summary: you and Oscar slowly reveal your two-year relationship and the internet loses its mind over it
note: just to clarify, i do NOT hate Lando and Magui's relationship as it's none of my business. i just used the internet's reaction for the smau
ENJOY (pls it was painful to edit 🥲)
masterlist |
oscarpiastri
liked by lando, mclaren, and 389k others
oscarpiastri summer so far 🌞
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username ok am i seeing stuff??
username since when do you paint your nails? 🤨
↳ username lowkey 😭😭
username that is not your hand osc
username 🧡🧡🧡
username who owns a horse?
↳ username gonna surf through his following brb
↳ username1 i have a theory! do u guys know @yourbff? she posts a lot with her best friend yn who isn't rlly active on social media. they live on a farm and each have a horse 👀
↳ username that's.. an interesting theory..
↳ username girl c'mon xD
username enjoy your break osc 🧡
yourbff
liked by yourusername, username, and 13,752 others
yourbff queen is back and so are the vlogss 🎬
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username yess yn is back
username our queens are backk 😍
username when is the vlog coming?
↳ yourbff this weekend! after yn edits it
↳ yourusername you have a laptop too yk?
username can't wait!
username @username1 are those the girls u talked about?
↳ username1 yess, they're incredible ❤️
↳ username but which one is which? 😭
↳ username1 the ginger girl is yn and the blonde one is her bff
↳ username and which one is dating Oscar?
↳ username1 i think it's yn and hear me out ok? the caption says "queen is back" which means yn was away.. maybe in London with Oscar? 👀
↳ username that's crazy
↳ username no way girl 🤣 like NO way
oscarpiastri posted a story!
[caption: I guess I have a child now]
yourusername
liked by yourbff, username, and 2k others
yourusername i am a mother now 🥰
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username she remembered her password! no way!
↳ yourusername i deserved that
username aww what a sweetheart ❤️
yourbff pls post another one next weekend
↳ yourusername no 😊
username1 pls tell me i'm not the only one who sees the caption matching with Oscar
↳ username you are but that's okayy
↳ username i'm kinda starting to see it
↳ username1 thank you! also the last slide?
↳ username could be anyone
↳ username they don't even follow each other
↳ username1 not yet 🤭
yourusername
liked by yourbff, oscarpiastri, username and 4k others
yourusername enjoying life ❤️
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username pretty girl ❤️
username u gotta love Bertha and Fred 🤣
↳ yourusername our icons
yourbff omg Bertha 😭😭
❤️ by yourusername
username do i see Oscar in the likes? 👀
username @username1 why do i feel like your assumptions are lowkey coming true?
↳ username1 haha i told you guys
↳ username i won't believe it until one of them confirms it
↳ username yeah.. we're pretty good at assuming things
username first Lando and Magui and now them?
↳ username Lando and Magui are still fishy af
oscarpiastri
liked by mclaren, yourusername and 263k others
oscarpiastri great weekend 🏆 ready for another
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username let's goo another P1
username that 1st picture?? HELLO?
mclaren good job! 👏
username this whole post is making my mouth water
↳ username no fr like sir we KNOW you're hot
↳ username we're AWARE of your hotness
username his gf must be lucky
username his back oh lord
username i'm 100% sure his gf told him what pictures to use cus damn
↳ username RIGHT? LIKE WTF
↳ username she def took the middle one
yourusername
liked by yourbff, mclaren, username and 7k others
yourusername Percy's first race 🧡 also congrats @mclaren and @oscarpiastri 🏆
it was lovely to meet you all! and thank you Rosie for the little message 🥰
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mclaren lovely to have you with us 🧡
❤️ by yourusername
username HARD LAUNCH I REPEAT HARD LAUNCH
username1 I TOLD U GUYS
↳ username and we all called u crazy 😭
↳ username no way you were actually right
username well there we have it. the confirmation we wanted lmao
oscarpiastri how did u take that picture?
↳ yourusername with talent and dedication baby 😎
username Lando and Magui could never 🤣
↳ yourusername get out of my comment section
↳ username get 'em girl
yourbff ig my invite got lost in the mail?? 🤨
↳ yourusername don't act like u weren't invited
↳ yourbff BY U NOT BY MCLAREN?!
lando who are you and why haven't we met yet? 🤨
↳ yourusername we did. when i was on facetime with osc that one time
↳ lando wait you're THE girl?
↳ yourusername yes i'm the girl 😭
username she calls him osc 🥹 oh my heart
mclaren
liked by yourusername, username, and 89,752 others
mclaren our favorite duo 🧡
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username manifesting a lando win
↳ lnfour you and me both
username they're icons ur honor
username love the new suits 🧡
↳ mclaren Silverstone edition 🤫
username it's gonna be another 1-2 podium i can see it
oscarpiastri
liked by yourusername, mclaren, username and 4k others
oscarpiastri great race 🏎️ see u next week
yourusername posted a story!
[caption 1: good luck 🧡, caption 2: long day]
yourusername
liked by mclaren, yourbff, username and 2k others
yourusername secured another p1 🧡 u go angel
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username Percyy ❤️
username bring Percy to more races
↳ yourusername can't. he gets overwhelmed by the loud noises but we're working on it 😊
yourbff my babyy look at himm 😩
yourbff miss u
↳ yourusername we miss u 2
username what camera do u use? every Oscar pic is so high quality tf
↳ yourusername i don't own a camera, i use my phone
↳ username your phone?! girlie 🤨
↳ username teach us how omg
oscarpiastri are you trying to become my personal photographer?
↳ yourusername i'm capturing memories osc and your insane beauty
↳ username oh she knows he's handsome 😂
lando hey where are my professional pics? ☹️
↳ yourusername ur payment didn't go through sir
↳ lando Oscar gets it for free and i have to pay?!
↳ username1 in this economy she needs the money
❤️ by yourusername
username @yourusername bless us with more Oscar pics pls. the hot ones
↳ yourusername i gotchu dw
yourusername
liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, username and 3k others
yourusername cursed n blessed 💜
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username love the messages in every post lmao 😭
username i didn't know Oscar was this good with words
↳ username no lowkey same
yourbff that math homework is horrendous
↳ yourusername tell me abt it
username what do u study?
↳ yourusername engineering 🥲
↳ username can u be any more perfect?
↳ username u were made for Oscar
username the bouquets get better every weekend
↳ username *bigger would be a better word for them
↳ yourbff having a rich boyfriend has its benefits
↳ username fr 😭 i want one
↳ yourbff so do i
lando what the hell is that?
↳ yourusername maths
↳ lando ain't no way.. that's death
↳ username close to death yeah
❤️ by yourusername
username whose dog is that?
↳ yourusername my mom's
↳ username he met her parents yall 😭
↳ username so did she
↳ username at the races surely
yourbff
liked by yourusername, username, and 6k others
yourbff on babysitting duty 🩷
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username percyy 🩷
username best babysitter ever
❤️ by yourbff
username where's yn?
↳ username probably with Oscar somewhere
↳ username or she just wanted a break
username 🩷🩷🩷
username those cupcakes look delicious 😋
↳ yourbff they were
yourusername & oscarpiastri
liked by mclaren, yourbff, lando and 700k others
yourusername graduated n got married 😜
view comments
username HELLO?? WHAT WHEN HUH
username OMG OMG OMG
username parents 😍
mclaren Congrats Mr. and Mrs. Piastri 🧡
↳ yourusername omg that sounds crazy 😭 thank u admin
lando WHERE
lando WAS
lando MY
lando INVITE
↳ yourusername it probably got lost in the mail
↳ lando PARDON
yourbff AHH
yourbff can't believe you're literally MARRIED.. to an F1 DRIVER
❤️ by oscarpiastri
yourbff what is our life 😭
↳ yourusername chaotic. it'll always be chaotic
f1 congratulations! 🎉 can't wait to see u in the paddock tomorrow
username how many secrets do u guys have?
↳ yourusername a lot my love, a lot
username i can't believe my fav driver got married 😭 to a farmer of all people
↳ username to an engineer too don't forget
username1 HA I WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG
❤️ by yourusername
username she got a degree and a husband while i can't get a man to text me back 💀
↳ username same babe
oscarpiastri what else do you have on that list of yours?
↳ yourusername well.. steal osc's last name? ✅ get a dog with osc? ✅ get a degree in engineering to impress osc? ✅ watch osc win wdc? i can check that off atp
↳ oscarpiastri you're a menace. i love it
↳ username u guys are making me sick
↳ username "steal osc's last name?" 😭😭
↳ lando take professional pictures of lando this weekend FOR FREE should be on there
↳ yourusername u won't let it go will u?
↳ lando nope 😁
username they started dating like 2 months ago and are already getting married?
↳ username we don't know how long they've been dating
↳ yourusername 2 months? more like 29
↳ username excuse you? how long?
↳ username 29?! how did we not notice 😭
↳ username u guys are secretive holy shit
username they're such an unexpected combo ngl. he's quiet, she's loud. he races, she lives on a farm. like.. how
↳ username1 that's why it works. they complete each other. she is the color and buzz in his life while he is the calm and quiet she seeks at the end of the day
SUMMARY: When a late-night call forces you to pick up your supposedly “kinda wasted” boyfriend, you’re sure there’s been a mistake , because there’s no way Oscar is drunk.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader
F1 MASTERLIST
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
The call comes way too late to be anything good.
You frown at your phone before answering. “Hello?” There’s noise on the other end music, voices and then a very familiar voice:
“Hi. So… I think your boyfriend is kinda wasted.”
You sit up instantly. “What?”
“Yeah. Like really wasted. Could you come get him?”
Your brain tries to connect the words Oscar and wasted and fails completely.
“…are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”
“Unless there’s another Oscar Piastri with me right now, yeah.”
Your mind keeps looping the same thought: there is absolutely no way that was Oscar.
You blink. “…I’m coming. Send me the address.”
There’s shuffling, and then his voice lowers slightly.
“I’m talking to your girlfriend, mate… she’s coming to get you.”
A beat.
“…yeah?” Oscar’s voice, soft and unfocused. “My girlfriend?”
Your heart stutters.
“I want so bad to kiss her.”
“Yeah? Well, you can do that when she gets here , whoa—mate—don’t kiss me too, keep that for your girlfriend—”
The call ends. You stare at your phone.
What the hell.
When you arrive, you spot them immediately.
Leaning outside, under dim lights Lando looking mildly traumatized, and next to him…
Oscar.
Hair messy. Slightly swaying.
Your steps slow.
Oh. This is real real.
Lando spots you and visibly relaxes. “Thank God,” he mutters, walking over and handing you Oscar’s wallet and jacket. “He’s been like this for a while.”
And then Oscar looks up.
Everything about him softens instantly.
“Oh,” he breathes “Y/N.”
He steps closer, a little unsteady, but determined.
“I love you so much."
“Hey,” he says suddenly, turning slightly, gesturing to absolutely no one. “Everybody this is my girlfriend.”
You glance around. No one is paying attention.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he continues, completely serious. “Just look at her. She’s the prettiest, and the smartest, and she’s just perfect.”
You gently grab his arm. “Okayy Oscar, we’re going home.”
The drive is… something.
“I love your eyes.”
You glance at him briefly. “…thank you.”
“And the way you laugh,” he continues, completely focused on you. “And how you always remember things I forget. And how you”
You exhale a small laugh. “Oscar”
“I’m at, like… reason 65” he says very seriously. “I can keep going.”
“Please don’t while I’m driving.”
He nods like that’s a very reasonable rule.
A few seconds pass.
“…I love you.”
