OK OMG can i request sub oscar literally having to take a break from fucking because he’s gonna come too quick? 🙈
♪ — 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗
oscar piastri x girlfriend! reader (smut)
fic summary . . . after weeks apart due to Oscar’s F1 commitments, he and you finally have time with each other. the deal to not indulge in sexual pleasure while apart comes to bite oscar in his ass (562 words)
( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )
CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut with a little plot, p n v sex, overstim, vanilla sex, begging, sexual frustration, light teasing)
Oscar’s forehead presses against your shoulder, his breathing already unsteady, hands gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.
He hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds.
You can feel the tension rolling off him, the way his muscles shake as he forces himself to stay still. And you know why.
It’s been too long.
Between his F1 schedule and all the traveling, he’s barely had time to breathe, let alone spend a night tangled up with you. And after weeks of teasing phone calls, half-whispered confessions about how much you missed each other, you made a deal—no touching, no getting off, nothing—until you were together again.
At the time, it seemed like a fun way to build up anticipation.
Now? Oscar looks like he’s about to combust.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, his voice strained. His hands flex at your hips, like he wants to move but knows he shouldn’t. “I just—I need a second.”
You bite your lip, trying not to smirk. He’s barely inside you, buried to the hilt but still, and he’s already this close to falling apart.
“You okay, baby?” you ask, feigning innocence.
Oscar groans, lifting his head just enough for you to see how wrecked he already looks—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, flushed all the way down his chest.
“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “I—I can't. You feel too good. It’s—fuck, it’s too much.”
You tighten around him just to be mean, and holy shit—the way he shudders, a choked whimper spilling from his lips, makes heat coil low in your stomach.
“Jesus,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. “D-Don’t do that. Please.”
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “What happened to my sweet, patient boy?”
Oscar exhales sharply, gripping your waist tighter. “She left me stranded on the other side of the world for weeks and made me promise not to touch myself,” he grumbles. “Now she’s acting surprised that I’m losing my fucking mind.”
His words make you clench around him again, and he whines, dropping his forehead to your shoulder again.
“Okay, okay—seriously, I need a second,” he pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. “If I move, I’m gonna come in like, two thrusts, and you’re gonna make fun of me forever.”
You hum, running your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly at the roots just to hear him whimper. “You’re already giving me plenty to tease you about, baby.”
Oscar groans. “You’re evil.”
You tilt his chin up, making him look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips bitten raw, and you feel a rush of affection mixed with arousal at the sight of him like this—so desperate, so yours.
“Take your time,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I want you to feel good.”
He exhales shakily, nodding, but there’s still frustration in the furrow of his brows.
You smile. “And when you can’t hold back anymore, I’ll take care of you. Okay?”
Oscar swallows hard, gaze flicking to your lips. “You—” He stops, taking another deep breath, trying to ground himself.
Then, finally, he moves—just a little, a slow roll of his hips that sends a full-body shudder through him.
He groans, high and so needy. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, voice breaking.
You smirk, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him close.
“That’s the fun part, baby.”
an — i love getting these types of oscar requests. finally getting around to writing them, thanks for the request lovie <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
31.12
Lando’s fingers tightened slightly against Oscar’s shoulders, and his words came out in a rush. “I was thinking—maybe—I could take the lead tonight. Like… I want to top. If that’s okay with you, I mean. If you don’t want to, that’s totally fine! I just thought it might be nice to switch things up, but no pressure or anything. Really.”
hes still so emotionally unstabble. and u expect him to be a top? for lando? nah. am still standing on top lando x bottom oscar. he needs to be babied so bad... a tight hug, a pat on the head, kissies all over his face, sweet nothing whispered in his ears... 🤗
♪ — 𝗚𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗘𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥
oscar piastri x girlfriend! reader (fluff)
fic summary . . . Oscar Piastri can't help but gush about his girlfriend in every interview, effortlessly weaving you into his conversations with pride and admiration
( main naster list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )
Oscar Piastri had a habit—one that everyone in the paddock noticed almost immediately. He couldn’t stop talking about his girlfriend. And not just in the offhand, casual way people might expect, like a passing mention here or there. No, when Oscar talked about you, it was like flipping a switch. His entire demeanor softened, his eyes lit up, and his words came tumbling out with an earnestness that left no room for doubt: he was absolutely, irrevocably smitten, and he made sure the world knew it.
