Summary: Oscar has a biting kink and is ashamed of it while you are obsessed with it
Song: My Love · Justin Timberlake
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 18+ ONLY! 🤭🫶
Word count: 3.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Stop looking at me like I’m a piece of fruit you’re trying to decide whether to buy," Oscar muttered, though he didn't move his shoulder away from your reach.
He was still in his team kit, the fire-retardant fabric stiff and smelling of ozone and spent rubber, a sharp contrast to the sterile, chilled air of the motorhome.
He kept his gaze fixed on the telemetry data on the screen, but the slight tremor in his jaw gave him away; he was vibrating with a tension that had nothing to do with the qualifying lap he’d just nailed.
"I'm not looking at you like fruit, Oscar," you replied, your voice dropping an octave, trailing a finger along the sensitive line where his neck met his collarbone. "I'm looking at you like someone who knows exactly what you're suppressing."
He let out a sharp, jagged exhale, a sound that was half-sigh and half-groan. "It's animalistic," he whispered, finally turning to face you, his eyes dark and clouded with a guilt that only served to make the air between you thicker. "It's not… it's not polished. It's not how I'm supposed to be."
"Who decided you had to be polished in this room?" You didn't wait for an answer, sliding your hand up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down until his breath hitched against your skin.
You could feel the heat radiating off him, a feverish intensity that broke through his carefully curated composure. When his lips finally brushed yours, it wasn't a kiss—it was a reconnaissance mission, hesitant and searching, until you tilted your head, exposing the pale, vulnerable stretch of your throat as a silent invitation.
The shift was instantaneous; the restraint snapped with an audible sharpness. He didn't just kiss you; he claimed a territory, his teeth grazing the junction of your shoulder and neck with a predatory precision that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your pelvis.
You gasped, your fingers knotting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as he sank his teeth in—not enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a deep, blooming ache.
The sensation was a bruising pressure, a rhythmic pulsing of heat that radiated outward, leaving a searing map of ownership across your skin that would take days to fade.
"Is this what you're afraid of?" you managed to choke out, your voice trembling under the weight of his intensity. "That you're not… polished enough?"
You tilted your head further back, offering him more space, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Because I don't want polished, Oscar. I want the parts of you that you try to hide from the cameras."
He let out a sound that was less a word and more a guttural vibration, his forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat of suffocating silence.
"It feels like losing control," he admitted, his voice rough, stripped of its usual composure. "Once I start, I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be gentle when the only thing I can think about is how much you're shaking for me."
He didn't move away, but instead shifted his weight, his thigh brushing against yours with a slow, deliberate friction that made your breath hitch. He began to trace the line of your jaw with the pad of his thumb, the pressure barely there, a ghost of a touch that felt like a live wire sparking against your skin.
Every millimeter of contact felt amplified, the static electricity between you humming louder than the distant roar of the idling engines outside the motorhome.
His fingertips dipped lower, grazing the hollow of your throat where your pulse was hammering a frantic rhythm, his touch hesitant, almost questioning, as if he were waiting for you to recoil from the hunger he couldn't quite mask.
The tension snapped when he finally lunged, not for your lips, but for the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder. This time, there was no hesitation; he sank his teeth in with a focused, deliberate intensity that elicited a sharp, involuntary cry from your lungs.
The sting was immediate and electric, a searing point of contact that bloomed into a deep, thrumming heat.
He sucked the skin upward, the pressure creating a vacuum that pulled the blood to the surface, marking you in a way that was visceral and undeniable, a bruised signature of his hidden nature.
You arched into him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms, pulling him flush against you until there wasn't a sliver of air left between your bodies.
The smell of him—salt, adrenaline, and a hint of expensive cologne—filled your senses, dizzying and intoxicating. As he moved to the other side of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin with a predatory precision, you felt the low growl vibrating in his chest, a sound of surrender to the very instinct he had spent his entire career suppressing.
He paused, his lips hovering just millimeters from a fresh patch of skin, and for a heartbeat, the silence in the motorhome became a physical weight.
He didn't commit; instead, he let his hot breath ghost over the surface, a teasing torture that made your skin prickle and your core ache with a demanding void.
His hand slid from your neck down to the small of your back, his palm pressing firm and heavy, anchoring you to him while the anticipation coiled tight in your stomach, a spring wound too far, waiting for the slightest trigger to snap.
The friction of his team kit against your thighs was a coarse reminder of where you were, a stark contrast to the wet, sliding heat where his mouth finally clamped down again.
He didn't just bite this time; he lingered, swirling his tongue around the mark he'd made, tasting the salt of your skin before pulling back with a sharp, sudden nip that elicited a strangled gasp from your throat.
It was a calculated rhythm of pain and pleasure, a silent dialogue of hunger that bypassed words entirely, leaving only the visceral evidence of his desperation.
"You're shaking," he whispered, the words vibrating against your collarbone, his voice now a dark, honeyed rasp. He shifted his grip, his fingers splaying across your hip to pull you tighter against the hard line of his body, ensuring you felt every erratic beat of his heart.
The control he prized so highly was fraying at the edges, replaced by a raw, urgent need to leave a map of his desire across your skin, one bruising mark at a time.
He didn't go back to your neck immediately; instead, he began a slow, agonizing descent, his fingertips tracing the ribs beneath your shirt with a lightness that felt like a dare.
It was a sensory contradiction—the heavy, possessive weight of his body pinning you back against the cold wall of the motorhome, while his touch remained teasingly tentative, barely grazing the surface.
The friction of his calloused fingertips against your skin sent tremors through your thighs, a starving kind of tension that made you want to scream for him to either stop or shatter you completely.
You reached for him, your palms sliding over the slick, fire-retardant material of his sleeves, trying to find purchase, to pull him back into the violence of the moment.
When your fingers finally locked behind his neck, pulling his face back up to yours, you caught the flash of something primal in his gaze—a hunger that was stripped of all apology.
He didn't kiss you; he simply leaned in until his nose brushed yours, his breath mingling with your own in short, jagged bursts, the air between your lips charged with a static that felt thick enough to taste.
The silence was punctured by the distant, metallic clatter of a tool trolley in the paddock, a sudden reminder of the world outside their sterile sanctuary. Oscar flinched, the sound momentarily snapping him back to the persona of the poised athlete, but the instinct won.
With a low, guttural sound, he bypassed your lips entirely and buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his teeth finding a fresh, unmarked stretch of skin.
He clamped down hard, a sudden, sharp pressure that forced a broken moan from your throat, the pain blossoming instantly into a searing, concentrated heat that radiated down your spine.
"Does it make you feel like you're losing it?" you gasped, your voice a fractured wreck of its former self. You tilted your head back, offering him a wider canvas, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the wet, heavy suction of his mouth claiming the mark. "Does it make you feel like you're finally not in control, Oscar?"
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris until his eyes were two bottomless pits of hunger. "I hate how much I like the way you look when I do it," he admitted, the words barely audible, stripped of any pretense. "The way your breath hitches, the way you stop thinking… it's the only time the noise in my head actually goes quiet."
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, arching you into him with a force that knocked the remaining air from your lungs.
The coarse fabric of his racing suit scraped against your skin, a tactile friction that served only to heighten the sensitivity of every nerve ending. He didn't wait for a response; he simply lunged forward again, his teeth grazing the underside of your jaw with a slow, deliberate precision that promised a slow descent into a very beautiful, very bruised kind of chaos.
As he shifted his weight to anchor you more firmly against the wall, the heavy muscle of his inner thigh drove upward, his legs pressing against your pussy with a blunt, insistent pressure.
The heat of him soaked through the layers of fabric, a searing weight that mirrored the pulsing throb between your legs. Every time he breathed, every time he shifted to find a new patch of skin to claim, that relentless pressure ground deeper, creating a friction that felt like a slow-burning fuse leading straight to your core.
The sensation was an anchor, grounding the dizzying vertigo of his bites with a visceral, physical demand. You could feel the hard line of him, the sheer strength of his legs pinning you in place, making it impossible to retreat even if you wanted to.
It was a territorial claim of a different sort—not the visible marks he was leaving on your neck, but a hidden, crushing intimacy that left you breathless.
You let out a strangled sound, half-sob and half-sigh, as you wrapped your own legs around his waist, pulling that heavy pressure closer, desperate to collapse the final sliver of space between you.
Oscar paused, his lips hovering just above a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone, his chest heaving in a ragged rhythm. He didn't look at you, but you could feel the tremor in his thigh, the way the muscle jumped against your heat, betraying the fragility of his remaining composure.
The silence of the motorhome felt heavy, saturated with the scent of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of desire, as he waited for the exact moment your resistance would snap and you would beg for the very thing he was too ashamed to name.
"You're not even trying to stop me," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to echo inside your own chest. The admission was stripped of his usual calculated poise, replaced by a raw curiosity that made his teeth graze the surface of your skin once more, a teasing promise of a deeper pressure.
"Most people would tell me I'm being too much. They'd tell me to dial it back, to be careful with the skin."
"Who is 'most people'?" you countered, your voice a strained, breathless wreck as you arched your back, practically shoving your throat into the path of his hunger. "I'm not most people, Oscar. I'm the person who wants to wake up tomorrow and see exactly where you’ve been, in a way that no amount of concealer can hide."
You felt him shudder against you, a sudden, violent ripple of surrender that made him growl, the sound vibrating through your ribs. "Do it again," you whispered, "and don't you dare be gentle about it."
The command acted like a trigger, snapping the last thread of his restraint. He lunged forward, his teeth sinking into the juncture of your shoulder with a sudden, bruising force that made your vision blur and your toes curl against the backs of his calves.
It wasn't a kiss; it was a claim, a sharp, focused point of intensity that sent a cascade of white-hot sparks radiating down your spine and pooling in the heavy ache of your pelvis. T
he sensation was visceral and grounding, a rhythmic thrum of pressure and release that left you gasping, your fingers locking into the muscles of his shoulders as he began to systematically map the territory of your skin with a desperate, starving hunger.
As he shifted his focus, his mouth sliding toward the sensitive dip of your collarbone, a low, fractured sound escaped you—a moan that started in the depths of your belly and tore through your throat, raw and unplanned.
It wasn't a soft sound; it was a jagged, guttural admission of how much you craved the violence of his touch. The vibration of it seemed to electrify him, causing his grip on your hips to tighten until his knuckles went white, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches that mirrored the frantic cadence of your own heart.
He answered that sound with one of his own, a deep, resonant vibration that felt less like a voice and more like a physical weight pressing against your chest. It was a sound of absolute surrender, the noise of a man who had stopped fighting the animal inside him and had finally decided to let it lead.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, the friction of his stubble scraping against your skin, and let out a shuddering, half-smothered sound that vibrated through your entire frame, a sonic reflection of the bruising pressure he was applying to your skin.
His hand slid lower, the rough material of his racing suit scraping against the silk of your underwear as he pressed you harder into the wall, his thigh now a relentless, grinding force against your center.
The contrast was dizzying—the cold, sterile air of the motorhome biting at your exposed skin and the searing, concentrated heat of Oscar’s mouth wherever he chose to land.
He began to suck a long, slow line from your jaw down to the valley of your chest, his teeth grazing the surface just enough to leave a stinging trail of anticipation, ensuring that by the time he reached the soft swell of your breast, you were trembling with a need that felt like a physical hunger.
The sudden, sharp rap of knuckles against the door shattered the silence, followed by the muffled, insistent voice of his engineer. "Oscar? You in there? We need to go over the turn-four data before the press conference, Zac is already in the briefing room."
The voice was casual, oblivious to the wreckage of composure occurring inches away, but the sound caused Oscar to freeze, his lips still clamped firmly onto the curve of your shoulder.