You smile, softer this time. “I know.”
“No, but like a lot.”
“I know, Osc. I love you, too”
Another pause.
“…can I kiss you? I want to kiss you so bad.”
You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Not now. When we get home.”
“…okay,” he agrees immediately, like a kid accepting terms and conditions.
The moment you get inside, he’s looking at you like he’s been waiting his entire life for this.
“Now?” he asks, almost hopeful.
You laugh under your breath. “Yes. Now.”
His face lights up. “Yes? I’m so happy.”
And then he kisses you soft at first, then deeper, like he’s been holding it in all night. Like he needs it.
Like you’re something he needs.
When he pulls back, he stays close, forehead nearly touching yours.
“Can we cuddle?” he asks quietly.
Your chest tightens. “Yeah. But you need to change first. You’re not getting into bed like that.”
He nods very seriously… then proceeds to take off his clothes way too fast, nearly losing his balance twice.
You instinctively reach out. “Careful...”
“I’m okay,” he insists, now standing there in just boxers “Done. We can now?”
You can’t help smiling. “Yeah. Come here.”
You both fall into bed, him immediately wrapping himself around you like that’s where he belongs.
It takes less than a minute before his breathing starts to slow.
But even as he drifts off, his voice stays soft against your shoulder.
Summary - After a long night and a short-lived game of truth or strip, you’re just trying to get ready for dinner the next day but when Oscar Piastri walks in on you singing your heart out to Lana Del Rey in nothing but his shirt and lingerie, things get a bit more complicated and dinner? Well, let’s just say that idea was quickly forgotten.
Warnings - smut (with plot), explicit content, dom!oscar, oral (f and m receiving), dirty talk, light degradation (use of names such as slut and whore) + praise kink, overstimulation, clothing kink, aftercare, swearing, semi-public sex (hotel bathroom), brief alcohol mention (past-tense)
Inspo - The reader wearing a top with Oscar’s name and number in @leclerc-hs ’s fic ‘romantic chocolates’ (op81 version)
Word count - 4.4k (4,410)
Timeline - pre-season
Pairing - Oscar Piastri x fem!reader
It had been an accident, really. You, Oscar, and some of the other driver's hadn't meant to end up back in your hotel room, but a long night paired with far too many drinks with a side of a game of truth or strip had occurred. Although the game was short lived, one thing led to another and Oscar was leaving your room– shirtless– in the early hours of the morning.
Yet those were the events of last night which had absolutely no relevance right now because you’re focused on trying to look your absolute best for your annual pre-season dinner with your favourite drivers. You have Lana Del Rey’s ‘young and beautiful’ playing loudly through your speakers and you’re leaning in close to the mirror, trying to vanish any imperfections.
“And all the ways I got to know your pretty face and electric soul. Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful…” You sing along to the song, becoming fully immersed in the tune and singing your heart out to your favourite artist. After all this was your Lana Del Rey only playlist.
You lean in closer to your bathroom mirror, guiding your hand so that your mascara wand can glide over your lashes flawlessly, elongating them in a way that only your Charlotte Tilbury pillow talk mascara can. You smile in content as you do it, your lashes and your mascara refusing to let you down once again.
You catch a peek of tonight's dress hanging on the edge of the shower in the reflection of the mirror; a short, black dress that came to just above the middle of your thighs, one that was covered all over in glittery sequins that caught perfectly in the bathroom light. Paired with matching heels that tied at your ankles; the ones that Oscar got you last year for your birthday, the ones that made you wonder how he’d managed to find a pair of shoes that were so perfect.
Young and beautiful ends and the next Lana del rey song comes on; Brooklyn baby, one of your personal favourites. “They say I’m too young to love you. I don’t know what I’d need. They think I don’t understand the freedom land of the seventies. I think I'm too cool to know ya. You say I'm like the ice, I freeze.” You sing along, picking up your hairbrush and singing into it, losing yourself to the music.
You get so lost in your mini concert that you don’t hear Oscar knock on your hotel room door, call out your name repeatedly or even enter. You’d known that you’d forgotten to do something important when you got back from lunch with a couple of your girl friends.
Oscar must have heard you singing from the entrance to the room because he makes his way over to the bathroom door and leans on the doorframe, watching you pour your soul out into your baby pink hairbrush with a tiny smile. Yet even as he stands there watching you, you don’t notice him. Instead you continue singing, giving a couple of twirls as you really get into it.
“Well, my boyfriend's in a band. He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed. I've got feathers in my hair. I get down to Beat poetry. And my jazz–” You finally stop spinning and land facing the doorway; exactly where Oscar is standing. “Fuck! Oscar–” You scream but on instinct you’d already thrown your hairbrush at the intruder in an attempt to disarm the poor aussie.
He catches it effortlessly, almost as if he knew you were going to throw something at him before he even entered the room. He pushes himself off the doorframe and closes the gap between you with a few small steps, your breathing is heavy with shock as you try to recollect yourself after that embarrassing moment.
“I believe you threw this at me.” He jokes, cracking a smile as you take the hairbrush from his outstretched hand, blushing uncontrollably. You try to avoid eye contact with him as you do it, which isn’t hard because he’s quite a bit taller than you.
“Thank you, and uh– sorry about that. I didn’t realise it was you immediately.” You try and joke but you can only feel yourself go even more red.
“It’s fine, better safe than sorry y’know?” He replies and you look up at him, instantly regretting it because something about the way he’s looking down at you makes you feel an odd sense of warmth.
There’s an awkward silence that stretches over a couple of seconds before you find the courage to speak again, fighting the urge to take a step back. “Did you need something or…” You start to ask but trail off at the end, unsure on how to finish your sentence.
“Well as much as I loved your cover of Lana Del Rey, I’d wanted to know if you’d seen my top, but it looks like you already found it.” He tilts his head in a motion towards your top, the one you’d found on the edge of your bed an hour or two ago and had thrown on to wear whilst you got ready.
You look down. Shit. This was Oscar’s top. Memories of him wearing it from last night come back to you; the small, orange ‘op81’ on the left hand side on the front stands out against the dark fabric but that was the smallest of the attention grabbers. On the back, big bold and also in bright orange was his first name along with his number. How had you not noticed this when you put it on?
“Shit– uh–” You go to remove it but then remember that you have nothing but a lacy set of burgundy lingerie that covers very little underneath.
“I can come back when you're done if y’like? Unless you like getting ready in little to nothing with my name and number all over you?” Oscar teases and it sends another rush of heat to your core. Is he oblivious to what he’s doing to you or is he enjoying it? The little smirk on his face suggests that it’s the latter.
“No, no. It’s fine, I just need to put my dress on and then it’s all yours.” You say, trying to save yourself from this tense moment that is doing nothing to help the moisture pooling in your panties. Oscar steps out effectively, without you having to ask, giving you some privacy so that you can change.
You slide your hands down to the hem of the top and allow your fingers to latch around it, taking comfort in the cozy material; no wonder he was constantly wearing this top. It also had a faint smell, you couldn’t quite place it but it was something distinctly Oscar.
You begin peeling the top off of your body but as soon as you get to your hair the top latches onto the first clip it finds and makes itself comfortable, refusing to budge. You fiddle with the t-shirt and the clip, trying to get it unstuck for what feels like forever, not wanting to have to call Oscar in to help but inevitably you just end up making it worse. Leaving you no choice but to face the music and call for Oscar.
“Oscar?” You call out quietly, partially hoping that he just wouldn't hear you but of course that isn't the case.
“Yeah?” He calls back.
“Could you come here for a sec please?” You ask and you hear the bedsheets crease, most likely from him getting up to come help you.
He enters the bathroom with full confidence, as he does any room but he falters when he sees you, stopping in his tracks and inhaling a sharp breath. His eyes lock onto your bare legs and slowly inch upwards towards the middle of your thighs. Your thighs clench involuntarily under his gaze, begging for some friction. You can tell he’s noticed but he swallows and forces himself to look up.
“Your tops stuck on my clip, I tried to get it out but I couldn’t otherwise I wouldn’t have called you in here but…” You trail off to stop yourself rambling and Oscar simply nods, almost like he doesn’t trust himself to speak in such a situation. He walks into the bathroom properly and makes his way so that he’s standing behind you.
You remove your hands from the piece of clothing, allowing him space to help you but that doesn’t change the fact that you are still extremely close to one another. He begins to work through your hair and you can feel the warmth of his body due to your proximity, you can even smell his signature scent more now than you could on his top.
Oscar works the top out of the clip slowly, being careful not to cause you any discomfort but all you can think about is what it would feel like if he were to yank you by your hair and have his way with you. The thought soaks your panties more, if that’s even possible and it takes everything in you to not let out a whimper. Once it's out he slides the top back down your back, seemingly forgetting that you were meant to be taking it off to give back to him and his touch is feather-light against your skin as you fight the urge to lean back into it.
His touch hoovers for a couple of seconds at the small of your back, right above the waistband to your lingerie. He pulls away after far too many seconds for you to just brush it off as nothing. You turn almost straight away, letting out a small gasp of air because you’re basically touching.
You force yourself to make eye contact with him which you immediately deem as a stupid decision because the intensity of his gaze keeps you there and an equally intense heat spreads throughout your body, pulsating at your core.
“Thank you.” You manage to whisper without stumbling over the two simple words but instead of responding like a normal person he reaches up with his hand and cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.
You look at each other for a second, properly drinking each other in and for that second everything is happening in slow motion but the next? His lips are crashing down on yours as though he physically couldn't wait a moment longer.
You kiss him back passionately, a single kiss saying everything you’ve wanted to do with him for a lot longer than just today. You bite back a moan as his hands feel the curve of your breasts as they make their way down to your waist. Once his hands are at your waist he uses your hips to assist him in pushing you back against the bathroom wall whilst simultaneously making out with you.
Your back hits the wall and you wrap your hands around his neck as he takes his attention away from your lips and begins to work along your jawline, cherishing you like he has never held something so valuable: which is ironic because he’s a multi-millionaire who has probably seen prettier things than you, but to him? You’re the prettiest thing he will ever see.
You tilt your head back in pleasure and he takes that as an invitation to move down to your neck. He concentrates on a couple of areas, trying to see what will make you snap and he finds it quickly causing your body to jolt with the unexpected pleasure.
“Oscar…” You moan, threading your fingers through his soft hair and tugging at it slightly as he nips and sucks at the sensitive part of your neck.
He pushes you against the wall harder, his thumb rubbing teasing circles just below the waistband of your panties. You get an overwhelming whiff of his intoxicating cologne and it makes you dizzy in the best way possible.
Oscar comes back up to your lips again and latches onto them, making sure to tug slightly at your bottom lip to make the experience even more enjoyable for you. He brings a singular hand up to your breast and begins fondling it over his shirt, squeezing it as if it owes him something. You arch your back in an attempt to generate more of his touch and you feel his hard cock press in between your thighs making your needy cunt clench around nothing.
He uses that hand that was circling your hip to rub your ass underneath your underwear and you moan into the kiss at how good it all feels, but you can’t help but need more.
You pull back from the kiss and he looks at you, breathing heavily, like he physically needs more. “Please, Osc, no more teasing.” You beg, fighting the strong urge that’s telling you to slide your hand in between your thighs.
He smirks. An evil, cocky smirk. “Tell me what you want, pretty girl.” He brushes a finger over your slit but pulls the touch away almost immediately, leaving you desperate for more. “Do you want me to pull down these soaking panties and have you come all over my face?” He uses his hand to guide your hand to the large bulge in his shorts. “Or should I force you down onto your knees and have you take all of my cock like a good little whore?”