It started innocently enough during an interview early in his rookie season. The journalist had asked about his study habits for learning new tracks, expecting a typical response about simulator hours or reviewing footage. But Oscar, with that easy grin of his, took a completely different direction. “I mean, I’ve seen how my girlfriend studies for her exams, so this should be pretty easy,” he said with a playful shrug. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he added, “She’s top of her class, by the way.” The pride in his voice was palpable, his expression glowing with admiration. The journalist couldn’t help but chuckle, already mentally jotting down notes to find out more about this mysterious academic powerhouse who clearly had Oscar wrapped around her finger.
And that was just the beginning.
During a fan stage Q&A, he managed to take things up a notch. A young fan asked how he stays calm under pressure, and Oscar didn’t even need a moment to think. He leaned into the mic, his face lighting up in that boyish, unfiltered way of his. “Oh, that’s easy. The other night, my girlfriend—she’s a top athlete, by the way—was prepping for this big event she had. Watching her manage everything so smoothly kind of puts my little race stress into perspective.”
The crowd’s reaction was immediate: a mix of cheers, laughter, and a collective ‘aww’ that made Oscar’s cheeks flush faintly. He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, like he hadn’t just melted half the audience’s hearts with a single sentence. The sincerity in his tone was undeniable, and the moment was all the more charming because it was clear Oscar didn’t think he was doing anything out of the ordinary. He was just telling the truth, proud and in awe of you as always.
But even then, he wasn’t done. “Honestly,” he added with a laugh, “if I handled pressure half as well as she does, I’d be unstoppable.” It was a line delivered with such casual reverence that it didn’t just make the fans smile—it left them convinced that Oscar Piastri wasn’t just a rising star in Formula 1; he was also a contender for the title of world’s best boyfriend.
Then there was the time he was caught on McLaren’s YouTube channel, unabashedly gushing about how much he loved going shopping with you. It started as a casual behind-the-scenes segment—just Oscar and Lando killing time between commitments. But when the topic of hobbies came up, Oscar’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas.
“No, seriously,” he began, animatedly waving his hands as Lando looked at him like he’d lost the plot. “She’s got this incredible eye for things. Like, we’ll walk into a store, and she’ll just pick something up and instantly know it’s perfect. I don’t even know how she does it.”
Lando, ever the mischief-maker, raised an eyebrow. “And what’s your contribution to this magical shopping experience?”
Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “I…carry the bags,” he said with a proud grin. “It’s a good system.”
Lando snorted, muttering, “Golden retriever boyfriend,” under his breath, fully expecting Oscar to deny it. But Oscar, in his usual laid-back way, just shrugged and smiled wider. “I mean, if the shoe fits.” The clip went viral almost instantly, with fans agreeing that if there were ever a category for Boyfriend of the Year, Oscar was already a shoo-in.
Then, there was the time during a press junket when a reporter asked him about his organization skills. The question was meant to highlight how drivers juggle their packed schedules, but Oscar’s response was anything but rehearsed.
He laughed, a warm, self-deprecating sound that filled the room. “Honestly, I would’ve been doomed yesterday if my girlfriend hadn’t reminded me about something I forgot. She’s the organized one in the relationship. I just…drive cars fast and hope for the best.”
The room burst into laughter, a few reporters exchanging amused glances at his candidness. But Oscar just grinned, his expression softening with the unmistakable fondness that always seemed to creep into his voice when he talked about you.
“It’s true,” he added with a shrug, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to openly admit just how much he relied on you. And that was the magic of Oscar Piastri—his genuine, unabashed love for you turned even the simplest of conversations into something that felt warm and unforgettable.
