#oscar fluff

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗜 𝗔𝗟𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗬 𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗗 oscar piastri x girlfriend! reader ( fluff ) fic summary , Oscar usually insists on paying whenever you two go out, always quick to pull out his card before you can. Today, you beat him to it—and he does not take it well (0.3k)

( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

It’s a small, quiet café on a tucked-away street in Monaco. Warm light filters through the windows, bouncing off the glass display of pastries you swore you wouldn’t get this time (but probably will). You and Oscar are tucked into a corner booth, half-eaten sandwiches in front of you, coffee cups nearly empty.

When the bill comes, he’s already reaching for his wallet.

You’re faster.

Beep.

Oscar pauses mid-motion. His brows twitch. You glance up from the machine just in time to catch the confusion spread across his face like a system error.

“…huh?” he mutters, holding his card out limply like it’s suddenly useless.

You slip your own card back into your purse. “What?”

He just stares. “I was gonna get it.”

You blink at him, feigning innocence. “I know.”

“Then why—?”

“I paid already.”

Oscar looks genuinely affronted. Not angry, just… personally attacked. Like you’ve just denied him his birthright. “You what?”

A quiet laugh escapes you. “Paid. Already. It’s done. You can put your heroic little Visa away.”

His mouth opens, then closes again, processing. “Why would you—?”

“Because I wanted to.” You shrug, sipping the last of your iced coffee. “Also, I can. Shocking, I know.”

Oscar stares at you for a second longer, still holding his card like it might somehow fight for relevance. Then he lets it drop to the table with a soft clink, sitting back with narrowed eyes.

“This feels illegal,” he mutters.

You smile. “You’ll survive.”

“No, like genuinely. I’m filing a complaint. Where’s the manager?”

You lean forward, grinning. “You are the manager. And you’re doing a terrible job.”

He groans dramatically, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing at you again with narrowed eyes. “This isn’t over.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” you say, already standing and grabbing your bag. “Now let’s go before you try to Venmo me or something.”

He trails after you, still grumbling under his breath. But when your hand brushes his, he laces your fingers together without hesitation.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he says.

You squeeze his hand. “I know.”

[keithyp00]

𓏲 ₊˚๑ ꒰ The One Who Looks For Him ꒱ ໑‧₊˚.ꪆ

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x f!reader Word Count: 4.7K

Warnings/Tags: Slow burn, friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, kissing, cuddling, fluff, Lando teasing, overlooked, emotional vulnerability

Author Note: Hi everybody! I’m finally getting to posting some F1 stuff on here! I adore F1, especially McLaren (and Oscar) but I love both Oscar and Lando so much. (LANDO WORLD CHAMPION!!!!) Don’t take anything I say in this fic seriously please, I just thought the idea of somebody focusing solely on Oscar rather than Lando was cute :)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The Yas Marina paddock was louder than usual. It always was during Abu Dhabi weekend- something about the final race of the season made everyone a little more frantic, a little more emotional, a little more desperate to cling to whatever storyline mattered most.

But all you saw was orange. Orange banners. Orange shirts. Orange flags waving violently in the humid evening air.

And yet... even in a sea of McLaren fans, their cheers overwhelmingly aimed at one person, you could already tell you were the only one scanning the crowd for someone else.

Not Lando. As much as you loved his company, your eyes scanned for another driver.

Your eyes searched for Oscar Piastri.

The friend who'd been with you since you were two teenagers just trying to survive the brutality of the racing academy. The boy who first helped you learn how to trail brake without spinning. The one who always noticed when you skipped lunch. The one who stayed on video call with you the night before your first pole because you were too nervous to sleep.

The one who, no matter how much he tried to hide it, still softened the moment you looked at him.

And here you were- standing at the back of the McLaren garage after the race, watching him from twenty meters away as the whole world celebrated his teammate.

Lando was mobbed by media, by engineers, by sponsors, by papaya-clad fans that sounded like they might combust from sheer excitement.

But Oscar?

Oscar stood a bit off to the side, helmet still under one arm, race suit unzipped to his waist, fireproofs clinging to his chest. His hair was damp, cheeks flushed, eyes slightly unfocused with the remnants of adrenaline.

He had finished second overall and stood third in the championship standings- an achievement any other rookie would kill for.

But somehow, some way, everyone barely seemed to care.

Except you.

Your feet moved before you even decided to walk, weaving past cameras, past people shouting Lando's name, past McLaren crew members nodding politely at you when they recognized your academy jacket.

Oscar looked up at the movement, eyes locking onto you instantly- as if he'd been waiting for you to appear in the crowd.

There it was. That blink. That tiny, almost imperceptible exhale.

The relief that he didn't have to stand in a swarm of people who saw him as a number on a screen and not a person.

You knew him too well.

"Hey," you said softly, loud enough for only him to hear you as you finally reached him.

He gave the classic Piastri nonchalant shrug- famous online, but you'd seen the real version a thousand times. The one that hid nerves. The one that meant he cared more than he'd ever admit.

"You made it," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"I told you I'd be here."

"Yeah, but flights get delayed. Things happen. You didn't have to-"

"Osc." You stepped close enough for your shoulder to bump his lightly. "I wanted to."

And there it was again- his breath catching ever so slightly.

He looked away first, pretending to adjust the strap of the helmet resting on his side.

You smiled. Shy, warm, a little knowing. Because he always did that around you.

---

FLASHBACK - ACADEMY

Your visor was fogging. You were sweating inside your race suit. And you were absolutely, unquestionably about to lose your shit.

"Just brake later," your engineer kept saying over the radio. Just brake later. Just brake later. Just brake later.

You wanted to break something, that's for sure.

Then someone knocked on the side of your car in the paddock. You lifted your visor. Oscar stood there, holding a cold bottle of water and wearing that annoyingly calm expression he used whenever you were spiraling.

"You look like you're seconds away from committing homicide," he stated.

"I might," you replied dryly.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't," he deadpanned. "I'm fond of you. Prison visiting hours would seriously cut into my training schedule."

You blinked, heat rising to your face despite the sweat. Fond of you?

He coughed immediately, ears going pink. "Anyway. Uh. I can help. With the breaking thing."

"You?"

"Me. Yes. Shocking, I know."