He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he let out a low, frustrated hiss, the sound of a man caught between two different worlds, his forehead leaning heavily against yours while his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"Just a minute!" Oscar called back, his voice a jagged, strained rasp that sounded nothing like his usual measured tone. He didn't move an inch away from you, his eyes dark and searching, his teeth still grazing the skin of your neck in a silent, stubborn refusal to let go.
"Give us two minutes!"
The engineer paused, the silence in the hallway heavy with a sudden, flickering curiosity. "Everything alright? You sound… strained. You're not having a panic attack about the tires, are you?"
You let out a stifled, shaky laugh, the sound vibrating against Oscar’s chest as you felt him tighten his grip on your hips, a silent promise that this was far from over.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a ghost of a whisper that sent a fresh shiver cascading down your spine.
"He has no idea," he murmured, the words tasting of hunger and desperation, "that I’m currently trying to decide exactly how many more marks I can leave before I have to put the helmet back on."
"Then stop deciding and start doing," you breathed, your voice a fractured sliver of its usual self, your fingers digging into the fire-retardant fabric of his shoulders.
You could feel the heat of him, the sheer, concentrated intensity of his focus shifting from the door back to the pale, bruised expanse of your skin. "Let him wait. Let Zac wait. Let the whole world wait while you figure out exactly how much of me you can claim."
"You're a menace," he rasped, though the way he looked at you—pupils blown wide, eyes dark with a raw, unvarnished need—betrayed the fact that he was completely undone.
He didn't move away; instead, he shifted his weight, the heavy, hard muscle of his thigh grinding deeper into your center with a slow, deliberate friction that made your vision swim. "You want me to lose my mind in front of the telemetry screens, don't you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, his mouth crashing back into the hollow of your throat with a sudden, bruising force that stole the air from your lungs.
This wasn't the tentative exploration of a man ashamed of his urges; it was a calculated demolition of restraint, his teeth sinking in with a sharp, rhythmic precision that sent a jolt of electric heat straight to your core.
You arched into him, your heels digging into his calves, the sensation of his teeth clamping down creating a searing, focused point of pleasure that blurred the edges of the room until there was nothing left but the scent of ozone and the visceral, bruising weight of him claiming you.
He began to work his way downward, his lips leaving a trail of scorching heat across the pale expanse of your chest, each touch a deliberate mark of ownership.
Every time he pulled back, it felt like a physical loss, a sudden void that made your skin prickle with a desperate need for the pressure to return. He wasn't just kissing you; he was carving a map of his desperation into your skin, leaving deep, blooming hickeys that felt like warm embers glowing against your flesh.
The friction of his racing suit against your thighs was a coarse, grounding reminder of the ticking clock outside, yet the way he lingered on the curve of your collarbone felt like a defiance of time itself.
The engineer’s voice drifted back, more insistent now, the sound of a world demanding Oscar’s return to the polished, calculated version of himself.
But as Oscar sank his teeth into the soft dip of your shoulder one last time, he didn't pull away with the suddenness of a man caught; instead, he let the pressure linger, leaving a bruised signature that pulsed in time with your own frantic heartbeat.
He lingered in the space between the public and the private, his breath a ragged heat against your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the exact scent of your surrender before the sterile air of the paddock claimed him.
He eventually stepped back, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling exposed and shivering, though your skin was humming with a thousand electric needles.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sound of his uneven breathing and the distant, muffled chaos of the paddock. He didn't look at you as he smoothed the front of his kit, his fingers trembling slightly, the ghost of his hunger still flickering in the dark intensity of his gaze.
He was leaving the room, but he was leaving something behind—a map of heat and soreness that burned through your clothes, a secret language written in purple and red across your collarbone. . . .
synopsis: you've been dating oscar since matthew was a baby. it takes one drawing and a burst of jealousy from matty for oscar to realize just how much he matters to your son.
WARNINGS: very cute, super fluffy
a/n: this is me trying to put good vibes into the universe for oscar ⭐️🌟💫
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Oscar's been in your life since Matthew Oliver Y/l/n was a year old.
Now, at four, Oscar's the only father figure Matty has ever known.
This, while beautiful and so precious, has meant that you've had to have some awkward conversations with your son. The worst of which was telling him that he was only allowed to call Oscar 'dada' when it was you two. He had cried and thrown a tantrum so loud you'd gotten a tension migraine.
He slowly learned that even though Oscar was not his 'dada' he was just as important.
Case-in-point today.
Matty had come barreling into the living room with a piece of paper and a smile in tow.
"Osc, Osc! Look!", Matty yelled, using his newly acquired proper pronounciation of the letter L.
Oscar looked over at you, almost asking for permission to get Matty into his lap. Three years in his life, but still Oscar was afraid to overstep. Afraid to take up the space that had long ago been deemed his. Like always, you roll your eyes and mouth 'Of course'.
"Whatdya got here, bud?", Oscar asks your son.
"Family picture! Look!", Matty gets the paper close enough for the smell of crayons to penetrate Oscar's nostrils.
"Let me g-", Oscar begins. He stops suddenly when he sees himself in the drawing.
The drawing is you, him, and Matty happily standing outside of your home on a sunny day.
He'd never gotten the wind knocked out of him so fast.
When he looked down to his lap, his eyes watered. Matty's looking up at him, trying to gauge if he likes the drawing or not.
With a kiss on the toddler's head, he murmurs, "I love it, buddy. You did a great job! Did you show Mum?"
You nod, eyes shining.
You know everything about Oscar's insecurities with his place in Matty's life. He's been there for your son since he took his first steps. He was there for his first word. First day of daycare. Regardless of how busy his life was, Oscar made an effort to show up.
He promised himself the first time Matty fell asleep in his arms that he would never stop showing up for your son. Even if he would never be seen as his father.
Yet, he worried. Over not being enough. Over Matty wanting and needing his real father one day. Over if you would leave him for Matty's biological dad.
You had already promised him that nothing would take you back to him, to the man who broke your heart.
But, you especially swore that Matty loved him more than he loved you.
This flimsy, sticky piece of paper was the first time it truly sunk in for Oscar.
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The second time was later that week.
Oscar had gotten home late from training on Friday. He was off for the week race-wise, but that doesn't mean his training stops.
When he quietly enters your shared home, your eyes meet.
He smiles gently, but cocks his head to the side. Without words, you know what he's asking. Where's Matty?
"Down for a nap. It's late and I know I shouldn't have let him go down at this hour, but you know how bad he slept last night", you explain quietly.
He'd had his first ever nightmare last night and crept into your bedroom in the early morning.
You thought he would've reached for you, but instead he motioned for Oscar to pick him up.
Like clockwork, Oscar's eyes flashed towards yours in permission. You simply nod before laying back down, making space for Matty between the two of you.
"Everything alright, buddy?", your boyfriend asks.
"N-no! Scawy monster in closet!", he wobbles out. It'd been a while since you heard his baby voice come out, but it made your heart grow even fonder for the young boy.
"Wanna sleep with Mum and I tonight?", Oscar offers.
With a nod, Matty signals for Oscar to hold his hand and drop yours. You stifle a laugh, shocked.
"Matty...sharing is caring, honey", you giggle.
"No! Osc mine!", he grumbles out.
"Someone's cranky", you mumble over your son's head.
Oscar holds your son even closer to his chest with his large hand engulfing your son's tiny one.
Oscar begins to reach over to kiss you goodnight when Matty suddenly interjects. "No! My kith! Mommy, no!"
At this both you and Oscar erupt into laughter. "What's gotten into you, bud?", he asks, holding Matty impossibly closer while kissing the crown of his head.
"Someone must really love you, Osc", you theorize.
"I guess so", he says through a shining smile.
Sometimes all it takes is a family drawing and a bout of jealousy to realize just how much you matter in a kid's life. Oscar wouldn't change that for the world.
summary: things are going great with your boyfriend of three years, lando norris. or at least that is what you think. your step-brother oscar has a different opinion.
warnings: SMUT!!!! cheating, step sibling trope, he refers to himself as her brother like twice, but it’s more so ironic and bitter than a FR thing ya know? forbidden romance, THEY DID NOT GROW UP TG!! public sex, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, creampies, cum play, p in v, unprotected sex, pwp, language
wc: 7.6k
title: moth to a flame— the weeknd
a/n: hi, this is my humble introduction to the world of f1 smut. i hope you enjoy this as much as i did :3 im very open to requests and feedback from anyone!!!
The chaos of a race weekend never ceases to amaze you. Nobody ever stops; everyone is always on the move, fixing something, changing something — someone always has somewhere to be. There is never a lull, especially not for a championship-contending team.
Lounging in the McLaren hospitality room, you pretend to nurse a cold lemonade that only really sits before you tauntingly. Spain is hotter than you expected for the middle of June, though you’re still trying to adjust to the fact that the seasons are flipped here.
Your step-sister, Edie, sits beside you, eyes trained on her phone. She’s chewing on the corner of her lip, completely uninterested in the world. But that’s just always been Edie — too cool for any of the happenings around her.
Your mother married her father about five years ago, and the new family dynamic is something you’re still trying to get used to. There’s too much going on, going from a small-town life to suddenly being included in the family photos of a Formula One driver.
You watch through the television hoisted up in the corner of the room, the final moments of the last free practice wrapping up.
“He’s looking good,” you murmur, more to yourself than Edie. “Think he’s got a good shot this weekend.”
Edie finally blinks up from her phone, her brown eyes landing on yours. They’re the same shade as his. “Probably,” she smiles, shrugging casually. “We’ll find out after quali. He’s had a good shot this year in general.”
You nod, tearing your eyes from the screen. The season has seemingly kept everyone on their toes — with how close Oscar is to his teammate, it’s bound to be an eventful weekend.
Any gap he can get is well appreciated.
Lando is everything. He’s happy, he’s charming, and he’s yours. The complicated nature of the situation is not lost on you, but how were you to know that your boyfriend of three years would end up being your stepbrother’s teammate?
Your relationship with Oscar was already complicated enough.
The day goes by the same, lingering beside your mother and Edie as you watch Oscar finish up practice, and later as he manages to secure pole position. Edie was right — this is looking to be a wonderful weekend.
—
Your eyes are somehow always on him.
In the garage, with the over-ear headset sitting heavy on your head, even as Lando smiles down at you, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to your lips.
It’s always Oscar you’re aware of.
“I know you don’t like it when I say this,” Lando pulls back, smiling sheepishly. “But I think I can take this race home. I feel it.”
You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you, your hands caressing his broad shoulders. The way his fireproof shirt stretches across his chest is almost dizzying.
His blue eyes search yours, eagerly awaiting your response.
“I think you’ll do great, my love,” you agree, smiling despite yourself. Lando always had a way of melting any anxiety you had. “And remember, we have my parents’ anniversary next week. You said you’d come.”
Lando’s hands settle on your waist. “And I will,” he promises. “Though, with the championship fight we have right now, I’m not entirely sure your family will be all that happy to have me there.”
Rolling your eyes, you lean forward and kiss him. “It’ll be fine.”
You feel his eyes first, the burning gaze raising the hairs on the back of your neck. Mechanics run around, getting ready to let the drivers inside their cars.
Lando hasn’t noticed, opting to wrap his arms around your waist and bring you close.
Oscar is on the other side of the garage, pulling the white balaclava over his face with entirely too much force. His brown eyes are trained on you, flicking down to where Lando’s hands rest on your waist.
You don’t say anything, and neither does he.
“Alright, I need to get going,” Lando announces, pulling back before pecking your lips one last time. “I’ll see you after. Wish me luck.”
You give him a tight-lipped smile, turning away. Your eyes catch on the other car, but then you’re slipping away.
You sit between your mother and Edie, the headset heavy on your head as you watch the cars begin to be rolled into position. It’s just a race, but your heart is already pounding.
Things with Oscar were never normal. They weren’t normal when your mother introduced you to his family — the son of a dashing businessman with three daughters and an ambitious young son.