Even in the most casual conversations with fans, you always managed to find your way into the spotlight through Oscar’s words. Like the time a fan brought him a book about racing during an autograph session. He accepted it with a warm smile, flipping through the pages for a moment before looking up. “Oh, my girlfriend loves reading,” he said, almost absentmindedly but with so much fondness it felt deliberate. “She’ll probably finish this before I do and then give me all the highlights. Saves me time.”
The fan giggled, clearly charmed, while the rest of the queue exchanged knowing smiles. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it, like mentioning you was the most natural thing in the world. And for Oscar, it was.
Then there was the post-race interview after one of his toughest performances. He’d started the race in a dismal qualifying position, clawing his way through the pack to secure points in a way that left commentators breathless. By the time he reached the interview pen, his suit was damp with sweat, and exhaustion painted his features. But even then, the familiar warmth of his smile made an appearance as he approached the mic.
“You know,” he began, his voice still catching its breath but steady, “I think a big part of getting through today was remembering something my girlfriend told me.” His words were met with curious expressions from the reporters, who leaned in just a little closer. “She’s amazing at staying positive no matter what, and she’s always reminding me to focus on what I can control.”
He paused for a second, his gaze drifting toward the camera as if he was speaking directly to you. “So, yeah, this one’s for her.”
The sincerity in his voice left no room for doubt. This wasn’t just an offhand mention or a fleeting thought. You weren’t just his girlfriend in name or title—you were his anchor. The way he spoke of you wasn’t just endearing; it was grounding, a reflection of how much you truly meant to him.
One of the sweetest displays of Oscar’s affection unfolded during a behind-the-scenes McLaren vlog. The team had been filming some candid moments during a break, and the camera panned to Oscar sitting in a corner, scrolling through his phone. His expression was soft, his lips curved into a barely-there smile. Then, as if remembering something, he nudged Lando, who was lounging next to him.
“Oh, look, my girlfriend,” Oscar said, holding up his phone. His voice was tinged with a quiet kind of excitement, like he’d discovered a hidden treasure he couldn’t wait to share. The camera zoomed in just enough to catch the sparkle in his eyes as he looked at the photo. “She sent me this earlier. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Lando let out an exaggerated groan, flopping dramatically against the couch. “Mate, you’re insufferable,” he muttered, though the amused grin on his face betrayed him. “Do you ever stop?”
“Not when it comes to her,” Oscar replied without missing a beat, his smile growing wider as he looked at the picture one more time before carefully locking his phone.
The clip went viral within hours of the vlog’s release. Fans couldn’t get over how sweet—and utterly smitten—Oscar was. Comments flooded in, praising his open adoration and dubbing him the “ultimate golden retriever boyfriend.”
But for those who knew him, this was just Oscar being himself. No matter where he was or what he was doing, you were always on his mind. And he made sure everyone around him knew just how proud he was to call you his. Whether it was your achievements, your quirks, or simply the way you lit up his life, Oscar never stopped finding ways to weave you into the conversation.
It wasn’t just about the words he said, though. It was the way he said them—with genuine admiration, unwavering pride, and a love so pure it could light up the entire paddock. His tone softened when he spoke about you, his expression grew warmer, and his smile turned just a little brighter.
If Oscar Piastri was the golden retriever boyfriend the world had come to adore, then you were undoubtedly his favorite human, his everything, the one who made all his happiest stories worth telling.
The atmosphere was electric at the Yas Marina Circuit, the tension so palpable it could’ve powered the floodlights. It was the last Grand Prix of the season, and everything was on the line for McLaren—the Constructors' Championship title hung in the balance. Among the sea of orange and black, you stood out—not just because you were there to support Oscar Piastri, but because you radiated an energy that seemed to magnetize the young driver to your side.
From the moment you both arrived on Thursday for media day, fans couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast in your personalities. Oscar, always reserved and thoughtful, seemed content to let you take the lead, his quiet confidence complimented by your vibrant presence. When a fan asked how you two had met, you lit up with a mischievous smile.
“I adopted him when we were in school,” you said, glancing fondly at Oscar, who was shyly smiling at the ground. “I guess he just stuck to my side.”
