drunk x oscar (op81)

⋆ ‧ ⋅ ☾ ‧ ⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ‧ ⋅

☆ warnings: very horny!oscar x bratty!reader, unprotected p in v, huge praise kink, exhibitionism?, possessive undertones, dirty talk, implied multiple rounds, bonus morning scene ⋆ inspo: (x) (x) (x) (x)

⋆ ‧ ⋅ ☾ ‧ ⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ‧ ⋅

oscar <3: heading home soon. :)) oscar <3: miss you. oscar <3: you're so pretty.

you know he’s drunk the moment your phone lights up.

not because of typos, he’s still too annoyingly precise for that, but just the pattern of his messages. the multiple messages being sent right after each other, the extra parentheses in his smiley face. yeah, he's drunk.

and that’s when you smile, because oscar barely ever texts like that, unless the room is spinning a little and he’s pretending it isn’t. he had the drivers' dinner, and by the time you hear his keys fumble at the door, you’re already leaning against the hallway wall. your arms crossed, cheekily waiting.

he steps inside with that his shirt slightly more unbuttoned than it was before he left home. his cheeks are warm, hair a bit messy. he doesn't look wrecked or sloppy, just a bit more loose than usual. a version of him you don't see so often.

"hi.” he grins.

you raise a brow. “hi.”

he walks straight to you, without any hesitation. just gravitates towards you with his two hands sliding to around waist, pulling you in. and that’s when you feel it, the way his hips brush against yours and the way his breath catches at the subtle friction.

“oh my god, osc.” you murmur. “you’re horny.”

he hides his face in your neck like it’s a confession. "…maybe a little.”

you giggle because he’s lying. he’s hard, fully and uncontrollably fucking hard.

“did you have fun tonight?” you ask.

“mhm,” he’s not hearing a word. his fingers are already pressing into your hips and his eyes are glued to your tits. “missed you.”

it’s the way he says it, so unfiltered and raw that it implies that he missed more than just your presence. it makes stomach flutter.

he pulls back just enough to look at you properly, and that’s when you see it. he has his brown pupils blown wide and a pink flush crawling from his cheeks down to his throat.

youu thumb his cheek lightly. “you’re staring.”

“i can’t help it,” his voice drops. “you look so fucking good, you smell good too.”

your breath hitches. oscar doesn’t talk like that, definitely not when sober.

you tap his lean chest. “okay. what happened tonight?”

his eyes dart away and his hand rubs the back of his neck. oh, he is embarrassed.

“baby…” he groans, already regretting it. “you’re gonna make fun of me.”

“oh, i absolutely am.”

he sits on the arm of the couch, with a light sense of shame like he’s a little boy waiting to be told off.

"the guys were talking about sex.”

there’s a pause.

“like… a lot.”

you grin. your polite, proper boyfriend got influenced by his friends and by the beautiful effects of alcohol. fucking hilarious.

“so you joined?”

“not on purpose!” he insists. “they started talking about their girlfriends and i wasn’t going to but then we started taking some shots and i-"

he shuts his eyes, muttering, “fuck.”

“what did you tell them?” you ask sweetly, almost condescendingly.

he drops his face into his hands. “too much.”

“like?”

he peeks at you between his fingers, cheeks bright pink. “that our sex is always amazing.”

your smile widens. oscar piastri, your calm and collected boyfriend was drunk bragging about your sex. “and…?”

“that you’re… stupidly attractive.” he swallows hard. “and that we’re a little… kinky.”

you snort. “oscar piastri.”

“i didn’t mean to!” he protests. “they were bragging about how dominant they are and i just… i might’ve said you’re a brat sometimes.”

“oh? and what else?”

he groans. “baby, please.”

“tell me.”

he licks his dry lips, accepting his fate. “i said i handle you.”

your thighs press together. he sees it, and his pupils dilate even more.

“and how exactly do you handle me?” you push.

he bites his lip anxiously. “well… jesus. i told them you like when i take control.”

your breath hitches. the idea of your boyfriend bragging about you is suddenly getting you a lot more hot and bothered than you initially expected.

“and?”

his throat bobs as he swallows again. “and that you like when i pin you down. and when you act up and i-fuck.”

he shakes his head. “i shouldn’t have said that.”

your smile at him. your eyes so bratty, determined to make the most of oscar's lust.

“awh, so you wanted to show off to your friends what a big strong boy you are?”

fuck.

his jaw goes slack and his breath stutters. suddenly, whatever little restraint he had left evaporates. oscar's hand grabs onto your waist, pulling you between his knees.

“don’t say shit like that to me right now.”

“why?” you tease. “does it make you horny? do i make you horny?”

he looks up at you. his eyes dark, desperate and just so fucking gone.