"You just like showing off," you muttered.

"Absolutely," he smiled. "But this time it's to help you.

And it did help. And he never let you forget it.

---

PRESENT DAY

Now he was taller. Sharper. More mature in that quiet, unexpectedly confident way he developed after joining F1.

But to you?

He was still the boy who steadied your shaking hands before your first academy podium.

"Seriously," you smiled gently, "you were incredible today."

he huffed a laugh. "Could've been better."

"Oscar." You stepped in front of him, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "You were second overall. Third in the entire championship. That's-"

"Not first," he said, tone deceptively light, but you heard the undertone. You always heard it.

"You're allowed to be proud of yourself," you told him. "I'm proud of you."

And before he could respond, a group of McLaren staff passed behind you- cheering loudly. "Landooo! Media room, mate! Let's go!"

Oscar's jaw tightened for just a fraction of a second. Not jealousy. Not resentment. Just... being overlooked. Again.

You didn't even think. Your hand lifted instinctively, fingers brushing his.

He froze. You froze. Your fingertips touched for maybe a second- barely anything. But Oscar reacted like you'd lit a fuse under him. He drew in a sharp breath, eyes flicking down to your hand, then up to your face, expression unreadable in a way only he could manage.

"...Come with me?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked. "Where?"

"Somewhere quiet."

The way he said it- low, quiet, almost vulnerable- sent heat racing down your spine. Before you could respond, he cleared his throat quickly, trying to mask whatever he just revealed.

"Just for a bit," he added. Media's gonna be focusing on Lando for at least another hour. I could use some time away from... this."

You smiled. "I'm always down to escape with you."

His lips twitched. "'Escape' makes it sound like we're fugitives."

"Have you seen the paddock? We practically are."

That actually made him laugh- soft, quiet, the kind no one else ever got to hear.

He turned toward the back exit of the garage, shoulder brushing yours as he led you out, making sure you stayed close in the bustling chaos.

And when someone called out- "Hey, where's Oscar going?"

-- You didn't miss the way he subtly stepped closer to you, shielding you with his body as he guided you into the quieter service corridor behind the hospitality building.

His voice dropped again, only for you. "Thank you for being here."

"I told you, Osc-"

"No," he cut in gently, eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart lurch, "thank you for being here for me."

And right there, in that quiet corridor while the world celebrated someone else, you felt something shift.

Something bigger than the crowd. Bigger than the race. Bigger than the season.

Because even after all these years, all the changes, all the growing up... Oscar Piastri still looked for you first. And you still came running.

___

The corridor behind the McLaren hospitality unit was dimmer, cooler, and blissfully silent compared to the chaos you'd just escaped.

Oscar leaned back against the wall the moment you were out of sight, tilting his head slightly as if grounding himself. The overhead lights cast soft shadows across his face, sharp lines softened by exhaustion and something else you couldn't quite name. Relief, maybe. Or vulnerability.

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, watching him the way you always did when he thought no one was paying attention. "How long do you think we've got?" you asked quietly.

He glanced over at a clock on the wall. "Thirty minutes. Maybe forty if Lando gets dragged into extra interviews."

You hummed. "So... plenty of time, then,"

He snorted softly. "Yeah. He's the star today." The words weren't bitter. Oscar never sounded bitter. But they were honest.

You stepped closer, resting your back on the wall opposite of him. The narrowness of the corridor suddenly made everything feel more intimate, like the world had folded in on itself just to give the two of you this moment.

"You know," you said carefully, "you don't always have to be okay with that."

His gaze lifted, meeting yours immediately. "Okay with what?"

"With being the one people forget to look at."

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn't expected you to say that out loud. "I'm not forgotten," he replied after a moment. "Just... quieter."

You tilted your head. "Are you sure that's better?"

A pause stretched between you, thick and heavy. Oscar scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it even messier than before. "You always do that," he murmured.

"Do what?"

"Say the thing everyone else avoids."

You shrugged. "Someone has to."

His eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache.

___

FLASHBACK- ACADEMY

You were sitting on the floor beside your car, knees pulled to your chest, helmet resting uselessly at your side.

You hadn't cried. Not yet. But you were close.

Oscar had finished fourth. You'd finished eleventh. Bad strategy call. Not your fault. Still devastating.

He'd found you there without asking anyone where you'd gone

"Hey," he said quietly, crouching in front of you. "You didn't deserve that."

You laughed bitterly. "You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time."

You stared at him. "Why do you care so much?"

He'd gone still Then shrugged- awkward, uncertain.

"Because you're good," he said simply. "And because it hurts watching someone good doubt themself."

You hadn't know what to say to that. You still didn't.

---

PRESENT DAY

Oscar shifted his weight, the sound of distant cheering echoing faintly through the walls.

"They're probably opening champagne by now," he said. "Team dinner tonight. You coming?"

"Wasn't invited."

His brows furrowed immediately. "What? Why not?"

You gave him a wry smile. "I'm not exactly part of the circus anymore."

He frowned harder. "That's stupid."

You laughed softly. "Welcome to motorsport."

There was a beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, he pushed off the wall and took a step toward you. "Come anyway," he stated.

Your heart skipped. "Oscar-"

"I'm serious," he insisted. "You were part of this just as much as anyone else. You've been part of my whole career."

The way he said my made your stomach flip.

"I don't think Zak would appreciate me crashing the McLaren celebration."

"Zak will survive," Oscar said, lips twitching. "He usually does."

You studied him for a moment, searching his face. "Why do you want me there?" you asked softly.

He hesitated. Just for a second. But you noticed.

"I-" he exhaled. "Because when everyone's talking over me, you don't."

That did it. Something inside you shifted, subtle but unmistakable.

You stepped closer without realizing it, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint traces of sweat and champagne and something uniquely Oscar. "You don't talk over me either," you said quietly. "You listen."

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then snapped back up- like he'd caught himself doing something dangerous.

"You always know when I'm lying," he murmured.

"That's because you're terrible at it."

He smiled faintly. "Only with you."

The air felt heavier now, charged with something neither of you were brave enough to name.

A burst of laughter echoed from outside- Lando's voice unmistakable, followed by cheers.