Oscar, standing beside you, squeezed your hand in his as he chuckled. “Well, it’s hard not to stick to you. You kind of pull people in.”
Throughout the weekend, Oscar was a picture of quiet affection. Whether it was holding your hand, wrapping an arm around you, or resting his chin on your head during quieter moments, his touch was constant. Fans caught glimpses of him whispering things to you that made you laugh, your bubbly personality clearly rubbing off on him in the best ways.
When race day arrived, the stakes were high, and Oscar’s nerves were evident. But even after a dramatic first-lap collision with Max Verstappen that caused him to spin out and drop down the grid, you were still cheering for him like he’d just secured pole position.
By the time the checkered flag waved, McLaren had done it—they’d secured the Constructors' Championship. Despite Oscar’s rocky race, you were beaming with pride as he pulled into the pit lane. Seeing your smile waiting for him made every frustration of the day vanish from his mind.
After the podium celebrations for the team, a surprising transformation unfolded. Your extroverted energy seemed to seep into Oscar as if he’d caught your enthusiasm like a contagious laugh. Gone was the usual quiet and composed Oscar. In his place was a driver buzzing with excitement, grinning from ear to ear as he darted around the paddock.
He didn’t just take pictures with the team; he orchestrated them like a director at a photo shoot. “Lando, get over here! And grab that trophy!” he called, dragging his teammate into a chaotic group photo. When Lando least expected it, Oscar grabbed a bottle of leftover champagne and sprayed him without mercy, laughing so hard he had to lean on you for balance.
“You’re ridiculous!” you teased, wiping the champagne splatter off your face.
Oscar grinned wickedly. “Oh, am I now?” Before you could react, he turned the champagne on you, spraying it in a gleeful arc. You squealed, half-laughing, half-shouting as the fizzy liquid soaked your hair and clothes.
“Oscar!”
He set the bottle down and pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek as if that would make up for it. “You look even better drenched in champagne,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. His giggles, boyish and utterly unguarded, filled the space between you.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile as you ruffled his hair. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
The two of you stood there in the middle of the celebration, drenched in champagne and surrounded by the joyous chaos of the team. Oscar looked at you, his face softening. “I couldn’t have done this without you, you know. Even when it’s rough, you make it all worth it.”
You smiled up at him, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. “And I’ll always be here, no matter what.”
♪ — 𝗗𝗢𝗘𝗦𝗡'𝗧 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗖𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦
sub!oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader ( smut )
fic summary . . . Oscar's too needy—whining, squirming, begging for more when he's already inside you, and it's driving you insane. You shut him up the best way you know (584 words)
( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )
Oscar is already a mess beneath you—wrists pinned to the mattress, hips twitching up in a desperate attempt for more friction, more you. His breath stutters every time you move, a broken, pleading sound spilling from his lips like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
"You—" His voice cracks, head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut. His fingers flex uselessly where they’re trapped beneath your grip, body trembling, fevered with need. "Please, just—just let me touch you."
You press his wrists down harder, leaning over him, keeping him locked in place. "No."
His breath shudders out in frustration, a sharp whimper catching in his throat. He tries again, a weak, useless struggle against your hold, but you can feel it—he’s not really fighting. He’s testing, pushing, trying to see if you’ll break before he does.
Spoiler: you won’t.
His fingers twitch, straining, reaching like they could grasp you even with his hands pinned above his head. Like he could anchor himself in you, find some kind of relief from the overwhelming desperation clawing at his body. You could let him. You could let him wrap his arms around you, dig his fingers into your skin, but you don’t.
Because he’s already inside you, and yet it’s still not enough for him.
"Oscar," you murmur, and his eyes flutter open—hazy, unfocused, lips parted as he sucks in a shaky breath. He looks wrecked. Desperate. Like he’s on the verge of falling apart completely.
"Please," he whines, his voice so small, so pathetic. His brows knit together, mouth forming the shape of another plea before he even speaks. "I need you—closer—"
Your patience snaps.
Your free hand moves before you even think about it, wrapping around the column of his throat in a firm, deliberate squeeze. Not enough to hurt—just enough to make him still, to make him listen.
