summary: kimi is addicted to being between your legs. any place and any time. and no matter how many times you pretend it pisses you off, you're kinda obsessed with it too.
warnings: fluff, poor humour, established relationship, 18+ (minors dni), teasing, kimi basically being a munch, eating out, fingering, overstimulation (f. receiving), reader and kimi obsessed with it tbh // poorly proof read as usual
word count: 2.5k
a/n: based on this request! short and sweet bc i'm breaking out in chronic hives—so enjoy!
Kimi always rested his head on your lap. To the naked eye, it was a sweet thing. The way he cradled into your lap, finding peace on your soft skin, feeling your hand comb through his curls. Anyone would think it was pure bliss and that he was the luckiest man alive.
But no one knew the real truth. The sick, twisted reason he kept head on your lap.
Easy access.
To what?
Well... it wasn't that hard to put two and two together, was it?
Kimi, the sweet little golden boy of Formula One, was an incorrigible man.
No one knew him for what he really was. Or how he was.
Every free day, every free second he had. His driver's room, the bathroom, the kitchen counter, the balcony, the car, under the table... whether it was shorts, jeans, a skirt, or a dress you wore... his head was between your legs all the goddamn time.
It was 'only because of you' as he innocently claimed. A poor attempt at defence and shifting the blame. Like it was your fucking fault. Like you were the one who made him crazy. Like you were luring him in.
You swore to God you weren't.
Addiction wasn't even the right word for it.
Fuck, you had no idea what was.
Obsession? Dependency? Compulsion?
Devotion.
You had tried to intervene time and time again. Wearing the tightest jeans possible only for those beautiful fingers to hook them down, leaving a gentle burn against your skin in his trail. Pantyhose under the dresses and skirts? Apparently, they were pretty easy to rip into. 'Non-breakable' your fucking ass. You should’ve sued them for false advertisement.
You had even gone as far as blocking your schedule with the most insignificant events to get a little breather. But that inconsolable little shit always found you.
But the shameful truth rested with you, tucked away in your heart. Because you and Kimi both knew it—you loved it.
You loved his nose. You loved his mouth. And you loved that goddamn tongue.
That was your problem. That stupid tongue. It was always out. When Kimi needed to focus on something. When he needed to pose for a picture. In interviews. When he listened. When he talked.
It was always there. Teasing. Waiting. Reminding you of what was to come. What could make you cum.
Just like he was doing now. Standing a couple metres away from you in the garage as you talked to Carmen and he entertained George and Toto, built arms folded and chocolate brown eyes flickering to you for the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes, tongue peeking out of his mouth.
"Is Kimi okay?" Carmen suddenly queried, making your throat dry as you snapped your eyes to her.
The heat almost instantly grew in your cheeks. "W-What do you mean?" You stuttered, fingers already fidgeting. No way... there was no way...
"He hasn't stopped looking our way, or your way, since you got here. Did you guys fight or something?" She asked, turning her head to you while she raised a brow.
You swallowed thickly, shaking your head. "No, no. We didn't fight," you laughed nervously. You were definitely about to get into one by the sheer smirk settled on his face. "Um... I think he just wants to go home," you reasoned poorly.
Carmen hummed, nodding in understanding. "George gets like that too. It's okay. Just a few more minutes."
You gave her a tight smile and nodded. Sure. You were certain George was nothing like Kimi. Because the gleam in his eye told you that you would either barely make it to the car or make it to the hotel room. Or worse... somewhere else.
Kimi vaguely listened to his boss talk, too preoccupied with the way you stood metres away from him in those jeans. God, those jeans. Clinging to you like they had specifically been made for you. You had no business looking this good all the goddamn time.
His lips quirked at the discreet press of your thighs together, making his eyes flicker up to your face, spotting the narrowed gaze of annoyance from miles away.
You always did that. Played the innocent, miffed girl. Like he was an inconvenience. But at the end of the day, it was always you screaming his name just the way he liked it, hips and legs shaking around him.
You loved it as much as he did.
The minutes had indeed passed by. Kimi's hand hung low over your waist as you both walked towards his car alongside Carmen and George. The conversation between you both was minimal. You could see the cogs in your boyfriend's brain turning, tongue peeking out of his mouth as his eyes flitted across the bare parking lot, observing the settling sun as the couple filled the air.
"Okay," Carmen started, small yawn falling from her mouth, eliciting an amused smile from George. "I'm ready to go. You guys text me when you reach the hotel, yeah?"
You smiled quietly, giving her a small nod. Would you even reach the hotel? "Of course," you assured, giving Kimi a nudge to not leave you hanging.
He pressed his grin down, arm moving to grab George's hand for a brief shake. "Drive safe, mate."
George nodded, giving the both of you a wave as they both headed towards their car, leaving the both of you alone for a moment.
Kimi unlocked the car with the quick press of a button, opening the passenger door for you. He watched you eye him suspiciously as you propped yourself into the car. Closing the door gently, his footsteps were light and fast towards the other side of the vehicle.
You sat in the passenger seat, all buckled. You took note of how Kimi made no effort to do the same as he sat down. Nor did he start the engine. Instead, his eyes move to the rear mirror. He waited. He watched. He listened.
For the sound of George's car turning on. For the movement of those tyres to peel out of the parking lot. For him to leave.
Somehow, you were waiting too. Carefully watching the taillights of George's car which had barely left the parking lot before Kimi was reaching over to undo your seatbelt. A sigh immediately left your mouth. "Kimi! Someone is going to catch us," you hissed, knowing damn well the churn in your stomach made all your excuses futile.
"We're the last ones here," he retorted, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans after unbuttoning them with ease. His tugs of the thick fabric are short and harsh as his lips fell to your neck; sinful tongue pressed against your burning skin.
Any other reprimand you had lined up had died in your throat, replaced by the curled gasps your lips had wrapped around. Your hips betrayed your mind, naturally lifting as he pulled your jeans down to your shoes, leaving his hands to roam your bare thighs.
His words were muffled and heaved. "Been waiting for this all day," he groaned, placing a messy kiss on your lips, savouring the taste of your lip balm briefly.
If you were in the right mind, you would've given him a blank look. He made it sound like you had starved him. Like he hadn't just made you see stars in the morning either.
But you weren't. You could barely think with his lips and hands on you. Kimi always seemed to have that effect on you. Even with the ebbs of orange sun settling away through the car windows, reminding you where you were... you couldn’t be ashamed of the heat unfurling in your stomach.
Kimi didn't take long to remove the barrier between him and all he wanted, making you draw a sharp breath as the cold air hit your pulsing cunt. His fingers pressed into your thighs, keeping them apart. A deep moan, unrestrained and reverent, fell from his lips. "My pretty, pretty girl," he praised.
He wasn't talking to you. Not exactly.
He smiled at the obvious clench of your pussy. A mirthful chuckle swirled deep from his chest. “Yeah... you missed me, didn't you, baby?"
Your cheeks flamed at the treachery of your body. As if it couldn't get any worse, a yelp escaped your lips as Kimi grabbed your legs, hooking one up against headrest and the other on the dashboard, pants, underwear, and shoes long gone. Everything about it was smooth... natural because he had done it a million times.
Kimi pulled his shirt off and leaned over the console, pupils dilated as he stared at the glistening mess right in front of him, heart hammering in his chest. Every fold primed with your slick, dripping out slowly.
You complained here and there. He had heard them all. "We're in public, Kimi," or "I'm trying to go to sleep, Kimi." All of them baseless and weak.
You just didn't get it. You hadn't tasted yourself like he had tasted you. Because if you had, you would understand why he couldn't stop.
Your head pressed harshly into the car window behind you. Fuck, it was awkward. It hurt. But nothing else mattered when Kimi's mouth attached itself onto your cunt. The wicked tongue flat against you, lapping up the disloyal arousal pouring out of you. He always knew how to use it well. Matching every curve to every crevice. Every flick and lick.
You squirmed against his face, hand inevitably reaching out to fist those beautiful brown curls. A strained cry escaped your throat as you pressed him further into you, feeing his groan vibrate through your body while his nose knocked against your clit.
"Fuckkkk," you whimpered, gasping for air already while you watched him.
His smirk was like a ghost imbedded into your cunt. Brief but present before he continued to drink you. You're sweet. Additively so. Sharp in a way that made him shudder. So homely it made him want to never pull away.
Your breath caught as his tongue moved to your bundle of nerves, circling and flicking firmly. With your brows mending, you writhed, feeling his grip on your ankles tighten. "Kimi," you gasped, eyes shutting intermittently.
He chuckled, barely taking a breath, lips coated and shining as he spoke. "You always act so annoyed," he stated, tone mocking. "But you're the one acting like this, belle. Hips moving for more. Tell me, baby. You love it, don't you?"
The pleasure rippled through you as you felt his teeth graze your clit, brown eyes staring at you expectantly, smug smirk carved into his face. You heaved, sweat littering your skin. You waited. He waited. The air thick as the game begun.
You could see it in his eyes. The thinning patience. Like a dog who had been told no. Except it was him doing it to himself. Waiting… standing by for your admission. For a greenlight.
You weren't sure what was. The pulse of your core. His desperation. Or the bold truth that had slapped you right in the face.
"Yes, Kimi. I love it."
And that's all Kimi wanted. All he needed before he put his tongue back on you and sucked and prodded every crevice in his vicinity. His chest warmed at the burn of his scalp as your fingers tugged at his curls. The way the heels of your feet dug into his bare shoulders. Everything about you bringing him closer and closer.
"Fuck, yes, Kimi," you cried out, hips rolling up against his tongue, making him hum between your puffy folds.
Kimi couldn't stop. Like his fingers had been glued to your ankles while the wetness seeped from your pussy. You just tasted so good. It made him whine. Whine while his tongue flattened over you, slurping all the juices before they could escape.
"Kimi, Kimi," you breathed harshly, pit of your stomach churning. Fuck, you weren't lasting.
He said nothing, continuing his masterful artwork as his tongue travelled across the bulb and shaft of your clit with ease, bringing the burning flash right to the edge.
And just like that, you came undone. Your hips shook against his face, juices running down your thighs and to your ass while the pleasure crashed over you, leaving you seeing white as your sob ripped through the empty air of his car.
Kimi, the sly bastard, he didn't stop. He said he couldn't. Mouth still latched to your cunt, sucking you so good, letting you ruin his ability to breathe by stuffing his nose in you. God, he could die in this perfect cunt. It was decided.
Your hips thrashed against his face, senses entirely overwhelmed with the tingles of pleasure and pain blending together like a good burn. "Kimi, come on," you mewled, eyes glossing over with tears, body torn with the second wave of pleasure building up.
And yet, he apologised.
"I'm so sorry, baby," he grunted, voice muffled while he dug his face deeper, making you choke on the air. "So fucking sorry. I love this. I love you so much. I can't stop," he moaned, just capturing a glimpse of your teary eyes. Oh how beautiful, you were.
In seconds you were unravelling again, tears escaping your eyes as your thighs clamped down around his legs hard. Your gasps and sobs stuttered, music to his ears while dots threatened your vision and body spasmed hard.
Kimi groaned with delight, licking you clean with every swallow. His breath warm and tainted with the taste of you washed over your cunt as he reluctantly pulled away, chest heaving. Bringing your ankles down so you could rest more comfortably, he watched you come down gently. His large hands rubbed the top of your thighs soothingly before he leaned forward and kissed you deeply.
You softly hummed, feeling Kimi's forehead rest on yours as he pulled back just a smidge, thumb wiping your stained cheek.
"Too much?" He queried quietly, resting his face on your bare knees, dismissive of the way the console dug into his side.
You rolled your eyes, tapping his temple as he stared at you warmly. "You and I both know that wasn't your worse," you muttered, eliciting a cheeky grin on his face.
You could still remember those days. Days where your brain had fought between pushing Kimi off and begging for more. Those days were Kimi couldn’t pull away, leaving you both in tears, apologies on the tip of his tongue as he ate you out.
You shivered at the memories, goosebumps littering your skin.
"If you were me, you'd understand,” Kimi mumbled, fingers trailing over your skin in odd circles. "If you were me, you wouldn't stop either."
You pursed your lips, looking at him quietly, chest aching at his words. "Maybe," you whispered, hand moving through his curls.
In some weird way, you understood.
You understood it in the way you teased and complained.
You understood it in the way you always wanted more.
You understood it in the way you never asked him to stop.
Whatever souls were made of, his and you were the same. Equally in love. Both equally fucked up. And you were perfectly okay with that.
oscar teaches you everything you need to know before your date with lando.
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x best friend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 8.5k.
ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp, soft dom!oscar-ish, oral [f & m], fingering, dry humping. inexperienced!reader, oscar talks you through it, he is a teensy 🤏 bit manipulative, just pure smut :(, lando haunts the narrative. title only kind of from niki’s backburner (which could mean nothing,,).
ꔮ commentary box: hi, oh my gosh, i don’t think i’ve ever written pwp this long in my life. i’m kind of mortified (especially with the fact this has some >2k more words i shaved off). anyway, this was commissioned, tysm!!! 📑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 + read part two here!!!
Oscar Piastri is a patient man.
He has to be. With the way you barrel into his life and make yourself at home—your duffle bag always one laundry cycle away from living in his flat full-time, your half-drunk coffees trailing behind you like breadcrumbs, your laugh breaking over his ribs every time you tease him about being the most boring twenty-something alive—patience is the only option.
He thinks of himself as quiet. You call him steady. Reliable. “You’re my favorite person to do nothing with,” you said once, tucked under the same throw blanket, both of you half-asleep while a movie played on loop. The confession buzzed in his ears for days.