It was charged from the start: the looks lingered too long, the jokes hit too hard, the hands hovered more than they should have. He was handsome — the dreamy way his hair fell over his eyes, the way his face seemed to glow whenever he was happy.
And then the wedding happened.
Your mum wanted an extravagant celebration, with too much flair, food, and drinks. You lingered around Oscar the most, partially because you appreciated the quiet he always seemed to enjoy.
As the night went on, the two of you moved to a less crowded part of the venue. The drinks kept flowing, the space kept disappearing.
And then you were crashing against the bed — his bed.
Oscar’s body moved against yours like a well-practiced dance, fucking you into the mattress until sunrise. He made you come so many times that your legs ached for days after.
The horror lingered. He hadn’t even been your stepbrother for more than twenty-four hours, and already you were falling into bed with him. What would his family think? What would your mother think?
It went on for far longer than you would have liked to admit. The rendezvous between races grew more frequent, and the secret kept eating at you.
But you couldn’t stop. No matter how much you told yourself you wanted it to, your body always betrayed you. Always.
Then one day, while accompanying Oscar to one of his Formula 2 races, you met him. Lando was a young, charismatic driver with three seasons already under his belt, and McLaren loved him.
And soon enough, you did too.
He swept you off your feet without really trying. His laugh, his humor — everything about him was perfect. Especially the part where he isn’t your stepbrother.
It gave you enough of an excuse to end whatever mess you had going on with Oscar, much to his dismay. Much to yours, though he would never hear you admitting that.
Then McLaren signed Oscar for the following season.
For the last three years, you had worked tirelessly to keep what happened between you and Oscar from coming to light. Nobody knew; nobody could know. Especially not your family. Especially not Lando.
Especially not when the word engagement had been thrown around more than once.
The race is good, but your mind isn’t in it. Not at all. Oscar wins, and Lando is rightfully miffed about it. He’s still on the podium, he still celebrates — but you know the championship sits heavily on his mind.
Oscar looks at you the entire time.
You still think you’re with the winner?
You clench your jaw.
Lando doesn’t take long to find you, and the strained smile he sends your way is already putting you on edge. He has a tendency to be hard on himself, and this is probably not an ideal situation.
He smells like champagne, and in any other circumstance, you know this would be a cause for celebration. Instead, you wrap your arms around him and give him a firm squeeze.
“It’s okay,” you whisper. “You still have the entire season, baby. You still have a shot.”
He pulls away, his eyes meeting yours. At first, he doesn’t say anything, but eventually he lets out a defeated sigh. “It’s gonna be hard to shake, but I’ll try.”
You grin. “That’s all I ask.”
Eventually, he slips away to do some interviews, leaving you behind in the heat. You contemplate heading back to your hotel room, taking a long shower in the beautiful bathtub.
Except you don’t account for Oscar materializing beside you a few minutes later. The papaya cap sits atop his head, a pretty pink flush covering the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose.
“Good to see you, Y/N,” he greets, unbothered as always. Your skin prickles at his voice, the familiar cadence you still dream about. His brown eyes are tired, but trained on you.
Straightening your shoulders, you force a smile. “Same.”
The silence stretches, and it’s too charged for your liking. “Good race,” he mentions, squirting some water from his bottle into his mouth. Your eyes follow a stray droplet that clings to the edge of his mouth, the way his tongue darts out to collect it. “Did you bet on me?”
“I didn’t bet,” you answer immediately. “I hate how unpredictable you guys are. I don’t think I would ever put money on any of you.”
Oscar’s eyebrows rise in amusement. “You can always bet on me,” he hums. “You know, for extra moral support.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t need your money.”
“You need something else,” a small smirk plays on his lips, infuriating enough to make you seethe. “You always pretend you don’t.”
“Shut up.”
Oscar looks pleased with himself, especially when your cheeks match his in color— but not from excretion. “You think he can’t tell?”
You purse your lips. “Anyone in their right mind would assume their quiet little goody two-shoes driver never fucked his step-sister.”
“Careful,” he says, but it’s halfhearted. “Someone might find out.”
“Go to hell, Osc,” you snap. Embarrassment burns through you, partially because you know he’s right. He doesn’t care if people find out, not like you do.
He loves to remind you that you didn’t grow up together, that there’s no blood tying you. Still, you know it’s more complicated than that.
Neither of you says anything for a beat, watching the post-race chaos reign on. For some reason, the lack of words is almost worse than having Oscar look at you with that gleam in his eye.
You clear your throat. “Congratulations on the win, by the way.”
He gives you a half smile. “Thanks. Dedicated the trophy to Edie.”
You nod. “I saw that.”
“I thought about writing your name instead,” he muses, cocking his head to the side as he waits for his words to settle on your mind.
Stiffening, you feel your traitorous heart skip a beat. “Don’t,” you warn, running a sticky hand through your hair. “You wouldn’t have, you’re just trying to piss me off.”
Oscar grins. “Is it working?”
You don’t answer. You already feel his gaze burning into you, the intensity at which he studies you. Being beneath his scrutiny burns like a thousand suns, but your body ignites with the memory of what that attention meant.
Oscar steps closer to you, and panic shoots down your spine. Your eyes dart around, panicked, as you search for any signs that you’re being watched. You find nobody has their eyes on you.
“You did always fuck better when you were pissed,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His fingers ghost over the crook of your elbow, making you shiver. “Made me pay for whatever it was that I did with that mouth of yours.”
Inhaling sharply, you step back, glaring. “You’re disgusting,” you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m in a relationship. It would do you good to remember that.”
Oscar backs away, his eyes never leaving you. “Do you remember that?”
He doesn’t give you the chance to answer, pivoting on his heel and disappearing into the crowd. Your heart thunders in your chest, your skin still prickling with heat.
Seems like Oscar has grown tired of being complacent, and that is the most worrying thing about it all.
—
The night is cool, as expected for a night in early June in Australia. You’re nursing a glass of champagne, Lando’s arm wrapped politely around your waist as you let the party go on around you.
Your mother is the center of attention, as expected, but you don’t really mind.
The resort that your mum chose was beautiful, truthfully. The salon is decorated with various tones of orange because apparently, she cannot get over the fact that her step-son is a Formula One driver.
It makes your jaw clench.
“I feel like I’m at a team meeting,” Lando jokes, turning to you with glimmering blue eyes. He’s already three drinks deep, and you’re starting to see him loosening up at the edges. Maybe you should be worried.
Instead, you bring your glass to your lips and take a careful sip. “Your only week off and look how you’re spending it.”
Lando shrugs. “Better than nothing,” he sighs. “I gotta get on a plane tomorrow to Canada. I should get to enjoy one night off with you, don’t you think?”
Despite your earlier annoyance, you feel some of the irritation melt at his words. You give him a half smile, cupping his face with your hand.
“You’re so cute when you’re tipsy,” you grin, thumb brushing over his cheek.
Lando scoffs. “Am not,” he grumbles. “I’m hot and sexy, and you want to take my pants off.”
You shake your head, cheeks burning as you look around to make sure nobody heard your boyfriend’s intoxicated rambles.
“If you keep drinking like that, I will have to take your pants off,” you snort, biting back a smile. “You’re gonna be too drunk to get into bed, and I’m gonna have to put you to sleep like an overgrown toddler.”
Rolling his eyes, Lando steals your drink. He takes a long sip, placing the crystal glass between your awaiting fingers.
“God forbid I want to flip a little,” he says. “You’ve been so on edge lately.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, ignoring his worry as you force yourself to shift your focus back to the guests of the party.
“‘M not tense,” you grumble.
Lando doesn’t get a chance to respond, because before you know it, your mum is waltzing over to the two of you with a big grin on her face.
And she has Oscar and his father in tow.
Your heart beats rapidly, threatening to crack your ribs with its intensity. Scrambling to grab Lando’s hand, you force a smile.
“Lando, darling!” your mum smiles, opening her arms to wrap him in an awkward hug, since you refuse to let go of his hand. “I’m glad that you made it. How are you feeling?”
Lando smiles. “Great,” he nods, glancing between your mum and Oscar’s dad. “Congratulations on the anniversary, by the way. Beautiful party.”
Oscar’s father beams. “Thank you, son,” he nods, but the corners of his mouth are tight. The tension of the season carries on to the events, and that is something that you and Lando are painfully aware of.
Oscar is quiet, his hands shoved deep in his pants pockets. He’s wearing a thin white linen button-up, his hair artfully mussed. He looks so handsome, you feel your throat go dry.
“I realized Oscar never said hi,” your Mum says, looking at him with a playfully stern expression. “So we had to drag him over so he could say hello. I know you boys are probably flying out together tomorrow, isn’t that right?”
Lando smiles, his hand squeezing your waist. “Yeah, pretty sure it is.”
Your mum nods, looking at you with a bright smile. She reaches over, fixing your hair even though you’re almost fully sure that it’s fine.
“You guys are so cute,” she shakes her head fondly. “I know the season has been rough, but I do appreciate how nice you’re being about this, Lando. Sometimes, we really do have to separate work and our personal lives. Don’t you think?”
“Jesus, Mum,” you laugh awkwardly, shifting your weight. Oscar is frowning, his eyes are dark as they burn holes into where Lando’s hand rests on your hip. You try to ignore it. “Let's not talk about that, maybe?”
“I think you’re right,” Oscar’s dad nods, clapping his son on the back. “This is a celebration. Let’s enjoy it.”
“Of course!” Mum agrees, smiling. “I was just being silly, don’t mind me. But yes, since we are here because of a wedding—”
You and Oscar stiffen, but neither of you says anything. For some reason, the idea of your mother wanting to talk about you and Lando getting married in the near future feels like being condemned to death.
“When will we see that ring?” She asks Lando, excitement evident in her words. You and Lando have discussed getting married extensively, especially after you told him that you thought getting proposed to should be a decision the two of you came to together.
You told him you were ready. But now, under the weight of Oscar’s gaze and his barely contained annoyance, you’re not sure what you want anymore.
Lando laughs awkwardly. “I dunno,” he replies. “Probably after the season ends, I guess. It’ll be nice to do it without all that stress, you know? Have a proper celebration.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens so much you worry he’s going to snap a tooth. His eyes darken into a glower, directed straight at Lando. You inhale sharply, nerves making your hands shake.
Please don’t make it obvious.
“Oh, that would be beautiful!” your Mum smiles. “I trust you have an idea?”
“I trust you keep your head in the championship,” Oscar snaps, the first word he has said to you all night. Everyone’s attention snaps back to him, and your ears start to ring.
Lando blinks. “What?”
Oscar shrugs, taking a sip of his amber drink. “You know?” he shrugs. “You want that championship? Focus on that instead.”
Your mother blinks, his father’s eyebrows rise, and you gape. There’s no way this is happening, and there’s no way Oscar is being that obvious.
“Mate, what the hell?” Lando’s eyebrows furrow, and he shifts forward. “I’m just—“
“Oh, don’t mind him!” Mum chirps, desperate to ease the sudden tension.
Oscar’s father nods. “You know how it is,” he says through a laugh. “Oscar is too used to having sisters to look after. Don’t take it personally. It’s just the older brother in him.”
Your heart sinks, and Oscar scoffs. “Sure,” he says, but his tone is bitter. “Whatever you guys say.”
He turns to leave, his dress shoes clicking against the polished ground. You hear him leave over the music. The tension in his body is evident, and the fire in his brown eyes makes something inside you snap.
You place your champagne flute in Lando’s hands. “I’m gonna go yell at him,” you smile, hoping that you sound more convincing than you feel. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll be back.”
Before anyone can question your absence, you’re already running after Oscar. Pushing past the guests, you try your best to keep up with him.
The cool night air hits you first, but you’re too warm to shiver. Your heart beats erratically as you scan the dark, vastness of the golf course surrounding the salon.