Oscar stiffened slightly. You didn't hesitate. Your hand reached out, resting gently on his forearm.

"Hey," you said. "You did good today. You don't have to disappear just because someone else is louder."

He looked down at your hand like it belonged there. Like it always had.

"I don't feel invisible when you're around," he admitted under his breath.

Your throat tightened. "Good," you whispered. "Because I see you."

His breath caught. For one terrifying, electrifying moment, you thought he might lean in. Thought his forehead might touch yours. Thought this- whatever this was- might finally tip over into something undeniable.

Instead, a McLaren staffer's voice echoed faintly down the corridor. "Oscar! We're heading to the press room in five!"

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the walls were back up- polite, composed, careful. But not entirely.

"Dinner?" he asked again, softer this time. "Please?"

You smiled, heart pounding. "I wouldn't miss it."

He nodded once, then stepped past you, pausing just long enough to brush your shoulder with his. And as he walked away, you noticed something you hadn't before. He didn't look disappointed anymore. He looked... hopeful.

---

The restaurant overlooking the marina was everything McLaren liked to pretend they were effortless at being- sleek, modern, buzzing with energy and champagne and a very specific kind of victory.

Orange flooded the room.

Orange accents, orange shirts, orange caps tossed carelessly over chair backs. The long table near the windows was already half-filled when you arrived, laughter echoing off glass walls as the sun dipped low over Yas Island.

Oscar walked in just ahead of you.

You watched the shift happen in real time.

Shoulders straightened. Expression neutralized. Public Oscar slid seamlessly into place.

But he slowed when he realized you weren't beside him anymore.

You'd paused just inside the entrance, suddenly very aware that you were stepping into his world again- not as a driver, not as a teammate, just... someone from before.

He turned back immediately.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

You nodded. "Yeah. Just- feels weird."

He studied you for a moment, then did something that made your breath hitch. He held out his hand. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just enough for you to see it.

"Sit with me," he said simply.

You didn't hesitate. The table erupted into noise as you joined them.

"Oscar!" "There he is!" "Second place, mate- huge!"

Hands clapped his back. Someone shoved a glass into his hand. Zak grinned from across the table, already halfway through a story about strategy calls and tire degradation.

And yet- despite all of it- Oscar pulled out the chair next to him and waited until you sat before taking his own.

Lando noticed immediately. You saw it in the way his eyes flicked between the two of you, brows lifting just slightly.

"Well, well," he said, leaning back in his chair. "And who's this?"

You opened your mouth, but Oscar beat you to it.

"This is-" he paused. Just a fraction too long, "-my friend."

The word felt heavier than it should've.

"From the academy," he added quickly. "We raced together."

Lando's grin sharpened. "Oh," he said. "That friend."

You blinked. "That friend?"

He waved it off. "Oscar talks about you more than you think."

Oscar nearly choked on his drink. "I do not."

"You absolutely do," Lando shot back. "Anytime someone brings up academy days, he gets all-" he gestured vaguely, "-quiet and sentimental."

Oscar shot him a warning look. Lando grinned wider. You hid your smile behind your glass.

Dinner rolled on in waves of laughter and clinking silverware, stories about near misses and radio arguments and inside jokes you'd forgotten how much you missed being a part of.

Oscar stayed close the entire time. His knee brushed yours under the table more than once. His arm rested along the back of your chair. When someone asked you a question, he turned toward you fully, attention undivided.

People started to notice.

"So," one of the engineers said casually, "you sticking around after this?"

You shrugged. "Wasn't sure."

Oscar answered without thinking. "She is."

You turned to him. "I am?"

He froze. Then, quietly, "If you want to."

Something about the way he said it- hopeful, uncertain- made your chest tighten. "I want to," you said softly.

Across the table, Lando lifted his glass. "Right," he muttered. "I see what's happening."

Oscar kicked him under the table. Hard.

---

The night air was cooler on the balcony, carrying the faint scent of salt and engine fumes from the track below.

You leaned against the railing, watching the lights shimmer across the water. Oscar joined you a moment later, two glasses in hand.

"Thought you might want one," he said, offering you the glass filled with champagne.

"Thanks."

You clinked glasses softly. Neither of you spoke for a while. The noise from inside faded into a distant hum- music, laughter, celebration that felt like it belonged to another world entirely.

"You okay?" he asked eventually.

You nodded. "Just... nostalgic."

He smiled faintly. "Yeah. Me too."

Silence stretched again, comfortable but charged.

"Lando thinks something's going on," you said lightly.

Oscar groaned. "Of course he does."

"Is he wrong?' you asked quietly.

He turned to you slowly. The city lights reflected in his eyes, making them look softer than you'd ever seen. "I don't know," he admitted. "That's the problem."

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.

"I think," he continued, voice low, "we've been orbiting each other for a long time."

You swallowed. "That's one way to put it."

He leaned closer, forearms resting on the railing beside yours. "I've never been good at... this part," he said. "The feelings part. the risking-things part."

You looked at him. Really looked. "You risk everything every weekend," you said gently. "Just not this."

He laughed under his breath. "Yeah. Exactly."

The space between you felt suddenly very small. Too small. You could feel his warmth, hear his breathing, see the way his gaze dropped to your lips again- this time lingering.

"Oscar," you whispered.

He stilled. "If this is a bad idea," he said softly, "tell me now."

You didn't. Instead, you stepped closer. Close enough that your chest brushed his arm. Close enough that your fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve without thinking.

"I don't think it's bad," you said. "I think it's just... scary."

His land lifted slowly, hovering near your waist like he was giving you every chance to pull away.

When you didn't, he rested it there- warm, steady, grounding.

For one suspended, breathless moment, it felt inevitable.

Then- "Oscar!"

Both of you jumped. Lando leaned halfway out the balcony doors, smirking. "Zak's looking for you," he said. "Also, for the record-" his eyes flicked pointedly between the two of you, "-I called this."

Oscar dropped his hand immediately, stepping back.

You laughed, breathless, heart racing. "Of course you did," you muttered.

Lando winked. "Carry on." The doors slid shut.

Oscar exhaled shakily. "Sorry," he said. "That-"

"Don't," you interrupted. "I don't regret it."

He looked at you surprised. Neither did he.

"Walk with me?" he asked quietly.