So, yes. Oscar Piastri is a patient man. But we never said he was a good one.
Not when you turn up on his doorstep tonight, eyes glinting with something soft and nervous curling behind your lashes. He knows that look. It’s the one that makes his stomach sink and his throat tighten because he’s seen it before, but never has it been directed at him.
You perch on the edge of his kitchen stool like the ground might shift under you. You twist the end of your sleeve in your hands. He hates that you’re fidgeting. He hates that you’re nervous. Mostly, he hates that it’s not because of him.
“Lando asked me out,” you breathe.
Oscar resists the urge to frown. “Okay.”
You look up at him, a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“Should I say more?” he asks, deadpan, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid. Like reach for you.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d be surprised. Or weird about it.”
“I’m not weird about it,” he lies, “and I’m not surprised. Lando would be stupid not to want you.”
You smile again, soft, grateful. It kills him.
Then the smile drops, and you sigh—one of those long, full-body exhales. Your fingers tap against the countertop. Once. Twice. “I’m nervous,” you admit.
He studies you. I can see that, he nearly says, but he settles instead with, “Why? You’ve known Lando for years.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
You won’t look at him. That tells him everything. Still, he waits. Patient, as ever. “I haven’t really done… a lot,” you murmur, eyes trained to the ceiling.
“Done?”
You glance at him then, briefly, face hot. “Sex. Stuff.”
He has to look away for a minute. Heat licks up the back of his neck, settles low in his gut. His arms tighten over his chest. The air shifts between you, dense and humming. You’re still talking, voice too delicate, too open.
“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” you babble. “Like, what if he expects me to know things? Or be a certain way? And I’m just me?”
Oscar turns his head, slowly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. You’re chewing your bottom lip raw, eyes downcast. There’s that part of you—unguarded, genuine, scared—that you never show anyone else. He knows it like he knows his own hands.
“You’re not just anything,” he says. It comes out harder than he meant it to; his throat feels like it’s lined with glass. “You’re…”
You finally look at him, just as he lamely finishes with, “... you. You’re you.”
He’d be more articulate, but his brain is kind of shutting down on itself.
Because now he’s picturing it. How Lando will touch you. If Lando will see the way your breath hitches when someone brushes your wrist. If he’ll know that you go quiet when you’re turned on. If he’ll think to ask before he undoes you.
Oscar shouldn’t want to know those things. He does, anyway. And now you’re here. Asking him—indirectly, innocently—for reassurance. As if he could talk you through this without wanting to burn the world down.
He swallows. “What if you didn’t have to worry about that?”
You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”
His heart punches against his ribs. Stupid. Reckless. Absolutely not the plan. “What if someone you trusted showed you?” he says, voice sounding not quite like himself.
You stare at him for a beat, gauging what he’s offering, whether he’s kidding. When you laugh out his name, a breathless, playfully scandalized “Oscar,” he can hear the strain beneath the two syllables.
“You said you were nervous because you haven’t done much,” he says. Carefully. “What if you didn’t have to go into it blind? What if you could learn with someone who already knows you? Who cares about you?”
He waitswaitswaits.
You blink. Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the serious set of his mouth, the immovable force of his arms. And then.
You nod.
It’s small—barely there—but it changes everything. The air feels heavier now, like the pressure before a storm. Oscar doesn’t move right away. He lets the weight of your decision settle, lets it braid itself between the quiet inches of space still left between your bodies.
You’re still watching him. Like you’re waiting for him to flinch, to take it back. Like you think he might regret offering.
He doesn’t.
He only steps closer.
“Okay,” he says, voice low. Gentle. “Then we’ll go slow. You tell me what you want to know. What you want to feel.”
You nod again, firmer this time. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” you say shakily, brows drawn together adorably. “If we want to keep this from getting complicated.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods. “Got it.”
You’re close now—closer than you’ve ever been without an excuse. Oscar can feel your warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the almost-touch of your body to his. The two of you shuffle over to the couch, silent and in sync, just to make things easier.
You sit side by side, knees pressed against each other. Oscar watches your fingers pause just above the waistband of his joggers. You’re not trembling, not exactly, but there’s a hitch in your breathing that makes him want to reach out. Press a hand over yours, ground you. Not to stop you. Just to let you know he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.
“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice roughened at the edges. “We’re not in a hurry.”
You glance up at him. He sees it again—that flicker of uncertainty, of unspoken questions. So he speaks first. “How far have you gone?”
Your voice is so, so small when you admit, “Not very. A little bit of making out here and there.”
There’s heat in your cheeks, in the way your eyes dart away like you’ve admitted to something shameful. Oscar hates that. He hates that you think your inexperience is something to hide.
“That’s good to know,” he says plainly.
You fidget with the drawstring on his joggers, eyes still cast down. “Just so you don’t expect me to know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “This is just for you to learn. For you to feel safe. That’s all.”
You nod, your mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Still no kissing, though.”
Oscar swallows the protest that almost rises to his lips. “Right,” he rasps. “No kissing.”
It’s the only thing keeping this from tipping over into something else. Into something it can’t come back from.
You reach for him again, fingers tentative as they trace the curve of his oblique, just above the V of his hips. Oscar sits still, arms loose at his sides, letting you explore him.
“That’s a good spot,” he murmurs when your fingertips pass over the sharp line of muscle there. “Most people don’t realize how sensitive that area can be. Especially when someone’s paying attention.”
You hum thoughtfully and trail your hand upward, brushing over his ribs. He shivers. “Ticklish?” you ask, a touch amused.
“A little. But in a good way.”
Your fingers drift again, this time along his chest, pausing at his pecs. You press your palm flat against him, and he instinctively tightens the muscle under your hand. “You flexed,” you say.
Oscar smiles. “Didn’t mean to. You caught me off guard.”
You trace your thumb over his nipple. A light brush. He exhales through his nose, his jaw tight. “That’s another good spot,” he mumbles. “Sensitive. A little underrated, honestly.”
You glance up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgets the rules. Forgets the line he’s supposed to be toeing. But he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let his eyes drop to your mouth. He is patient, he is patient, he is patient.
You explore lower now, hands skimming the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband, but you don’t go further. Not yet. Oscar feels his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his cock is already hard and straining against the fabric.
Still, he waits.
“You okay?” he checks in.
You nod.
“Good,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to keep going?”
You hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding again.
“Need you to use your words, gorgeous,” he says, light and teasing, drawing a bashful laugh from you.
“Yes,” you concede. “Wanna keep going.”
Oscar nods. “Then let me show you more.”
He reaches for your hand again, gently guiding it to his bicep, then his forearm. “Different parts of the body respond to different kinds of touch,” he murmurs, watching your expression all the while. “Here’s strong. Solid. But if you drag your fingers lightly—like this—”
He demonstrates on your arm, the softest touch over your skin. Goosebumps prickle over where his fingers had been.
He mirrors it on himself, guiding your hand to follow. “It’s not always about pressure. Sometimes it’s about presence,” he says. “Letting someone feel you. Letting them want more.”
Your pupils are blown now. He wonders if you even realize you’re leaning into him. He doesn’t say it. He just lets you keep touching, keep learning, and he pretends he’s not falling apart from it.
Oscar sees it happen in your eyes before you say anything—the worry creeping back in, like doubt tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling you inward. You’re still touching him, still warm and close, but your gaze is far away.
“I just…” you start, voice unsteady. “I keep thinking about what Lando might expect.”
Oscar doesn’t flinch, but it cuts anyway. A dull slice just beneath the skin.
You keep going. “What if he wants someone confident? Someone who can—who knows how to, I don’t know, use their hands or say the right thing or—”
He stops you with a firm, “Hey.”
You look up at him, startled.
Oscar’s expression is calm. Too calm, maybe, because he’s holding back everything. Every petty surge of jealousy, every instinct that wants to pull you away from this hypothetical version of Lando and remind you that he’s right here. That it’s his body under your hands. His pulse you’ve got racing.
“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says. “And if you want to learn absolutely anything, I’m here. That’s it. That’s all this is.”
You nod, slowly. Still, your fingers hover—undecided, unsure. He stays where he is until you’re finally out of your head enough to move.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and tug them down.
Oscar’s breath catches. He helps you, pulling them off, leaving him in nothing but black boxers. Tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him thick against the fabric. He sees your eyes go there, linger, and it takes everything in him not to react.
You reach out. Palm first, hesitant. You touch him over the cotton, soft pressure at the base, and Oscar’s stomach tenses instantly.
“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back against the couch cushion. He tries, valiantly, not to come undone from just this.
Your hand immediately stills. “Too much?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Not at all. You’re doing fine.”
You start to move again, stroking him through the fabric. Oscar’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He has to steady himself, fists clenched at his sides.
“Pressure’s good,” he grunts. “But don’t be afraid to explore. You can use your palm... or your fingers. Try different things. I’ll tell you what feels nice.”
You trace along the length of his cock, fingers curving lightly around the shape of him, then back down to the base. He’s thick and growing heavier in your hand. You’re watching closely, brows drawn in concentration, like you’re studying him.
“You’re really hard,” you say, almost to yourself.
He huffs out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happens.”
Your gaze flicks up to him, quick. But he sees the shift in you. The awareness, the realization of the power you wield. Your hand moves more confidently now, a little more pressure. His hips jerk subtly out of instinct, reaction.
Oscar breathes out through gritted teeth. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s—really good.”
You’re gnawing your bottom lip. “You like it?”
“I like you,” he says, before he can stop himself.
You laugh like it’s a fucking joke. You probably think he means it as your best friend, when the thoughts running through Oscar’s mind are far from friendly.
You keep touching him. Slower now. More focused. Oscar—still pretending this is just for you, just a favor—lets it happen, lets you learn him one stroke at a time.
After what feels like forever of just you working him up, Oscar realizes he’s barely breathing.
Your hand is still wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him in slow, uneven movements. Unsure, but so eager. It takes every ounce of restraint not to buck into your touch. Not to groan louder than he should. Not to lose himself.
But then you pause.
Your fingers hover, nerves creeping back into your expression. And when you look up at him, your expression flayed open with such heartbreaking earnestness, his heart stutters in his chest.
“Can I—” you start, voice barely audible, “can I see it?”
Oscar exhales slowly, like it’ll keep him tethered.
“Yeah,” he manages. “‘Course.”
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides the boxers down. It takes effort—his cock is hard now, thick and straining against the cotton—but eventually they fall, pooling at his ankles. He’s already leaking at the tip, unable to resist the way you do him over.
You go very, very still.
Oscar watches you take him in. How your eyes track the length of him, how your lips part like you’ve forgotten how to close them. He resists the urge to shift under your gaze, to adjust himself, to do anything that might break the moment.
“Jesus,” you whisper. “It’s… bigger than I thought.”
He tries not to smile. Tries not to let it get to his head. He can feel it, anyway. The way the pride simmers under his skin, low and satisfied.
You keep looking, eyes full of something like awe, something almost reverent. He stores it in his mind for future reference.
“Bigger than in videos?” he teases.
Your face goes even redder, and Oscar bites down a groan. You’re killing him.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just... I didn’t expect—”
“It’s okay,” he says, scooting closer just a bit. “I like that you’re curious.”
You reach out, slowly. Your fingers brush against the base of him, tentative at first. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.
“Still okay?” you ask.
He nods. “Careful with your nails. Not too sharp.”
You pull back immediately. “Sorry.”
“No, no, you’re fine,” he assures, voice a little strained. “Just—try using more of your palm. Yeah, like that.”
You adjust, cupping him with both hands now, dragging one slowly up the shaft while the other stays low. You trace a vein with your thumb, and Oscar’s hips twitch before he can stop them.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “That’s good. Sensitive there. ‘Specially near the tip.”
You take him at his word. Your thumb circles the head, a little clumsy, a little too dry. He winces. “Okay—wait, hang on,” he says, voice catching. “That’s good, but you need to slow down. Think less pressure, more glide. Use your fingers gently here, like you’re… coaxing.”
“Coaxing?” you echo.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “Like you want it to give you something.”
You giggle under your breath. The sound goes straight to his spine.
Still, you follow instructions well. Your fingers soften, the rhythm more fluid now. You explore at your own pace, brushing over the head, down the length, to the base again. You cup him. He twitches, bites back a moan.
Oscar looks down at you—your flushed face, your blown pupils, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
He wants to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a ragged, “You’re learning so fucking fast.”
He means it. Every shaky breath of it. Because if this is how you touch someone when you’re nervous and new, he can’t even imagine what you’ll be like when you’re not holding back.
And here’s when we realize Oscar is not as good as he ought to be:
Oscar shouldn’t be thinking about Lando. Not now.
Not when you’re right next to him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, hands wrapped around the base of his cock like you’re still trying to make sense of it. But the thought wedges itself into the back of Oscar’s skull, ugly and persistent. Lando, waiting in the wings. Lando, clueless and grinning. Lando, who might never know what it took for you to get here.
Oscar breathes through his nose, grounding himself in the present.
You’re looking up at him like you’re waiting for permission.
He doesn’t want to be bitter. Doesn’t want to ruin this. So he softens his voice, makes sure you’re still there with him. “Good?”
“Good,” you say, fingers still curled around his throbbing cock. “I—do you think I should try my mouth?”
Oscar cups your cheek. His thumb strokes along your jaw, reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says simply. “But if you want to try, I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it. Just go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod, take a breath like you’re about to dive into deep water.
He watches as you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. Just that alone sends heat curling through his belly. Your mouth is warm, soft. You press a kiss there, awkward and unsure, and Oscar exhales sharply.