You spot Oscar’s white shirt— just barely— as it walks deeper into the darkness. Muttering a curse under your breath, you run after him.
It’s dark; the deeper you go into the hills, the less you can see. The light of the venue grows dimmer with the distance, but you manage to keep your eyes on him.
“Oscar!” You call in a frantic whisper, hands fisting the fabric of your dress and keeping it above your ankles so you don’t trip over yourself. “Stop fucking running.”
He stops in his tracks, a dark chuckle escaping him. “I’m not running,” he says, turning to face you. “You’re just slow.”
You scramble to a halt, leaning forward to rest your hands on your thighs as you struggle to catch your breath. “You’re such an asshole,” you wheeze, forcing yourself upright. “What the fuck was that?”
Oscar hesitates, his eyes flicking back to the distant roar of the party. The hills of the golf course span out around you, providing more cover than you could have expected. You can barely see your stepbrother before you, but you can feel him, and the moonlight illuminates enough for you to know that he isn’t happy.
“Nothing,” he answers eventually. “Just reminding Lando to keep his head where it matters right now.”
“No,” you breathe, shaking your head. “You were being a dick. Why were you being a dick?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he lets the silence stretch between you. He knows how much that bothers you, the silence, the weight of everything that could be said pressing down on you.
“Answer me,” you hiss.
“Jesus,” he exhales. “You’re really fucking—”
You stiffen, waiting for the inevitable jab. It never comes. Instead, Oscar runs a hand through his hair, the stress evident in every movement.
“What?” you snap. “What could it be now? Is it because I didn’t take well to your advances in Spain? Is that it? Is your little ego hurt?”
“Shut up.”
“No,” you snap, pointing an accusatory finger at him. Stepping closer, you jab his chest. “You don’t get to shut me up. You don’t get to say anything. Is big brother feeling emasculated because I’m getting engaged?”
Oscar’s eyes flash, and his hand grips your wrist tightly, stopping your attack. “Don’t fucking call me that,” he growls, all composure flying out the window.
“That’s what you are,” you whisper, breathing heavily despite yourself. The proximity is intoxicating. Smelling his cologne has you growing dizzy with want. Your body remembers him; it always remembers him. “You heard your dad.”
“He’s wrong,” he spits, tugging you closer by the hand until your chests bump against each other. “You know he’s wrong. Or do you need me to remind you?”
You exhale, looking into his eyes. “We ended this.” Your words come out in a jumbled breath, but you don’t care. “You know we had to. This is wrong.”
Oscar smacks his lips, his eyes flickering down to your mouth. The moonlight provides enough light for you to see the way his eyes dilate.
“No, it’s not,” he whispers. “I’ve never been your brother. I’ve never wanted to be your brother. Brothers don’t look whenever you bend down to get something. Brothers don’t think about what it’s like to have you moan into my mouth. Brothers don’t think about all the ways they’ve made you scream.”
Your fight falters, and you find yourself at a loss for words. There is so much you want to say, so many rebuttals you want to send his way, but they all die in your throat.
Tearing your eyes away from him, you force yourself to look back at the party. Nobody in there knows the turmoil that unfurls in your chest, and inside is Lando, waiting for you to have talked your stepbrother back down from the ledge.
Nobody knows.
“I’m in love with him,” you whisper, but it’s so meek you want to laugh.
Oscar doesn’t move; his hand still stays wrapped around your wrist, tight enough to bruise. You can’t bring yourself to tell him to stop. You don’t want him to pull away.
“Don’t start with that,” Oscar says. “Because I’m not in the mood to be lied to and insulted in the same breath.”
You look at him. “Fuck you.”
“Say you don’t want me.” He leans closer, his breath fanning your lips. His hand lets go of yours, instead coming to grip your chin and tilt your mouth closer to his. “Say you don’t miss me.”
You don’t answer. His other hand finds your waist, and he ducks down to brush his lips along the juncture of your jaw. You shiver at the ghost of the contact, just barely enough to make your composure slip.
“Say you don’t miss the way I stretched you out.” His voice is a breathless rasp, enough to make your clit throb. “Say you don’t miss the way I fucked you so hard you couldn’t talk. How you’d drip with me for days after.”
You shut your eyes, desperately trying to stand your ground. Goosebumps break out along your skin, and a flash of heat travels down your spine. Your body is answering for you.
“Tell me you don’t miss the little thing I used to do with my tongue.” His teeth scrape against your earlobe. “Because I miss you.”
The admission is almost lost to the pounding of your heart, but you manage to catch it. Your breath catches, and your eyes meet Oscar’s intense brown ones.
“Kiss me.”
The words barely leave your lips before he’s crashing his mouth against yours in a searing kiss. You inhale sharply, his hands immediately coming to your waist and pulling you closer against him.
His mouth moves against yours with the same ease it always has, the same relaxed dominance he’s always had. He never had to question the power he has over you.
Your hands tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, tugging slightly, eliciting the most delectable little hiss. You take the opportunity to slip your tongue past his lips, exploring him deeper.
He lets go of your waist suddenly, but he never breaks the kiss. You feel his hands between the two of you, unbuttoning his shirt with shaking fingers.
Pulling away, he tugs the white fabric off his shoulders, dropping it onto the grass without a care in the world. He grabs your face with both hands, bringing your lips back to his.
“Lie down,” he orders, nipping your lip before pulling away.
You’re so dazed you can’t find it in yourself to argue, dropping on top of his shirt. He climbs over you, his hands holding him up beside your head, bringing you back into another intoxicating kiss.
His weight settles over you, familiar and erotic. Your hands come up to his shoulders, traveling the vast expanse with the tips of your fingers. His skin is so, so soft.
Oscar’s mouth coaxes yours into an intoxicating dance, lips sliding against each other’s with too much intensity. His thigh settles between your legs, pressing against where you’re already wet and aching.
You let out the smallest whimper when he increases the pressure, and you feel his hardening length against your thigh.
His hands scramble for the hem of your dress, pushing it up your legs without preamble. He breaks the kiss by pulling away, bunching the skirt around your waist. When the cool air hits your bare thighs, you shiver.
Oscar glances at the lacy pair of panties you sport, eyebrow rising as his finger slips beneath the hem, snapping it against your skin.
“Pretty.”
You let out a shaky exhale, watching as he rips them down your legs, shoving them in his pocket without any hesitation.
“Perv,” you say breathlessly, but it melts into a moan when his lips find your neck, kissing at your pulse point.
You can’t help but let out a loud moan at that. Oscar smiles against you. “You were saying?”
His hand parts your thigh, calloused against the sensitive skin. You shiver, feeling his fingers ghost up the inside of your thigh, closer and closer to where you’re already dripping for him.
“Missed this,” he whispers. “Missed how easy you get f’me, all worked up when I’m a little mean.”
His finger traces featherlight patterns over the crease of your thigh, his mouth traveling down your neck. With his other hand, he tugs the strap of your dress down, making the already swooping neckline of your dress even more indecent.
You feel his finger ghosting over your folds, not quite touching where you need him the most. You let out an impatient whine, shifting your hips in search of him.
Oscar chuckles, fully pulling down your dress until your breasts spill free. His eyes are drawn immediately to your chest.
“So fucking pretty like this,” he groans. “Bet Lando doesn’t know what to do with you, hmm?”
You don’t get to answer, because his lips wrap around your nipple. A gasp tears from your throat, feeling his teeth gently scrape against you.
Finally, two of his fingers part you open, collecting your wetness before landing on your clit. He rubs circles over you, enough to have your entire body vibrating with need.
“That’s it,” he coos as you let out a moan. His fingers work you over with the perfect pressure, his lips working on your nipple while his other hand comes up to tweak the other one. “That’s a good fucking girl. Look at you.”
His words send another wave of heat through you, and you realize that he’s moving too slowly to actually get you anywhere. He’s doing this on purpose.
“Osc,” you breathe, hips bucking involuntarily. “Please—please don’t tease me.”
“Shh,” he pulls away from your nipple, his fingers never stopping their movements before he comes up to your lips again. “You don’t get to make demands right now.”
Withdrawing his fingers, he brings them up between the two of you. You watch the way the long digits glisten with your arousal.
Oscar glances at you again. “Open.”
You do.
Bringing his hand up to your lips, he slips his fingers inside your mouth. Inductively, you suck at them, a muffled moan escaping you as your tongue laps at them hungrily.
He pulls his fingers back with a pop, smirking. Ducking down, he captures your lips in another kiss. His hand returns to your dripping pussy, this time not bothering to tease. He slips the fingers, damp with your saliva, inside you.
You gasp into his mouth, back arching as he curls his like enough to make stars spring across your vision. “Yeah, look at that,” he whispers between kisses. “Being so fucking good and taking just what I give you. You’re mine, you hear me? Fucking mine.”
Oscar pulls away, sitting back on his heels as he watches raptly as his fingers pump in and out of you. He licks his lips, bringing his other thumb to rub circles over your clit.
Your legs shake, and you can’t help but let out a shout. He scissors his fingers inside you; the stretch is delicious, enough to have your thighs shaking.
“He doesn’t make you feel like this,” he laughs darkly. “He doesn’t know how to touch you. He doesn’t know how this pussy likes to be stretched. Isn’t that right?”
He curls his fingers, hitting that spot inside you, and a whimper falls past your lips. You can’t answer, too lost in the sensation of him.
Oscar lets out a groan, pulling one of his hands back to palm at the obvious bulge that strains against his dress pants.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he bites his bottom lip.
You don’t get a warning before he’s ducking his head down and licking a stripe up your cunt, tongue catching in your clit.
You gasp, pushing yourself up to your elbows just so you can enjoy the view of him between your legs. His tongue moves with experience, lapping at you hungrily as his fingers never falter.
Your legs shake around his head, throwing your head back when his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks harshly. The sensation only builds, the feeling of his languid tongue and long fingers overwhelming you.
“Makin’ such a pretty mess on my face and fingers, baby,” he mutters against you, spearing his tongue inside you along with his fingers.
You freeze, overcome with the feeling. His nose bumps against your clit, and you feel your arousal drip out of you and down your ass. You don’t think you have ever been this wet, and the pressure between your legs is quickly becoming more overwhelming.
From between your legs, Oscar glances up at you. His eyes gleam in the lowlight, and you recognise the insatiable hunger that stares back at you.
Your stomach tightens, and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the pinnacle. You’re moaning, throwing your head back on the grass, and biting down on your arm to muffle the sounds of your pleasure. His mouth is relentless, and sweat builds on your skin.
“Osc, fuck, I’m gonna come,” you warn, your voice going higher in pitch the closer to the edge you get.
He doesn’t respond, but his attention never falters, and you know he’s determined. His fingers keep their steady thrusts, long and deep, and his tongue flicks rapidly against your sensitive bundle of nerves.
Oscar’s fingers twitch, and you burst. You gasp, body spasming as your legs clamp around his head. He doesn’t stop, working you over every wave of pleasure that racks your body.
He pulls away when your legs fall limply at your side, lips glistening with you as he brings his fingers up to his lips and licks them clean.
“I’m gonna make you cry,” he promises, undoing his belt with skilled fingers and kicking his dress pants down his thighs. His muscles ripple beneath his skin with every movement, his stomach taut with arousal.
You watch, transfixed, as he pulls his boxers down until his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. The pink tip is wet with his pre-cum, and he’s so hard.
Carefully, he moves up your body, wrapping his hand along the base of him before teasing your lips with the tip of his cock.
“Get me wet, baby,” he whispers.
You don’t hesitate to wrap your lips around the crown, the salty tang of him making your legs clamp shut as another wave of want courses through you.
The moan Oscar lets out at that is the most erotic thing you swear you have ever heard. He doesn’t bother hiding the pleasure.
“Missed this fucking mouth,” he groans, and you wrap your hand around what you can’t fit. You bob your head up and down the length of him, pressure continuing to rise between your legs.