You don’t answer with words, instead you remove your hand off of his cock and try to rub your swollen clit because the ache is becoming unbearable. Yet he catches your hand just above your most sensitive area, preventing you from doing anything about your heat.
“Fucking whore.” He murmurs, sinking down onto his knees at a frustratingly slow pace before looking up at you. “You tell me to stop and I will, okay?” He asks and you nod but for him that’s not enough. “I need words, pretty girl, even if it’s you telling me that you want to stop.”
“Yes, Oscar, I want this.” You reply breathlessly.
He slides his hands up the backs of your thighs and yanks your underwear down, leaving your soaking cunt bare for him. He slips them off past your feet and shoves them into his pocket, as though he’s saving them for later. He nudges your legs open and braces himself with one hand against your thigh.
Oscar doesn’t hesitate. He lowers his head and begins kissing and sucking your thighs, catching you by surprise with the warmth of his tongue whilst he moves higher and higher, towards your heat.
He gets there pretty quickly, his impatience getting the better of him and he does one long, slow lick along your slit, deliberately avoiding your clit to tease you but once he’s had a taste? He goes fucking feral.
“Fucking hell, I’ve hardly even touched you and you’re soaked.” He says, diving back in to taste you for a second time and your body jerks forward at the action, begging for more but he holds you still with the hand that was bracing himself on your thigh.
His tongue moves in and out of you like it was made for this. Like its soul purpose in life is to pump in and out of you like its life depends on it. He alternates between maddingly slow licks and torturous sucks on your throbbing bud, both of which make your knees buckle.
“Osc–more please–it feels so fucking good.” You whimper, begging him to keep doing what he’s doing because it feels unbelievably good.
He groans into your cunt at your words of praise and the vibrations ripple through your body and nearly send you over the edge, the sensation making you cry out in pleasure and you can practically feel him smirking at how loud you’re being.
“You taste like fucking heaven.” He murmurs and the sight of him in between your legs with his lips slick with your juices makes you want him to never stop.
Oscar’s fingers slide into your cunt with practiced ease, curling in all the right places to make you whimper and scream and he sucks on your clit like a man starved. The combination of actions builds a tight pressure in your stomach and you know you're coming close.
“Oscar! Please, I need more.” You tell him, trying to chase your release by grinding on his face but he holds you still, preventing you from doing so.
“Look at you – fucking losing it,” he teases, his breath warm on your thighs as he looks up at you to see your reaction. “But I control when you come, if you want to dance and sing along to your songs like a little slut, with my name and number on your back then I decide when as well as how I unravel you.” He increases his pace as well as the amount of fingers that he’s pumping into you with and you cry out whilst tugging at his hair, hard.
He presses down on your clit with his thumb, holding eye contact with you the whole time.
“Oscar…” You whimper, needing release desperately. “I need to come.”
“Beg for it, whore.” He demands and you hesitate for a hot second. He must notice because he completely stops moving, he doesn’t remove his fingers but he just stops, leaving you to clench around his stationary fingers.
“Please, Osc, please. I need this so badly, please make me come, Oscar.” You beg, hoping that’s enough for him.
“Whose name and number are you wearing?”
“Yours, Oscar, yours!” You cry out, your legs shaking uncontrollably and Oscar being the only thing stopping your knees from buckling.
“Go on then, pretty girl,” he breathes, beginning to pump into you again with relentless speed, watching your face, your chest rising and falling at an intense pace. “Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.”
His words flip a switch inside of you and release crashes into you, almost knocking you off of your feet and for a moment you forget that you're in your hotel room bathroom because all that matters is you, Oscar, and this. He uses his tongue to finish you off, using it to lap up the juices on your most sensitive parts and you shudder, feeling goosebumps pepper your body. You cry out softly, voice trembling, overwhelmed by the intensity, your world narrowing down to the warmth and wetness surrounding the pleasure he’s given you.
Your mind goes hazy with the force of your orgasm, and all that escapes your lips are broken moans and scattered words that don’t make any sense. He comes back up to your level, holding you upright with an arm around your waist. “Y’okay?” He asks, placing a kiss on your forehead. “You did so fucking well for me and you tasted so fucking good, I can’t wait to ruin you all over again in a second.”
Your breathing is still shallow and sucking in air feels like a chore, your bodies trembling with the aftershocks of the orgasm he just gave you. His arms cradle you with such care, his hands rubbing your breasts so gently over his top but it does nothing to slow down your cunt from getting soaked again.
“You did so fucking well for me,” he murmurs again, lips brushing your jaw. “But don’t tell me you’re too tired to return the favour, pretty girl, not after I let you come all over my face — with my name and number stretched across your back.”
You don’t say anything but his grip on your waist loosens and you sink down onto your knees, the cold material of the bathroom floor contrasting with the heat that's spreading throughout your body as you become more and more eager to please him.
“Fuck. Look at you–so fucking eager to take me. I bet your cunt is dripping all over the floor right now, you’re such a slut for me.” He threads a hand through your hair gently — at first.
Your fingers fumble slightly at his waistband, and he just watches. He’s so hard it’s almost cruel, painful even and you suddenly feel increasingly grateful that he waited so long for his own pleasure. When you finally free his cock, it springs forward — flushed, leaking, twitching. Your mouth waters yet you're unsure how he wants it so you wait for him to tell you–it’s almost like when he’s commanding you you’re incapable of forming a singular thought.
“Open, whore.” He commands and you do.
You moan around him the second he slides in — not too deep yet, just enough to stretch your lips. You feel him pulse already at the warmth of your mouth. His hand tightens in your hair and your cunt clenches around thin air.
“Eyes on me,” he growls. “Wanna see that pretty little face as you choke on my cock.” You do — watery-eyed, lips swollen, lashes fluttering. He uses his tight grip on your hair to shove his cock further down your throat.
He continues to guide your pace: slow, deep thrusts as he fucks your throat inch by inch. You struggle a little, drool leaking out the corner of your mouth, but he loves every single second of it.
You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper, use your hand to stroke what you can’t fit. He groans louder now — head tipped back, hips stuttering slightly. You moan softly again and begin shifting your thighs together, seeking friction without thinking.
“Don’t even think about touching yourself,” he warns, voice sharp, yanking your hair just enough to send a jolt down your spine. “You’re here to please me now, not grind your desperate little cunt on the floor.” He pauses, thumb brushing your tear-streaked cheek.
“If you want to come again later, you earn it.”
That makes your pussy clench. It makes your pussy clench so hard that you're filled with a whole new sense of determination. So you refocus — tighter lips, deeper strokes, hand twisting just right, tongue flat under the shaft, working in sync with his movements. You gag again and tears spill down your cheeks.
“Fucking hell—” he hisses through gritted teeth, his control slipping. “You’re making me feel so good, pretty girl, you're such a good slut for me.” His hips jerk harder now — he’s close. You can feel it. He thrusts into your throat and pulls back to look at the absolute mess he's made of you.
“Look at yourself,” he pants. “Drooling, gagging, tears running down your cheeks. My perfect girl.” You moan as he growls, tipping over the edge. “Swallow it all,” he commands.
And you do, obediently, sucking him through it, moaning around his release like it’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.
And you do, obediently, sucking him through it, moaning around his release like it’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.
When he finally pulls out, you're breathless, chest heaving, mouth still open slightly. His thumb brushes over your lips again, wiping a drop of cum off the corner of your mouth.
“Good fucking girl,” he whispers.
He leans down and pulls you up to your feet, arms winding around your waist to steady you once again. A soft kiss is pressed to your jaw.
“Y’okay, pretty girl?” He asks you but you’re too dazed to speak, so you don’t respond, feeling extremely hazy. “Pretty girl?” He questions again, leaning your head against his shoulder and you find it in yourself to nod, the daze of your mind still extremely overwhelming.
Your weight sags against him and despite how much you enjoyed it, it was very clear that it had taken its toll on you; physically and emotionally, and even if you wanted to go for another round tonight you knew that you just didn’t have it in you. Oscar seems to have noticed that, along with the glazed over look in your eyes.
“Hey, hey. We’re going to be done for today, okay, pretty girl?” He establishes and you whine but you’re unsure whether it’s from pain or desperation, either way he seems to understand. “I know, I know and you did so good for me today, so good. But you need a break now, okay? Just so that your body can recover.”
You whimper slightly and your knees threaten to buckle beneath you again. Oscar wastes no time picking you up effortlessly, being so careful because he doesn’t want to cause you any level of discomfort, and placing you on a clutter-free area of the bathroom countertop.
“I’m gonna clean you up now, pretty girl, is that okay? Just with a flannel and some warm water.” Oscar says, waiting for your thumbs up before moving.
“Yeah, m’kay.” You say, the words are so faint that they could just be another inhale of air, but he catches it.
He moves slowly, as though he’s trying not to startle you. He grabs a small, white flannel from the cupboard under the sink and your eyes follow him as he moves, mesmerised by the way his muscles roll whilst he carries out the different actions. He turns on the hot tap at the sink, letting it run for a couple of seconds so that it can become lukewarm before running the flannel under it.
The veins in his arms and hands protrude as he wrings it out and then he crouches down in front of you, parting your legs slightly so that he can clean the mess you’ve made.
“This may sting a little where you’re still sensitive, pretty girl, so be prepared.” He warns you and begins peppering kisses from your knee upwards to prepare you in his own way.
Once he gets high enough he lifts up his top and he drags the flannel along your thighs, his touch feather-light but you still wince slightly as he continues to clean you up.
“There you go, pretty girl, you’re okay.” He reassures you and reaches up to wipe away a stray tear that slides down your face as he cleans your most intimate parts.
He works in silence for a couple of minutes, sensing your emotional fatigue but just as he’s finishing up you call out to him.
“Oscar?” You ask, your voice raspy.
“Yes, pretty girl?” He responds immediately, looking up to make eye contact with you.
summary: A car accident leaves you disoriented and hurt in the hospital. When the paramedics call your emergency contact, Oscar drops everything to be there.
warnings: descriptions of injuries and shock
word count: 5.2k
part one | part two | part three
Everything was too quiet. That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Your ears rang, high-pitched and insistent, and underneath that there was nothing. No music. The radio had cut out. You'd been listening to something, but you couldn't remember what.
The airbag smelled like chemicals and something burnt. You couldn't quite remember why your face was pressed against it, or why your hands shook so badly when you tried to push yourself back.
Your door was open, though you hadn't opened it. Someone was talking to you, their face swimming in your peripheral vision, but the words didn't land right. They slid past you like water.
"—kay? Miss? Can you hear me?"
You turned your head. It hurt.
Everything hurt in this distant, muffled way, like your body hadn't quite caught up to what happened. There was a woman crouched by your door, and you were fairly certain that her mouth was moving. You should probably answer.
"M'fine," you managed to get out. Your voice sounded wrong, thin. "I'm okay."
In reality, you weren't sure if that was true. When you looked down at your hands, still braced against the deflating airbag, they were shaking so hard you couldn't make them stop. There was blood on your right hand – not a lot, just some smeared across your knuckles like you'd scraped them against something.
The woman was still talking, it seemed. By now, she appeared to have her phone out too.
You should focus. You should listen.
"—n’ ambulance is coming, okay? Just stay still. Don't try to move yet."
Ambulance?
That word stuck. You didn't need an ambulance. You were fine. You tried to say so, but when you opened your mouth, nothing came out right. Your tongue suddenly felt thick. The ringing in your ears got louder.
You closed your eyes.
Just for a second. Just to make the spinning stop.