“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to take much. Start with your tongue. Lick, taste me a little. Get used to it."
You follow his instructions, tongue flicking out, tracing around the head of his cock. It’s messy—your spit catching against the ridge, your lips dragging slightly too dry at first—but you’re trying. Concentrating.
“Good,” Oscar grunts. “That’s really good. Try using your hand around what you can’t take in your mouth. Keep it around the base."
You wrap your fingers tighter, your other hand bracing on his thigh. Your mouth opens wider and you take him in, slowly, maybe an inch or two. Your lips stretch around him. Your brow furrows.
“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.
You shake your head, but you gag a little when you go further. You pull back quickly, a breathless, embarrassed laugh spilling out of you. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t—wasn’t expecting that."
Oscar laughs with you, quiet, breathy. He smooths his hand over your hair.
“Nothing to be sorry about. That’s normal,” he says through his teeth. “Just go at your pace. You don’t have to get it perfect."
You try again.
This time, you take him into your mouth slower, lips stretched, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Your hand keeps a steady rhythm where your mouth can’t reach. It’s clumsy—your jaw is working too hard, your cheeks hollowing with effort—but it’s erotic in a way Oscar’s never experienced.
Because it’s you.
You, trying for him.
You, so obviously inexperienced and so desperate to learn.
He can’t help the sound that escapes him. Half groan, half whimper. His hips twitch forward, but he forces himself still. His hand stays gentle on the back of your head, not guiding yet, only grounding. “Good. Just like that,” he groans. “Little slower. There you go.”
Your spit’s everywhere now—slick on your chin, trailing down his cock, wetting your fingers. You look up at him again, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and Oscar feels something dangerous stir in his chest.
Lando won’t get this version of you.
Not the way Oscar has you now. Mouth stretched, blush deep, fingers trembling slightly from how much you’re trying to impress. He cups your jaw again, thumb stroking over your cheekbone.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.”
You hum softly around him—accidental or deliberate, he doesn’t know—and Oscar nearly comes undone. He has to breathe. He has to last. But it’s getting harder with every second you stay on your knees, letting him fall apart in your mouth.
Oscar’s voice is tight when he speaks next, tighter than it’s been all night.
“Can I—” he starts, and then pauses, swallowing hard. He forces his voice careful, normal. “Can I use your mouth a little?”
Your brows pinch, lips still swollen and wet, and he continues, nervous now. “Not rough, just… guiding a bit. Like Lando might. So you know how it feels.”
He hates himself for saying it like that.
Hates invoking Lando’s name when your lips are red from him, when your hands are still trembling from the weight of him. But it’s the only way he knows you’ll let him. The only way to justify the way his cock aches to fuck into the willing shape of your mouth.
You nod. You pull away from him for a moment, voice barely carrying as you say, “Okay.”
Oscar cups the back of your head gently, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll go slow. You breathe through your nose, yeah?” he instructs. “If it’s too much, just tap me.”
You nod again, and he rocks his hips forward.
The first slide into your mouth is shallow, but Oscar feels it in his spine. The heat, the resistance, the obscene sound of spit and breath catching. His grip tightens slightly in your hair, steadying himself. You’re warm and wet and pliant, jaw relaxing more the deeper he gets.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Doing so fucking good, baby.”
He watches your hands scramble to his thighs, gripping him for balance. Watches your lashes flutter as he fucks forward again, deeper this time. The sound your throat makes as you try to take him fully is sinful. He doesn’t go all the way—won’t push you there, not yet—but he can’t help the slow, hungry rhythm he sets. A gentle grind of hips. A firm pull of your head toward him.
You gag slightly. He pauses. “You okay?”
You nod, watery-eyed, lips stretched, breath shaky through your nose.
“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “That’s it. Use your tongue. Just a little more… hng, fuck. Right there.”
He starts again. Small thrusts. Controlled. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust. Your throat convulses around him once, and he sees stars. He’s saying things now, low and unraveling, almost incoherent.
“Mouth so fucking perfect.”
“My pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl.”
“Can’t believe I’m the first one—holy shit.”
The idea hits him again, harder this time. He’s the first. First one you’re letting in like this. First one whose cock you’ve taken into your mouth, messy and unsure and eager to learn. He’s the one who gets to show you what it’s like, what you’re capable of. What you deserve to be praised for.
His hips snap forward a little harder. You choke, just slightly. He slows again, hands gentling.
“Shhh. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” he rushes to praise you, hands stroking you soothingly. “My good girl, taking it so well. You’re making me feel so—fuck, I can’t even—”
Your hands squeeze tighter around his thighs, fingernails digging in, grounding yourself. Your eyes water more, and it makes you look somehow even more devoted. Even more his.
He groans, low and ragged, tipping his head back. “ I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that.”
And you—so innocent, so unknowing—you blink up at him through the tears and hum around his cock, sending a vibration so sharp it makes his knees weak.
He has to stop. Has to pull back. Has to catch his breath before this ends too soon. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Not when you’re letting him fuck into your mouth like it’s the only thing you were made for.
Oscar’s voice is more gravel than words now.
“Open wider for me,” he whispers, breath ragged, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Exactly like that. Keep looking at me—fuck, yeah, don’t look away.”
He’s rocking into your mouth, riding the edge, and you’re so obedient it wrecks him. Jaw slack, tears shining in your lashes. There’s saliva at the corners of your lips, a glossy sheen along your chin. Your hands grip at his thighs like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to him.
“Touch yourself,” he says lowly. “You don’t have to finish. Just… want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”
You hesitate, shy even now. But you obey, hand sliding down to cup yourself over your shorts. And that’s what makes Oscar nearly come right then and there.
The idea of you squirming with your fingers buried between your thighs, while your mouth is so warm and wet around him? His stomach clenches, jaw tight. He feels his orgasm cresting fast, too fast, and he can’t hold it back anymore.
“Gonna come—fuck. Keep still for me, y-yeah? Please, baby?”
You do.
You hold perfectly still when he buries himself deep and comes with a broken sound. It’s not neat. It’s not silent. It’s breathless and shaky, his fingers curling hard in your hair as he pulses down your throat. You take all of it like a champ. Throat flexing. Moaning from somewhere deep down.
When he finally pulls back, you’re panting, licking your lips without realizing it. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight. “Shit,” he breathes, immediately crouching, hands cradling your face. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head, a little dazed. Voice hoarse. “No, no. That was just… intense.”
Oscar presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, giddy and exhausted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Your tongue pokes out again, tasting the corner of your mouth, and his eyes flick down.
“There’s still some—” He trails a thumb along the edge of your lips, catching the mess and rubbing it gently against your bottom lip. You shiver, lapping up what’s left of his cum.
“I thought it’d taste worse,” you say after a moment, honest and curious.
Oscar huffs out another laugh, leaning back on his heels. “What, were you expecting battery acid?”
You snort. “I dunno. It’s kinda… salty?”
Oscar tilts his head, grin lazy. “That’s what I get for not drinking pineapple juice.”
You slap his shoulder, but you’re smiling, and so is he. His thumb swipes again at your mouth, this time lingering. “Still messy,” he murmurs, and he means more than your lips. You’re flushed and blinking slowly, your hand still resting on his thigh like it belongs there.
He kisses your cheek gently. “Come on. Water, now. And then…” He lets the words hang, his voice suddenly quieter. “Then we can talk.”
Because even if your mouth is still sweet with the taste of him, even if his heart’s still sprinting, there’s something else beneath the surface.
Moments later, you’re curled up beside him on the bed, knees hugged to your chest, one of his hoodies drowning your frame. Oscar’s already brought you water, wiped your mouth clean, even insisted you lie down while he fetched you a snack you didn’t ask for. The air between you is light, made tender with the weight of what just happened.
You’re quiet, not awkward exactly, but distracted. Fidgety. Your fingers play with the cuffs of your sleeves like they’re something to disappear into. Oscar watches you closely.
“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”
You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just… yeah.”
Oscar waits. You always do this—start saying something only to retreat, like you’re testing the water first. He lets the silence stretch long enough before trying again. “You’re squirming.”
Your brows lift, startled. He keeps his voice soft. “You’re uncomfortable?”
You don’t answer right away, but you do shift again, thighs pressing together tightly. The tension in your body isn’t something he can ignore. Not after everything. Not with how hard you tried to do well for him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and brushing the back of his hand against your arm. “Talk to me.”
You bite your lip. It takes a breath, maybe two, before you mumble, “I think I made myself sore.”
Oh.
It hits him all at once. How long you were down there, how hard you were trying to do everything right, how nervous you must have been. How wet the inside of your thighs must be now, how much slick had probably gathered with no relief, how the pressure must be lingering between your legs. He swallows, shame curling low in his gut.
“I—fuck. I didn’t think. I should’ve asked.”
“It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to wave it off, but you don’t meet his eyes.
He hesitates.
“I could… help,” he offers, and hates himself a little for how it comes out, too eager and too unsure. He forces himself to do better. “Only if you want. It might help, just—relieving some of that. So you’re not in pain.”
You blink at him. He sits back, pretending like he’s reasoning it out with you, when really it’s all he can think about.
“I mean—Lando’s not gonna be hands-off forever, right?” he says through gritted teeth. “If you’re still planning on saying yes to him. And this way, you’d know what it’s like before he tries anything. You won’t be surprised.”
It’s petty. The words taste like vinegar in his mouth. But it’s the best he can do to mask the heat coiling in his chest.
You contemplate it, glancing at him—quick, uncertain, like you’re scared to name what you want. “Okay,” you say after one too many seconds. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
And Oscar feels it down to the marrow.
Not triumph. Not desire.
Just the raw, aching privilege of being the one you trust to make this feel okay.
Oscar sits beside you, palm warm where it rests lightly against your knee. He’s still watching you too closely, still trying to balance every inch of his desire with the care you deserve. It burns in his chest, the knowledge that you trust him with this. That you’re letting him learn your body before anyone else.
“You know you can stop me at any point, right?” he reminds you, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to go anywhere.”
You stare up at him, so trusting that it’s devasting. “And still no kissing.”
It stings. He smiles anyway. “No kissing,” he agrees.
He lets you lie back on the bed, positioning yourself however’s most comfortable, and then follows your cues. He starts with your arm—his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist, then the crook of your elbow, slow and methodical. His hands are always warm, always clean, always careful. And when you shiver, just slightly, he clocks it.
“That one?”
You let out a low sound of approval. “It’s weird,” you say. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”
Oscar hums, lips parting in thought. He bends to press his mouth to the same spot. Not a kiss, just a hot breath and a drag of his lower lip that makes your arm twitch.
He keeps going, skimming over your collarbones, mapping the line where your shirt starts underneath his hoodie. His hand slides under the hem—slow, deliberate. “Still okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe.
He palms over your stomach first. Then higher. You’re not wearing a bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp.
“Oh.”
Oscar pauses. His eyes flick to yours.
You look vaguely horrified. “I—I think I like that a lot.”
He fights back a grin. “That’s good.”
“No, like. A lot a lot.”
He huffs a breath through his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and cups you properly. Weighs the softness in his hand, just to hear your little intake of breath. “You’re sensitive here?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your nipple.
Your hips shift. “Jesus,” you groan. “Yeah.”
He’s going to file that away forever. Instead of teasing you more, he pulls your hoodie and shirt up properly, lets it bunch above your chest. His hands return, this time more focused, both of them. He tests how you react to pressure, to circular motions, to the pad of his thumb versus the flat of his palm. He listens to every sound you make. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your lashes.
“You weren’t kidding,” he says almost reverently.
You laugh, flustered. “Shut up.”
He leans in, face close enough to see the heat blooming across your cheeks. “I think they’re my favorite thing about you,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“You’re only saying that because you’re touching them.”
“I’m saying that because it’s true.”
You whimper, but you don’t stop him. You arch into his touch. And Oscar knows—this is only the beginning of how you’ll learn each other.
Oscar’s hands settle over your chest, the weight of his palms grounding you as your breath quickens beneath him. He takes his time, leans down just enough to latch his mouth over you. Rolling one nipple between his fingers while his lips drag across the swell of your other breast, tongue flicking just barely where he knows it’ll make you squirm.
The first sound you make is soft. Barely audible. The second is more of a whine, your hips shifting with increasing urgency. He grins against your skin. “Feels good?”
You nod, lips parted, eyes unfocused. “Mhm.”
Oscar’s mouth closes around your nipple, sucking lightly, then a little harder, just to test how far he can push. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize, fingers tugging when he sucks deep and slow. He lets his teeth graze, and you buck beneath him.
“Fuck,” you gasp.
He pulls back slightly. “Too much?”
“No, no,” you say, breathless. “No, it’s—I don’t know.”
He raises an eyebrow and brings his hand lower, resting it over your shorts. You’re panting, devastated in how you’ve unraveled, and Oscar can feel it before he even presses down.
Wet.
When he applies the slightest pressure, you jolt again, eyes wide and embarrassed. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and your mouth opens like you might explain yourself. “I didn’t mean to,” you whimper. “I didn’t think I was that close. I’m sorry—”
He cuts you off, voice low and impossibly warm. “Don’t apologize. That was hot.” Oscar leans in, brushing your temple with his nose. “You got off just from that?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter.
He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, still tracing lazy circles over the damp fabric. “Can I move these?”
He feels you nod, feels the way your voice cracks when you say, “Yeah.”