A sharp inhale catches in his chest. His lashes flutter. His whole body locks up beneath you like he can feel the shift in the air, like something in him is finally, finally understanding that this isn’t his to take—it’s yours to give.
"Oscar," you say again, softer this time, almost sweet. His lips part instantly, a high, needy whimper slipping out before he can stop it.
You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, tightening your grip just a fraction more, and he melts. His breath stutters, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps, his whole body thrumming under your touch.
"You’re literally inside me," you whisper, slow and deliberate, savoring the way he shudders, the way his lashes flutter like he’s already teetering on the edge. "It doesn’t get closer than this."
A broken, choked noise escapes him—somewhere between a whine and a whimper—his fingers twitching in frustration against the sheets. His hips jerk instinctively, a desperate attempt to do something, to get more of you, but you keep him pinned, unyielding.
He’s unraveling. You can feel it.
"Be good," you tell him, your voice a slow, deliberate drag, and you roll your hips in torturous circles, taking your time, making him feel every second of it.
His head falls back, mouth open, a strangled moan slipping from his lips. His whole body is trembling, his hands shaking where they’re still trapped under your grip, the effort of not touching you tearing him apart at the seams.
And then—finally—he stops fighting it.
Stops begging, stops whining, stops pulling.
Just gives in. Surrenders.
And that’s when you finally let him have what he wants.
Sub Oscar but he needs a break from aus and he relaxes by getting so many orgasms??? He deserves it tbh
♪ — 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗠𝗢𝗗𝗘
sub!oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader ( smut )
fic summary . . . after a tough home race, oscar piastre needs your help to get his mind of his race results (1.4k words)
( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )
CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut with a little plot, blow job (m receiving), overstim, sad oscar)
★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Oscar slumped into the plush couch of his driver’s room, his body heavy with the weight of disappointment. His face was still flushed from the race, and though the adrenaline had faded, the frustration lingered. He had started P2, full of hope, only to finish P9—far below where he felt he should have been. The spin, the lost positions to a Sauber, Stroll, Leclerc . . . It all weighed on him.
The door clicked softly behind you, and he didn’t need to look up to know it was you. The gentle sound of your footsteps on the floor told him you were coming over to him. You didn’t need to speak; you never did when it was like this. Oscar rested his head on your shoulder as you sat next to him, his arms naturally finding their way around you.
“I fucked up,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. You wrapped you arms around him in return, stroking your fingers through his weat damp hair.
You let him vent, listening to every word, his self-blame unraveling in the form of a disjointed rant.
"I had it. I fucking had it," Oscar muttered, his voice tight with frustration. "P2. I started P2, Yn." He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head against your shoulder. "And then I just—what? I lose it like a fucking rookie? One mistake, and suddenly I’m in ninth, watching a Sauber fly past me like I don’t belong here."
His grip on you tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. You just held him closer, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles.
"You do belong here, Os."
"Then why does it feel like I don’t?" He exhaled sharply, shifting slightly. "Lando's on the podium, Max is Max, and I’m here, talking about how I got overtaken by Stroll like an idiot." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, the frustration melting into something more fragile. "I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve defended better. But I panicked, and I—I let it slip away."
You cupped the back of his head, running your fingers through his hair, grounding him. "It wasn’t just you, Oscar. Strategy wasn’t perfect. Tires were shit. It’s not all on you."
"It feels like it is." His breath stuttered, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly. "I hate this. I hate feeling like I disappointed everyone. The team, the fans—myself."
"You didn’t disappoint me." Your voice was soft but firm, and he finally looked up, eyes searching yours, flickering with something vulnerable.
Oscar exhaled shakily, the tension still thick in the air. He leaned his forehead against yours for a brief moment before looking at you, his brown eyes wide, a mix of vulnerability and yearning behind them.
"I just . . . I want to forget today," he whispered the last part like a confession, barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing.
You blinked, the request catching you off guard. Your hands, which had been rubbing soothing circles into his back, stilled.
"Now?" you asked softly, searching his face.
He nodded, a little shy but resolute.