When you opened them again, there were more people.
Paramedics?
One of them was shining a light in your eyes and you flinched back, but there was nowhere to go. Your seatbelt was still on. You hadn't even realized.
"Can you tell me your name?"
You told them. You thought you told them. Everything felt like it was happening underwater.
"Do you know where you are?"
You looked through the windshield. The glass was cracked, spiderwebbing out from a point you didn't remember hitting.
There was another car. That was why you'd stopped. That was why—
"There was… a car," you slurred, but the words sounded muffled to even your own ears. Your voice cracked when you spoke up again.
"I didn'— I tried to stop. Is everyone—?"
"Everyone's okay," the paramedic replied, cutting her off before you could continue to worry about that. He had kind eyes. You focused on that.
"You were in a minor collision, miss. You took most of the impact. We're gonna get you out now, alright?"
You nodded. That hurt too.
They eased you out of the car slowly, and the world tilted sideways. Your legs didn't quite hold you. Someone caught your elbow, guided you to the back of an ambulance. You sat. The doors were open and you could see your car from here, crumpled on the passenger side where the other car had hit you.
It didn't look real.
None of this felt real.
The paramedic was asking you questions. Your address, your birthday, if anything hurt. Everything hurt, but you couldn't pinpoint where. It was all just… noise.
"Is there someone we can call?" he tried to ask..
You blinked at him for a moment. Your phone. You should have your phone. You patted your pockets automatically, but one of the paramedics was already holding it out to you. The screen was cracked because of course it was.
"We need an emergency contact," he attempted again, even more gently this time. "Someone who can meet you at the hospital?"
Hospital?
You were going to the hospital.
No, no, no. That felt like too much. You opened your mouth to argue, but instead you let your head fall back against the inside of the ambulance and closed your eyes – just for a second, just until the world stopped tilting.
Somewhere far away, you thought you might’ve heard someone say your name before it all faded to black.
The hospital lights were way too bright.
You were in a bed now, though somehow, you didn't really remember getting into it. Someone had apparently taken your shoes off for you. Beside you, there was a blood pressure cuff on your arm that kept tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing. It was annoying. You wanted to take it off, but when you tried, your hands simply wouldn't cooperate.
A nurse came in, wearing purple scrubs with little dogs on them. You stared at the dogs while she asked you questions. Most of them were the same ones from before – your name, your birthday, what day it was.
You answered.
Probably.
She seemed satisfied enough.
"Alright, hun, we're gonna do a CT scan, just to be safe, okay?" she told her sweetly. "Looks like you hit your head pretty hard. Any nausea? Vision problems?"
"S’ blurry, a bit," you admitted. "Everything's kind of blurry."
The nurse wrote something down on her clipboard before looking up at her with a kind smile. "That's normal. You're doing fine, sweetheart. Just try to stay awake for me, okay?"
You nodded. Staying awake felt harder than it should.
She left.
You closed your eyes anyway.
Spoon enough, someone else came in – a doctor, maybe. He pressed on your ribs and you sucked in a breath because that actually hurt, sharp and specific. He muttered something about possible bruising, told you to try to breathe normally.
You tried.
That was, of course, followed up by more tests. They wheeled you somewhere for the CT scan and the machine was loud and you had to hold still and you just wanted to go home. You wanted your bed. You wanted to stop feeling like your brain was three steps behind your body.
When they brought you back to the room, there was a different nurse checking something on the monitor by your bed.
"Your contact is on his way," she stated without really looking up. "Should be here soon."
You blinked at her. "Who?" you asked.
She glanced at the chart, flipping a couple pages up before she found what she was looking for. "You file says the person we were successfully able to contact was Oscar Piastri? That's what we have listed."
Oh.
Of course it was Oscar. You'd forgotten he was listed as one of your emergency contacts. You'd meant to update that months ago, add your parents or something, but you'd never gotten around to it. And now he was coming here. He was probably in the middle of something. Training or a meeting or really anything that had to do with having a life of his own.
You should text him, tell him not to come. You fumbled for your phone but it wasn't on the bed, and when you tried to sit up, the room spun.
"Easy," the nurse said. She put a hand on your shoulder and gently guided you back down. "Just rest. He'll be here soon."
You let your head fall back against the pillow. There was a tightness in your chest, you noted. However, you weren't entirely sure if it was a side effect from the accident or the thought of Oscar seeing you like this—banged up and foggy and basically useless.
It didn’t take a genius to know he was going to worry. That was Oscar – you could get a splinter and he would always be worried.
The thought sat heavy in your chest. You closed your eyes and tried to breathe through it, but everything still felt wrong, tilted, like you weren't quite connected to your body. Time did something weird then, making you unsure how long you’d really been laying there. It could have been minutes, could’ve been longer.
It was easy to drift off with the help of the pain medication flowing through your IV until there was a commotion outside your room — not loud, just voices, someone talking fast—and then the door swung open.
Oscar.
He was still in his pajamas, some comfortable looking joggers and a well-loved sweatshirt you could vaguely recall having seen somewhere before. His hair was even more of a mess than usual, like he'd been running his fingers through it in an unsuccessful attempt to tame his bedhead. Your eyes followed the shape of him as he stopped just inside the doorway, and his eyes went wide when he saw you.
When his eyes met yours, you tried to smile, but you had a feeling it wasn’t half as convincing and you’d thought it was.
"Hey," you greeted tentatively, trying to hide the way your voice cracked. Rather than responding, Oscar quickly crossed the room in approximately three strides.
"Hey," you tried again, a bit louder this time because he wasn't saying anything – just staring at you. Perhaps he hadn’t heard you.
He dropped into the chair beside the bed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His mouth was moving but you realized then that the ringing in your ears hadn't fully stopped and you caught maybe half of it.
"— okay? They said—"
You shook your head and tried harder to focus. "Can't, um, can’t hear you that well."
Oscar stilled stopping before he started and tried again – slower, louder this time. "Are you okay?"
"Oh. M’fine." The words came out automatically, unfiltered and unscripted. From where Oscar was standing, you seemed totally at ease, giving his face a lazy once-over before a thought occurred to her. "Wait, what're you doing here?"
His eyebrows pulled together. "What? What d'you mean what am I doing here? The hospital called me."
"They—" You blinked at him. Right now, thinking felt a lot like your brain was moving through mud. "Why would they call you?"
Oscar sighed, though there was no frustration in his expression. In fact, despite the clear tiredness written across his face, he still smiled at you with what looked like an unending well of patience. "...Because I'm your emergency contact?" he tried, still speaking slower so it’d be easier for you to understand.
Emergency contact.
Right. You'd forgotten about that.
"You're supposed to be sleeping," you blurted out, and you weren't sure why that was the thing you landed on, but it was. "Don't you have, uh— wasn't it race week or something?"
"Singapore's done," he answered. "And do you think I'm just gonna sleep when—"
He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face. When he looked back at you his jaw was tight, but it was the furrow of his brows that gave away his worry.
"What happened?"
"Car accident." Your tongue still felt thick. "Someone ran a light… I think? Sorry, s’kind of blurry."
"Jesus." He ran a hand through his hair once again, exhaling deeply. You briefly wondered how soft his hair was – it certainly looked quite floofy, especially when he’d run his hand through it a couple of times, like now.
"Are you hurt? What'd they say?"
"I dunno yet. CT scan." You tried to gesture vaguely at your head but your arm weighed about a thousand pounds. "A nurse said maybe I hit my head, ‘cuz everything's really loud and really quiet at the same time."
He didn't say anything for a second. Instead, Oscar simply looked at you, and despite all the years you’d known him, there was something in his face you couldn't quite read. Worry, maybe? Or perhaps anger, though it didn’t exactly seem to be directed at you.
"Osc, you didn't have to come. I'm okay."
"Stop saying that."
It came out harder than you expected, and you flinched. He noticed. His expression shifted, softening.
"Sorry. I just— you're obviously not okay. Like, just look at you."
Something about the way he said it made you look down at yourself instead of at him. For the first time, you noticed that there was blood on your shirt. It wasn’t enough to ruin the shirt forever, but there was still enough to make you consider sending it to the cleaners. When you opened your palms and stretched out your fingers, you squinted at the scrapes there too. There was also a bandage on your forearm that you didn't remember getting.
"It's not that bad," you tried.
Oscar made a breathy, smiling sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "You're in a hospital, Y/N."
You blinked.
"It’s precautionary."
"Right. Precautionary."
Oscar slipped into one of the weird plastic chairs that hospitals always had. He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, silent. When his eyes met yours again, he spoke again, his voice quieter.
"You scared the shit out of me."
"I didn't mean to."
"I know."
He reached out like he was going to touch your hand, then hesitated. His fingers hovered just over yours for a second before he pulled back.
"Did they, uh, say when you could leave?"
"No. Waiting on the scan results." You were so tired. Your eyes kept trying to close. "You don't have to stay."
"I'm staying."
"Oscar—"
"I'm staying," he repeated, firmer this time, and there was no room for argument in it.
Now that you thought about it, you didn't have the energy to argue anyway.
You must've drifted off at some point because when you opened your eyes, Oscar was scrolling through his phone, and the fluorescent lights were giving him a halo you didn't remember being there before.
"You look stupid."
He glanced up, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "What?"
"The lighting. Makes your head look… weird. Thought you should know."
His mouth twitched, almost smiling, almost fond. "Ah, of course. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Already tired of your current position, you tried to shift only for your ribs to protest immediately.
"Ow."
"Don't– Don’t move. Here"
He was out of his chair before you could blink, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch you. It was funny, really, considering the time Oscar literally threw you over his shoulder that one time he’d finally convinced you to join him on his run only for you to complain until he carried you the rest of the way back.
"Hey, hey. Can you tell me what hurts?"
"Everything? Nothing? I dunno."
Even though you really were trying to answer his question, your head was still doing that thing where thoughts took too long to form. It felt more like pulling cotton from a thornbush rather than just answering a simple question.
"Osc?”
“Yeah?”
“Why're you still here?"
"Uh, because you're still here."
"That's… That’s circular logic."
He couldn’t help but shake his head at that, laughing. "Okay."
Once he was content that you weren’t actively having a heart attack or bleeding to your death or in any form of excruciating pain, Oscar finally sat back down in the seat beside you. Each blink still felt slow, languid, but when you looked up at him you noticed that he was watching you like you might disappear. Before you could really think about it, however, he was already interrupting your thoughts with another gentle question.
"How's your head?"
For a moment, you mulled over the words, conducting a thorough analysis before delivering your eloquent answer. "Fuzzy. Like static."
You paused then, and Oscar opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.
"D'you ever think about how static isn't, like, really a thing anymore? Like, TVs don't do that now. It's just… black."
Oscar blinked at you. Maybe it was the big brown eyes, but in that moment, he looked a lot like an owl when he did.
"I think that you have a concussion."
"Hmm, probably."
"You should go home."
Oscar only rolled his eyes, going back to read whatever nerdy cricket article he’d probably been reading. "Already said I'm not doing that."
You made a face. "You're annoying."
"Mhmm," he acknowledged, leaning back in the chair as he crossed his arms. "You've mentioned that once or twice."
Of course, you’d probably said that a lot more than once or twice, but you couldn’t remember all the details all that clearly at the moment and the truth was that that’s just how Oscar was – nice, funny, easy in a way that made you not think twice about whatever came out of your mouth around him. Maybe he’d always been like that, you thought to yourself. You couldn’t imagine a moment where being around Oscar wasn’t as easy as breathing.