Oscar is careful, fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging the shorts and your underwear down in one slow motion. The air hits you first, then his gaze, heavy and adoring.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He only settles beside you again, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, already planning how to show you there’s nothing wrong with wanting like this. He watches the way your stomach still flutters with the aftershocks of your orgasm, how your breath stumbles, how your eyes glass over as you try to refocus on him. Your hips twitch when his thumb accidentally grazes your clit.
Oscar shifts closer, his palm warm against your thigh as his fingers trace the soft skin, inching upward like he’s trying to memorize you. Your shorts are pushed down now, panties too, and he still hasn’t looked away from you—not really. He watches the way you squirm, your mouth parting, your gaze flitting from his eyes to his hand like you don’t know which part of this you should be more overwhelmed by.
“You good?” he checks in again.
You nod, then hesitantly add, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”
He smiles reassuringly, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “That’s okay.” A pause, then, gently, “Can I ask something? When you touch yourself… how do you do it?”
The question makes your whole face turn an incandescent shade of pink. You laugh, a little out of discomfort, covering your eyes with one hand. “Oscar.”
“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling, but there’s a real curiosity in his voice now. “I wanna know what you like.”
You mumble something about how you usually just rub circles, nothing fancy. Oscar hums, clearly thinking.
“Like this?” he asks, finally dragging his fingers over your folds, slow and feather-light. He finds your clit with an ease that makes your hips jerk, and he chuckles under his breath. “Jesus. Sensitive.”
You gasp, one hand clutching at the bedsheets. “It’s d-different when someone else does it!”
He’s already testing pressure, rhythm, the edge of your comfort. You try to help, stuttering out what feels good, what doesn’t, but the more he listens, the less coherent you become.
He spreads you open a little further, fingers slick with the mess you’ve already made. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, half in awe. “And this is just my fingers.”
You arch when he grazes your clit just right, thighs twitching as he keeps a steady pressure there. It doesn’t take much before your hips start moving with him, chasing each slow, teasing circle.
“You’re so quiet,” he whispers. “Trying not to make noise?”
You whine, breath catching. “It’s embarrassing.”
Oscar leans over, kisses your jaw. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You don’t have to be quiet.”
Then he slides lower, one finger dragging down to tease your entrance, not pushing in, just circling. Your breath stutters again.
“Here?” he asks, thumb still gliding over your clit.
You nod frantically. “There, there, there—”
He doesn’t push in, not yet. Just keeps rubbing you, watching your thighs tense and your chest heave, and when he finally slips the tip of one finger inside, your whole body jolts.
It’s not long. It’s not even deliberate. Your legs tense, your mouth drops open, and you come a second time with a high, shocked sound, like you didn’t know you were close until it was already happening.
Oscar groans, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching with restraint. He’s hard in his joggers, achingly so, and he has to breathe through it, through the image of you coming around nothing but his hand.
“Can you handle more?” he asks, the pads of his fingers still slick with you. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.
You look at him, dazed but trusting. “I think so.”
He smiles—relieved, reverent, wrecked. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”
Oscar starts slow. He pushes a finger in, shallow at first, just letting your body adjust to the stretch. Then he draws it back out, slick with arousal, and adds another. Your thighs tremble.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than you. “So warm.”
His free hand steadies your hip as he starts to move his fingers—slow and steady, curling just slightly. Then he presses his thumb back against your clit, circling softly, like he’s trying to soothe and tease you at once. The combination makes you cry out, hips jerking, your hands fumbling for something—his wrist, his arm, the bedsheets.
“Oscar,” you pant, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s a lot.”
But you take it. You whimper and clench and rock against his hand, and he watches in disbelief. Watches the way you squirm beneath him, overwhelmed but hungry for it anyway.
“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, kissing your collarbone. “Taking me so well.”
Then, like it’s an afterthought—but it’s not, it never is—he glances up at you again. “Can I try one more thing?”
You hesitate, still breathless, but nod.
Oscar shifts, lowers himself until he’s between your legs, face hovering close to your core. He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Then he ducks his head, mouth closing over your clit.
The instant moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrolled. Your back arches. You grab at his hair, not pulling away, just trying to ground yourself.
He groans into you, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers keep moving, scissoring slightly now, stretching you open as his tongue flicks and presses and licks.
You fall apart. There’s no other word for it. You come again, around his fingers. Crying out, shaking, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.
He should stop.
Your legs are twitching on either side of his head, breath hiccupping in your chest like you’re trying to pull yourself back down to earth. But Oscar can’t. Not yet. Not when your thighs are caging him in. Not when the taste of you is still on his tongue. Salty-sweet, slick, utterly intoxicating.
He licks deliberately, slow and broad this time, from the base of your entrance all the way up to your clit. Then he does it again, fingers still buried inside you, curling with intent.
You let out something between a sob and a moan. “Osc,” you cry, barely a hiccup.
He hums against your cunt. The vibrations make your hips buck.
“You’re sensitive,” he says, voice hoarse. “I know.”
You squirm, trying to close your legs, but his hands are firm, holding you open at the hips. He mouths at your clit with a little more gentleness, his fingers coaxing what else he knows you can give.
“C-can’t,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut.
“Yes, you can,” he breathes, kissing over the swollen bud. “You’re doing so well for me.”
Your fingers tangle into his hair. You’re not pulling him off, but there’s a bit of an edge to your tug. “W-wait, don’t eat me out,” you squeak. “It’s—you don’t know how that tastes—”
He lifts his head just long enough to look at you. His mouth glistens as he grins, just on the right side cocky. “You think I care?”
Your face burns.
“You’re perfect like this,” he says plainly. Then he ducks his head again, tongue working you open, pushing inside while his fingers slide back in, finding that spot again. That one spot that has you gasping.
The overstimulation hits hard. You writhe against the bed, thighs trembling violently as he holds you still. He alternates between licking your clit and sucking it, his fingers never slowing. You can’t form words anymore. All that’s left are fractured sounds, guttural and high-pitched, your hands fisting the sheets.
Oscar’s lost in it. In you. Your taste, your scent, the way you pulse and clench around his fingers, the way your body jerks when his mouth hits just right.
“You’re so good,” he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “So sweet. Can’t believe you’ve never… holy shit.”
When your third orgasm crashes down, full-body and violent, only then does he lift his head. Chin glistening, eyes dark and glassy with want.
Oscar drags himself up your body slowly, carefully, kissing the warm stretch of your stomach and the slope of your ribs, nose brushing against the curve beneath your breast. He keeps his mouth from your lips—like you asked—but not without effort. It’s instinct, habit, the way he wants to kiss you when you’re like this: glowing, boneless, trembling beneath his weight.
Instead, he lets his mouth drag over the skin of your collarbone as he adjusts himself between your thighs. His joggers cling to his hips, but the strain in them is unmistakable. A thick, hard ridge pressed tight to the slick heat of your core.
He rocks his hips forward—just a little—to feel it. To feel you.
Your cry breaks sharp in the air.
“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead falling to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “I—can I? Just—this. Let me have this. Please.”
You nod, too dazed to speak, too desperate to deny him. “Go,” you say, equal parts merciful and needing, “take what you need, Osc.”
Oscar’s thrusts stay controlled, but the friction is filthy. Raw cotton dragging along your clit in time with the heavy flex of him beneath the fabric. You’re soaked and sensitive, and every pass of his hips makes your body jerk, back arching as your cunt clenches around nothing.
His hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you steady as he ruts forward again with a helpless whine. “You’re so good,” he pants. “Being so good for me. Feels like you’re made for this, for me.”
Each grind is punctuated by low groans in your ear, Oscar’s voice dissolving into breathless praise and curses. He presses his forehead to your temple, eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on, to make it last.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you. Just like this. Just—fuck, just like this.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he thinks he could die like this, right here. Held between the ache in his chest and the heat of your cunt under his cock. Still not inside, but it’s enough. Yours to give, and his to ruin.
Oscar doesn’t know if it’s shame or worship that makes him move like this. He kisses down your sternum instead of your mouth, like he promised, but it doesn’t stop his desperation from bleeding into every motion, every panting breath fanned against your skin.
You’re too perfect, with your breath catching in little sobs each time he drags his hips forward. He almost doesn’t hear it over the slick sound of your bodies, but it’s there. You, whispering his name. Moaning it.
“Oscar,” you whimper, nails clawing down his back like you’re marking your territory—and it nearly pushes him over the edge. “Oh my God, O-Oscar.”
He chokes on a groan and hides his face against your shoulder, but the thoughts swarm him. Every disgusting, shameful fantasy he’s kept buried over the years spills into the forefront of his mind.
You, crawling into his lap asking for help like this.
You, naked in his sheets, lips wet and eyes glassy as you beg him to show you how to please someone else.
How many nights has he gotten off to the image of your hands down your shorts, whispering his name without realizing? How many times has he thought about bending you over his kitchen counter, your voice broken and pleading?
This is the closest he’ll ever get. This—this lesson. This half-sin under the guise of helping, of making sure you won’t be surprised when Lando touches you.
He’s not supposed to want it. He’s not supposed to want you.
But your cunt is dripping for him, and his cock is rock-hard beneath his joggers, and when he feels your hips stutter up against him like you’re meeting him halfway, like you might want it just as much as him—
Oscar bites down on the curve of your shoulder, just to keep himself tethered. You cry out, raking your nails down his back so hard it leaves trails of fire. And then he’s coming, rutting forward through the cotton, wet warmth soaking between you two as his body convulses with it.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, he’d do it all over again. He’d do worse, if you let him.
And he still won’t kiss you.
Oscar goes through the motions of aftercare. He’s a lot of nefarious things, but he’s not evil.
The bathroom is still warm with the steam of your shared shower, water droplets clinging to the corners of the mirror. Oscar’s fingers are soft where they glide along the towel he’s wrapping around your shoulders. He crouches a little to meet your eyes, his gaze searching. Not for anything dramatic, but for signs. Of your comfort. Your peace. Maybe even your joy.
You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs tucked in close to your chest, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s rubbing at your calves with another towel, not even bothering to hide the adoration on his face. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since he washed you gently between the legs, murmuring quiet apologies you kept telling him weren’t needed.
Oscar sits on the edge of the tub eventually, elbows on his knees, letting out a breath like he’s been carrying the world. The silence stretches in a syrupy way. You’re the one who breaks it.
“You don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you groan, cheeks flushed. “Like I’ll float away.”
He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’m not letting you float away.”
You try not to melt, fidgeting with the edge of the towel instead. You’re smiling now too, though, and it knocks him out.
“Hey,” he says, gently. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”
You glance at him, waiting.
“Don’t ever settle for someone who doesn’t treat you like this. Okay?” Oscar manages. “Like you’re precious. Like they know how lucky they are just to get to hold you.”
Your mouth trembles a little, and he catches it with his thumb before it can turn into something shaky. His touch stays steady, thumb against your cheekbone.
“That goes for Lando, or anyone else,” he goes on. “If they don’t take their time with you—if they don’t care to learn what you like, how to care for you—then they shouldn’t get to have you.”
You blink rapidly, eyes too bright. “You’re going to make me cry,” you complain, but the appreciation bleeds into the curve of your laugh.
Oscar kisses your shoulder, still damp from the towel, and whispers, “You deserve only the best of things. Always.”
You lean into him then, and his arms wrap around you like they were always meant to. “Thank you,” you sigh into the crook of his neck. “You’re the best friend ever.”
Does it sting to hear? Of course.
But, like we’ve established—Oscar is a patient man.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The selfish, godforsaken truth pulses in his chest like a second heartbeat:
Oscar hopes you’re ruined for anyone else. ⛐
box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.
summary: You thought escaping to the bathroom would save you from a drunk and clingy Oscar, but you were wrong. He follows you, intent on proving that his stamina extends far beyond the race track. A story about overstimulation, denial, and an Oscar Piastri who refuses to let you finish until he’s completely satisfied.
pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem!reader
word count: 4.8+ k
raiting: 18+
genre: smut, pwp, romance, established relationship, fluff (at the end).
warnings: drunk Oscar (but sweet and consensual), bathroom sex, counter sex, mirror sex, overstimulation, edging, dirty talk, slight roughness, praise kink, unprotected sex (creampie), aftercare, cuddling
author note: So I wrote a new fanfic about y/n as Oscar's girlfriend. I think these will be the most frequent fics on my blog, because that's what you love the most. Actually, I had many versions of this fanfic, but I decided that this slightly drunk and dominant, insatiable version of Oscar and y/n's not-quite-protesting version would be the most interesting. It turned out so intense and long 🤭 I swear I haven't written anything more intense and dirty in all my writing (and I've written over 100 explicit scenes on another blog) 🩵 What this Oscar did to me?! 😱🫠🫢 If you like long, intense, and Oscar, then this is for you 👇🏻
The electronic key gave a quiet click, and the hotel room door opened. You walked inside, supporting Oscar, who, although capable of walking on his own, had decided he couldn’t manage without you. He was heavier than he looked at first glance. Oscar leaned his entire body weight against your shoulder; his usual composure had melted away somewhere at the bottom of his third glass of gin, giving way to a relaxed, warm heaviness.
A third consecutive victory at the Miami Grand Prix was the reason for his celebration. Oscar usually didn’t drink much—he always kept himself in check, even at parties. But this time, teammates and sponsors had insisted: "To first place! To the hat trick!" And he gave in.
Not to the point of total intoxication, no—he understood everything, but he spoke a bit lazily, drawing out his words. Alcohol made him completely unlike himself—more relaxed, more playful. A slight sway in his step and a warm smile that wouldn’t leave his face made him look both cute and funny at the same time. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw Oscar like this. Perhaps on his high school graduation day, when he got drunk with friends.