You hesitated. "Oscar . . ." Your fingers grazed his jaw as you tried to find the right words. "I don’t want you to just bury this. You had a bad race, but avoiding it like this—it won’t make it go away."
His lips parted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. "I know that," he said, voice strained. "I know tomorrow I’ll still be thinking about it, I know I’ll go over every mistake a hundred times in my head—but right now, I just need—" He swallowed, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. "You."
Your heart clenched at the way he said it, so raw, so desperate. Then he gave you this look—this quiet, pained, pleading look, like if you said no, the weight of today might just crush him entirely.
And just like that, your resistance melted.
You sighed softly, fingers tracing the curve of his cheek before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips—a question, an invitation, and an answer all at once.
When you pulled back, his eyes searched yours, still uncertain, still a little lost.
You gave him a small, knowing smile, your voice gentle but firm. "Okay, Os. Let me take care of you."
He nodded shyly, not saying anything more, but you could feel the weight behind his request. Without saying anything else, you pressed a kiss to his lips—a gentle, lingering kiss that was both a question and an invitation. When you pulled back, you gave him a small, smile, and you could see the uncertainty in his eyes.
Slowly, you slid down to your knees in front of him, your hands resting on his thighs as you looked up at him, making sure he was comfortable with what was happening. Oscar’s breath caught in his throat, his hands shaking a little as he helped you unbuckle his race suit. You took your time, pulling it down carefully, ensuring he felt at ease with the situation.
When his pants finally came off, you reached up to gently touch his chest, calming him further. His eyes were closed now, his breathing shallow. You leaned in, your lips brushing over his skin, your fingers tracing the edges of his muscles, comforting him in ways that words couldn’t.
Oscar was no longer tense, his body slowly unraveling beneath your touch. The tightness in his shoulders, the stiffness in his jaw—all of it began to fade as you worked him over with slow, deliberate care. You kissed your way down his body, mapping each inch of his skin with reverence, pressing your lips to the places where tension lingered, coaxing him into relaxation with every deliberate movement.
His breath hitched as your mouth found its way lower, and you could feel the slightest tremor roll through him, his body caught between pleasure and relief. His fireproofs clung to his skin, the heat of the race still lingering on him, but none of that mattered now. His muscles, once tight with frustration, melted under your attention, each kiss, each touch dissolving the weight of the race he had carried with him.
Every time you drew another shudder from him, you noticed the way his body reacted—the way his fingers twitched at his sides before curling into the couch, the way his thighs tensed beneath your palms only to relax moments later. His breath grew uneven, small gasps slipping past his lips despite his attempts to hold them back. When you reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, he squeezed back instantly, grounding himself in your touch.
The intimacy wasn’t lost on either of you.
You kept your movements steady, pulling him back from the downward spiral of self-doubt, replacing his frustration with something else entirely. This was about more than just pleasure—it was about comfort, about giving him an escape, a moment where nothing else existed but the warmth of your touch and the way you made him feel.
Oscar’s gasps grew heavier, his body trembling beneath you, each moment unraveling the last bit of tension he had been holding onto. He wasn’t thinking about the race anymore, wasn’t thinking about the positions lost, the mistakes made—there was only this, only you. His grip on your hand tightened as he gave in completely, his body shaking with the intensity of his release, the last remnants of frustration dissolving in the aftermath.
He was panting now, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven movements, his fingers still tangled with yours. His head lolled back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, completely undone in the best way possible. You pressed one last kiss to his thigh before pulling yourself up beside him, running your fingers through his hair.
For the first time since he stepped out of the car, Oscar looked at peace.
You stayed close, keeping him grounded in the moment, ensuring he felt cared for, wanted, and supported. After everything, it was the only thing that mattered—being there for each other when the world felt a little too heavy.
Oscar leaned back, his eyes half-lidded, a small, content smile playing on his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. You smiled softly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand.
“You deserve to be taken care of,” you replied, your words soothing his lingering frustrations.
Voice notes 🔊 . . . ( i wrote this at midnight I don't know what I'm doing, sorry if it's not well written enough )