You nodded.

As you left the balcony together, fingers brushing once more, you knew one thing for certain- Whatever this was between you and Oscar Piastri? It was no longer invisible. And neither of you could pretend it didn't exist anymore.

---

The paddock at night felt nothing like it did during the day. The noise was gone. The chaos had burned itself out. What remained was the low hum of generators, the glow of overhead lights reflecting off empty asphalt, and the echo of footsteps that felt far too loud in the quiet.

You walked beside Oscar, hands brushing occasionally, neither of you daring to fully close the distance yet.

Not after the balcony. Not after everything that had almost happened.

"I can't believe Lando," you muttered.

Oscar huffed a laugh. "He has a sixth sense for ruining moments."

"You looked like you were about to throttle him."

"Briefly considered it," he admitted. "Decided it would be bad for my public image."

You smiled, but the laughter faded quickly. The silence that followed wasn't awkward- it was heavy. Full. Loaded with everything neither of you had said yet.

Oscar slowed, then stopped altogether near the edge of the paddock, where the lights dimmed and the marina breeze cut through the lingering heat. You turned to face him. He didn't look away this time.

"I didn't mean to pull away back there," he said quietly. "I just-"

"You don't have to explain," you said gently.

"No," he insisted. "I do." His hands slid into his pockets, shoulders rising and falling with a measured breath. "I've wanted to do that for a long time."

Your heart stuttered. "...Do what?"

He laughed softly, almost embarrassed. "Kiss you." There it was. Bare. Honest. Unavoidable. "You always felt... off-limits," he continued. "Like if I crossed that line, I'd ruin something I couldn't get back."

You stepped closer without telling your body to. "Oscar," you whispered, "we stopped being just academy kids a long time ago."

"I know," he said. "But every time I thought about saying something, you were doing something incredible. Moving on. Living your life." He looked at you, eyes searching. "And I didn't want to be another thing pulling you in a direction you didn't choose."

Your chest ached. "You never pulled," you stated. "You waited."

His jaw tightened. "I waited too long."

You reached for him then- really reached- your fingers wrapping around his wrist, grounding him. "You're here now."

He swallowed. "So are you."

The air between you felt electric.

His hand lifted again, slower this time, more certain. He cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing along your cheek like he was committing the feeling to his memory.

"Tell me to stop."

You didn't. Instead, you leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first- tentative, careful, like both of you were afraid the moment might disappear if you moved too fast. His lips were warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten painfully.

When he exhaled against your mouth, something in him broke. The kiss deepened- not frantic, not desperate, but sure. Like he'd finally stopped holding back. His other hand settled at your waist, fingers pressing lighting like he was anchoring himself to you.

You melted into him, hands sliding up to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your palms.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, foreheads touching, the world felt quieter than it ever had.

Oscar laughed softly, incredulous. "...Wow."

You smiled, cheeks warm. "Yeah.."

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed. "I've replayed that moment in my head," he spoke quietly into the chill air. "More times than I care to admit."

"You're kidding."

He shook his head. "No. Always thought it would be... different."

"Different how?"

"Less terrifying," he smiled. "Less perfect."

Your heart skipped. He opened his eyes again, gaze steady and sincere.

"I don't know what this means," he stated. "But I know I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."

You squeezed his hand. "Neither do I."

A voice echoed faintly in the distance- someone calling for him again. He groaned. "They're going to start a search party."

You laughed softly.

He hesitated, then leaned in once more- this time with confidence- and kissed you again. Slower. Deeper. Certain. When he pulled back, he smiled- not the polite one he wore for cameras, but the real one you remembered from late nights in the academy garage.

"Stay," he said softly. "Just... with me. Tonight."

You nodded. "I'm not going anywhere."

As you walked back toward the lights together, his hand found your naturally, fingers lacing like it had always been meant to happen this way. And for the first time in a long time, Oscar didn't feel like he was standing in anyone else's shadow.

Because the person he'd always wanted to see him- Was walking right beside him.

---

You woke up to silence. Not the heavy, lonely kind- but the calm, suspended kind, like the world had agreed to hold its breath for a little while longer.

Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, pale gold spilling across unfamiliar white sheets. For a moment, you didn't move. You just lay there, blinking slowly, listening. There was the faint hum of air conditioning. The distant murmur of traffic far below. And- warmth. Solid. Steady. Real.

You shifted slightly and felt it immediately: an arm wrapped securely around your waist, a chest rising and falling behind you, breath warm against the back of your neck.

Oscar.

Last night came back in fragments first.

The walk. The kiss. The way he'd held your hand like it was instinct rather than intention. The quiet room. The way he'd looked at you afterward, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked.

Your heart thudded softly and you turned carefully in his arms.

Oscar was still asleep, lashes resting against his cheeks, hair messy in a way you'd only ever seen during academy weekends when he'd fallen asleep in airport chairs or hotel lobbies between flights.

He looked younger like this. Softer Unarmored. One hand curled loosely into the fabric of your shirt, fingers flexing slightly when you moved, like even in sleep he was aware of where you were.

You swallowed. God. This was dangerous.

As if sensing your stare, his brow furrowed faintly. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first- then sharpening the moment he saw you.

"Oh," he murmured. His voice was rough, sleep-warmed. "You're still here."

You smiled. "Good morning to you too."

He blinked, then exhaled- long and relieved- pulling you closer without hesitation. "Sorry," he said immediately. "That sounded... wrong. I just meant-"

"I know what you meant." you said gently.

He relaxed against the pillow, eyes searching your face like he was memorizing it. "Did I dream it?" He asked quietly.

You leaned in and kissed him- soft, lingering, real. "No," you whispered against his lips. "You didn't."

He smiled then. Really smiled. The kind that crinkled his eyes and made his whole face soften, like a weight he'd been carrying for years and finally shifted. "Okay," he said. "Good."

You laughed softly, resting your forehead against his. Neither of you moved for a while.

Eventually, Oscar spoke again. "We should probably talk about it," he stated.

You nodded. "Yeah. We probably should."

He rolled onto his side so he was facing you fully, propping himself up on one elbow. "I don't want this to be something that happens once because we were emotional and tired and it was the end of the season," he said carefully. "And I don't want to scare you by saying that if this is something, I take it seriously."