It doesn’t matter that you already came; your body always craves him.
He thrusts shallowly into your mouth, hand coming to tangle in your hair to keep you in place. You watch him as his head falls back, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly.
You missed him so much.
“That’s it, keep looking at me,” he orders breathlessly. “Keep those pretty eyes on me when you choke on my cock.”
Tears spring to your eyes as his thrusts become more powerful, his own desperation shining through. You moan around him, relaxing your jaw to take as much of him as you can.
“Fu—fuck,” his breath hitches, lips pressing into a thin line as he forces himself out of your mouth. You whimper at the loss, your lips a little numb from how hard you were sucking.
He cups your jaw, bringing his lips to yours. His tongue slips inside your mouth, eager to taste himself, and you melt.
He grips your hips, rolling you into your stomach. Your chest presses against his shirt, now undoubtedly streaked with green. You wonder briefly how he’s planning to explain that.
His weight settles over you anew, bare chest pressing against your back. His skin is cool with a layer of sweat that matches your own, and his lips kiss along your shoulder blade.
“Y’gonna let me fuck you now?” he asks. “Gonna be good and spread those legs for me? Let me feel that pussy around my cock, yeah?”
You nod, incapable of saying anything. You feel the head of his cock tease along your folds, and you shiver.
“Please,” you whimper, hand tightening on the grass. “Please, Oscar, I need you inside me. Please.”
“Fuck,” he hisses. “How am I supposed to say no when you sound so pretty begging?”
He thrust into you all at once, not giving you a chance to adjust. You scream, but his hand covers your mouth, muffling it as you take him in fully.
“Sh, don’t cry,” he whispers. “You can take me, I know you can.”
His cock splits you open, but the stretch is divine. You shudder, walls pulsing around him as you breathe through the discomfort. Quickly, your eyes start to cross.
His hips start a slow rhythm, dragging his cock in and out of you, excruciatingly slow. His hand finds yours, fingers tangling as he pins you to the grass.
“Just like that, baby,” he breathes, pressing kisses over the crook of your neck. “Just let me use you, let me fuck you properly. Pretty thing just needs some attention, isn’t that right?”
You nod, incapable of forming any coherent words. The pleasure drawn from his cock is too much, unlike anything you have ever felt before.
Well, not exactly. Only Oscar can do this to you, only he can mess with your body and your mind so much that you can barely hold your head up.
His hips pick up the pace, thrusts quickly picking up in pace. Your entire body shakes with the force of him fucking you, and you moan.
“Fuck, right there,” you whimper, screwing your eyes shut as Oscar hits the perfect spot inside you. “Oh my god, don’t stop, please—“
He presses his lips to your temple, hips moving with relentless force, and you can barely hold your head up. “Where’d all that attitude go, baby? You were just telling me that we ended this, how wrong it was, how I’m just your big brother— now you can’t do anything except moan and cry for my cock.”
His words make you shiver, and a protest at the brother title starts to claw its way up your throat, but he cuts you off again with more filthy remarks.
“You think you wanna get engaged to a guy who can’t do this to you?” he grits, biting your earlobe. “Think you wanna give this up, pretty girl?”
You’re about to reply, but before your mouth can open, you hear the shuffling of feet along the grass. “Do you think she’s here?”
Lando.
Your mind scrambles with panic, suddenly too aware of everywhere your dress has been pulled, and the fact that your stepbrother is driving into you with enough force to make tears spring to your eyes.
“Osc, wait—”
His hand clamps over your mouth, and the roll of his hips continues.
“I swear I saw them running over here.” Lando’s voice is confused, but close enough that you can hear everything. You pray the hill between you and Oscar is enough to keep you hidden.
Another voice. “I dunno, maybe Oscar is yelling at her back at the hotel.” Hattie, one of his sisters.
Your heart lurches to your throat — and at the same moment, Oscar slips out of you and flips you onto your back. You barely bite back a gasp as he brings your knees up to your chest and pushes inside you again.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to keep yourself from crying out. Oscar draws in a shuddering breath. “So fucking wet still. You like this, don’t you?”
His hand covers your mouth, his thrusts returning at a new, brutal pace. Your eyes roll back, feeling him so deep you can barely think.
“He can get nasty with her,” Lando grumbles, and Oscar snickers, snapping his hips faster. “I just don’t want him to hurt her.”
Oscar’s hair falls over his forehead, a few strands sticking to his temples with sweat. His eyes are trained on yours — intense and wild. Beautiful.
“We’ve got an audience,” he whispers. “You’re going to be quiet, aren’t you? We wouldn’t want your fiancé hearing you get fucked like this.”
His other hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit with precision. He works in quick, filthy circles that make staying quiet nearly impossible.
“What would he think, hmm?” he murmurs, nose brushing yours. “What would he think of his pretty girl getting fucked stupid by big brother?”
Your eyes flash. You move your head just enough to speak. “You’re not — you—”
Oscar smirks. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
He kisses the tops of your breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth. His attack on your clit doesn’t stop; his cock stretches you open perfectly.
“Here, let’s go back to the hotel. Maybe we can find them there,” Hattie says helpfully.
You’re getting so close, the danger of almost being caught is dizzying. Oscar’s lips are tender on your skin, almost worshipful as his own hips grow sloppy.
“I’m gonna come,” you whisper, your breath hitching.
Oscar lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. He keeps that devastating rhythm, and you know you’re gone. “Come for me, baby,” he urges, kissing your cheek and the corner of your lip. “Remind me who you belong to, come on my cock.”
You break with a muffled moan, Oscar’s hand doing everything to keep you quiet, eventually resorting to kissing you to drown out the noise. His lips are sloppy, but eager. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure pulls you under.
“Okay,” Lando sighs, and you hear the footsteps fading away.
“Oh fuck,” Oscar groans, barely above a whisper. “Can I— fuck, holy shit— can I please fill you up? Please baby? Let me—“
Your legs lock around his waist, keeping him trapped against you. “Please.”
His composure cracks ever so slightly, and he crumbles on top of you. His weight is heavenly, and it’s real, and for some reason, it makes you choke with emotion.
Oscar comes with a muffled whimper, and your arms tighten around his neck as he rides his own release. Each hot spurt of him inside you makes you shiver.
Eventually, he goes still. The only noise that fills the air is the sound of your heavy breathing, the weight of what just happened settling between the two of you.
“Are you okay?” Oscar draws back, his eyes searching your face for any sign that he may have hurt you. He seems satisfied when he doesn’t find any, and you smile.
“Better than okay,” you answer, brushing his hair away from his face. You reach forward, pulling his face down to kiss along every mark on his face. “Are you?”
Oscar pulls away carefully, and when you raise your eyebrow at him, he only smirks. “I will be,” he nods, slipping out of you with a hiss, hastily tucking himself back in his pants. “Once I see this.”
He parts your legs again, exposing your bare core to him. You’re still sensitive, shivering from everything he had done to you just a few moments prior.
You feel him start to drip out of you, and Oscar lets out a breath. “Fuck me,” he whispers, his finger trailing along your folds.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as Oscar sinks his finger inside you, pushing the white of his release deeper. You shiver, a moan slipping free.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers. “So mine.”
He settles between your legs, kissing the inside of your thigh with reverence before reaching your clit. He presses his lips to you, carefully running his tongue over your sensitive skin.
“Oscar,” you whimper, biting your lip as your eyes flutter.
His tongue dips down to your entrance, lapping at the mix of the two of you with the same urgency as a parched man. You can’t hold back the sounds, the way your legs shake around his head with the over-sensitivity.
Seemingly satisfied, Oscar pulls back, kissing your clit one more time before traveling up your body and kissing you. He tastes like the two of you, all desperation and forbidden longing.
He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours. “Don’t marry him,” he whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Please, Y/N, don’t marry him.”
You’re cold now, suddenly too aware of the chill in the air. You carefully wiggle out from underneath him, sitting up on the grass as you fix your hair.
“Even if I say no,” you start, your voice wavering slightly, “what would change? You’re still my stepbrother.”
Oscar collapses onto his shirt, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, throwing an arm over his face. “I’m not,” he whispers. “I’ve never been anything but stupidly in love with you.”
His admission hurts; you don’t know what kills you more, the pain in his voice or the helpless feeling that settles in your chest. There’s nothing for you, no future where the two of you can make it work.
Even if you feel the same way.
Swallowing thickly, you push yourself off the ground, shaking off whatever grass clings to you. If there are marks on your dress, you’re already working on a story to tell about falling while looking for Oscar.
“I should go,” you say, clearing your throat, “before they send a search party out.”
Oscar doesn’t answer, but you see the way his jaw tightens. Everything in you screams for him, and you so badly wish you could exist in a world where it would be possible to love each other.
But unfortunately, this isn’t that world.
Without another word, you climb up the hill, leaving Oscar behind in the darkness of the golf course. You have a boyfriend to get back to, a story to set straight.
Summary: Yn loves trying TikTok trends on Oscar. Which is why she has to try the "no-one would hear you scream" trend on her boyfriend while they are hiking.
The thing about being with Oscar for several years was that Yn had learned exactly three very important truths.
One: he was patient. Inhumanly patient, actually.
Two: he trusted her with his life in a way that was either romantic or deeply concerning.
Three: he would follow her into absolutely any situation if she looked at him with that grin.
Which is exactly why they were hiking.
“Why are we hiking again?” Oscar asked, calm as ever, even as he stepped over a root and immediately had to grab Yn’s backpack strap because she tripped on literally nothing.
She wheezed. “Because it’s romantic.”
“It’s muddy.”
“Romantic mud.”
He snorted quietly, steadying her before she could fall forward. “You’re going to end up rolling down the mountain one day.”
“Yeah, but you’ll catch me,” she said easily, already walking again.
Oscar watched her for a second, then followed, shaking his head with a soft smile. “You say that with alarming confidence.”
“Well,” she glanced back over her shoulder, eyes bright, “you’ve never dropped me yet.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
She stumbled again. He caught her again.
She pointed at him dramatically. “Exhibit A.”
Oscar sighed, but it was fond. Always fond. “You are the clumsiest person I know.”
“And you love me anyway.”
“I do,” he said immediately, like it wasn’t even a question. Like breathing.
That was the thing about them. It was never dramatic in the big, explosive way. It was quiet certainties. Easy touches. Him always walking slightly behind her on trails because he knew she’d trip, and her always stealing his hoodies because she liked how they smelled like him.
Yn had been weirdly quiet for the past ten minutes, though. Oscar noticed. He always noticed.
“You’re plotting,” he said.
She gasped, offended. “I would never.”
“You’re smiling like you’re plotting.”
“I just love nature,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the trees.
“You hate bugs.”
“I love… bug-free nature.”
Oscar hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. He never pushed. He just stayed close enough to catch her when she slipped on gravel again.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“It’s okay,” he replied, hand still on her waist for a second longer than necessary. “I’ve got you.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Are you texting while hiking?”
“No,” she said too fast. “I’m… receiving inspiration.”
“That’s worse.”
She laughed and finally stopped when they reached the viewing point. It was high up, overlooking a massive stretch of forest and hills, the air crisp and quiet in a way that made everything feel smaller and bigger at the same time.
Yn stepped right up to the edge, arms spread.
Oscar’s heart stopped for half a second. “Okay, maybe take one step back.”
“I’m fine,” she said, bouncing on her heels.
“That sentence has historically been incorrect.”
She turned around slowly, grinning in a way that made his stomach drop—not from fear, but from knowing something was coming.
She tilted her head. “You know,” she said casually, “no one would hear you scream out here.”
Oscar blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“…What?”
She crossed her arms, clearly enjoying this. “It’s just us. No signal. No people. Long way down.”
She gestured behind him with her chin.
Oscar followed the motion, then looked back at her. His expression was unreadable for exactly three seconds.
Then he took a deep breath.