“i’ve been fucking hard since dessert,” he confesses, voice deep and slightly slurred with honesty. “literally just thinking about you. thinking about telling them how good you are for me. how good you sound when i-”

he bites his lip, losing the sentence. “oh my god.”

your fingers slide into his hair. “oscar?”

he grabs your hips so harshly and his voice breaks. "i want you, now.”

“you can have all of me, osc.”

he stands so fast you nearly stumble. his mouth crashes into yours, hot and messy. he’s already walking you backwards down the hall, hands everywhere. he's so touchy, all over your waist, your ass and your neck.

“been thinking about you straddling me. about your mouth. about the way you whine when i pull your hair.”

he pushes you against the bedroom door, kissing you like he’s a teenager again. hands all over, with no patience. he slips his hand between your legs over your clothes and presses onto your core. you tug at his shirt as soon as you feel the pressure on your clothed clit.

he pushes you onto the bed and climbs over you. he's kissing your throat and your chest, sucking irresponsible marks that sober oscar will feel bad about in the morning.

his hands roam over your body, cupping your tits, sliding down your waist and gripping your thighs. he's pinning you against the bed as he buries his face in your neck.

“you’re genuinely so fucking hot,” his hand pushes down your underwear and he slips his fingers warmly inside your cunt. “fuck. wet already? you like that i bragged about you?”

you whimper at the feeling, slightly shy. he laughs softly against your neck.

“of course you do." he murmurs against your skin. “i told them how bratty you can be. how you tease, and how i handle you. how you beg, and i- fuck. i’ve been thinking about it all night.”

you arch against him, biting your lip as your legs wrap around him to cage him closer to your body. “showing off what strong a boy you are got you this worked up?”

“fuck. yes,” he groans. “you make me want to fuck you senseless.”

you trail your hands down his back, nails lightly grazing his skin. he fumbles with his belt, unbuttoning his pants as he groans into your ear.

“been thinking about your little bratty attitude that you get. about how i hold you down, how you love it even when you pretend to fight me.”

you gasp, fingers threading through his hair. “oh god, osc.”

he's so clumsy but with intent. not gentle but eager, and just so greedy, almost like he's discovering you all over again. his fingers work you open while he grinds against your thigh, shamelessly seeking friction.

“you make my cock throb,” he admits, voice thin with need. “fuck baby, i’m so hard it hurts.”

he’s never talked like this. oscar is never this filthy, never this shameless.

you tug at his belt.

“then fuck me, osc. please.”

you're always just so good to him. he quickly pulls his own pants down and pushes your legs open. he plays clumsily with your clit, frantic and desperate. then, he slides his throbbing cock inside you and stops after a single thrust. he's breathing hard, eyes shut and simply overwhelmed.

“oh fuck.” his forehead drops to your shoulder. “too good. too fucking good, jesus christ.”

he's consuming all you with his hands, mouth, cock, everything at once. he continues, and each desperate thrust is just for him, just for pure the pleasure of feeling you wrapped around his throbbing cock.

he's moving without any rhythm, just need and lust. dirty, sloppy thrusts into your cunt that make the headboard bang against the wall. your nails dig into his back.

"god, i got hottest girl, the naughtiest girl, the best fuck. you make me hard just by looking at me. i want you so bad. i told them how bratty you can be, how i have to hold you down. how you beg when i’m rough. fuck, you make me so hard- i want to cum inside you.”

his words, his heat, his desperation. it's all too much, as he slams his cock into you. every thrust is messy and just so greedy.

“oscar, fuck-”

“i’m sorry,” he pants. “i’m fuck- i’m not gonna last. you feel too good, baby. you feel so fucking good-”

you pull him closer. “it’s okay osc, just enjoy it.”

“no.” his voice cracks. “i wanted to take my time, i swear i did. but fuck, the way your cunt feels and the way you look, and the way you’re moaning."

he's a rambling mess as buries himself deep, quickly cumming with a broken moan against your neck. his release is loud and messy, hips stuttering and hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to hold himself together. he collapses on top you, so fucking embarrassed.

“oh my god.” he hides his face in your chest. “i’m so sorry.”

you stroke his hair.

“baby,” you laugh softly. “you came in like two minutes.”

he groans. "don’t fucking remind me.”

you kiss his forehead, so sticky and warm. “it was hot.”

he looks up at you, eyes soft but hazy. “you really think so? you're so weird, baby.”

you giggle. “you were so worked up, it’s cute.”

"cute? you're unreal. you look so good right now."

"drunk oscar would say that to anyone.”

he tilts his head.