You gripped him tighter under the arm, feeling his muscles tense under the thin fabric of his black t-shirt, and involuntarily leaned closer to his neck.
The expected sharp smell of alcohol was there, but it was lost, receding into the background before what you adored to the point of trembling knees. He smelled like a storm that had finally subsided. It was a scent you would recognize among a thousand others. The smell of sun-dried wood and sea salt.
Heat radiated from Oscar’s flushed skin, and this scent was unfolding in a special way right now. It held the freshness of the wind on the Melbourne coast and the tartness of sage, which, mixing with the barely perceptible notes of expensive gin, created an intoxicating cocktail. Oscar always smelled like home.
But this dreamy moment was interrupted by his careless movement toward the bed, and you almost fell with him. You helped him land on the soft mattress, and your boyfriend fell, absolutely exhausted from the party. You ran a quick gaze over his body, sprawled across the middle of the bed, and shook your head, smiling. His black, tight-fitting t-shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing part of his flat stomach, and his white shorts had slipped down a bit on his hips.
"Champion, you definitely overdid it with the victories today," you said and sank to your knees in front of the bed to pull off his massive sneakers.
"I’m so tired..." he mumbled from somewhere above. His legs dropped limply to the floor as you removed his shoes. "But so... happy. Three in a row. Can you imagine?"
You stood up, walked to the nightstand beside the bed, and placed your purse and phone there. He turned his head toward you, and his smile grew wider.
"Are you proud of me?"
Warmth spread through your soul. You were prouder of him than he could imagine.
"I am proud of you," you whispered, leaning down to him and bracing your hands on the bed. Your lips gently touched his temple, and you felt him instantly bury his fingers in your hair. You hadn’t planned anything, just wanted to kiss him gently to express your pride. But Oscar craved more. He intercepted your lips, and his tongue slipped inside your mouth, deepening the kiss. The longer you kissed, the wetter and more chaotic it became.
Oscar pulled you toward him. You tried to resist, but he was stronger. Even drunk, he easily, effortlessly pulled you down next to him. But that wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t want you just lying next to him—he needed to feel all of you. With agility surprising for his state, he threw a leg over your thighs and in a moment, using inertia, pinned you under him.
The air was knocked out of your lungs. He was heavy. His relaxed body seemed to weigh a ton, and he didn't even try to hold himself up, trusting gravity completely. He sprawled over you, pressing you into the mattress with every inch of his body.
"Oscar... you're going to crush me," you laughed, trying to move his shoulder, but it was like moving a rock.
"No," he mumbled into your neck, and you felt his wet, hot smile against your skin. "I'm holding you. You're my main trophy today."
You were too tired for what Oscar had in mind. It was almost three in the morning, and after such a long and eventful day, you only dreamed of sleep.
"Oscar... I want to sleep..." you said. He began rubbing his nose against your cheek, then moved down to your neck, inhaling your scent as deeply as if it were oxygen. And then followed the kisses. His movements were languid, the trails wet, and the desire—obvious.
"You smell... tasty..." he whispered, lazily running his tongue over the sensitive skin behind your ear, sending a herd of goosebumps through you.
You realized: this had to end while you still had the strength to resist. Because a little more—and his lazy, hot kisses, his weight pressing you so pleasantly into the mattress, his scent filling your lungs—would do the job. You could already feel the response warming between your thighs, your body forgetting the fatigue and starting to reach for him. So you gathered all your will into a fist. First—gently. You ran your palm down his back, as if soothing him, and laughed quietly.
"Oscar... you really will crush me. I can't breathe."
He chuckled lazily but lifted his head slightly, looking down at you with those drunk, shining eyes.
"Then I'll make it lighter," he mumbled and tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but the alcohol made his movements clumsy. Instead, he just rolled a bit to the side, still holding you in his arms, and you seized the moment.
Sharply, but playfully, you twisted out from under him, as if wrestling, and slipped down—between his arms, past his chest, past his stomach. He tried to grab you by the waist, but his fingers only slid over the fabric of your dress. You were already at the edge of the bed, on your feet, laughing quietly so as not to wake his hunting instinct too strongly.
"No, no, champion," you said, retreating back toward the bathroom. "The trophy chooses a shower and bed today."
Oscar lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking at you with an offended, drunken smile. His hair was disheveled, and in his eyes, you could read disappointment mixed with desire. You saw that he was aroused: the fabric of his shorts was taut, his breathing accelerated. He reached a hand out in your direction, as if wanting to pull you back.
"Hey, come here..." he drawled lazily. "I haven't celebrated properly yet..."
"Celebrate in your dreams," you replied, already standing in the bathroom doorway. "I'll be quick. And don't touch yourself without me, got it?"
He just chuckled, falling back onto the pillow, and you closed the door—not all the way, out of habit.
In the bathroom, you exhaled with relief. Fatigue washed over you in a wave. You took off your dress to feel free, and before getting into the shower, you started washing the makeup off your face. Although there wasn’t much, skincare was mandatory. The face in the mirror looked tired but happy. You managed quickly and leaned down to wash with cool water.
When you lifted your head, drops were running down your cheeks, and when the water finally stopped blurring your vision, you saw Oscar in the mirror. He was standing in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. The black t-shirt was still slightly ridden up; the white shorts, low on his hips, did not hide his erection. He looked at you silently, and you saw mischievous sparks in his eyes. You wiped your face with a paper towel and turned to him.
You looked at his arousal and raised your eyes, meeting his.
"What? Want to shower first?" you asked, not without a dose of sarcasm, hinting that he needed to calm down.
But Oscar didn’t answer. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly approached you. There was not even a hint of drunkenness in his movements now. His eyes ran from bottom to top over your almost naked body. You turned back to the mirror and realized that now you were definitely trapped. In a moment, he was behind you. His large, solid body pressed you against the vanity with the sink. His lips found your neck again, and his fingers, which just a moment ago were on your waist, slid down your stomach to the place that had begun to pulse. You felt his aroused cock against your buttocks.
"Oscar, I'm really tired," you said almost inaudibly, because his fingers had already found their way to your wet folds. You felt his touch and gripped the edge of the cold marble countertop with your palms. The mirror in front of you fogged up from your breath, but you still saw his reflection: eyes dark, shining, a sly drunken smile, but absolutely confident.
"I know," he answered right by your ear. "But you said it yourself... don't touch myself without you. Besides, you started it..."
His fingers on your pussy moved slowly, you would even say teasingly—not penetrating, just circling around your center. You reacted instantly: your hips pushed forward on their own, seeking more pressure, but he evaded, keeping you on the edge.
"Mmm..." you tried to protest one more time, but nothing came out, just an uncontrollable moan escaped.
He pressed harder—you felt his full length, hot and hard, through the thin fabric of his shorts against your buttocks. With one hand he held you by the waist, not letting you pull away, with the other—he continued these slow, unbearable caresses.
"You're wet," he whispered, as if surprised, as if it were a discovery for him. "Very wet. And this is after you were 'tired'?"
You bit your lip, trying not to give away how much this turned you on—specifically this drunken confidence of his, this playful cruelty, knowing you wouldn't run away now.
He turned you to face him. You ended up sandwiched between his body and the sink. His lips found yours—the kiss was greedy, passionate, wetter from the alcohol, but one that made your head spin. While he kissed you, his fingers slid down again—this time inside, unhurriedly sinking into you. You arched, pressing against his palm. Your own hands slipped under his t-shirt, lifting it up as if urging him to take it off, and Oscar, without thinking twice, got rid of it in a moment, remaining only in shorts.
He returned to your lips as soon as he fulfilled your silent request and tore away from you only when you both needed air. He looked into your eyes—and smiled. This Oscar was not at all like the one you were used to seeing in bed.
He touched your thong and pulled it down. It fell, gathering at your ankles, and the cool air touched your moist folds. Oscar grabbed you by the thighs. One sharp, confident movement—and you were off the floor. The cold of the marble countertop burned your bare buttocks and thighs when he sat you on it, but that cold instantly vanished under the pressure of his hot body. Oscar unceremoniously spread your knees wider, settling between them so tightly that not a millimeter of free space remained.
Now your faces were on the same level. In his eyes splashed dark, intoxicating pleasure—he saw you trembling, and he liked it.
"Osc..." you tried to say something, but he didn't let you finish. His lips attacked yours again—not just kissing, but as if consuming you. But this time he didn't stop at the lips.
He began real torture. Oscar covered your jawline with kisses, descending to your neck, intentionally lingering on the most sensitive points where the blood pulsed. He sucked on the tender skin, alternating it with light bites that made you arch back, nearly hitting the back of your head against the mirror.
He didn’t take off the bra you were still wearing; he just yanked it, and it rode up, freeing your breasts.
His lips fell to your aroused nipples, and he caressed them with his tongue. The arousal intensified from these caresses because your breasts were an erogenous zone for you, and Oscar knew it well.
His hand ended up between your bodies, found the place that was the main trophy for him. And he acted ruthlessly.
His fingers moved inside in a rhythm he set himself, completely ignoring your chaotic attempts to adjust. He would speed up, sharply thrusting deeper and forcing you to throw your head back, then almost stop, barely touching, teasing you to tears. It was masterful, planned overstimulation. And you didn’t know what you were being punished for. Was it for running away?
You felt everything at once: the cold stone under your palms, the heat of his breath on your chest, and this unbearably sweet pressure below. Your moan became louder, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom.
"Shhh..." he whispered right into your mouth, stealing your breath. "The neighbors will hear..."
"Then... you... need... to stop..." you barely said, and your voice still broke into a loud moan from the overstimulation. Oscar had no intention of stopping, and you realized this when he sped up his movements. A wave of pleasure was already rising to your throat, your body tensed, preparing for the explosion. You instinctively squeezed his shoulders, pushing your hips toward his hand, begging for the finale.
But he sensed it. And abruptly stopped.
His fingers froze inside, ceasing movement exactly the second it was vitally necessary. Your body trembled treacherously from the incompleteness, and you opened your eyes, looking at him with a mixture of indignation and despair.
Oscar looked at you, breathing heavily, with a self-satisfied smile atypical for him. He ran his thumb over your lower lip, enjoying your reaction.
"Hmm... I'd like to try something else," he said. You let out a loud breath, feeling resentment that he tortured you so much but didn't allow you to come.
When he dropped to his knees and his face was right between your legs, you felt your walls contract in anticipation of his actions.
Oscar placed his palms on your thighs, spreading your legs even wider and securely fixed you in this defenseless position.
At first, you felt only his hot, ragged breath scorching your most sensitive skin, causing your stomach muscles to contract involuntarily. And then his tongue touched you—softly, broadly, from bottom to top, gathering all your juices.
"Mgh!..." you threw your head back, pressing the back of your head against the mirror. The cold of the glass sobered you a little, but the heat below was unbearable.
Oscar was in no hurry. It seemed he decided to taste every millimeter of you. He kissed the inside of your thighs, slowly approaching the center, teasing you with his slowness. His tongue moved confidently and wetly, and you felt him enjoying the taste as if you were his favorite vanilla ice cream.
But the real torture began when he focused on your clitoris. He didn't apply strong pressure, no. He barely touched it with the tip of his tongue, vibrating quickly, then suddenly switched to slow, wide circular motions. It was maddening. You wanted harder, faster, rougher, but he kept you in this state of weightlessness where pleasure bordered on the pain of tension.
"Fuck..." you exhaled, trying to move your hips toward his mouth to increase the pressure. "Oscar... please..."
He reacted, but in his own way. His hands gripped your thighs to the point of bruising, not letting you move on your own.
"Quiet..." his hum vibrated against your skin, sending a new electric shock through you.
Suddenly he added fingers. Two fingers abruptly entered inside, filling you, and began to move in the same rhythm as his tongue. This double attack knocked the air out of your chest. You grabbed his hair with your hands, clutching the strands, trying to hold on to reality, which was blurring before your eyes.
He played with you like a race car on a track—accelerating you to a crazy speed, forcing you to breathe raggedly and moan loudly, then abruptly dropping the revs, leaving you trembling at the very peak, but not letting you cross the finish line.
He pulled away for a second, and you felt the cold air on your wet skin. You opened your clouded eyes and saw him looking up at you from below. His lips were wet and swollen, his chin glistened with your juices, and that same devilish, drunken satisfaction burned in his eyes.
"You're so tasty when you beg," he rasped, his voice vibrating with arousal. "Want to come?"
He knew the answer. He saw your body taut as a string.
"Yes... Oscar, yes!" you almost shouted.
He smiled, and that smile promised you everything. He fell upon you again, but this time without games. His tongue moved fast, hard, knowing exactly where to strike. He began sucking on your clitoris with such intensity that you forgot how to breathe. His fingers moved inside madly fast, curling, seeking your G-spot, and when they found it, the world exploded.
A wave of pleasure crashed over you with such force that your vision went dark. Your legs trembled, and if Oscar hadn't held you with his strong hands, you would have just slid off that countertop onto the tiles. You gasped for air, trying to calm your heartbeat, which seemed to echo even in your ears.
But Oscar didn't give you time to rest.
He stood up from his knees, his face wet with your juices, and his eyes—dark and even greedier. He didn't even kiss you—just ran his hand along your wet thigh, as if checking the result of his work, and grunted with satisfaction.
"Thought that was it?" he rasped. "I haven't really celebrated yet..."
He easily lifted you off the countertop. Your legs gave way, your knees were like cotton, but he pressed you firmly against him, not letting you fall. He led you deeper into the bathroom, to the toilet, the lid of which was down.