Your chest warmed. "You don't scare me," you said. "You never have."

His gaze softened. "I've liked you for a long time," he admitted. "I just didn't know what to do with it."

You reached up, thumb brushing along his jaw. "I think we've both been doing that."

He nodded, leaning into your touch instinctively.

"So," he started, a hint of nervousness creeping in, "maybe we... don't define it quite yet?"

You smiled. "I'd be okay with that."

His shoulders visibly relaxed.

"But," you added, "I don't want to hide it either."

He met your eyes. "Neither do I."

A knock sounded at the door. You both froze.

Oscar groaned, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder. "Please tell me that's not Lando." Another knock.

"Oscar!" Lando's voice came through loud and clear. "We're leaving for the airport in an hour, and Zak wants to-" The door opened slightly.

Lando stopped. Looked at you. Looked at Oscar. Looked at your intertwined positions on the bed. Then he grinned.

"Oh," he said. "So that's what happened."

Oscar buried his face in his hands. "Get out," he muttered.

Lando laughed. "Relax, Romeo. I'll tell Zak you're... occupied."

The door shut and you burst out laughing. Oscar looked at you, resigned but smiling.

"Well," he said. "That was inevitable."

You reached for him again, fingers lacing with his easily, naturally. "What happens when the season starts again?" you asked quietly.

He squeezed your hand. "We figure it out," he said. "Together. Like we always have."

And for the first time, the uncertainty didn't feel scary. It felt promising. Because this time, when the noise faded and the lights dimmed and the world moved on to its next obsession- Oscar Piastri wouldn't be standing alone. He had you. And you had him.

[sasha-f1]

Birthday calender 15

F1 x birthday girl

April 15th [everyone say happy birthday 🎂]

__×__

@y/n☆

Caption- my fav paddock fits of the year 💌

Comments-

@f1girlies: FIT 3????? ARE YOU KIDDING ME

@gridgossip: she dresses better than the entire grid combined

@papayafiles: how does she look expensive in RED BULL MERCH???

@kellypiquet: so pretty

@maxlover: kelly in the comments?!

@softlando: i wanna be her so bad it’s painful

@charlesluvr: she’s literally the main character of the paddock

@pitlaneinsider: what does she even DO 😭

@f1factsdaily: girl has more access than engineers

@formuladrama: paddock bunny behavior idc

@leclercsangel: y’all just mad she’s prettier than u

@gridtea: no bc HOW is she in EVERY garage??

@tracklimits: FIA needs to investigate HER

@maxverstappenfan: even max doesn’t get this much access be serious

@danielricciardo: I love her!

__×__

@y/n☆ [story]

[Reposted by oscar piastri, lando norris, max verstappen, charles lecrec, Maggie concierge, kelly piqeut and 20 more.]

Comments-:

@f1updates: WHY IS EVERYONE REPOSTING THIS 😭

@paddocktea: ITS JUST A BIRTHDAY????

@gridculture: nah this is a global event apparently

@lilysbf: oscar reposted… ok serious business

@ferrarigirl: even the ferrari admin reposted HELLO??

@f1conspiracy: she has the entire paddock in a groupchat

@tracktea: this is giving… cult leader energy

@wagscloset: the girls reposting too??? yeah she’s loved fr

@hatersclub: this is so overhyped for no reason

__×___

@yn☆

Caption- the best midnight suprise ever!!

Comments-

@charleslecrec- happy birthday! Hop u like the watch

@f1maxified- charles got her a Rolex!?

@landonorris- happy birthday weirdo.

@alexalbon - happiest birthday!!!

@alexandersaintmulex- wish I was there!!!

@f11111: im so fucking jelaous!!

@f1world: WHY ARE THERE SO MANY FLOWERS

@gridwatch: that’s not a bouquet that’s a FOREST

@papayagossip: i see max. i see lando. I SEE CHARLES??

@f1tea: pierre yuki daniel all in one room???

@pitlanequeen: this is more effort than championship wins

@luxelife: is that a ROLEX BOX???

@fashioninsider: jimmy choos too?? oh she’s RICH rich

@jealousfan: what did she DO to deserve this

@realist: y’all would not survive being her

@conspiracygrid: she’s definitely dating someone there

@replygirl: or maybe they just like her?? crazy concept

__×___

@y/n☆

Caption- still unreal! Thank u!! @lewishanilton im crying.

Comments-:

@lewishamilton: your welcome happy birthday y/n!

@ferrari: red suites u! 🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️

@lonlyseberia- nahhh y/n has Ferrari commenting under her posts!? Wtf!!

@f1news: LEWIS BOUGHT HER A FERRARI????????

@gridshock: WHAT IS THEIR RELATIONSHIP HELLO

@ferrarifans: not even ferrari gives ferraris like this

@luxuryfiles: casually gifted a car im gonna throw up

@hatersclub: yeah no this is weird now

@lewisnation: if lewis likes her i like her idc

@tracklimits: i need to know EVERYTHING

@jealousera: god has favorites and it’s her

@gridtea: this is not normal paddock behavior

__×__

@y/n☆

Caption- my loves 🧡

Comments-

@papayafan: OSCAR AND LILY??? STOP

@oscarpiastri: happy birthday from lily and I!

@lilymhe: 🤍

@alexandersaintmulex: love itttt

@fashiongirl: CUSTOM HERMES????

@luxuryobsessed: that bag costs more than my education

@f1tea: she’s besties with EVERYONE it’s insane

@hatersclub: or she just collects rich friends

@softgrid: no this is actually cute tho

@paddockwatch: she has oscar wrapped around her finger fr

__×__

@y/n☆

Caption- birthday dinner with the girls

Comments

@rebbecadonaldson: wild night!

@maguiecorcero: you looked stunning

@wagupdates: THE WAGS LOVE HER TOO???

@gridlife: ok she’s officially untouchable

@f1tea: not her infiltrating BOTH sides

@fashionqueen: she fits in everywhere it’s insane

@jealousgirl: i would feel so insecure around her

@realone: or maybe she’s just genuinely nice???