Yn squinted. “Why are you breathing like that?”
He stepped closer instead of back.
“Why are you stepping closer?” she asked, suddenly unsure.
Oscar stopped right in front of her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the steady calm she always teased him for but relied on more than she admitted.
He looked down at her, eyes soft.
“Well,” he said gently, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kill me.”
She burst out laughing immediately. “Oh my god—”
“But,” he continued, completely serious, “if you did… I’d support your decision.”
She choked. “Oscar.”
“That would mean I must’ve done something really wrong,” he said, nodding once like he’d thought it through. “And I trust your judgment.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am,” he said simply.
She laughed harder, bending forward, hands on her knees. “I was trying to scare you!”
“I figured.”
“You didn’t even flinch!”
“I did internally.”
“That doesn’t count!”
He smiled then, small and genuine, and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her lips. It was quick, warm, familiar.
“Please don’t murder me,” he murmured against her mouth. “I like our life.”
She grabbed his jacket, still laughing. “I would never!”
“You just implied—”
“I was doing a TikTok trend!”
Oscar froze. “A what?”
She pulled back just enough to look up at him. “There’s this trend where couples go hiking and the girlfriend says that and the boyfriend freaks out.”
He stared at her.
“…You thought I’d freak out?”
“Well,” she admitted, “I hoped you’d at least scream a little.”
“I don’t scream,” he said.
“I know! That’s why it’s funny!”
He exhaled, then laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” he said again, immediate.
She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I promise I won’t hurt or kill you.”
He hummed, arms coming around her automatically, pulling her into his chest. “That’s reassuring.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” he said softly.
He rested his chin on the top of her head, swaying slightly from side to side without thinking, a habit he had when they stood still too long. Yn melted into him, still giggling.
“You’d really support me if I murdered you?” she asked.
He considered it. “Emotionally? Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“Only about you.”
She looked up at him, smile soft now instead of mischievous. “You’re too good for me.”
“I disagree,” he said. “You make life interesting.”
“I almost threatened your life.”
“And now we’re watching a beautiful view together,” he said calmly. “It balances out.”
She laughed quietly, resting her head back against his chest as they both turned to look out over the landscape. The wind brushed past them, cool and peaceful.
After a moment, she said, “You weren’t scared at all?”
He shrugged slightly. “I trust you.”
Her chest tightened.
“That’s dangerous,” she muttered.
“Probably.”
She squeezed him tighter. “I really do love you, you know.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I know.”
They stood there like that for a long time. No screaming. No pushing. Just the view, the quiet, and the steady certainty that whatever chaos Yn brought into his life, Oscar would always be right behind her—ready to catch her before she fell.
It's been a while since I requested- Was thinking of Rookie reader who is like introverted but very sweet but when it comes to it she has a very agressive or blunt comments, so people are 50/50 on her but then her actual manager finally arrive, in tow is another one. It turns out Rookie!Reader is Simi's (Seb and Kimi) little prodigy, they can see now that she's like a perfect mix of the two, the aggressiveness of RB Seb, Introvertedness of Kimi, Bluntness of Kimi and the more recent mellowed out Seb.
🏁 “The Quiet One Was Raised by Wolves (and One Ice Man)”
Genre: Found family, quiet menace, grid chaos, legacy energy
Pairing: Platonic! 2025 F1 Grid x Rookie!Reader
A/N: It’s been a minute since I posted so we’re coming back STRONG. Soft introvert prodigy + legendary mentors reveal? Oh we are FED today.
The grid doesn’t know what to do with you.
You’re in your rookie year.
You’re quiet.
You answer media questions with short, polite sentences.
You say “thank you” to marshals.
You apologize if you bump someone in the drivers’ parade lineup.
You’re sweet.
Soft-spoken.
Always nodding.
Always listening.
And then you get in the car.
And suddenly you drive like you have unfinished business with the laws of physics.
✦ 50/50 OPINION SPLIT
The paddock is divided.
Half the drivers think you’re adorable.
The other half think you’re terrifying.
Because here’s the thing:
You’re introverted.
But when someone does something stupid on track?
You don’t sugarcoat it.
Radio clip from Bahrain:
“He moved under braking.”
Pause.
“…Again.”
Longer pause.
“That’s embarrassing.”
The internet gasps.
George blinks.
Lando chokes on water.
You go back to being quiet in interviews.
Monaco media pen:
Reporter: “You seem very calm for a rookie.”
You: “Panicking is inefficient.”
Deadpan.
Walk away.
Oscar whispers later:
“She’s like… polite but dangerous.”
✦ THE SWEET SIDE
Off track, you’re the opposite.
You bring homemade cookies to the paddock once.
You ask mechanics about their families.
You help a junior engineer carry equipment.
You remember everyone’s names.
Charles once says softly:
“She reminds me of… someone. I just don’t know who.”
Max just watches.
Arms crossed.
Evaluating.
✦ THE INCIDENT (SPAIN)
Lap 41.
You’re fighting for P6.
Someone divebombs you.
You keep it clean.
After the race, interviewer asks:
“That move was aggressive. Thoughts?”
You blink once.
“It was optimistic.”
Small smile.
“Very optimistic.”
The clip goes viral.
The grid collectively decides:
She’s 50% cinnamon roll.
50% blade.
✦ PADDOCK RUMORS
People start asking:
Where did she come from?
Her junior career was impressive but… quiet.
No flashy academy politics.
No loud PR machine.
No obvious backing drama.
Just steady progress.
Too steady.
Almost… curated.
Max says one day:
“She drives like someone trained her properly.”
Lewis nods.
“Old school properly.”
And then.
Monza.
✦ THE ARRIVAL
It’s Thursday.
The paddock buzzes differently.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But heavy.
Two very familiar figures walk in.
The cameras don’t even know what to do at first.
Then someone whispers:
“Is that—”
Yes.
It is.
Sebastian Vettel
and
Kimi Räikkönen
Walking side by side.
Like they never left.
The paddock actually goes quiet.
Seb looks relaxed.
Kimi looks… like Kimi.
They aren’t there for nostalgia.
They’re walking straight toward your garage.
✦ THE REVEAL
You’re sitting on a tire stack, helmet in your lap.
You look up.
Your entire face changes.
Not starstruck.
Not shocked.
Just soft.
“Hi.”
Seb ruffles your hair.
Kimi nods once.
Max freezes mid-step.
Charles actually says:
“No.”
Lewis laughs in disbelief.
“Oh that makes sense.”
Seb turns to the small gathering crowd forming and smiles that slightly mischievous smile.
“We thought we’d check on our kid.”
Our kid.
The paddock explodes.
✦ EVERYTHING CLICKS
Suddenly it all makes sense.
The way you rotate the car mid-corner.
The aggressive but calculated overtakes.
The calm under pressure.
The blunt radio comments.
The introverted paddock energy.
You are:
The aggression of early Red Bull Seb.
The introversion of Kimi.
The blunt radio energy of Kimi.
The softened, thoughtful maturity of later Seb.
You didn’t stumble into F1.
You were shaped for it.
Lewis walks over, smiling wide.
“So this is why she’s terrifying.”
Max smirks.
“Yeah. That checks out.”
✦ MEDIA CHAOS
The press conference is absurd.
Reporter:
“Sebastian, Kimi, are you officially mentoring Y/N?”
Seb smiles.
“We’ve known her a while.”
Kimi shrugs.
“She listens.”
You sit between them, small but composed.
Reporter:
“Y/N, what have they taught you?”
You think.
Then answer honestly:
“Drive fast. Don’t talk too much.”
The entire room laughs.
Kimi nods approvingly.
Seb tries not to grin too hard.
✦ THE GRID REACTION (POST-REALIZATION)
George: “I thought she just woke up like that.”
Oscar: “No wonder she doesn’t flinch.”
Lando: “We’ve been racing against a secret weapon.”
Max, quietly: “Good.”
But it’s not fear in the paddock.
It’s respect.
Because despite being raised by two champions, you’re still you.
Still shy in crowded rooms.
Still offering cookies to mechanics.
Still thanking marshals.
Still soft.
Just… sharp when needed.
✦ RACE DAY MONZA
You finish P5.
Solid. Controlled. Clean.
When you get out of the car, Seb claps.
Kimi gives you a nod that means more than applause.
Seb says quietly:
“You’re ready.”
Kimi adds:
“Don’t get slower.”
You smile.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
✦ FINAL PADDOCK MOMENT
Later, the three of you stand off to the side, away from cameras.
y’all’s I can’t hide it anymore smug oscar does something to me anyways here is a small ish fic hehe enjoy!!
The craving hits at exactly 3:05 a.m.
Not for pickles.
Not for chocolate.
Not for any of the stuff Oscar has already bought for you.
Not for some strange combination Oscar would spend the next week teasing you about.
Ice cream.
Mint chocolate chip.
Specifically the one from the convenience store fifteen minutes away because apparently every other brand in Australia suddenly tastes “wrong.”
You stare at the ceiling.
Then at the peacefully sleeping man beside you.
Oscar is completely unconscious one arm flung over your pillow soft breaths filling the quiet room. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes from weeks of training and media and travelling and racing.
He’d practically collapsed into bed after muttering a “Wake me if you need anything.”
But he was exhausted.
Completely exhausted.
You glance at the clock again.
Three in the morning.
“i can do this” you whisper to yourself.
It’s only a fifteen minute walk.
Well 15 minutes pre pregnancy
Maybe twenty now that you’re six months pregnant.
You quietly climb out of bed pulling on one of Oscar’s hoodies over your pyjamas before scribbling a tiny note.
Gone to get ice cream. Back soon.
You hesitate.
Then crumple it up.
If he woke up he’d come after you.
You’d be back before then.
Hopefully.
The walk there isn’t too terrible.
Slow.
Very slow.
Your back aches every few minutes and your little bump seems determined to press against every organ you own.
“You are so lucky I already love you” you mumble down at your stomach.
A tiny kick answers.
“Oh don’t sass me.”
Another kick.
“Traitor.”
By the time you reach the convenience store you’re slightly out of breath.
The cashier smiles knowingly.
“Pregnancy craving?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You came in wearing thongs dear.”
You look down.
“Oh.”
You forgot to change your shoes.
Wonderful.
Five minutes later you’re proudly walking home with your precious tub of mint chocolate chip hugged against your chest.
Mission accomplished.
Until-“Oh my God! Sorry!”
Someone barrels into you at full speed while sprinting toward a waiting taxi.
The impact isn’t enough to knock you over thankfully.
But it’s enough to make you stumble backwards with a sharp gasp.
Your side slams lightly against the corner of a fence.
Pain blooms across your left ribs and side of your bump.
The stranger is already apologising profusely.
“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
“Y-Yeah.”
You automatically rub your side.
It hurts.
A lot more than you’d like.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay” you lie with a strained smile.
He rushes off toward the taxi still apologising.
You stand there for another moment.
The baby kicks.
You let out a shaky breath.
“We’re okay.”
Another kick.
“We are definitely not telling your daddy? Alright?”
You sigh.
“He’ll worry.”
So you slowly continue walking home.
Each step makes your ribs ache.
Oscar wakes because you’re gone.
At first he only reaches for you.
His hand finds cold sheets.
His eyes blink open.
“Baby?”
Silence.
He sits up.
Bathroom.
Empty.
Kitchen.
Empty.
His heart begins beating faster.
He grabs his phone.
3:58 a.m.
Nearly four.
“Darling?”
Nothing.
His chest tightens.
He checks the apartment again.
Every room.
Every cupboard.
As if somehow his six month pregnant wife has shrunk small enough to fit inside one.
Nothing.
His breathing becomes uneven.
He calls you.
Straight to voicemail.
“Oh, come on don’t do this to me”
He throws on the nearest hoodie grabs his keys.
No.
No no no.
His mind immediately jumps to every awful possibility.
Someone followed you.