The room went quiet except for the machines beeping. At some point, you found yourself trying to count the beeps, but it was difficult to keep up. You ended up losing track around fourteen.
"I crashed the car," you announced suddenly.
Oscar looked at you, his face the picture of calm. "I know."
"No, I—"
You tried to get the right words out, but your throat went tight.
"I crashed it, Oscar. It's—the whole side is smashed. I saw it. I don't think it's drivable."
"That's what insurance is for," he soothed, the ghost of a hand coming to rest on the plastic bedframe right beside where your hand was. But all you could focus on was those few seconds, playing over in your mind like flashes, stills in your memory.
"But I—"
You could feel your breath going weird, shallow. It didn’t feel good.
"I wasn't paying attention. Or I was? But, like, not enough, and now the car's wrecked and I have to— Shit, I dunno how I'm getting to work tomorrow. Or– Or how much it's gonna cost. And I just got it serviced last month, and—"
"Hey. Hey."
He leaned forward again, and this time he did touch you, fingers careful around your wrist.
"Breathe."
"I– I am breathing," you replied, a bit dumbly.
He only smiled, ever gentle. "Slower, hm?"
You tried. It didn't really work.
"The car—"
"Is just a car, I promise."
His voice was steady, calm.
"It kept you alive. That's all it needed to do. That car is replaceable, but you are not."
"But—"
"But nothing. You're here. You're okay."
He squeezed your wrist gently. Oddly enough, it helped – like it was somehow a signal to your body to pause, to match the pulse, to give up the panic and just let the thrum of his pulse against yours dictate your heartrate instead.
"The rest is just.. stuff. We'll figure it out."
"We?"
"Yeah. We."
He said it like it was obvious, like there was never another option. His eyes shone with you could only describe as an ocean of sincerity, refracting the lights of the room in a way that reminded you of the open sea – steady and still.
Your eyes were burning. You blinked hard. Even your voice felt more raw, more exposed.
"I don't wanna figure it out. I wanna go home."
"I know."
"M’ tired."
"I know," he said again, softer.
A beat later, you closed your eyes. His hand was still on your wrist, warm and solid, and you focused on that instead of the beeping or the lights or the way your head felt like it was full of cotton.
"Osc?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for coming."
There was a pause, a sound almost like a faint hitch in his breathing. When he answered, his voice sounded strange, tight.
"F’course. Always."
You believed him.
The waiting was worse than the tests.
As both of you learned over this vast stretch of time, you could not sit still. Every position you tried felt wrong, no matter how creative — lying flat made your head pound, sitting up made you dizzy. You shifted again and Oscar glanced over from where he'd been pretending to read an infographic on flu shots, which would have been convincing had the entire thing not been written in French.
The moment the bed squeaked from you shifting for the umpteenth time, his attention was on you. "Hey, you alright?"
"I just wanna leave," you huffed, but it came out sharper than you meant it to. "How long does a CT scan take to read?"
"I dunno,” he mused, actually thinking about it. “A while, I guess?"
"It's already been a while."
"It's been, like, forty minutes, actually."
You slumped back against the pillow in defeat, and maybe also exhaustion from being so exhausted. Everything ached.
"That’s stupid. Feels longer."
He didn't argue with that.
You closed your eyes then and tried to sleep. You couldn't. So you opened them again. The ceiling tiles had little dots all over them. You started counting those instead, lost track, and even started over.
It was clear you were unhappy about having to wait so long – Oscar couldn’t imagine a mattress made of that much plastic could be too comfortable, especially for someone who wanted nothing more than to just be able to go home and rest in their own bed. If it were up to him, the two of you would have likely been out of here ages ago, but unfortunately, he actually cared about making sure you were well enough to go home. What he could do, however, was make sure you were as comfortable as you could be in the meantime.
"D'you need anything?" Oscar tried.
"A time machine."
Oscar shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.
"Fresh out, m’afraid."
You turned your head to look at him. He was still in the same position, elbows precariously balanced on the thin bars of metal acting as the arms of the sad hospital chair, his phone set down on his lap. He looked… tired.
You'd done that.
"Sorry," you mumbled, looking genuinely remorseful. You hated inconveniencing him for something minor like this, especially in the middle of the night.
"Sorry? What? For what?"
"Y’know. Making you sit here."
"You didn't make me do anything," he chuckled, like the mere idea was laughable. He tilted his head at you, the curve of his mouth terribly fond, soft.
"Seriously. What d'you need?"
You opened your mouth to say nothing, but what came out was, "I'm bored. And my head hurts. And I can't stop thinking about the car, and—"
Finally, your brain caught up with your mouth and you cut yourself off.
"Never mind."
"No, no. C’mon, what?"
"It's stupid."
"That’s never stopped you,” he smirked, before his gaze shifted to something gentler. “Tell me anyway."
You hesitated. "D'they have anything to watch? Like on the TV or something?"
Oscar looked around the room. There was no TV. He checked his phone, scrolled for a second.
"Hospital wifi's quite terrible actually, but I've, uh, got some stuff downloaded?” He thought for a moment, before grimacing. “Probably shouldn't though, right? Screen time with a concussion?"
In return, he received a deadpan glare. "I don't care."
You sounded petulant. You were petulant.
"I just need— I can't just sit here."
He studied you for a moment, then seemed to make a decision.
"Fine, alright. But if a nurse yells at us, you're taking the blame."
You grinned, wide and truly happy. "Deal."
He pulled his chair closer to the bed and angled his phone so you could both see it.
"What d'you want?"
"That depends. What've you got?"
He scrolled through his downloads. There were a couple of race replays from well before his time, some documentary thing that was either about tennis or classical European architecture, a few episodes of a show you didn't recognize. And then a familiar title screen whizzed by.
"Wait, wait, wait. Go back, go back up."
Obediently, he scrolled up.
"There!" You pointed, and your chest did something complicated at the same time. "You have Finding Nemo downloaded?"
Oscar’s ears went slightly pink. "Yeah, well... You kept watching it when you had the flu a couple months ago, and then on the plane to Singapore you fell asleep to it, so I just..."
He shrugged, not quite looking at you.
"Figured it was, like, a good background thing to have. Just in case, or whatever."
Something warm unfurled behind your ribs, despite everything.
"Can we watch that?"
"You sure? We don’t have to, we can always watch something else if you—"
"Nope. I want that one."
Oscar sighed, pretending to be annoyed, but still didn't argue. He just hit play and adjusted the angle so you could see without having to strain your neck.
He really did think of everything.
Once the Pixar logo filled the screen, the music started. Every note was familiar, nostalgic, like the comfort of a favorite blanket.
Oscar too settled back in his chair, his phone propped carefully on the tray table attached to the side your bed, perfectly between the two of you. You let your head sink into the pillow and watched Marlin and Coral on the reef, and for the first time since the accident, something in your chest loosened.
"Can you hear it okay?" Oscar asked quietly, whispering like anything louder would ruin the sanctity of a movie as important as this one. The thought made you giggle.
"Yeah," you murmured, your eyelids already starting to get heavier. “‘S perfect."
He didn't say anything else after that, content to just let the movie play.
You made it through the barracuda attack before your eyes started closing on their own. The last thing you registered was Marlin promising to never let anything happen to his son, and metered rhythm of Oscar's quiet breathing beside you.
You jolted awake just as Nemo was starting his first day of school.
"— I miss anything?"
Your voice was scratchy.
"Nemo just met his classmates," Oscar said without looking away from the screen. "You were out for like three minutes."
"Oh."
You blinked hard, trying to focus.
"Okay. Good."
Oscar’s eyes flicked to hers, noticing the haziness in them.
"Go back to sleep if you need to," he whispered. “I can wake you up in a bit.”
"No. This is important."
He glanced at you, amused. "It's a kids' movie."
"It's not just—"
You struggled to sit up a little. He immediately moved to help, his hand instinctively hovering near your back.
"It's about the ocean. You're Australian. You should be taking this seriously."
"I am taking it seriously!"
"You're smiling!"
"'Cause you're being ridiculous."
"I'm being culturally responsible."
You squinted at the screen, watching as Nemo began to swim toward the boat. As carefully as you could manage, you brought your arm up to nudge his shoulder, but it ended up being more of a weak graze. "Pay attention, Osc. This part's important."
"I am, I am, I'm paying attention."
For a moment, you watched him, just to make sure he really was paying attention before you turned back to the movie. As soon as you were content, your eyes felt heavier again, until you fought to keep them open. You had to, of course – Marlin was freaking out and Nemo wouldn’t listen, too stubborn to know what was coming. Even with your eyes beginning to close, you couldn’t help but mouth along to some of the dialogue from muscle memory.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Oscar noticed it too. He didn't say anything, but his smile got softer. You drifted off again somewhere around Dory's introduction, and woke up to Marlin and Dory in the dark water, the anglerfish looming.
Your hand clenched in the blanket without thinking.
"You good?" Oscar asked quietly.
"Yeah."
But you didn't unclench your hand. On screen, the anglerfish lunged. You flinched. It was stupid, considering you'd seen this movie a hundred times, but everything felt too close right now, too loud. Oscar shifted in his chair.
"Hey. It's alright." His voice dropped lower, gentler. "Dory's got this. She speaks whale, remember?"
"She doesn't speak whale yet," you mumbled.
"Right. That's later."
He was still using that soft voice, like you were actually scared of a cartoon fish. It should've been embarrassing. It wasn't.
"But they make it outta this part. Promise."
"I know they make it out."
"I know you know. I’m just reminding you."
You let out a breath. On screen, Dory and Marlin escaped and even though Marlin was in the middle of trying to tell Dory that he wanted to continue the rest of his search for Nemo without her, the music shifted to something lighter and your hand relaxed.
"Thanks," you said quietly.
"For what?"
"I dunno. Being weird with me."
He huffed a laugh. "You make it easy."
You tried to stay awake for the moonfish’s game of charades to cheer Dory up — but you faded out somewhere around Dory swimming away to cry and woke up to Dory getting distracted by the small baby jellyfish instead of Marlin’s directions.
"Where are we?" you asked, brows furrowed, still groggy with sleep.
"Jellyfish scene," Oscar answered easily.
"Oh, good. This is the best part."
He smiled, a teasing grin. "Oh yeah? I thought the last part was the best part."
"Every part's the best part," you told him, blinking at him seriously. "Are you even Australian? The ocean's, like, your whole thing."
"Uhh, pretty sure we have other things."
"Name one."
"Vegemite."
Naturally, you made a face. "That does not count."
"Why not?"
"'Cause it's gross, Osc!"
"Oh, c’mon! You've never even tried it."
"I don't have to, genius. I can smell it from here."
You weren't making sense. Hell, you knew you weren't making sense. But Oscar was watching you like you were saying something profound, and on screen, Dory greeted the adorable little jellyfish with a soft, “Hey, little guy.”
Marlin, of course, was so focused on how excited he was to be on his way to finally be reunited with Nemo that he completely failed to pay attention to what was going on right behind him. Meanwhile, Dory came closer to the baby jellyfish, cooing at it.
“I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my Squishy. Come here, Squishy. Come here, little Squishy.”
You laughed at that, and in the dark of the room, Oscar turned to look at you, smiling. He’d figured out quite some time ago that even the smallest sliver of your joy had the power to make his heart do funny things in his chest, but he tried not to think about that. Now, however, in the dark of the hospital room and with all your attention directed at the screen, he allowed himself to look at you for just a moment longer than perhaps friends should.
Soon, Marlin had finally managed to resume Dory from where she'd fallen unconscious stuck in the throng of jellyfish, your cheek was squished against the starchy material of your pillow and your eyes were drifting closed again.