"Stand here," he commanded softly. You leaned your back against the cool wall, watching him through a fog of pleasure. Oscar stood before you, flushed, incredibly handsome in his drunkenness and desire. His fingers, a bit clumsy from alcohol but impatient, gripped the waistband of his white shorts. He jerked them down, along with his underwear. The fabric fell to his ankles, and he carelessly kicked them aside, standing before you absolutely naked.
You involuntarily lingered your gaze on him. His cock stood straight up, hard, engorged with blood, pulsing with impatience. On the pale skin of his thighs, where his shorts usually were, the contrast with his tanned legs stood out. He looked powerful, and at the thought that all of this would be inside you right now, a wave of arousing heat ran through your body again.
Oscar sat on the toilet lid, spreading his legs wide, and pulled you by the hands toward him.
"Come to me," he called, looking you straight in the eyes. "Sit on top."
You took a step toward him. His warm palms rested on your buttocks, guiding you. You threw a leg over him, straddling him. His thighs were hard under yours.
You felt his head press against your wet, swollen entrance. It was a sensation on the edge—you were so sensitive after the orgasm that any touch seemed almost excessive, but at the same time, you felt an emptiness that only he could fill.
Oscar put his hands on your waist, helping you find your balance.
"Slowly..." he warned, though his own breathing was ragged.
You began to lower yourself. Centimeter by centimeter, he entered you, stretching, filling every corner with himself. You felt his hot hardness, his girth, and it made you throw your head back and moan loudly.
"Oh God..." you groaned.
When you lowered yourself all the way, your buttocks touching his groin, Oscar pressed his face into the curve of your neck with a noisy exhale. You sat face to face, tightly intertwined, skin to skin. It was intimate, hot, and incredibly tight. You felt his heart beating against your chest—just as madly as yours.
You tried to take the initiative and start moving yourself to find a comfortable rhythm, but Oscar stopped you. His large palms squeezed your waist, fixing you in place.
"No..." he mumbled, burying his nose in your hair. "I'll do it myself."
And he began to move. These were not the fast, rhythmic thrusts you were used to. Because of the alcohol, his body worked in a different mode: his movements were slow, languid, but incredibly deep. He would toss you up with his hips, and then forcefully lower you onto himself, burying himself in you to the very hilt, hitting your cervix.
For your body, which had just experienced an explosion of pleasure, this was a real test. Your walls were still spasmodically contracting, nerve endings were exposed, and every deep movement of his felt too sharp—on the border between pain and pleasure. You bit your lips, trying not to scream, because the sensations were so intense that tears gathered in your eyes.
"Oscar... that's... too deep..." you groaned, bracing your palms on his shoulders, trying to lift yourself at least a little to reduce the depth of penetration.
But he didn't listen. Or simply couldn't stop. Alcohol played a cruel joke on him for the first time: it dulled his sensitivity. What was overstimulation for you was insufficient for him. To feel you, to get closer to release, he needed more friction, more pressure, more time.
"I don't feel... the edge..." he rasped, and in his voice, irritation mixed with lust could be heard.
He began to move more insistently, rougher. He entered you at different angles, searching for that point that would finally allow him to break. He rubbed his pubic bone against your clitoris, which was already burning, forcing you to shudder with your whole body. It was like an endless loop: he stretched you, filled you, withdrew almost completely, and burst inside again, giving you not a second of respite.
You felt sweat trickling down your back, hair sticking to your neck. The air in the bathroom became heavy and humid.
"Oscar, I can't take it anymore..." you exhaled, feeling your legs starting to go numb from the awkward position, and everything inside burning from the continuous friction. "Please, finish..."
He raised his head and looked at you. His eyes were clouded, pupils dilated. He saw your fatigue, but that seemed to turn him on even more. He was aroused by having complete power over you, that you were entirely at his disposal, even when you had no strength left.
"I'm trying, baby..." he said playfully. "But you're so tight... and wet... I want this to last forever."
He changed tactics. Instead of deep thrusts, he began to grind into you with his hips, creating frantic friction inside. He squeezed your buttocks so hard that you knew—tomorrow there would be marks from his fingers there.
"Damn..." you cursed when he hit that same, overexcited G-spot again, forcing your body to treacherously react again, preparing you for a second wave you didn't ask for, but which he was striving for. "You're mocking me..."
"A little," he smiled crookedly, and a drop of sweat rolled down his temple. "That's for running away." He confirmed your guess as to why he decided to just kill you today.
You realized that if you didn't take the situation into your own hands (or rather—into your own body), this drunken marathon would last until dawn, and you would simply pass out right on top of him. You needed to push him over the edge, break through that alcohol haze that had dulled his sensitivity.
Gathering the last crumbs of strength, you stopped resisting his chaotic rhythm and did the only thing that could work without unnecessary movement. You hugged him around the neck, pressed your cheek to his wet temple, and squeezed your internal muscles with all your might.
Oscar hissed, freezing abruptly. You felt his cock twitch inside from this unexpected tight ring.
"Oh..." he exhaled, and his fingers dug painfully into your thighs.
You didn't let go. You continued to rhythmically squeeze him, combining it with short, barely perceptible pelvic movements to meet each of his thrusts. It worked. The pressure and heat finally did their job, switching something in his brain.
His breathing turned into a hoarse moan. The chaotic movements became short, sharp, and frantic.
"Yes... yes, like that... don't let go..." he babbled into your shoulder. You felt yourself relaxing, and his cock hitting exactly where it needed to. A second orgasm covered you today, and your walls began to contract around his again.
He made a few more deep, desperate thrusts, burying himself in you with the full weight of his body, and finally broke. His body tensed like steel, his back arched, and with a loud, drawn-out moan, he poured into you. You felt the hot, pulsating waves of his orgasm, which seemed to never end.
When the last spasms subsided, Oscar went limp. He dropped his head heavily onto your chest, breathing as if he had just run a marathon. You were completely exhausted too. Legs trembling, heart pounding, eyelids heavy as lead.
"I think I died..." you protested, having no strength even to move.
Oscar made some undefined sound, similar to a chuckle, and lazily kissed your collarbone.
"I'll revive you... tomorrow," he mumbled in a hoarse, sleepy voice.
"Shower," you whispered peremptorily, realizing that if you didn't wash the sweat and everything else off yourselves right now, you would simply fall asleep right here, on the toilet in the bathroom. "And this time—only to wash."
He laughed quietly, the vibration from his chest transferring to you.
"Yes, ma'am."
He helped you stand up. Your legs barely obeyed you, trembling after such tension, and Oscar, noticing this, just scooped you up under the arm, pressing you tightly to his side. Together you walked into the shower cabin.
Oscar turned on the water, and in a moment, pleasant warm steam enveloped you. When the streams of water hit your skin, you barely held back a moan of relief. The water washed away the stickiness, fatigue, and the remnants of the alcoholic haze.
This time he was surprisingly tender. Oscar took the shower gel and lathered it in his palms. He slowly ran his soapy hands over your shoulders, back, moving down to your lower back. His touches no longer demanded or teased—they soothed. He washed the traces of his fingers from your thighs, kissing the wet drops on your neck.
You, in turn, just leaned your forehead against his chest, allowing the water to run down both of you, and lazily moved your palm over his torso, washing away the sweat.
"You can barely stand on your feet," he mumbled into the top of your head, rinsing the foam from your hair.
"Whose fault is that?" you tore yourself away from his chest and looked up at him. He smiled, and now this man looked like "your Oscar" and not that wild lover who barely left you alive. The combination of three consecutive wins and a large amount of alcohol had revealed a new version of your boyfriend to you. And you would definitely never forget it.
Having dried off with one towel for two—quickly and carelessly, because the cold of the bathroom had already started to bite at your heated skin—you finally left the bathroom.
Reaching the bed seemed like the last task for today. As soon as you were near it, Oscar simply collapsed onto the mattress, pulling you with him. The cool bed linen seemed like the most pleasant thing in the world.
He immediately scooped you under him, settling into the "little spoon" position. His hand possessively lay on your waist, pressing your back to his chest, and his legs intertwined with yours. You felt his warmth, his even breathing by your ear, and that familiar scent, which was now clean and fresh.
Darkness and fatigue instantly swallowed you both. And although Oscar won the race in Miami today, his main victory, undoubtedly, was you, peacefully sniffling in his arms right now.
lando takes you clubbing to the raspoutine in paris, and a cheeky shirt switch leads to an even better night for the both of you.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2.5k ୨୧ warnings : SMUT (f oral, semi-public – club bathroom), clubbing / drinking, munch!lando (yes its a warning) is exactly where he wants to be ୨୧ note : if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
part of the lando's heart series.
lando loved taking you out to clubs – especially ones that were extremely hard to get in to without the right connections. you think he does it to show off, like a male peacock trying to impress the female one by showing off its feathers. that's exactly how you would describe lando.
even after almost four years of knowing and dating him, lando still felt prideful in himself to show off for you. and lando always seemed he thrived off of impressing you – taking you places you haven't been, clubs you've never heard off because of how exclusive they are.
you know... just millionaire boyfriends things. nothing too extreme.
and even after three constant years of traveling all over the world with lando – some things really do still amaze and impress you.
like the raspoutine club he's managed to drag you to. the entire club was bathed in a deep red lighting and immediately when you walked in, lando holding onto your hand tightly, you could feel the bass vibrating through your whole body. every step you took in your heels sent another vibrating shockwave through your bones.
lando was just a step ahead of you, guiding you through the crowd of people, the smell of alcohol, expensive perfumes, and faint scent of smoke filled the air. you seen your boyfriend look over his shoulder you – checking to make sure you were doing okay, his bright smile painting his grin when you make eye contact. he then manages to move to where he's right next to you, his hand resting on your hip. which is warm against your skin, his thumb slowly rubbing up and down on the sliver of skin that is peaking between your blue set you're wearing.
when you two get past the dancefloor and the crowd starts to dwindle a little, lando presses his mouth against your ear so you can hear him over the music. "did i tell you, you look absolutely gorgeous, princess?"
you don't even bite back the smile as you turn to look at him, "yes, about three times at the hotel and two more on the way here." you tease before pressing a kiss his cheek. his hand comes down to grab a handful of your ass before playfully smacking it.
"hey! there he is! lando, how are you!" someone calls out once you both near the back of the club where red velvet booths line the wall. lando steps away from you to quickly greet the icy blonde male before his hand is reaching blindly towards yours. you grab lando's hand and let him guide you back next to him. "you must be y/n! pleasure to meet you, i'm matt!" he says, doing the usual european cheek kiss greeting that you've grown so accustomed to over the last eight years.
when matt turns around, back to you, talking to lando and trying to get you both to sit down – that's when you notice the back of matt's shirt. well... more like what it says.
because in big colorful font reads: EAT PUSSY, IT'S VEGAN.
you can't help but laugh at the text, lando giving you a side glance as he has you sit down next to him on the booth seat. however, you can he noticed the seat too from the faint smirk on his lips. you and lando sit shoulder to shoulder, his arm resting behind you as the assortment of drinks being to appear on the table in front of you all.
between the drinks and shots, you and matt start to strike up a conversation. the two of you talking about fashion and the industry after learning that matt is a model. lando chimes in here and there, the two of you sharing a few drinks, and you can't help but bite back a smile whenever you feel his lips press against your bare shoulder.
"so, matt," you say leaning over the table, a wide grin on your face as your body flushes with warmth from the alcohol starting to run through you. "what is up with that shirt? i just have to know!" you finally ask, making the french model laugh and shake his head.
"just something fun that i threw on. you like it?"
you laugh, nodding your head, "i need to know where you got it! lando needs one for sure!"
you completely miss how your boyfriend almost chokes on his drink when he hears you. but matt catches it and laughs as he watches lando try to recover.
"is lando vegan?" matt asks, a smirk on his lips and the question makes you laugh again, hands clapping together as you lean back into lando.
"hm," you say, looking at your british lover with a fond look. the red lights casting him in a beautiful glow as your hand reaches up to brush his hair back – even though it definitely wasn't needed, but neither of you care. "yeah, something like that."
the icy blonde male shakes his head, grin on his face before he looks at lando. "i'll tell you what– let's trade shirts! you can have it for free since y/n likes it so much."
lando knows he should probably deny the offer, but he's too far into tonight – and you – to deny it. he can deal with repercussions from his pr team at a later date, he thinks. his eyes shift over to you for a moment, taking in how he's totally enamored with you under the lights.
and then he's standing up before you can even fully process what's happening as lando is taking his shirt off in the middle of the club. matt lets out a hollered laugh before he's doing the same. you don't pay any attention to anything but lando, your hand casually reaching out to touch him. he turns his head and looks down at you with a wide, confident grin on his face as he switches shirts with matt – the two grinning and hugging even.
you feel something shift inside you as you watch lando throw on the other shirt. a heat running through you and settling in your stomach, but this is different from the one you've been feeling all night. no, this is one you get before you usually let lando rock your shit. and he is now wearing the rather iconic, in your complete opinion, shirt.
and of course he puts it on backwards, the big bold "eat pussy, it's vegan" written straight across his chest. he looks down at you, wiggling his eyebrows which earns a laugh from you as he smooths the shirt down. when he sits back down, lando doesn't hesitate to pull you into him. your chest flush against his side, looking at you before he's giving you a chaste kiss.
"you like my new shirt, baby?" he asks, your hands gliding across his shoulders before you're leaning close to kiss him again.
"yeah... i think it really suits you," you tell him, his hand coming up to grip your thigh in a way that sends another wave of heat over you. literally, taking your breath away, letting out a stuttered gasp as he kisses you. not caring who is around or that the two of you could end up all over twitter by daylight. "lan~" you giggle out, cupping his face as you both look at each other.