You fell.
You fainted.
You were hurt.
He already has emergency services half dialled when the front door unlocks.
Oscar spins around so quickly it almost makes him dizzy.
There you are.
Hair messy.
One of his hoodies practically swallowing you.
Holding a tub of ice cream.
And absentmindedly rubbing your sore side.
Relief crashes into him so violently his knees almost give out.
“Oh thank God.”
You smile sheepishly.
“Hi.”
Then relief turns into panic.
Then panic becomes anger.
“Where the hell have you been?”
You freeze.
“I—”
“It’s four in the morning!”
“Ozzi-”
“I woke up and you were gone!”
“I’m sor—”
“You didn’t leave a note. You didn’t answer your phone. I thought someone had taken you or something bad had happened”
His voice isn’t screaming.
But It’s firm and the tone is something new for it’s louder than you’ve ever heard it.
His breathing is ragged.
His hands are shaking.
“I was about to call the police!”
Your lip trembles.
“I just wanted ice cream”
“it’s the middle of the night you can’t just go out and get it!”
“I know.”
“What if something happened to you?”
“What if someone hurt you?”
“What if—”
“Osc i know-”
Your voice comes out tiny.
Barely audible.
The tears arrive instantly.
“I know”
Oscar stops talking.
Your eyes are overflowing now.
You clutch the ice cream like it’s the only thing keeping you together.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
A tear slips down your cheek.
“You’ve been so tired.”
Another one.
“I thought-I thought I could do it by myself.”
Your shoulders shake.
“But now you’re mad.”
“I’m not—”
“You don’t even want to hug me.”
That sentence absolutely destroys him.
His expression falls immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart”
You sniffle.
“I know I shouldn’t have gone out this late.”
“I just”
Your voice cracks.
“I wanted my ice cream.”
Oscar closes the distance in two long strides.
He wraps both arms around you as gently as he possibly can.
You immediately bury your face into his chest crying harder now that you’re finally where you wanted to be all along.
“I’m sorry” you mumble.
“I’m really sorry.”
“I know.”
“I just wanted ice cream and for you to hold me.”
His eyes close.
“Oh my love.”
He kisses your forehead.
“I’m holding you.”
You cling to the front of his hoodie.
“I was so scared” he whispers.
“I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m here.”
He hugs you tighter before suddenly pulling back after you wince softly.
His eyes narrow.
“Why are you holding your side?”
You instinctively move your hand away.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
His stomach drops.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing.”
“What happened?”
“I just”
You hesitate.
“Someone bumped into me.”
Oscar goes completely still.
“Someone what?”
“They were running for a taxi.”
“Did you fall?”
“No.”
“Did they push you?”
“No.”
“They just ran into me.”
He notices the faint dark bruise beginning to form beneath the hem of his hoodie.
His face loses every bit of colour.
“Sweetheart”
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
He crouches in front of you immediately.
“It’s sore.”
“Where?”
“My ribs.”
“Show me.”
You lift the hoodie just enough for him to see the forming bruise along your side.
Oscar looks like he’s about to cry.
His fingers hover over the bruise without touching it.
“They hit you here?”
“It was mostly the fence.”
“You hit a fence?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Oh for fucks sake”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re bruised.”
“I’m okay Ozzie I swear”
“The baby?”
“They’ve been kicking.”
Oscar lets out the breath he’d apparently been holding.
“Okay.”
His voice is shaky.
“Okay.”
Within minutes you’re lying on the sofa while Oscar carefully rubs soothing balm over the sore area with impossibly gentle hands.
His touch is featherlight.
Like you’re made of glass.
“Does this hurt?”
“A little.”
“And this?”
“No.”
“I’m taking you to get checked tomorrow.”
“Oscar—”
“I’m not arguing.”
He continues applying the balm in silence.
His jaw is tight.
You reach down and gently lace your fingers through his free hand.
He looks up.
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head.
“No.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“I scared you.”
“You terrified me.”
You offer him the smallest smile.
“I love you.”
The words are so soft they’re almost carried away by the silence.
His entire expression melts.
“I love you most.”
He leans down and kisses your forehead.
Then your nose.
Then your cheeks.
“As much as I love you”
He cups your face.
“You are never doing that again.”
You smile guiltily.
“Okay but it did feel like a was a teenager again sneaking out to see you”
“Focus baby, listen to what i am saying”
“I don’t care if it’s three in the morning.”
“I don’t care if I’ve just finished a race.”
“I don’t care if I’ve slept for five minutes.”
You giggle quietly.
He pokes your forehead.
“If you want ice cream”
“Wake me”
“If you want fries”
“Wake me.”
“If you want watermelon in December”
“Wake me.”
“If you decide the baby needs pancakes at four in the morning”
You grin.
“I wake you.”
“You wake me.”
“And?”
“And we’ll go together.”
He shakes his head.
“No.”
You blink.
“No?”
“I’ll go.”
“Oscar—”
“You stay in bed.”
“But—”
“I’ll bring back the entire freezer if I have to.”
You laugh through the last of your tears.
“The entire freezer?”
“The entire freezer.”
“That’s excessive.”
“I’m an overprotective husband.”
“You really are.”
“I’m also an overprotective father.”
Right on cue your baby gives a tiny kick beneath his hand.
Oscar smiles so softly it almost hurts to look at.
“See?”
He presses a kiss to your bump.
“You’re both staying exactly where I can find you.”
You thread your fingers through his hair.
“I promise.”
He looks back up at you.
“No more sneaking out.”
“I promise.”
“No matter how tired I am.”
“I promise.”
“No matter what you’re craving.”
“I promise.”
He studies your face for another second before pulling you carefully into his lap wrapping a blanket around both of you.
The ice cream had melted into soup by then.
Neither of you cared.
Because somehow curled safely against Oscar’s chest with one hand over yours and the other resting protectively over your bump it still turned out to be exactly what you’d been craving all along.
☆ warnings: very horny!oscar x bratty!reader, unprotected p in v, huge praise kink, exhibitionism?, possessive undertones, dirty talk, implied multiple rounds, bonus morning scene ⋆ inspo: (x) (x) (x) (x)
⋆ ‧ ⋅ ☾ ‧ ⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ‧ ⋅
oscar <3: heading home soon. :))
oscar <3: miss you.
oscar <3: you're so pretty.
you know he’s drunk the moment your phone lights up.
not because of typos, he’s still too annoyingly precise for that, but just the pattern of his messages. the multiple messages being sent right after each other, the extra parentheses in his smiley face. yeah, he's drunk.
and that’s when you smile, because oscar barely ever texts like that, unless the room is spinning a little and he’s pretending it isn’t. he had the drivers' dinner, and by the time you hear his keys fumble at the door, you’re already leaning against the hallway wall. your arms crossed, cheekily waiting.
he steps inside with that his shirt slightly more unbuttoned than it was before he left home. his cheeks are warm, hair a bit messy. he doesn't look wrecked or sloppy, just a bit more loose than usual. a version of him you don't see so often.
"hi.” he grins.
you raise a brow. “hi.”
he walks straight to you, without any hesitation. just gravitates towards you with his two hands sliding to around waist, pulling you in. and that’s when you feel it, the way his hips brush against yours and the way his breath catches at the subtle friction.
“oh my god, osc.” you murmur. “you’re horny.”
he hides his face in your neck like it’s a confession. "…maybe a little.”
you giggle because he’s lying. he’s hard, fully and uncontrollably fucking hard.
“did you have fun tonight?” you ask.
“mhm,” he’s not hearing a word. his fingers are already pressing into your hips and his eyes are glued to your tits. “missed you.”
it’s the way he says it, so unfiltered and raw that it implies that he missed more than just your presence. it makes stomach flutter.
he pulls back just enough to look at you properly, and that’s when you see it. he has his brown pupils blown wide and a pink flush crawling from his cheeks down to his throat.
youu thumb his cheek lightly. “you’re staring.”
“i can’t help it,” his voice drops. “you look so fucking good, you smell good too.”
your breath hitches. oscar doesn’t talk like that, definitely not when sober.
you tap his lean chest. “okay. what happened tonight?”
his eyes dart away and his hand rubs the back of his neck. oh, he is embarrassed.
“baby…” he groans, already regretting it. “you’re gonna make fun of me.”
“oh, i absolutely am.”
he sits on the arm of the couch, with a light sense of shame like he’s a little boy waiting to be told off.
"the guys were talking about sex.”
there’s a pause.
“like… a lot.”
you grin. your polite, proper boyfriend got influenced by his friends and by the beautiful effects of alcohol. fucking hilarious.
“so you joined?”
“not on purpose!” he insists. “they started talking about their girlfriends and i wasn’t going to but then we started taking some shots and i-"
he shuts his eyes, muttering, “fuck.”
“what did you tell them?” you ask sweetly, almost condescendingly.
he drops his face into his hands. “too much.”
“like?”
he peeks at you between his fingers, cheeks bright pink. “that our sex is always amazing.”
your smile widens. oscar piastri, your calm and collected boyfriend was drunk bragging about your sex. “and…?”
“that you’re… stupidly attractive.” he swallows hard. “and that we’re a little… kinky.”
you snort. “oscar piastri.”
“i didn’t mean to!” he protests. “they were bragging about how dominant they are and i just… i might’ve said you’re a brat sometimes.”
“oh? and what else?”
he groans. “baby, please.”
“tell me.”
he licks his dry lips, accepting his fate. “i said i handle you.”
your thighs press together. he sees it, and his pupils dilate even more.
“and how exactly do you handle me?” you push.
he bites his lip anxiously. “well… jesus. i told them you like when i take control.”
your breath hitches. the idea of your boyfriend bragging about you is suddenly getting you a lot more hot and bothered than you initially expected.
“and?”
his throat bobs as he swallows again. “and that you like when i pin you down. and when you act up and i-fuck.”
he shakes his head. “i shouldn’t have said that.”
your smile at him. your eyes so bratty, determined to make the most of oscar's lust.
“awh, so you wanted to show off to your friends what a big strong boy you are?”
fuck.
his jaw goes slack and his breath stutters. suddenly, whatever little restraint he had left evaporates. oscar's hand grabs onto your waist, pulling you between his knees.
“don’t say shit like that to me right now.”
“why?” you tease. “does it make you horny? do i make you horny?”
he looks up at you. his eyes dark, desperate and just so fucking gone.
“i’ve been fucking hard since dessert,” he confesses, voice deep and slightly slurred with honesty. “literally just thinking about you. thinking about telling them how good you are for me. how good you sound when i-”
he bites his lip, losing the sentence. “oh my god.”
your fingers slide into his hair. “oscar?”
he grabs your hips so harshly and his voice breaks. "i want you, now.”
“you can have all of me, osc.”
he stands so fast you nearly stumble. his mouth crashes into yours, hot and messy. he’s already walking you backwards down the hall, hands everywhere. he's so touchy, all over your waist, your ass and your neck.
“been thinking about you straddling me. about your mouth. about the way you whine when i pull your hair.”
he pushes you against the bedroom door, kissing you like he’s a teenager again. hands all over, with no patience. he slips his hand between your legs over your clothes and presses onto your core. you tug at his shirt as soon as you feel the pressure on your clothed clit.
he pushes you onto the bed and climbs over you. he's kissing your throat and your chest, sucking irresponsible marks that sober oscar will feel bad about in the morning.
his hands roam over your body, cupping your tits, sliding down your waist and gripping your thighs. he's pinning you against the bed as he buries his face in your neck.
“you’re genuinely so fucking hot,” his hand pushes down your underwear and he slips his fingers warmly inside your cunt. “fuck. wet already? you like that i bragged about you?”
you whimper at the feeling, slightly shy. he laughs softly against your neck.
“of course you do." he murmurs against your skin. “i told them how bratty you can be. how you tease, and how i handle you. how you beg, and i- fuck. i’ve been thinking about it all night.”
you arch against him, biting your lip as your legs wrap around him to cage him closer to your body. “showing off what strong a boy you are got you this worked up?”