"I’m awake," you stated out loud, though it might've been an affirmation for your sake more than Oscar’s, if you were being honest.
"You don't have to," Oscar told you gently, one hand carefully pushing your hair out of your face so you could see better.
You replied, but most of your words were mushed together, a stream of mumbles more than anything truly coherent. But Oscar didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, he understood you anyway.
"But you need to see– the EAC's coming up. That's the turtles. Hm, you'll like the turtles…"
"I'll wake you up for the turtles," Oscar assured you.
"...Promise?"
"Promise."
It was then, and only then, that you finally let your eyes close.
Just for a minute.
a/n: i know i'm supposed to be working on other stuff, but i had a minor car accident and this is what i was inspired to write instead. i apologize for not getting the promised chapters out this week. please accept this consolation prize instead. hope you like it!
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female reader
Word count: 5.4k
Summary: Cool, calm and collected Oscar Piastri eats aphrodisiac food by mistake. Or two idiots in love finally give into their feelings thanks to chocolate.
Tags: 18+ content, friends to lovers, foreplay, dirty talking, piv intercourse, praise, soft dom!oscar, oral (f receiving), probably some tooth rotting fluff, not sure what else...
In truth, you never meant for any of this to happen. Looking back, maybe leaving those “special” chocolates on the kitchen counter wasn’t your brightest idea. Especially not with a sleep-deprived Oscar wandering into your kitchen like a zombie in search of sugar. One moment, you were scrolling through your phone, deciding on what movie to watch tonight. The next, Oscar was unwrapping a truffle with the kind of innocent curiosity that spelled absolute disaster.
“Oscar, what the hell are you doing?!” you blurted, half tripping over yourself as you lunged toward him. “You absolute muppet!”
He froze mid-bite, a piece of chocolate still halfway to his mouth, blinking at you like a startled deer caught in headlights. “What? I’m hungry.”
“That’s not—those aren’t normal chocolates!” you cried, pointing accusingly at the open box on the counter.
He chewed slowly, utterly unbothered, then shrugged. “They taste normal to me.”
“Oscar, for the love of—stop eating them!” you groaned, crossing the kitchen in two strides and snatching the half-empty box out of his hands before he could reach for another.
“Auch!” he protested, frowning at you as if you were the unreasonable one. He licked a bit of melted chocolate off his thumb, completely unaware of the catastrophe he’d just triggered. “You always tell me to make myself at home.”
“Yeah, well, not like this!” you snapped, clutching the box like it might bite you. Your heart was thudding somewhere in your throat now, because of course he would walk in and eat the one thing he absolutely shouldn’t.
“Okay,” Oscar said slowly, still watching you with that confused squint that usually meant he thought you were overreacting. “What’s the big deal? It’s just chocolate.”
“It’s not just chocolate!” you hissed, gripping the box tighter.
He blinked again. “Then what is it?”
You hesitated, words tangling in your throat. “It’s, um… kind of… special.”
“Special how?”
You dragged a hand down your face. “Like, not-for-consumption-by-unsuspecting-drivers kind of special.”
His expression didn’t budge. He looked from you to the chocolate, clearly missing the point.
“Oscar,” you said finally, exasperated, “those were—look, they’re not regular sweets. They’re… mood chocolates.”
“Mood chocolates?”
“Yeah. You know. For… romantic moods.”
A beat passed, and you could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes.
“Wait,” he said slowly, realization dawning, “you mean—oh.”
“Yes, oh!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Congratulations, you’ve just eaten a handful of edible bad decisions.”
Oscar just stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and mild horror.
“Why the hell would you have these?” he finally burst out, pointing at the now-closed box like it had personally insulted him.
You blinked at him, still clutching the chocolates. “What?”
“You know exactly what! Who just keeps aphrodisiac chocolates sitting around like it’s normal?”
“It’s not like I meant to!” you snapped, exasperated. “They were a joke present, alright?”
“A joke present,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the phrase for hidden meaning.
You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms. “Yes, a birthday gift from Zoey, because apparently I have the dating life of a dried raisin.”
His lips twitched, but he tried to hide it. “So your friend gave you—” he gestured vaguely toward the box “—those… as a birthday present?”
“Don’t judge me. Judge her.” you warned, narrowing your eyes. “It was meant to be funny. You know—ha ha, tragic single life, here’s some magic chocolate, good luck.” you said with sarcasm.
“Oh, yeah,” Oscar said, deadpan. “Hilarious.”
“I wasn’t actually going to eat them!” you said quickly. “I just—forgot to put them away.”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with that sheepish half-smile of his. “Well, congratulations to both of us, then. Your friend’s prank just backfired spectacularly.”
You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “I am never living this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” he said, grin spreading now. “You’ll be hearing about this for the next ten years.”
“Fantastic,” you muttered. “Exactly what I wanted for my birthday.”
After a few minutes of arguing, you both silently agreed that panicking wasn’t going to help. So you did the only thing that made sense in a completely ridiculous situation: put on a movie and waited it out.
The living room lights were low, the soft glow from the TV flickering across the walls. Oscar had claimed one end of the sofa, legs stretched out, the picture of lazy calm. You sat on the other end, clutching a pillow in your lap like a shield, pretending to focus on the screen.
It should have been fine. Just two friends hanging out, nothing unusual. You’d done this a hundred times before. But for some reason, tonight every detail felt different. The air seemed warmer, the space between you smaller. You could hear the faint rustle of his sleeve whenever he shifted, smell the familiar trace of his cologne that always managed to short-circuit your brain.
You forced your eyes on the movie, refusing to glance sideways even though you could feel him there: relaxed, oblivious, completely unaffected by the fact that your heart had decided to start drumming double-time.
He laughed quietly at something on the screen, and you nearly forgot how to breathe.
“So…” you said finally, desperate to fill the silence and distract yourself. “No effects? You cool? Everything okay?”
Oscar turned his head toward you, an easy grin tugging at his lips. “I feel completely fine,” he said, voice low and teasing.
You raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “No weird dizziness? No heart racing? No, uh, romantic moods?”
“Do I look like I’m about to jump you?” he asked.
You choked on air. “Uh, no, no. Of course not.”
He chuckled, leaning back. “I’m fine, honestly. Totally normal.”
“Alright,” you said, feigning a casual shrug. “If you say so.”
You tried to focus on the movie again, but your brain refused to cooperate. Every tiny sound he made seemed louder. Every time he shifted closer, you tensed without meaning to. It was fine. It had to be fine. He was your best friend; the one person you could always be normal around.
Then he exhaled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You sure you’re okay?” you asked again, eyes flicking toward him before you could stop yourself.
“Yeah,” he said quickly, blinking. “Just… kind of warm in here, isn’t it?”
You frowned. “Osc, it's literally November.”
“Right.” His voice wavered slightly.
You squinted at him. “Oscar.”
“What?” he said, flashing a confident grin that didn’t quite convince you.
You hesitated. He did look warm; faint color rising to his cheeks, his hand tugging at his collar. The sight made your own face heat in sympathy.
“You’re blushing,” you said before you could stop yourself.
“No, I’m not!” he said too fast.
“Uh-huh. Totally fine,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek.
He laughed once, a little too loudly. “Maybe… just a tiny bit warm.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, sinking a little deeper into the couch, trying not to stare. But it was useless. Your heartbeat was far too loud for comfort, and suddenly, you were the one feeling warm.
For a while, neither of you said anything. The movie droned on, but the atmosphere in the room had shifted; quiet, tense in a way you couldn’t quite name.
Oscar shifted in his seat again, restless. His knee bounced against the edge of the sofa, his fingers drumming lightly on his leg. You noticed the way his breathing had picked up, shallow but uneven, as though he couldn’t quite settle.
“You okay?” you asked carefully, for the third time, turning toward him.
“Yeah,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. His voice sounded tight, rough around the edges. “Just… uh, a bit warm.”
You tilted your head. “You’ve said that like three times now.”
He gave a weak laugh, trying for casual. “Yeah, well. Guess it’s the heating,” He bit his lower lip for half a second, the kind of nervous habit you’d seen a hundred times when he was thinking too hard, then shifted again, elbows on his knees, staring determinedly at the TV.
You blinked. “The heating isn’t even on.”
“Right,” he said, giving a tight laugh that didn’t sound like him at all. “Weird.”
The color hadn’t left his face; if anything, his cheeks were flushed, a faint sheen of sweat along his hairline. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly, like he was trying to calm himself down.
“You sure you don’t want me to get you some water?” you asked, rising halfway.
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” he said quickly, already standing. His movements were a little jerky, his usual easy grace replaced by something more hurried. “I just need… a second.”
“Oscar?”
“Bathroom,” he said shortly, giving a faint, distracted smile. “Be right back.”
You watched him disappear down the hallway, his shoulders tense, his hand brushing the back of his neck as he went. The sound of the bathroom door closing left the apartment oddly still.
You sank back onto the couch, heart beating a little too fast, and tried to convince yourself that everything would be fine. But as the seconds turned into minutes, your worry only increased.
Another minute ticked by. The credits of the movie had started to roll, but you didn’t even notice. You got up, heart thudding, and padded down the hall. The narrow strip of light under the bathroom door was the only thing breaking the dark.
You knocked once, softly. “Oscar?”
Nothing.
You knocked again, harder this time. “Hey, you okay in there?”
There was a beat of silence before a muffled, hurried reply: “Yeah! Fine! Totally fine!”
You frowned. “You sound the exact opposite of fine.”
“I just… I-I dropped something,” he said, voice too quick, too thin. “Give me a sec.”
“Oscar, you’ve been in there forever,” you said, the worry creeping in despite your effort to sound calm. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! I’m good.”
You sighed and put a hand on the doorknob. “Okay, that’s it, I’m coming in—”
“No!” His voice cracked louder than you’d ever heard it. “No, god, no! Don’t you dare!”
You froze, startled by the panic in his tone. “Whoa, okay! Easy!”
“Just… Please,” he added quickly, the words tumbling out. “I just… need a minute, alright?”
The sound of his breathing came through the door, quick and uneven. Your own chest tightened.
“Oscar,” you said softly, “you’re scaring me.”
There was a long pause. When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, rough around the edges. “I just don’t feel right. Everything’s spinning a bit. I don’t—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I just need to get my head straight.”
You leaned your forehead against the door, heart twisting. “Okay,” you said quietly. “Take a minute. But talk to me, yeah? Don’t just shut me out.”
A shaky breath from the other side. “Yeah. Promise.”
You stayed there for a few seconds longer, listening to the muted sounds inside: water running, a faint sigh… before forcing yourself to step back. And then, before your brain could catch up with your mouth, the words slipped out, quiet and stumbling:
“Maybe I-I could help you out?”
The silence that followed was immediate and heavy. Great way to make things even more awkward.
“U-uh, forget I said anything. I-”
But before you could finish your sentence, the bathroom door clicked open. You froze mid-word. Oscar stood in the doorway, looking nothing like the calm, put-together person you knew. His hair was tousled, sticking up in uneven directions as if he’d run his hands through it a dozen times. His pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the warm brown of his irises, and there was a faint, restless energy in the way he held himself, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay still or move. To make matters worse, it was difficult to tear your gaze away from the prominent bulge in his pants.
Fuck.
“Are you serious? About helping me out?” he said, almost out of breath.
“I… Y-yeah. I mean… What are friends for, right?” you force a smile. Don’t be awkward.
“Not for helping with boners, I think.” he shakes his head. “Fuck, are… are you sure about this?”