@softaesthetic: this looks like a movie

@hatersclub: i still don’t trust it

@lilyzeinmer: 🩷🩷

__×__

Y/n☆

Caption- birthday week was crazy!! Thank u for your wishes and gifts I love you so much! Heres to 24!

Comments-

@gridwatch: CRAZY IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT

@f1culture: this is billionaire behavior

@fanpage: she lived 10 lives in one week

@luxelife: i need her life immediately

@hatersclub: this is so excessive

@replygirl: just say you’re jealous

@f1tea: still no explanation of what she does btw

@conspiracy: something is coming…

__×__

@rollingstonesmagazine + y/n☆

Caption- click here to read the article on who! @y/n☆ is! www.rollingstones.magaizine.

Comments-

@finalcomment: she had the power, the money, AND the talent

@reply: triple threat fr

@gridculture: she didn’t need to prove anything… but she did anyway

@internetvoice: y’all reduced her to a stereotype and she was literally building a legacy

@lastword:

she was never just a paddock girl.

you just didn’t know who you were looking at.

__×__

Who is y/n! A rolling stones article-

“More Than a Last Name: Inside Y/N Malone’s Quiet Reinvention”

For the better part of two seasons, she’s been everywhere and nowhere at once.

Leaning against pit walls in Monaco. Laughing in Ferrari garages. Walking into Red Bull hospitality like she belonged there—because, in some way, she always did.

No official role. No title. No explanation.

Just Y/N.

To fans, she was a mystery. To critics, an easy target. To the paddock, something else entirely: familiar.

This week, that mystery ends.

Y/N is the daughter of John C. Malone, the media billionaire behind Liberty Media—the company that owns Formula One.

“I’ve always known what it looks like from the outside.”

We meet her in a quiet, sunlit studio—not a paddock, not a luxury suite.

There’s paint on her hands.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

“I’m not stupid,” she says, smiling faintly. “I know what people think.”

She doesn’t flinch when asked about privilege. In fact, she leans into it.

“Most of my opportunities?” she shrugs. “They come from my father. From his world. His access. His money.”

There’s no defensiveness. No attempt to soften it.

“I will never deny that. And I’ll never be ungrateful for it either.”

It’s disarming—how direct she is. No PR training could manufacture that kind of honesty.

“But,” she adds, quieter now, “being privileged and being talentless aren’t the same thing.”

For someone constantly photographed, constantly watched, there’s an entire part of her life that has existed completely unseen.

“I think the hardest part wasn’t what people said,” she admits.

“It was the part of me that believed it.”

For years, she carried a quiet, gnawing question:

"If you take away my last name… what’s left?"

“I didn’t have an answer,” she says. "So I went looking for one."

Anonymous. Untouchable. Untraceable.

“I didn’t want anyone to know it was me,” she says. “Not my friends. Not my family. No one.”

Under a pseudonym—one she refused to connect to her real life—she began painting.

Not landscapes. Not safe, pretty things.

Faces.

Distorted. Emotional. Slightly abstract portraits that felt… off, in a way that made you look twice.

“They were never meant to be perfect,” she explains. “They were meant to feel honest. Because my identity as a artist was a lie, a made up person. And my identity without embracing my art felt false too. So I needed somthing honest to anchor myself."

And slowly, quietly, the art world noticed.

Two of those anonymous works were eventually acquired by Museum of Modern Art.

Not through connections.

Not through introductions.

Blind submissions. Independent curation.

“They didn’t know who I was,” she says. “That was the point.”

For the first time, the answer to that question—what’s left without the name?—became real.

“I think that’s when I started breathing properly,” she says softly.

“I don’t need to hide anymore.”

Next month, she will host her first full exhibition.

A week-long showcase. Her name attached. Her identity public.

No pseudonyms.

No distance.

“I think I just… proved it to myself,” she says. “That I could do something that wasn’t handed to me.”

And with that, something shifted.

“What people say now doesn’t really scare me anymore,” she adds. “Because I already answered the *am i just a useless nepo baby?* question to the only one who mattered- myself.”

For years, the art world has speculated about the identity behind a rising, anonymous name.

Critics described the work as emotionally raw. Intentionally imperfect. Human in a way that felt almost intrusive.

That name?

Mitski.

Today, Y/N confirms it.

“I chose it because it meant moon, which i see as quite a loved but also lonely thing. And the moon dose alot on its own with the high tides and waves and stuff bit the credit for its shine is always going to go the sun” she says. “And that resonates with me"

The name became a separation. A space where she could exist without expectation.

“Now,” she smiles, “I think both versions of me can exist at the same time.”

__×___

Comments-

@f1tea: WE CALLED HER A PADDOCK BUNNY IM SICK

@apologyform: i need to delete my entire account

@tracklimits: this just flipped the entire narrative

@f1detective: wait… everything makes sense now

@gridculture: this feels like a plot twist

@realist: at least she admitted it. respect.

@deepdives: “99% of my opportunities come from my father” is INSANE honesty

@hatersclub: ok but she still BENEFITS from it let’s not forget

@replygirl: she literally said that??? can you read

@thinkpiece: this is how you acknowledge privilege properly

@f1debates: y’all would’ve lied in her place be serious

@gridtalk: she didn’t deny it once… that’s rare

@skeptic: honesty doesn’t erase advantage

@artworld: WAIT SHES MITSKI?????

@momaenthusiast: TWO PAINTINGS IN THE Museum of Modern Art ?????

@f1fan: nah this is actually insane

@cultureclub: she built a whole CAREER anonymously???

@gridshock: WITHOUT USING HER NAME???