"don't you think this shirt gives good advice?" he asks, his hand trailing up your thigh and playing with the hem of your skirt.
"i do," you tell him with a smile, leaning over to the table to grab another drink. but instead of drinking it yourself, you hold it to his lips and lando happily lets you pour the drink into his mouth – the liquid burning down his throat. "don't you think..." you start to saying, earning his fully attention – as if you didn't have it already, "take the advice? you know... since you're good at following rules and regs and stuff."
"and stuff?" he repeats with a smile, his hand squeezing the flesh of your thigh. his lips press against your neck and the feeling sends a rush of adrenaline to between your legs. "are you gonna punish me if i break the rules?"
"well, i mean– when have you ever been denied the opportunity to eat pussy, lan?"
he chuckles, shaking his head, "you've got a point, princess." he's then standing up, taking a hold of your hand to help you stand up. "we'll be back!" he calls out to matt and the few others at the table and without looking back he guides you away.
you let lando guide you through the crowd of people, completely trusting him even if you have no idea where he's taking you. the two of you head in the direction of restrooms before lando is leading you down a hallway – everything still bathed in that red light. you learn rather quickly that raspoutine is a labyrinth, but lando seems to know exactly where he's going. only because seconds later he's pulling you into one of the single-occupancy restrooms hidden away near the very back of the club.
your british lover slams the door, locking it with a sharp click before he's pressing you against it. inside the bathroom, you can only focus on lando who is pressing his body flush against yours – his hands gripping your hips tightly before he's kissing you. you immediately kiss back, a low moan escaping your throat as his lips move passionately against yours in a deep, bruising kiss. his tongue slipping inside your mouth easily, and tasting the premium, expensive vodka on your own tongue.
you felt lando's hand move to grab your thigh, bringing it up to rest around his waist – his cock hard and throbbing in his pants, rubs against your clothed core. soft, desperate moans sound against his mouth as your hands come up to tightly grab the back of his shirt to anchor him close to you.
"f-fuck, lan~" you moan out when lando suddenly hoists you up, your legs around his waist as he moves the short distance from the door to the marble counter. the counter is cold against your otherwise heated skin and the contrast as you try to anchor yourself closer to him.
lando looked down at you, chest heaving as he ran a hand through his messy curls. his hazel eyes scanning over your body, the sequin and hanging jewels on your two-piece set gleaming under the pinkish hue lights that starkly contrast against the deep, lustful red of the rest of the club.
"so..." he trails off, hands sneaking underneath your short skirt to grab at the hem of your lacy panties. he doesn't pull them down yet, but you wouldn't be surprised if he accidentally ripped them from how tightly he's gripping them. "you gonna let this vegan have his dinner?"
you can't help but let out a small lighthearted laugh, "i guess i can feed this poor vegan~"
lando kisses you again, pulling your panties down past your knees and over your heels. he pulls away to dangle them in between the both of you – a wicked smirk on his face before you're watching him pocket them.
"that's my princess," he says, spreading your legs wider, skirt bunching up to reveal your center to rather humid air of the bathroom. lando sinks down to his knees, not seeming to care that he's getting his pants dirty as he's level with your dripping pussy. "as the french say, bon appétit."
he then leans forward and buries his face directly between your thighs.
lando's tongue does a broad wet stroke from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit. one of your hands immediately grabs onto his hair as you throw your head back as a loud, unfiltered moan rips from your throat. your other hand holds onto the edge of the counter like a lifeline – like you're trying to keep yourself anchored to reality.
his large palms come up to cup your ass, lifting you slightly off the counter to get a better angle as you feel his tongue slip inside before he's licking up again to suck on your clit. you were dripping onto his lips as lando switched between flattening his tongue, swirling it tightly around clit, and flicking inside so it could gather your juices up. he could feel you running down his chin, but lando could care less about the mess he was making – drinking you up like a man dying of thirst.
or a hungry vegan.
you felt your hips twitch against his mouth, trying to buck up but lando's hands grip you tightly and stop you from doing so. the pleasure was overwhelming – the small restroom filled with the sounds of your moans and the wet sounds of his mouth against your pussy. it was completely and utterly driving you over the edge.
"lando, please– fuck, fuck, fuck! lando, lando, i-i'm gonna–" you choke out as you feel him insert two fingers into you. pumping them fast and hard before he's curling them and rubbing your sweet spot. his lips locked harshly onto your clit, and you can feel your eyes rolling into the back of your head from the pleasure.
you managed to look down, locking eyes with lando who is staring at you with those piercing hazel ones. he gives his fingers another few good pumps and his tongue drawing sloppy figure-eights until you're finally coming.
vision turning white as you feel your walls clenching violently around his fingers as your orgasm rips through you. you let out a loud moan mixed with his name as you feel your thighs shake from the force of the orgasm. especially when lando refused to pull away – drinking up all your juices. he stayed right there between your trembling thighs, tongue flattening against your folds, his hands holding you as steady as he could until you could finally feel yourself come down from your high.
slowly, lando finally lifted his head before standing to his full height. chest heaving and face flushed even under the pink lights. you could also see his lips and chin glistening with your wetness – the sight itself making you a little shy as the realization that he just ate you out in a club bathroom. with a shaky hand, you reached out towards lando to pull him closer to you.
your boyfriend leaned over you as you felt his hands wrapped around your waist. he gives you a firm kiss, the taste of yourself on his tongue, as he pulls you off the marble counter. holding your close as he trails his lips down your neck and fixes your skirt.
"guess i need to do this vegan diet more often," he whispers into your ear – breath hot and smug as his hand lazily strokes your back. "but i think i was already addicted to your pussy for a while."
"shut up," you mumble with a laugh, hiding your face in his neck and arms around your waist as you couldn't feel anything but completely and utterly ruined and in love with him.
𝒇𝒕 𝜗ৎ — oscar piastri 𝒙 girlfriend fem!reader / Everyone thinks you’re the sweetest girl in the world. Even Lando said it once: “Oscar, your girlfriend is adorable.” But your boyfriend is the only one who knows how freaking horny and dirty you really get—especially when you’re between the sheets. 1.2k
nsfw tw. Straight-up porn, basically zero plot. Reader’s a girl with a pussy. Dom!Oscar, sub!reader. Rough unprotected sex (wear a condom in real life, guys). Filthy dirty talk with heavy degradation. Spanking, etc. Creampie. Face sitting. Oscar’s a total asshole to her, but it’s all fully consensual. (I know he’s a sweetheart, but shh, let me dream) / English isn’t my first language, I use grammar checkers to translate. Some stuff might sound weird, sorry!
We all hate fake people. Those who pretend to be something they’re not, showing a perfect face to the world while hiding something completely different—even worse—underneath.
Ever since you met your boyfriend, you played the role of the good, innocent, pure girl to perfection. At least until the first time you had sex. Oscar had believed you were the sweetest girl in the world… until he discovered that other side of you. And, to be honest, it didn’t surprise him. No one could really be that chaste in real life.
Everyone talked about how perfect you were, how adorable you could be. They mentioned you as if you were some kind of cloistered nun, incapable of imagining you in a sexual situation. It was like trying to fit two wrong pieces of the same puzzle together.
Oscar used to chuckle to himself every time he heard Lando say how cute you were, how good, how angelic. Ironic, he thought. Too ironic.
Part of your boyfriend hated having discovered that side of you. The one that, during an entire weekend, wouldn’t leave him alone for a second in his own house because you were so turned on that you wanted him to fuck you in every corner.
Or the one where you cried between moans, begging him to give it to you harder, to cum inside you until your pussy overflowed and you kept dripping his cum for days.
You were the same girl his friends considered “adorable,” yes, to the point of calling you “angel” on more than one occasion. But when you were between the sheets, you turned out to be the closest thing to the devil: getting fucked mercilessly, gagged with his cock, or while he ate you out for hours until you cried, begging him to finally let you cum.
This time, you’re crying and kicking, completely exhausted. He’s been devouring you for over an hour. You’ve cum so many times that you couldn’t even count them on your fingers 10 fingers anymore. You’re sitting on his face, and he won’t let you move until he’s satisfied with your taste, until he decides he’s had enough and finally wants to bury himself inside you.
You grind your soaked folds against his pretty face while he swallows every drop of your wetness, sucking your clit over and over until you feel like you’re going to pass out.
You’re already so sensitive that the brush of his tongue almost hurts, but you can take it and more. You still need to feel his cock inside you; you know you have to hold on a lot longer before this ends… though, deep down, you don’t want it to ever end.
“You’re complaining again already. Pathetic. I haven’t even started and you’re already falling apart…” he mocks you with that smile of his, while his hazel eyes gleam with amusement as he looks at you. He runs his thumb over his lips to wipe away the remnants of you, and fuck, he’s so handsome that you clench involuntarily. Though, truthfully, lately just seeing him breathe is enough to make your body react like this.
He spreads your legs wider and positions you better over his face, burying his mouth in your pussy like he can’t get enough. You feel like he’ll never tire of your taste, of how sweet you are to him. It drives you crazy to cum on his lips, because you always end up leaving his mouth a mess of orgasms… and he swallows it all, without wasting a single drop of what you give him.
“You’re soaking my sheets. I can’t even devour you without you drenching everything, can I?” he murmurs in a husky voice as he flips you over on the bed until you’re completely exposed. Your pussy glistens, swollen and throbbing under his predatory gaze. He looks at you like he’s already decided he won’t leave you alone tonight; not until he’s used you so much that you forget your own name, and even his.
You feel vulnerable, maybe too much. His strong hands press against the inside of your thighs, keeping you spread open without letting you close them even an inch. “Keep them like that,” he orders in a low voice. “I haven’t given you permission to hide how wet you are for me.”
You watch as he gives one last lick that rips a scream from you: slow, almost torturous, from your entrance up to your clit, with his tongue flat and his eyes locked on yours. You could have cum just from that image alone. The gleam in his brown eyes, pulsing with pure lust in his dilated pupils. It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your life.
His hands fumble with his belt, clumsy from the urgency. He doesn’t even bother taking off all his clothes; he’s too desperate. Barely half a second later, you feel the tip of his cock sliding between your folds, and the next instant he’s buried in you to the hilt. His thickness and length find the perfect angle, hitting exactly those spots that make you moan uncontrollably.
“You’re clenching so hard… little greedy thing. You’d take anything I give you, wouldn’t you? It’s funny, everyone thinks you’re so sweet. If they knew how easy it is for you to spread your legs for me,” he murmurs almost mockingly as he fucks you like he hates you. Each thrust gets harder than the last.
Your eyes roll back, your ankles dig into the small of his back to feel him even deeper, your torso arches until you’re pressed completely against his chest. He’s fucking you so hard, it feels so fucking good, that your body doesn’t even know how to react anymore.
“Oscar, fuck, it feels so…!” You don’t even finish the sentence: one of his hands slips under your body and he spanks your ass so hard that a scream escapes you. You’d swear he’s left the mark of his palm burned bright red into your skin.
“Shh, baby. Little sluts like you don’t talk, they just take it and endure,” he whispers in your ear with that voice laced with sweet venom that gives you goosebumps and makes you clench even tighter around him.
You’re squeezing him so much you’re practically milking him. He cums in spurts inside you just as your own orgasm explodes against your belly and your pussy contracts so hard it feels like you’re going to break him. He floods you, splashing every corner until you feel yourself overflowing. You’re so full that you know tomorrow, when you get up to go to university, you’ll be leaving a trail of his cum all over the house.
Oscar smiles, scoops up that hot, thick mixture of both your orgasms with his fingers and shoves them straight into your mouth. He makes you suck them clean until they’re spotless, savoring that bitter-sweet taste that floods your tongue. “Poor little thing, you try so hard to be good… Too bad deep down you’re so filthy. And the best part is that you really think no one else notices. You’re not fooling anyone, love. And me least of all,” he murmurs, nibbling on your earlobe until a shiver runs down your entire spine.
And before you even realize it… oops, you’re soaked again.
summary : Charles dates a baddie and the internet takes it as him being the bottom in the relationship. If only they could see his reaction to those jokes... based on this anon !
wc : 3k
warnings : smau + written plot, heavy SMUT !! p in v, degrading language, dom!charles, unprotected sex, a loooot of dirty talk, rough sex, fingering, some choking, +18 [minors dni]
liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 489k others
y/n: 🪩dance no more
charles_leclerc #needthat liked by author
charles_leclerc mon coeur i'm on my knees
→ lando and he means that literally he's so pathetic
→ y/n pls pls tell me you took a pic
→ lando made a whole album😛 sending it your way rn
→ charles_leclerc | y/n come over and i'll recreate them
→ lando ewwwww
→ user95418 i'm crying he's down BAD😭😭
lilymhe gorg! liked by author
kikagomes absolute icon wow
→ y/n says you!!
user72637 one chance PLEASE just one chance
user81727 i love how obsessed he is with her
→ user92653 as he should!!
→ user14252 he really is pathetic for her🙂↕️🙂↕️
user93618 #needthat😭 charles is so real
user33794 and she's a harry fan??? can she get ANY more iconic
liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 700k others
y/n: feed's turning very red lately
charles_leclerc you know what you're doing with that top liked by author
charles_leclerc delete it's not fair
charles_leclerc oh la la
→ y/n omg you're finally embracing your french identity
→ charles_leclerc i can do a few french things alright
→ y/n 😰😰 blocked
charles_leclerc you make me look like a simp
→ pierregasly that's all you buddy😭👋🏻
user91634 how can someone be so pretty omfg
user13295 she really walks him like a dog liked by author
user17349 where's your top from??