Were you sure about this? Hell no. Not in a million years would you have thought that your only sexual encounter with your best friend would be thanks to some aphrodisiacs. And either way, you did not feel okay with this. What if he regretted it once the effect wore off? Was that chocolate considered a drug? Was he conscious enough to make a rational decision such as who to have sex with?
He called out your name impatiently, interrupting your endless train of anxious thought.
“I–I don’t know,” you said, words tripping over themselves as you tried to make sense of what was happening. “What if you regret it? You’re not… I mean, you’re not really in a state to know if you actually want this.”
The sentence hung awkwardly in the air, heavier than you intended. Your voice sounded too small, too unsure.
Oscar’s head snapped up, a short, incredulous laugh escaping him. Not amused, but almost offended. He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“Seriously?” he said, a faint edge creeping into his voice. “You think I don’t know what I’m saying right now?”
You flinched a little at the tone, guilt tugging at your chest. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmured. “I just… I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and wish it hadn’t happened.”
His expression softened a fraction, the frustration giving way to something quieter, something that looked a lot like hurt. “You really think I’d ever regret you?”
The words hung between you, too raw to take back. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Oscar took a slow step toward you. Not sudden, not threatening. Just deliberate, like he’d made a decision and was testing whether the world would let him follow through.
Your back brushed the edge of the wall as you instinctively stepped away, not because you wanted distance, but because you didn’t know what to do with that hungry look in his eyes. He stopped a breath away, searching your face, his expression dark and yearning all at once.
“Do you have any idea how badly I want you?” he murmured into your ear, voice low. “The things I’d do to you if you let me...”
The air felt electric, full of all the things you’d never said. You swallowed hard, feeling goosebumps all over your skin, caught between the safety of friendship and the pull of something that had been there all along. Was this actually happening?
“So let me ask you again: Were you serious before?” he asked, his tone guarded.
You gulped, your lips parting as you nodded. “Yes.”
That’s all it took for him to stop holding back. In a matter of seconds, he was crushing his mouth on yours, running his tongue over your lips as you tried to remember how to breathe.
His tongue traced the seam of your lips with a deliberate insistence, not demanding entry but coaxing it, as if savoring the barest hint of what might come next. The pressure of his mouth against yours was all-consuming, a blend of heat and softness that made your knees weaken, your body instinctively leaning into him. You could taste the faint bitterness of the chocolate he'd eaten earlier, mingled with something uniquely him. Your heart hammered in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears like distant thunder, and you forced yourself to breathe through your nose.
As his hands slid up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks, you felt the roughness of his calloused palms, sending shivers down your spine. The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping past your parted lips with a gentleness that belied the urgency in his movements, exploring the warm cavern of your mouth with slow, languid strokes. It was like he was mapping uncharted territory, each flick and swirl igniting sparks that traveled straight to your core, making your stomach tighten with a mix of nerves and raw desire.
His fingers threaded into your hair, not pulling but holding, as if anchoring himself to this moment, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Emotion swelled in your chest, a tumultuous wave of longing you'd buried for so long, now crashing over you without restraint. There was something vulnerable in the way he kissed you, despite the aphrodisiac's influence, as if he were laying bare his own hidden desires, mirroring the ones you'd kept locked away for so long.
He pulled back just enough to break the kiss, his lips hovering a breath away from yours, both of you panting softly in the charged silence. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and dilated, the brown irises swallowed by desire, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck, a rosy tint that spoke of his heightened state.
"God, this is better than I imagined," he whispered, his voice a gravelly rumble that vibrated through you, making your skin prickle with anticipation. "I've been dreaming of this for so long," he added, his voice thick with longing, his hands trembling slightly as they cupped your face.
You did not have time to process what he had just admitted before his mouth was on yours again, his teeth grazing your lower lip with a nip that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You gasped at the sensation, the slight sting blooming into warmth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue delving deeper, exploring with a thoroughness that left you trembling.
His hands began to wander, one sliding down to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you could feel the hard planes of his body against yours, the evidence of his arousal obvious even through layers of clothing. You arched into him instinctively, your hips brushing his in a way that made a low groan escape his throat. It was intoxicating, the way he responded to your touch, his body seeming to crave yours as much as you craved his, the aphrodisiac amplifying what was already beneath the surface.
His hands, now more insistent, traced the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts, each touch sending a shiver down your spine and a gasp from your lips. He was needier, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that made your heart pound even harder. And somewhere between his kisses and hurried caresses, you ended up back on the couch.
Oscar’s fingers fumbled with the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward with clumsy urgency. The fabric slid over your head, leaving you exposed in the dim light, skin prickling as cool air met flushed skin. His hands stilled suddenly at the sight of your pink lace bra, a delicate bow resting between the cups. Oscar let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, his thumb brushing the scalloped edge.
"Fuck," he licked his lips, pupils blown wide as he traced the intricate stitching. "Do you always wear such pretty lingerie when we hang out?" The question hung between you, raw and unguarded, his voice thick with something more than the aphrodisiac. You flushed, suddenly aware of how deliberate this hidden indulgence felt; how long you’d imagined him seeing it.
"Maybe," you mumbled, avoiding his burning gaze. "You never know what could… happen." you shrugged like it was nothing, like your heart wasn’t hammering against your ribs.
He leaned in, lips grazing your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your neck. "Liar." he murmured, smirking as his fingers tracing the lace’s edge, deliberate and slow. “I think you wore this pretty little thing just for me, hoping I’d finally rip it off. Am I right, baby?" The raw edge in his voice sent heat pooling low in your belly.
The delicate lace strained against his impatient fingers, the bow unraveling as he tugged it loose. "You are torturing me with these secrets," he rasped, lips trailing hot kisses down my neck while his hands explored the newly exposed skin.
His fingers fumbled with the clasp at the back, clumsy with need, but finally it gave way. The bra slipped down your arms, cool air kissing your skin as he tossed it aside. His gaze was electric, scorching a path from your collarbones to your hardened nipples. "Fuck, you’re so beautiful," he breathed, voice thick and reverent.
His lips closed around one peak, tongue swirling in slow, torturous circles. A ragged moan tore from your throat as he sucked, the heat and wetness stealing your breath.
Oscar’s hand slid lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your pants before slipping beneath the fabric. His touch was electric, igniting a gasp from your lips as he pressed his palm against your damp underwear.
"Wait," you breathed, catching his wrist. His eyes snapped to yours, confused, the feverish hunger in them momentarily paused as he worried he might have gone too far; that you might be regretting it already.
"I-I’m supposed to be helping you find relief, remember?" the words came out shaky, half-hearted, as if your body already regretted stopping him.
He chuckled low in his throat, a rough sound that vibrated against your skin. "You are," he murmured. "Every touch is relief.”
He didn’t wait for another protest. Without warning, he tugged your pants and panties down in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him. The air felt cool where his gaze lingered, tracing your flushed, slick folds with the same focus he held whenever he was racing. Then he knelt between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs wider as he leaned in.
"Let me take care of you first," he insisted, his voice a ragged whisper. "Need to taste you, need to feel you come apart on my tongue." His calloused palms slid up your thighs, spreading them wider, his breath hot against your skin.
Oscar’s breath hitched as he lowered his head, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh, a whisper of contact that sent tremors through you. Then his tongue found your core, a slow, deliberate stroke that made your back arch off the cushions. He groaned against you, the vibration echoing through your nerves, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you steady. "So sweet," he murmured, the words muffled against your skin but raw with need.
"Been wanting this... wanting you." His tongue circled your clit with agonizing precision, each flick sending jolts of electricity straight to your spine, and you choked on a gasp, your hands knotting in his hair.
Oscar dove in with a ravenous intensity, burying his face between your thighs as if starved for the very essence of you. His tongue moved with relentless purpose, broad, wet strokes that lapped at your slick heat, then sharp flicks against your clit that made your vision blur. The sounds were obscene: the wet slide of his mouth, your ragged gasps, the desperate creak of leather beneath you as you writhed.
When your thighs began shaking, he didn’t slow, didn’t tease; he just devoured. The world narrowed to the hot pressure of his mouth, the scrape of stubble against tender skin, the salty-sweet taste he’d praised now mingling with sweat on his lips.
“F-fuck, I… I’m close.” You arched off the couch, back bowing as the coil inside you wound impossibly tight, every muscle clenching. His eyes flicked up, dark and possessive, locking onto yours as he sucked hard, and god, the way he watched you unravel.
His grip tightened as the first wave hit, cresting hard and sudden, tearing a choked cry from your throat. You shattered against his mouth, trembling uncontrollably, fingers clawing at the sofa cushions as pleasure ripped through you in electric waves. He didn't let up, sucking gently now, lapping at your oversensitive flesh until the aftershocks left you limp and gasping. Only then did he pull back, breathing hard, lips glistening as he wiped them with the back of his hand. His eyes, dark, pupils blown wide, drank you in, raw hunger etched across his flushed face.
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like; watching you unravel.” he said breathily as he took off his shirt, revealing his toned chest. Swearing under his breath, he fumbled with his belt buckle, fingers trembling with urgency.
“And now that I’ve seen it… I don’t think I will ever get enough.” The rasp of the zipper cut through the heavy air as he shoved his jeans and briefs down enough to free himself, hard and flushed, already leaking at the tip. He groaned, low and guttural, as his hand wrapped around his length, stroking once, twice, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the slit. His gaze snapped back to yours, desperate and pleading.
You reached for him, needing to taste him, to make him feel good, but he caught your wrist, pushing it back against the sofa. "Not this time," he growled, the restraint in his voice cracking. "Need you," he rasped, voice shredded. "Now. Please, fucking now."
He froze abruptly then, chest heaving as he clinged to the last bit of rationality left in him. His gaze locked onto yours, desperate yet startlingly lucid. "But I need to hear it," he demanded, voice thick with tension. "Is this okay? Do you want this?" You saw the tremor in his jaw. This wasn't just the aphrodisiac talking; it was Oscar, your best friend, laying himself bare.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, but the answer spilled out without hesitation: "Yes. Please.”
The breath he’d been holding rushed out in one ragged, grateful exhale. “Thank god,” Oscar choked out, the words raw with relief as he surged forward again.
His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in almost painfully as he positioned himself at your entrance. Then, with a low, desperate groan, he thrust deep inside you with no hesitation, no slow build, just a single claiming stroke that stole the air from your lungs. The stretch burned for a heartbeat before melting into a shocking, liquid heat that radiated outward, leaving your nerves singing.
His thrusts were relentless, each one driving the breath from your lungs in ragged gasps. The friction burned at first, a delicious ache that quickly dissolved into pure sensation. His calloused hands slid under your back, lifting your hips to meet his, angling himself impossibly deeper until a choked moan tore from your throat. You could feel the sweat-slick heat of his chest against yours, the desperate hitch in his breathing as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, murmuring broken praises against your pulse.
"Christ, look at you," he gasped, his gaze raking down my body, lingering where you were joined. "Taking me so deep... fuck, you’re everything." Every word was punctuated by a thrust that stole your breath away, his hands sliding up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a tenderness that clashed violently with the raw need in his eyes.
"Been starving for this," he confessed against your lips, his kiss messy, open-mouthed, like he couldn’t decide whether to devour you or worship you.
His hips snapped harder, deeper, the slap of skin echoing in the dim room. His breath hitched, ragged. "Been dying to ruin you just like this. To feel you come apart because I put you there." Every filthy word dripped with possession, his teeth scraping your collarbone as if marking what he craved to claim.
“Oscar…” you moaned helplessly, your nails scratching his back as your lips parted, overcome by the pleasure and his words.