@mindblown: ok that changes EVERYTHING

@hatersclub: there’s no way she got into MoMA without connections

@artreply: MoMA does blind curation sometimes… this is legit

@f1tea: she proved herself and y’all STILL hating 😭

@oldhater: i fear i misjudged her…

@apologyclub: i owe her a public apology

@f1girlies: we defended her from DAY 1 btw

@reply: no you didn’t 😭

@gridculture: the way everyone switched sides in 5 minutes

@internetwatch: y’all are so predictable

@softfan: she never clapped back once… she just worked in silence

@respect: that’s actually powerful

@deepfeels: “being privileged and talentless aren’t the same thing” hit HARD

@writercore: that line is going in history

@softaesthetic: she was insecure this whole time…

@human: that makes me like her more

@f1fan: imagine doubting yourself while the whole world watches

@realone: she handled this with so much grace

@growth: proving it to HERSELF not us… yeah she won

@conspiracygrid: i still think connections were involved

@skeptic: no one just “accidentally” gets into MoMA

@replygirl: y’all just can’t accept she’s talented

@debate: two things can be true at once

@neutral: privilege opened doors, talent kept them open

@pitlaneinsider: the drivers knew this whole time btw

@gridtea: AND STILL treated her the same

@f1fan: that explains the birthday gifts 😭

@luxelife: they weren’t flexing… they were matching her level

@papayafiles: oscar and lily getting her hermes makes so much sense now

__×__

@Alexandersaintmulexart

Caption: beatiful work mitski- aka @y/n☆

Comments-

@softaesthetic: THIS FEELS SO DIFFERENT NOW

@artlover: knowing she made those paintings… chills

@apologyclub: i judged her so hard im sorry

@hatersclub: …

@realone: she never said anything. y’all assumed.

@finalcomment: she was never just a paddock girl. she WAS the paddock.

@apex.piastri: alex your so pretty!!

@lightsout.lando- ahh my love!!

@drs.dreams: I love thier friendship!!

@boxboxbaby: so fucking beatiful

@verstappen.velocity: i fear we owe y/n an apology

@polepositionprincess: y/n being mitski makes so mich sense tbh

@ferrariheartbreak: her rolling stones article.. the analogy to the moon.. and mitski meaning moon it was beatiful.

@sainzsmooth: alex has the best fashion

@leclerclvr: I love alex charles is so lucky

@paddockangel: ahh I love these two besties.

__×__

@y/n☆

Caption- yours truly! Mitski 💌

Comments-

@Alexandersaintmulex: proudd

@lewishamilton: loved your paintings! They speak volumes.

@oscarpiastri- congrats!

@paddockpopstar: she really turned the whole narrative around

@drs.and.drama- shes actulpy so cool wtf

@gridgirl.glow: my loveee

@radioactive.romance: been here with good vibes since day one!

@pitlane.princess: im so happy we all love her

@heartbreak.onpole: help she threw shadeee with that first slide.

@champagneandchaos- "if u just started hating me your late to the party" im dying.

@fastcars.sadbops: love how she memes herself

@papayapopbaby: love girls who can take jokes honesyly

@turbo.teardrops: shes so pretty

@apex.and.anthems: no but fr shes so skilled

@qualiandcrying: I litrally want to be her so bad

@lightsout.love: still so fucking jalous

@ferrari.feverdream: I lover herrrr

__×__

Birthday calender

Main masterlist

[introvertstoriesblog]

𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐚𝐥𝐬 : 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

♤ Summary : Just some moments in the life of Lando and Oscar.

♤ Pairings : Lando / Oscar

♤ Themes : Fluff and more fluff, romance, bit of comedie, streamer!lando, cameraman!oscar, bf!oscar, bi!oscar, established relationship

♤ Warnings : none (?)

♤ Status : ongoing

♤ Posting : when a new part is written.

♤ AN : I'm sorry but I love streamer lando too much and shy oscar also too much so it's probably the first of many posts about both of them. The Max in the story is Max Fewtrell.

Enjoy !

Chapters :

🎮 Part. One – How it all began

How Lando and Oscar met thanks to Max Fewtrell.

🎮 Part. Two – First Appearances

When Oscar and Lando became a couple, their relationship remained hidden from the eyes of fans for a while. But as time went on, little things happened. Or how Oscar put himself to shame in the stream.

🎮 Part. Three – Meeting the Piastri's Family [ in progress ]

Lando makes a good impression on Oscar's family; his mother and sisters adore him. Perhaps a little too much for his liking.

🎮 Part. Four – Cooking Live [ in progress ]

Max and Pietra make regularly an live where they are cooking together their diner. Lando wanted to do it too and with his boyfriend. The thing is : cooking with Lando means chaos, and Oscar is just as good - or bad - that Max.

🎮 Part. Five - Too Loud [ in progress ]

Oscar loves Lando more than anything, except when it comes to keeping him awake at night.

🎮 Part. Six - Eating Reminder [ in progress ]

When Lando is streaming, he easily forgets that he needs to eat or drink in order to live. Oscar takes it upon himself to remind him, and makes sure he never lacks for anything during his streams.

🎮 Part. Seven - Orange Peel Theory [ in progress ]

Oscar has come across some TikToks that talk about the orange peel theory and he can't resist testing it out on Lando.

🎮 Part. Eight - Vlogging [ in progress ]

Lando and Oscar film their holiday in Australia, in Oscar's home town. And Lando has a little surprise for his lover.

🎮 Part. Nine - Stealing the spotlight [ in progress ]

Lando disappears during one of his streams and Oscar takes his place in front of the camera.

🎮 Part. Ten - A new addition to the family [ in progress ]

Lando and Oscar have become foster parents. But for whom? Fans were convinced that the couple had a child. But the reality was quite different.

Tag list : @foreverln4 ; @that-one-little-soybean

You want to be tagged for the next chapter ? Let me know in the comments !

Main Menu | How To Request | Chat with me

More Oscar Fics | More Lando Fics

dividers by @introvertstoriesblog

[melosliving]

MASTERLIST !

main masterlist :

• actress reader!masterlist (aaron pierre n kelvin harrison jr)

• connie springer!masterlist (still in progress)

• eren yeager!masterlist (still in progress)

• spooky (oscar)!masterlist (still in progress)

• ony!masterlist (still in progress)

rules :

i won’t write about : extreme dom/sub dynamics, rape, anything gore, unconsensual intercourses, age gaps (big ones), underage sex, anything regarding self hurting, suicide

If you want to request something to me : please be nice, keep in mind that i have a life outside of tumblr and be patient !

keep in mind that my characters are black! Love y’all 🤍

@ melosliving 2025

[tyrellarts]

Oscar Piastri Fics over 1K+, Rated M for Mature

Siren Eyes (poly!Landoscar)

Love Potion

[dreamauri]

OK OMG can i request sub oscar literally having to take a break from fucking because he’s gonna come too quick? 🙈

♪ — 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗 oscar piastri  x  girlfriend! reader (smut) fic summary . . . after weeks apart due to Oscar’s F1 commitments, he and you finally have time with each other. the deal to not indulge in sexual pleasure while apart comes to bite oscar in his ass (562 words)

( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut with a little plot, p n v sex, overstim, vanilla sex, begging, sexual frustration, light teasing)

Oscar’s forehead presses against your shoulder, his breathing already unsteady, hands gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.

He hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds.

You can feel the tension rolling off him, the way his muscles shake as he forces himself to stay still. And you know why.

It’s been too long.

Between his F1 schedule and all the traveling, he’s barely had time to breathe, let alone spend a night tangled up with you. And after weeks of teasing phone calls, half-whispered confessions about how much you missed each other, you made a deal—no touching, no getting off, nothing—until you were together again.

At the time, it seemed like a fun way to build up anticipation.

Now? Oscar looks like he’s about to combust.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, his voice strained. His hands flex at your hips, like he wants to move but knows he shouldn’t. “I just—I need a second.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smirk. He’s barely inside you, buried to the hilt but still, and he’s already this close to falling apart.

“You okay, baby?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Oscar groans, lifting his head just enough for you to see how wrecked he already looks—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, flushed all the way down his chest.

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “I—I can't. You feel too good. It’s—fuck, it’s too much.”

You tighten around him just to be mean, and holy shit—the way he shudders, a choked whimper spilling from his lips, makes heat coil low in your stomach.

“Jesus,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. “D-Don’t do that. Please.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “What happened to my sweet, patient boy?”

Oscar exhales sharply, gripping your waist tighter. “She left me stranded on the other side of the world for weeks and made me promise not to touch myself,” he grumbles. “Now she’s acting surprised that I’m losing my fucking mind.”

His words make you clench around him again, and he whines, dropping his forehead to your shoulder again.

“Okay, okay—seriously, I need a second,” he pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. “If I move, I’m gonna come in like, two thrusts, and you’re gonna make fun of me forever.”

You hum, running your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly at the roots just to hear him whimper. “You’re already giving me plenty to tease you about, baby.”

Oscar groans. “You’re evil.”

You tilt his chin up, making him look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips bitten raw, and you feel a rush of affection mixed with arousal at the sight of him like this—so desperate, so yours.

“Take your time,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I want you to feel good.”

He exhales shakily, nodding, but there’s still frustration in the furrow of his brows.

You smile. “And when you can’t hold back anymore, I’ll take care of you. Okay?”

Oscar swallows hard, gaze flicking to your lips. “You—” He stops, taking another deep breath, trying to ground himself.

Then, finally, he moves—just a little, a slow roll of his hips that sends a full-body shudder through him.

He groans, high and so needy. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, voice breaking.

You smirk, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him close.

“That’s the fun part, baby.”

an — i love getting these types of oscar requests. finally getting around to writing them, thanks for the request lovie <3

[dreamauri]

sub needy op81?

♪ — 𝗗𝗢𝗘𝗦𝗡'𝗧 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗖𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 sub!oscar piastri  x  girlfriend!reader ( smut ) fic summary . . . Oscar's too needy—whining, squirming, begging for more when he's already inside you, and it's driving you insane. You shut him up the best way you know (584 words)

( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut, dom/sub dynamics, desperate sub!oscar, riding, breath control, slight choking, overstimulation, praise & degradation, light manhandling )

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Oscar is already a mess beneath you—wrists pinned to the mattress, hips twitching up in a desperate attempt for more friction, more you. His breath stutters every time you move, a broken, pleading sound spilling from his lips like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

"You—" His voice cracks, head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut. His fingers flex uselessly where they’re trapped beneath your grip, body trembling, fevered with need. "Please, just—just let me touch you."

You press his wrists down harder, leaning over him, keeping him locked in place. "No."

His breath shudders out in frustration, a sharp whimper catching in his throat. He tries again, a weak, useless struggle against your hold, but you can feel it—he’s not really fighting. He’s testing, pushing, trying to see if you’ll break before he does.

Spoiler: you won’t.

His fingers twitch, straining, reaching like they could grasp you even with his hands pinned above his head. Like he could anchor himself in you, find some kind of relief from the overwhelming desperation clawing at his body. You could let him. You could let him wrap his arms around you, dig his fingers into your skin, but you don’t.

Because he’s already inside you, and yet it’s still not enough for him.

"Oscar," you murmur, and his eyes flutter open—hazy, unfocused, lips parted as he sucks in a shaky breath. He looks wrecked. Desperate. Like he’s on the verge of falling apart completely.

"Please," he whines, his voice so small, so pathetic. His brows knit together, mouth forming the shape of another plea before he even speaks. "I need you—closer—"

Your patience snaps.

Your free hand moves before you even think about it, wrapping around the column of his throat in a firm, deliberate squeeze. Not enough to hurt—just enough to make him still, to make him listen.

A sharp inhale catches in his chest. His lashes flutter. His whole body locks up beneath you like he can feel the shift in the air, like something in him is finally, finally understanding that this isn’t his to take—it’s yours to give.

"Oscar," you say again, softer this time, almost sweet. His lips part instantly, a high, needy whimper slipping out before he can stop it.

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, tightening your grip just a fraction more, and he melts. His breath stutters, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps, his whole body thrumming under your touch.

"You’re literally inside me," you whisper, slow and deliberate, savoring the way he shudders, the way his lashes flutter like he’s already teetering on the edge. "It doesn’t get closer than this."

A broken, choked noise escapes him—somewhere between a whine and a whimper—his fingers twitching in frustration against the sheets. His hips jerk instinctively, a desperate attempt to do something, to get more of you, but you keep him pinned, unyielding.

He’s unraveling. You can feel it.

"Be good," you tell him, your voice a slow, deliberate drag, and you roll your hips in torturous circles, taking your time, making him feel every second of it.

His head falls back, mouth open, a strangled moan slipping from his lips. His whole body is trembling, his hands shaking where they’re still trapped under your grip, the effort of not touching you tearing him apart at the seams.

And then—finally—he stops fighting it.

Stops begging, stops whining, stops pulling.

Just gives in. Surrenders.

And that’s when you finally let him have what he wants.