→ y/n monaco❤️
→ user92755 NO WAY😭😭😭
→ user53440 not even she believes that
→ user11125 i'II NEVER fall for top charles propaganda
"No, bebé, I'm serious." Charles grumbled, a hint of irritation in his voice. "Can you stop laughing?"
This was actually outrageous.
Just in the last five minutes, he had already seen like ten tweets calling him a bottom with thousands of likes. Thousands. Were they kidding?
He rolled his eyes at the thought, taking a bite of his sandwich. They were having a light lunch when his girlfriend started laughing at the first post she saw when entering Twitter.
You shook your head, sitting on the kitchen isle, still chuckling about the whole thing. Because, God, you had to admit they were hilarious.
He huffed out a small, affectionate sigh, both annoyed and amused by your inability to stop laughing about the inside joke on the internet. While a part of him was irritated at being perceived as the submissive one in the relationship, he couldn't help but find your laughter endearing.
"It's not funny." He grumbled, his gaze narrow as he watched you giggle uncontrollably.
You took your phone, going back to read the first tweet you had found. "Dating that BADDIE??? Most bottom to ever bottom."
He facepalmed, groaning aloud as you pulled out your phone again, scrolling through the endless memes and jokes about him supposedly being a "total bottom".
"I'm not-" He started, his voice starting to rise in protest, his ego slightly bruised. "Fuck it, stop reading those."
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Seriously, how the hell did I get stuck with that label?" He muttered half to himself, half to you, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.
"This is why." You replied, showing him your phone screen.
It was a picture of him in his car, looking up at some Ferrari mechanic with what could honestly be perceived as pretty sub eyes.
He groaned aloud again, his jaw clenching as he saw the picture on your phone screen. He could immediately recognize it, a snapshot from a race weekend, captured in the garage.
And shit, you were right. In the picture, he was looking up at the mechanic... and he looked pretty damn submissive. He let out a frustrated huff as a blush of embarrassment crept up his cheeks.
"That's... not what it looks like." He protested weakly.
"Well I have like twenty pictures just like it." You replied. "But whatever you say buddy."
He groaned, the realization that you had not just one, but twenty similar pictures of him, looking submissive and... well, pretty damn bottom-y, nearly drove him mad.
He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching at the thought of the fans having so much material to use against him.
He leaned forward, giving you a half-hearted glare. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He accused, his voice laced with slight annoyance and embarrassment.
"Why would I? That would be cruel." You mocked him.
His eyes narrowed at your reply, the playful challenge in your tone sparking a familiar fire within him. He recognized that glint in your eyes, the little gleam that always appeared when you were being cheeky and challenging him.
Charles chuckled darkly, a smirk slowly forming on his face as his ego took over.
"Cruel, huh?" He repeated, his voice dropping to a low, almost dangerous tone. He pushed away his empty plate, his eyes not leaving you. "Come here."
You smiled, not moving from your place, still sitting on the kitchen isle. "Oh, they got to you, didn't they? You're upset."
His eyes darkened as you remained seated, refusing to move. You were being deliberately obtuse, and it both annoyed and excited him at the same time.
He clenched his jaw, trying to maintain his composure, his hands balling into fists on the table as he replied, his voice low and firm.
"Upset? Not really. But I definitely have something to prove now." He pushed himself away from the table, slowly standing up. "And I said get that pretty ass over here."
"Or what?"
His smirk widened at your challenging tone.
He liked this... the way you were defying him, pushing his buttons, testing him. So he took a step towards you, his eyes burning with a mixture of irritation and desire.
His voice was deep and authoritative, laced with a hint of warning. "Or I'm going to bend you over this counter and show you exactly who the bottom is here."
You finally got off the kitchen isle, walking slowly towards him.
"I was hoping you'd do that anyway." You whispered.
And that's when Charles snapped.
He captured your lips in a heated, almost possessive kiss the moment you were within reach. His hands immediately went to your waist, pulling you flush against his body as he poured all his frustration, ego, and dominance into that one passionate embrace.
"You think it's funny?" He murmured between kisses, his breath warm against your lips. "Making your boyfriend an internet joke?"
He didn't let you pull away to answer, one hand tangling into your hair to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss as he backed you up against the kitchen counter. His other hand gripped your waist tightly, pinning you to the marble edge.
"You're hilarious, vraiment." He muttered sarcastically against your mouth, his teeth grazing your lower lip. "Laughing at my expense."
He took your silence as an opportunity to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck, marking your skin with hickies and love bites. His hands moved to your thighs, lifting you up and placing you onto the counter.
You let him move you, and he stepped between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs possessively as he kissed you again, this time with a punishing intensity. His tongue dominated yours, asserting his control and dominance over the situation.
One hand slid up to grab a handful of your hair while the other reached down to unbuckle his belt.
Within seconds, he had freed himself from his pants. Without warning or asking for permission, because fuck that, he was proving a point, he grabbed onto your panties and yanked them aside brutally, making you gasp.
He entered you in one swift, deep thrust that had you crying out. There was no gentle build-up, no teasing, just raw, dominant need. He set a brutal pace from the start, his hips snapping against yours with force that had you sliding back on the counter.
"You like making fun of me?" His hand on your hair tightened slightly, pulling your head back to expose your neck further. "Let's see how funny you find this."
Charles pounded into you relentlessly, each thrust deeper than the last, almost as if he was trying to fuck you into submission.
He didn't slow down for a second; instead, he drove into you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing loudly through the kitchen.
You moaned, and he captured your cries with his mouth, kissing you roughly as he continued to fuck you as aggressively. His hand left your hair to grip your thigh, lifting it higher and spreading you wider for deeper access. The angle allowed him to hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back.
"Is it funny now?" He grunted out between thrusts.
"N-no.." You gasped.
A smug, dominant smirk tugged at the corner of his lips at your breathy denial. He slowed his pace slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts to target your g-spot with every snap of his hips. His grip on your thigh tightened enough to leave bruises.
"Charles..." You whined, moving your hips to get it faster.
"There it is." He hissed, picking up speed again to give you what you wanted. His thumb found your clit and rubbed circles around it aggressively, applying just the right amount of pressure. "Need it faster, baby?" He asked mockingly, his voice dripping with sweat and arrogance.
"Please... Charles."
"That's it." He smirked at the desperation in your voice, at the way you were practically begging him now.
His thumb continued working your clit while he stayed buried deep inside you, stretching you out and watching your face with dark, satisfied eyes.
"You wanted to joke?" He gritted out, his breathing heavy. "Doesn't seem like such a joke when you're falling apart on my cock, does it?"
His smirk turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with mischief and dominance. He pulled out completely, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could protest, he spun you around, pressing your face down onto the cold kitchen counter.
Then, his hands gripped your breasts, squeezing them roughly as he lined himself back up with your entrance. But instead of pushing in, he teased you, rubbing his tip against your wet opening, sliding up to your clit and back down without giving you what you needed.
"You were so funny earlier, non?" He murmured mockingly against your ear, giving your tits another rough squeeze.
"No." You shook your head, whining and trying to get more friction. "N-no... I'm sorry."
"Mmm, you're not sounding so confident now." He whispered mockingly, his lips brushing against your ear. "You're just a moaning, needy mess on my counter, begging for my dick." He pushed his tip in slightly, just enough to tease you before pulling back out.
The sheer desperation in your whimpers made his cock throb, but he maintained control. He slapped your ass hard enough to sting, the sound echoing through the kitchen, and then immediately gave your breasts another rough squeeze.
"Say it, baby. 'I'm sorry, Charles, for making fun of you, please fuck me properly.'"
"I-I'm sorry..." You cried out, holding tightly onto the counter.
"Say the rest." He prompted cruelly, his hand delivering another sharp smack to your ass. He stayed pressed against your entrance, teasing you with just the tip while his hands continued to roughly grope your breasts.
"Admit you were wrong. Beg me to fuck you properly." He was torturing you on purpose, keeping only his tip inside you, refusing to give you the satisfaction you were crying out for.
"Words, chérie. Use your words."
"I was wrong, I was." You whined, nodding. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Charles, please..."
"Please what?" He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he stayed buried just at your entrance.
His hands pinched your nipples hard between his fingers, giving them a rough twist that made you cry out. "Tell me exactly what you want, baby. What you need. Use those pretty little words."
"Please fuck me, Charles."
"Good girl." He purred, finally pushing all the way back inside you in one savage, unforgiving thrust that had you screaming into the furniture. "That's it. That's my girl. Apologizing and begging so prettily."
You gasped loudly as he began to fuck you aggressively against the counter, the punishing strokes that made the dishes rattle and your breasts bounce heavily in his hands.
"Is this what you wanted? Me filling you up and fucking you like this?" He slammed into you hard enough to make the wood creak, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. "Answer me, mon coeur. Is this what you needed to shut the fuck up?"
You whined again as he pushed your head against the counter.
"So fucking loud," he growled, pushing your face down harder against the cool marble. "No talking back now, huh? Too busy taking my dick to joke around now."
You held onto the furniture, rolling your eyes while letting out a loud moan.
"There it is." He smirked, watching your eyes roll back in pleasure despite his rough handling. He pounded into you even harder, making the counter shake. "You like it when I fuck you like a whore, don't you?"
You nodded, moaning again. You let him use you however he wanted, not refusing the rough treatment.
"Such a good girl when my dick is inside you, aren't you?" He grunted, his rhythm turning brutal and punishing. One hand left your hip to wrap around your throat, pulling your head up slightly while choking you just enough to make your vision blur. "No more smart mouth. Just screaming and taking my cock like a nice little girlfriend."
He drove into you deep, hitting that spot that made your legs shake violently, getting another yell out of you.
"Look at you." He rasped, his grip tightening on your throat just enough to restrict your airflow, sending a rush of adrenaline through your veins.
"Can't even form a sentence. Who's the bottom now, chérie?" He slammed into you hard, grinding his hips against your ass, forcing a broken cry from your lips. "Answer me."
"I-I am." You gasped out.
"That's it." He praised, finally releasing your throat and letting your head drop back down to the cool counter. His hands moved back to your breasts, giving them a possessive squeeze as he continued to mercilessly fuck you. "No backtalk when I'm using this pretty pussy."
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the kitchen, echoing off the marble furniture, obscenely loud. He watched your hands scrambling uselessly against the stone for purchase, your body jerking forward with every brutal thrust.
"Look at this mess." He growled, leaning over your back, biting down hard on your shoulder blade. "So fucking wet for me."
You tightened, getting a hiss out of your boyfriend.
"Fuck!" His hips stuttering as your pussy clenched tightly around him. "That's it, do that again." He demanded, his voice low and commanding. He wrapped a hand around your hip, pulling you back roughly onto his cock as he snapped his hips forward. "Milk my dick, baby. Show me how sorry you are."
He could tell you were about to cum, and he definitely didn't want that so soon.
"Don't you dare." He warned instantly, noticing your breathing hitch and your body beginning to tremble. He slowed his pace, pulling out almost entirely before thrusting back in agonizingly deep, denying you the rhythm you needed. "Ask for permission, chérie. You know the rules." He slapped your ass hard, the stinging sensation a sharp reminder.
"Please." You whined. "I'm so close, please Charles..."
"Mmm, I know you are." He whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "You're practically dripping down my balls. So fucking greedy." He began to move inside you again, short, sharp thrusts designed to drive you wild. "Tell me what you need."
"Faster..." You begged him, already breathless. "Just like that."
"Like this?" He growled, picking up the brutal pace again, pounding into that sweet spot without mercy. His hand snaked between your legs, two fingers pressing firmly against your clit in time with his thrusts. "Come on then, baby. Give me what I want."
It didn't take you more that five seconds after that to come, and so did Charles.
"Fuck!" He roared, his orgasm slamming into him like a freight train.
He came hard, his vision whiting out as he filled you with hot, thick ropes of cum, as his fingers kept circling your clit, drawing out your orgasm. His hips continued to jerk forward in spasms, emptying himself inside you completely.
You closed your eyes, resting against the counter, and he collapsed forward, his chest pressing against your back as he panted heavily.
His fingers gentled on your clit, slowing to soft circles as he caught his breath. After a moment, he carefully pulled out, watching as his cum began to drip down your thighs.
Charles pressed a soft kiss against your shoulder blade, contrasting sharply with the rough treatment from moments before. Then, he turned you around gently and leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breathing still ragged.
You gave him a soft kiss, and he hummed softly, parting his lips to deepen it gently. His hands moved to your hips, pulling them close as he pressed more kisses to your lips, your jaw, your neck... a stark contrast to the rough handling from earlier.
"Shh... baby... I got you..."
He noticed the way you winced slightly, his cum falling down between your thighs, and the red marks his hands had left on your hips. A small smirk played on his lips as he realized the extent of his rough treatment. "Looks like I made a mess of you, mon coeur."
"Shut up." You lazily smiled, pushing him away.
He chuckled softly, stepping back to give you some space. "I'm serious though." He said, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. "You need a bath. Preferably with me."
You smiled when he picked you up. "You really are pathetic for me huh."
"Absolutely." He confirmed immediately, carrying you towards the bathroom. "I'm totally pathetic for you. Can't even go ten minutes without touching you or throwing you over my shoulder like a caveman." He set you down gently in the side of the bathtub and began to run the water.
"Good." You nodded, one hand moving to try the temperature of the water. "I like you pathetic."
"Oh, you do?" He raised an eyebrow, wrapping his arms around your waist as the tub filled. "You like that your hotshot F1 champion turns into a desperate needy mess every time you look at him?"