“fuck. yes,” he groans. “you make me want to fuck you senseless.”
you trail your hands down his back, nails lightly grazing his skin. he fumbles with his belt, unbuttoning his pants as he groans into your ear.
“been thinking about your little bratty attitude that you get. about how i hold you down, how you love it even when you pretend to fight me.”
you gasp, fingers threading through his hair. “oh god, osc.”
he's so clumsy but with intent. not gentle but eager, and just so greedy, almost like he's discovering you all over again. his fingers work you open while he grinds against your thigh, shamelessly seeking friction.
“you make my cock throb,” he admits, voice thin with need. “fuck baby, i’m so hard it hurts.”
he’s never talked like this. oscar is never this filthy, never this shameless.
you tug at his belt.
“then fuck me, osc. please.”
you're always just so good to him. he quickly pulls his own pants down and pushes your legs open. he plays clumsily with your clit, frantic and desperate. then, he slides his throbbing cock inside you and stops after a single thrust. he's breathing hard, eyes shut and simply overwhelmed.
“oh fuck.” his forehead drops to your shoulder. “too good. too fucking good, jesus christ.”
he's consuming all of you with his hands, mouth, cock, everything at once. he continues, and each desperate thrust is just for him, just for the pure pleasure of feeling you wrapped around his throbbing cock.
he's moving without any rhythm, just need and lust. dirty, sloppy thrusts into your cunt that make the headboard bang against the wall. your nails dig into his back.
"god, i got hottest girl, the naughtiest girl, the best fuck. you make me hard just by looking at me. i want you so bad. i told them how bratty you can be, how i have to hold you down. how you beg when i’m rough. fuck, you make me so hard- i want to cum inside you.”
his words, his heat, his desperation. it's all too much, as he slams his cock into you. every thrust is messy and just so greedy.
“oscar, fuck-”
“i’m sorry,” he pants. “i’m fuck- i’m not gonna last. you feel too good, baby. you feel so fucking good-”
you pull him closer. “it’s okay osc, just enjoy it.”
“no.” his voice cracks. “i wanted to take my time, i swear i did. but fuck, the way your cunt feels and the way you look, and the way you’re moaning."
he's a rambling mess as buries himself deep, quickly cumming with a broken moan against your neck. his release is loud and messy, hips stuttering and hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to hold himself together. he collapses on top you, so fucking embarrassed.
“oh my god.” he hides his face in your chest. “i’m so sorry.”
you stroke his hair.
“baby,” you laugh softly. “you came in like two minutes.”
he groans. "don’t fucking remind me.”
you kiss his forehead, so sticky and warm. “it was hot.”
he looks up at you, eyes soft but hazy. “you really think so? you're so weird, baby.”
you giggle. “you were so worked up, it’s cute.”
"cute? you're unreal. you look so good right now."
"drunk oscar would say that to anyone.”
he tilts his head.
“no, drunk oscar says things he’s too shy to say sober. like how how i want to fuck you again even though you just milked my cock within two minutes.”
fuck.
“round two,” he murmurs. “i’m giving you a proper one.”
“sober osc style, hm?”
“no.” a slow smile spreads across his face. “drunk oscar style. the one who bragged all night about how well you take my cock.”
⸻ ☆☆☆
the next morning
you wake up first. ironic, considering the way oscar destroyed your sleep schedule last night.
oscar's faceis buried in your chest, one arm slung across your waist. typical clingy oscar when drunk. you brush your fingers through his messy hair and he groans softly, nuzzling closer like a cat.
then, he freezes. he slowly lifts his head and blinks at you.
“…morning.”
you smile. “morning.”
he looks down at your naked bodies tangled together. “oh no.”
you bite your lip to hold back a laugh but he notices.
“don’t laugh at me,” he says, hiding his face behind your shoulder. “i know i was a menace.”
“hm, that you were.” you confirm with a wide grin.
he groans into your skin. “fuck, i remember. it’s like watching someone else ruin my reputation.”
"you said many things.”
"oh god, please let's just forget about it.”
you raise a brow. “like how you told lando you manhandle me when i’m brattier than usual.”
oscar physically cringes. he slaps a hand over his face so aggressively, trying to hide his shame.
“i did not…"
“you did.”
and he’s red. not pink, pure fucking red. “jesus fucking christ."
you stretch innocently. "oh, and how we're we’re kinky. how i’m sooo hot. how you’re a strong boy.”
he falls backward onto his pillow with a little groan.
"i meant i manhandle you,” he corrects all flustered. “i did not say ‘strong boy', that sounds like something a toddler says about lifting a chair.”
he cuts himself off, blinking. he looks at you slowly and smiles. his blush deepens.
“you really liked what i said? i thought it was all so cringe.”
“oh, it’s extremely cringe.”
he closes his eyes. “fuck.”
you whisper into his ear, mimicking his drunk words. "baby, you make my cock throb.”
oscar's eyes widen in pure fucking shame. “no. nope. absolutely not. i’m breaking up with myself.”
you burst into laughter and after some minutes of suffering, he finally peeks at you.
“you really liked it, didn’t you?”
you kiss him softly. “very much.”
his expression softens into that warm, gentle oscar smile. "...i wasn’t too much, was i?”
you shake your head. “not at all, osc.”
he exhales in relief, pulling you closer. “god. i need to apologise to the guys.”
“you absolutely will not,” you argue, climbing on top of him. “they got you drunk, let them suffer.”
he laughs, still kinda shy. his hands slide up your thighs, settling on your hips.
“so i said all that and embarrassed myself, and you’re still climbing on top of me first thing in the morning?”
you lean down until your noses touch. “obviously.”
SUMMARY: Being the daughter of Nico Rosberg means you have to keep your relationship with Oscar Piastri extremely private. Your dad has always been very clear: never get involved with a driver. So you’ve been super careful, until one night in the paddock you let your guard down just once and get caught by Lewis Hamilton.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x rosberg!reader
WARNINGS: age gap (20 & 24), secret relationship, brocedes crumbs.
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Most teams had packed up after the long day of practice sessions, and even the die-hard engineers had called it a night.
But not Oscar. He'd been stuck in a late-night strategy meeting with McLaren's top brass, dissecting every lap from FP2 like it was the key to unlocking the universe. And Y/N? She was waiting. Like always.
She paced near the back of the McLaren garage, her Sky Sports lanyard dangling around her neck.
It was her excuse for being here,helping her dad with post-race analysis prep. But her dad, Nico Rosberg, had left for the hotel over an hour ago, grumbling about needing sleep before qualifying tomorrow. "Don't stay too late, kiddo," he'd said, planting a kiss on her forehead.
If only he knew.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, Oscar's signal that the meeting was finally over. She slipped out into the dimly lit alley between the garages, her heart racing as it always did during these stolen moments.
Keeping their relationship secret had started as a thrill, a game of cat-and-mouse with the prying eyes of the F1 world.
But six months in, it was exhausting. Sneaking around hotel corridors, coded texts, and quick glances across the paddock during press conferences it was wearing them down.
The press would lose their minds if they found out: "Rosberg's Daughter Hooks Up with Title Contender!" And her dad? God, he'd explode. He'd drilled it into her head since she was a teenager: "Never get tangled with a driver, Y/N. I know how we are, obsessed, selfish, always chasing the next win. It'll break your heart."
But Oscar wasn't like that. Or at least, that's what she told herself.
He emerged from the shadows, looking tired but wired. His eyes lit up when he saw her, that quiet smile breaking through the fatigue.
Without a word, he pulled her into a hug, his hands sliding to her waist as if they belonged there. "Missed you," he murmured against her hair.
"It's only been a day," she teased, but her voice betrayed her.
She tilted her head up, and their lips met soft at first, then deeper, the kind of kiss that made the world disappear.
For a moment, they forgot where they were. Forgot the risks. It was just them.
Until a soft cough shattered the illusion.
They sprang apart like they'd been electrocuted. Y/N's blood ran cold as she spun around. There, leaning against a nearby barrier with his arms crossed and a raised eyebrow was Lewis.
"Oh, fuck," Y/N whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.
Oscar tensed beside her, his eyes darting between them. Lewis, Uncle Lew, as she'd called him since she was a kid tagging along in the paddock with her dad pushed off the barrier and stepped into the light.
He was still in his Ferrari gear. His expression was a mix of amusement and concern, that signature coolness masking whatever shock he might've felt.
"Lewis..." she started, her voice shaky. Oscar stayed silent, but she could feel his hand brush hers in quiet support.
Lewis held up a hand. "Relax, kid. I was just heading back to the hotel. Late strategy session ran over, same as you two, I guess?" His eyes flicked to Oscar, who nodded stiffly.
Y/N swallowed hard. This could be worse. It could've been a paparazzi drone or some nosy journalist lurking in the shadows.
But Lewis? He was family, in a way. He'd been her dad's rival-friend, the guy who'd sent her birthday cards and Christmas gifts every year without fail. Still, the panic clawed at her throat.
"Oscar, give us a sec?" she said softly. He hesitated, but squeezed her hand before stepping back into the garage shadows. "I'll wait."
She turned to Lewis, stepping closer. "Uncle Lewis, you can't tell anyone about that. Please. And mostly not to my dad. Please."
Lewis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
He glanced over her shoulder at where Oscar had disappeared, then back at her. "I don't know what you're doing, kid, but I think Nico told you really clearly not to hook up with drivers. You know how this world works, the pressure, the spotlight. It chews people up."
"I know, I know," she rushed out, her cheeks burning. "But it's not like that. Oscar's... different. We're being careful. Super careful. Just... please don't say anything."
He studied her for a long moment, his eyes softening. "You know I won't tell anyone. Not my style to stir up drama like that. But be careful, yeah? I think Piastri's a great guy, smart, focused. But he's also a driver fighting for the championship. That changes people. Priorities shift."
Y/N let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Oh, thank you so much. I know what I'm doing, Lewis. I'm not 10 anymore." She managed a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood. "And also, thank you for the Christmas gifts. But you don't have to still do that every year. I'm basically an adult now."
Lewis chuckled, the tension easing a bit. "No problem. I hope you liked them."
"I did." She grinned, feeling a rush of relief. Uncle Lew, always the cool one.
He nodded toward the garage. "Alright, go on. Get out of here before someone else shows up. And Y/N? Seriously, watch your back. This paddock has eyes everywhere."
"I will. Promise." She gave him a quick hug, surprising even herself, before hurrying back to Oscar.
As Lewis walked away into the night, she leaned against Oscar, her heart still pounding.
“So?” he whispers.
“We’re clear. He’d rather get in the car with a bee in his helmet than talk with my dad.”
Oscar lets out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand down his face.
“That was idiotic.”
“Monumentally idiotic,” he agrees, but he’s already smiling that soft, lopsided smile that got you into this mess in the first place.
You both know better than to risk round two in the paddock. So you do the usual spy routine: you leave first, take the long way around, enter the hotel through the staff entrance. He follows ten minutes later, different door, cap pulled low.
Twenty-five minutes after that, you’re slipping into his room with the keycard he left under the fake plant (romantic, right?).
He’s sprawled on the bed in grey sweats, looking up as you lock the door. The second it clicks, he opens his arms without a word.
You kick off your shoes, dive in, and burrow into his chest like it’s the safest place on earth. His heartbeat’s still a little fast under your ear.
You stay tangled in silence for a minute, just decompressing.
Then he murmurs into your hair, “So… Lewis just caught us making out like teenagers.”
“Yup.”
“And he gave us relationship advice.”
“Pretty much.”
Oscar snorts. “This is the weirdest interaction of my life.”
“Hey, we didn’t get exposed to the internet. We got a free lecture from Lewis Hamilton. I’m calling it a win.”