“no, drunk oscar says things he’s too shy to say sober. like how how i want to fuck you again even though you just milked my cock within two minutes.”

fuck.

“round two,” he murmurs. “i’m giving you a proper one.”

“sober osc style, hm?”

“no.” a slow smile spreads across his face. “drunk oscar style. the one who bragged all night about how well you take my cock.”

⸻ ☆☆☆

the next morning

you wake up first. ironic, considering the way oscar destroyed your sleep schedule last night.

oscar's faceis buried in your chest, one arm slung across your waist. typical clingy oscar when drunk. you brush your fingers through his messy hair and he groans softly, nuzzling closer like a cat.

then, he freezes. he slowly lifts his head and blinks at you.

“…morning.”

you smile. “morning.”

he looks down at your naked bodies tangled together. “oh no.”

you bite your lip to hold back a laugh but he notices.

“don’t laugh at me,” he says, hiding his face behind your shoulder. “i know i was a menace.”

“hm, that you were.” you confirm with a wide grin.

he groans into your skin. “fuck, i remember. it’s like watching someone else ruin my reputation.”

"you said many things.”

"oh god, please let's just forget about it.”

you raise a brow. “like how you told lando you manhandle me when i’m brattier than usual.”

oscar physically cringes. he slaps a hand over his face so aggressively, trying to hide his shame.

“i did not…"

“you did.”

and he’s red. not pink, pure fucking red. “jesus fucking christ."

you stretch innocently. "oh, and how we're we’re kinky. how i’m sooo hot. how you’re a strong boy.”

he falls backward onto his pillow with a little groan.

"i meant i manhandle you,” he corrects all flustered. “i did not say ‘strong boy', that sounds like something a toddler says about lifting a chair.”

he cuts himself off, blinking. he looks at you slowly and smiles. his blush deepens.

“you really liked what i said? i thought it was all so cringe.”

“oh, it’s extremely cringe.”

he closes his eyes. “fuck.”

you whisper into his ear, mimicking his drunk words. "baby, you make my cock throb.”

oscar's eyes widen in pure fucking shame. “no. nope. absolutely not. i’m breaking up with myself.”

you burst into laughter and after some minutes of suffering, he finally peeks at you.

“you really liked it, didn’t you?”

you kiss him softly. “very much.”

his expression softens into that warm, gentle oscar smile. "...i wasn’t too much, was i?”

you shake your head. “not at all, osc.”

he exhales in relief, pulling you closer. “god. i need to apologise to the guys.”

“you absolutely will not,” you argue, climbing on top of him. “they got you drunk, let them suffer.”

he laughs, still kinda shy. his hands slide up your thighs, settling on your hips.

“so i said all that and embarrassed myself, and you’re still climbing on top of me first thing in the morning?”

you lean down until your noses touch. “obviously.”

“…round three?”

──── ☆☆☆

0317luv

PR Relationship — OP⁸¹

Chapter 1 ~ the contract

SMAU + WRITTEN | Oscar Piastri x Singer!Reader

0.9k words | no warnings

A couple of months ago Oscar just saw how the WDC slipped from his hands after an amazing season he was performing just as you had the worst break up you could imagine when you were about to release an album where you poured your heart and soul for how happy you were

Now, you both are sitting across each other signing a contract for a two-year relationship despite knowing nothing about each other and having no idea of how bad (or good) this decision could be.

tastenorris

୨ৎ one of the family · oscar piastri

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...

tastenorris

୨ৎ one of the family · oscar piastri

oscar piastri has somehow become part of the leclerc family, just… not for the reason everyone assumes.

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...

barnesonfilm

home is wherever you are tonight

★ summary: if you told steve harrington 10 years ago that his dream of a camper full of children traveling the world came true he'd call you crazy, now he just calls it his life.

★ pairing: steve harrington x reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, sickly sweet fluff, illusions/mentions of smut, steve harrington has a breeding kink, ptsd, mentions of past violence, children, pregnancy

★ word count: 4.7k

★ notes: giving steve the happy ending he deserves because i don’t trust the duffer brothers!

Summer of 1998

You tried your best to focus on the gentle hum of the Elliot Smith song coming from the RV speakers; however, the loud squeals coming from the backseats prevented this. A moment of silent reflection was something you weren’t afforded anymore- but you wouldn’t change it for the world. Steve’s eyes were focused on the road in front of him, the narrow forest roads taking up all of his attention. With each second that passed, the sunlight shone through the trees, reflecting off the side of your husband's face. His hair forever perfectly tousled upon his head, fatherhood made him glow in exactly the way you knew it would.

“Hey, kids.” You turned in your seat, and your five children went quiet, beaming at you. They all inherited their father’s honey-brown eyes. And his attitude.

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