His hand slid between your bodies, calloused thumb finding my clit with unerring precision, circling roughly as he drove into you. The pressure built, white-hot and relentless, his thumb relentless, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Christ, you’re so fucking tight. Taking me so deep..." He bent closer, lips grazing your ear. "You gonna come for me? Gonna let me feel you shatter?" His words weren’t just praise, they were a raw, desperate plea, as if your climax was the only thing anchoring him to sanity.
Your hips arched helplessly to meet each punishing thrust as his words; filthy, reverent, desperate, wrapped around you tighter than his arms. "P-please…" You choked out, the plea ripped raw from your throat as his thumb ground against your clit.
The pressure exploded, white-hot and consuming, tearing a high-pitched moan from your throat as your body arched off the couch, shuddering around him in wave after wave of blinding release. Oscar’s groan was primal, guttural, his own body locking rigid above you as he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing deep inside you, spilling heat in thick, urgent bursts that echoed the frantic drumming of our hearts. We clung to each other, trembling, slick with sweat, suspended in the aftershocks that rippled through you both; a shared unraveling that left the air thick with the scent of sex and spent desire.
Slowly, deliberately, he pulled out, the slick slide making you gasp softly at the sudden emptiness. He didn’t move far, just shifted to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a tenderness that contradicted the raw urgency minutes before. His eyes searched yours, dark, dilated pupils still swallowing the brown, as if reading a map to your thoughts. "You okay?" he murmured, voice scraped raw, the question hanging like a fragile bridge between what we’d done and whatever came next.
You swallowed, throat tight, and nodded against his palm. Words felt too heavy, too loud for the silence thickening around you. "I'm okay." You whispered back.
The lie tasted metallic on your tongue. Okay? Nothing was okay. The couch springs dug into your thigh, the room smelled sharply of sex and ozone from the storm outside, and the ghost of his teeth still burned on your collarbone. Friends didn’t do this. Friends didn’t wreck each other like this, whispering mine like a prayer
His gaze held yours, searching deep, past the tremble in your fingers, past the bitten-back confession etched in the flush spreading down your throat. "No, you are not. Talk to me" he said, softer now, a plea wrapped in gravel. “Have I… was I too rough? Did I hurt you?” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, his gaze unwavering and worried.
He swallowed, gaze flickering down to your mouth and back up again with a kind of terrified awe. You’d never seen Oscar look scared before; not on track, not under pressure, not even when he was inches from disaster.
But now? Now he looked like one wrong word from you could break him clean in half.
“No, no you haven’t,” you said quickly, catching that fear before it spiraled. You melted at the sheer uneasiness in his gaze: Oscar Piastri, usually calm, cool and collected to the point of unfairness, genuinely rattled. His breath left him in a shaky exhale, relief collapsing his shoulders an inch.
“Are you…” His voice cracked. He tried again, softer. “Are you sure you’re okay? I didn’t— I didn’t mean to push anything. I was freaking out for a moment, I thought I’d—”
You touched his cheek, forcing him to meet your eyes. “All okay,” you whispered, because he needed reassurance like oxygen. Your voice softened even more. “You didn’t hurt me, Osc. Not even close.”
His eyes fluttered shut for a second; a silent thank-you, a release of tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding. When he opened them again, he traced your lower lip with his thumb, gentler this time, almost reverent. The tenderness in that touch undid you completely.
“Except…” Your breath trembled. “I don’t think I can… just be friends with you anymore.”
For a heartbeat, he froze. Then he laughed; a quiet, breathless, disbelieving sound. The kind that came from pure relief.
He rested his forehead against yours again, voice low, warm, certain: “You are absolutely mad if you think I am going back to being just your friend.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. He cupped your face with both hands now, steady, gentle, his thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth.
“For keeps,” he whispered, the words thick with emotion he usually kept locked away. “That’s… that’s all I’ve wanted.”
You barely had time to inhale before he kissed you again; slower, steadier, relief pouring into the softness of it; and outside, the rain kept falling, quiet and constant, like the world was giving you both permission to finally stay right here.
SYNOPSIS — The contract said: smile for the cameras, hold his hand, don't fall in love. It said nothing about his teammate.
DISCLAIMER — this is only the second fanfic i've ever written in english, so bear with me. i do not own anyone from the f1 paddock; this is purely a product of imagination, feelings, and embarrassing amounts of free time. no harm or disrespect is intended toward any real person featured.
RATING — M (minors, please keep scrolling).
WARNINGS — fake dating / pr relationship; teammates to rivals; love triangle; cheating (it's complicated); morally gray characters, every single one of them; emotionally messy and psychologically dense; F1 paddock politics; slow burn; sexual tension with no chill; angst; explicit content / smut; alcohol, drugs, partying; blurred lines and bad decisions; not an innocent soul in this fic, including you.
WORD COUNT — 14,675 out of 22,625
N/A — this one has been living in my head for a long time. i tried to post it as a one-shot, but tumblr wouldn't let me, so i've split it in two. it's long and it's messy. comments are my love language — don't be shy. x
Pt. 1 - SOMEONE HAS TO
Pt. 2 - TERMS AND CONDITIONS
You blamed the French Riviera for the start of all of it.
The coast in southeast France was small enough to be a village, so of course you met Lando through mutual friends around the time he moved to Monaco in 2022. The sexual tension between you was a given — essential, even, to the hang-out sessions and the kind of drunk parties that slowly turned you into actual friends. Despite the few nights that had ended with both of you in his bed.
That's why he came to you when pictures leaked of him getting a little too cozy with a mysterious man at a New Year's party.
Lando was already getting bad press for partying too much. He knew how relentless this sport could be towards anyone who didn't walk a straight line, and he deemed you worthy of his trust.
You didn't let him down.
The publicists hard-launched the two of you as a couple at the start of the 2023 season — blind items first, then paparazzi photos. The team controlled your narrative strictly, from public appearances to social media. The act had to be spot-on any time you were around anyone outside the five people who knew the truth.
You'd signed a contract. It came with a lot of big words and complex rules you'd since learned by heart. Main thing: obey and behave.
The 2025 season had started a little over a month ago and you had yet to be seen supporting your championship-contender boyfriend at a race.
Honestly, it didn't bother you much. The paddock was loud, overheated, constantly buzzing with stressed people sprinting in every direction, and the cameras always made your life ten times harder.
But you did sign a contract.
The call summoning you to Saudi Arabia didn't come as a surprise. The season was just warming up, and they wanted you there — Lando's teammate was catching up on points.
Piastri.
There he was: calm, polite, put together. Annoyingly unreadable. Always a little judgy, never quite pleased to play second driver to anyone.
You'd barely spoken to him beyond F1's official calendar. His relationship with Lando was strictly professional, bordering on amicable — and in the brief moments you'd shared with him, you'd caught enough eye-rolls to know the feeling wasn't mutual.
You hadn't seen Oscar since Abu Dhabi last year. His behavior, apparently, had not changed.
"You're late," he said to Lando as you arrived at the McLaren garage for qualifying. Casual. Like stating the weather. His eyes moved to you. "Y/N."
"Good to see you too," Lando replied cheerfully. "Went to bed late. My girl arrived last night."
"How great," Oscar said, emotionless. "Hope your lucky charm works this weekend."
Not unkind. Not warm. Like someone commenting on tire degradation.
He walked away.
"The fuck is wrong with him?" you asked, watching his back disappear into the garage.
"As if I'd know," Lando shrugged, entirely unbothered. He grabbed your hand and kissed it — right on cue for the cameras. "Go have fun and look pretty for the photographers."
Translation: smile, don't blink too much, and try not to ruin anyone's brand.
You watched him go, already slipping back into character.
~*~
A dramatic crash in Q3 had put Lando starting the race in P10. He'd finished P4.
Oscar was now leading the championship — by a margin small enough to be infuriating.
"I can't catch a fucking break," Lando muttered, throwing his helmet and balaclava onto the floor like the gear had personally betrayed him.
"You aren't that far behind," you tried. Uselessly. He wasn't listening.
"And the smirk on his face, God." His face was red. "Now I have to show up to media duty with that devil beside me and still have energy for this—"
He moved his index finger between you and him. An invisible line of blame.
You didn't know what to say. Part of you agreed. The other part was tired of being the collateral damage.
You knew the tension between the drivers was high — that's exactly why the PR team had called you in. But you didn't have to dig too deep to see that your presence added a whole new layer of stress for Lando. With you there, he didn't just have to perform on track.
He had to perform every second outside private rooms too.
He dropped onto the couch, face buried in his hands.
"Don't get me wrong," he said after a moment. "I value our friendship so much."
A sigh.
"But the acting kills me."
You sat beside him and rested a hand on his thigh. He grabbed it immediately, holding tighter than necessary.
"To think I still have to follow up with my publicist and get feedback on how to behave better next time I'm with my fucking girlfriend," he let out a dry laugh. "'Hold her like this, smile like that.' At this point I'm one bad race away from needing choreography around you."
"I'm sorry, Lan."
"It's nobody's fault but mine," he said, throwing his head back against the couch. "And I'm lucky enough to have you on board with this bullshit."
"I'm glad it's me," you said, pulling him closer — because if it wasn't you, it would be someone else. And he chose you.
Lando took a few breaths and relaxed under your touch as you ran your fingers through his hair.
"Sometimes I wish it could just be like this," he whispered. "No cameras. No script. No pretending."
"We'd get bored," you pointed out, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "And probably ruin it in a week."
He laughed. Small, quiet. Knowing exactly how true that was.
A knock at the door. Mark, Lando's manager, already halfway inside.
"Media duty, Lando." His eyes landed on you briefly. "Y/N, you're off the clock. Chop-chop."
You stood up, grabbing your purse. Touched Lando's shoulder a second longer than necessary.
On your way out, Oscar's side of the garage was still celebrating. You greeted a few people, did your best to leave without drawing attention — a skill you'd fortunately mastered.
But nothing escaped those careful brown eyes.
Almost nothing.
He approached just as you reached the exit.
"You know," his voice cut clean through the noise, "if you're going to be around for any other races this season — don't get in his way."
You frowned. This was the longest sentence he'd ever directed at you, and this was what he chose to say.
What had once been a joke between you and Lando now felt very real.
Oscar had a problem. With you, specifically.
"So you don't like me," you said. Not a question.
"I don't like distractions."
"Then stop staring," you shot back, already walking away — leaving him standing there, jaw tight, not used to being talked back to.
~*~
"He's unbelievable," you complained, tossing your phone back into your purse. "Did you see that quote about 'getting your head in the game'? How dare he."
"He's jealous," Lando said casually. "Doesn't get a lot of family time. Or girlfriend time. Makes everything feel heavier, probably."
"I just don't like the picture of you he's trying to paint."
You were in the back of a car on the way to a celebration party after the Miami GP — a McLaren 1-2, Lando in second, which apparently still counted as reason enough to drink like he'd won the whole thing.
You'd told him everything about your interaction with Oscar. He'd gotten a good laugh out of it. The kind that came with zero concern and maximum ego.
For you, it was more serious. You couldn't deny how protective you were of Lando's image — especially after how hard you'd worked to polish it. Or, more accurately, duct-tape it together.
You let those thoughts slip away when you arrived. Started drinking with friends, team members, acquaintances — anyone with a drink and a vague connection to motorsport.
A couple of hours in, Lando was already everywhere. Including, somehow, next to Oscar.
Annoyed, you watched them from a distance. You were drunk too, but not the friendly kind. The observant, slightly bitter, mentally-taking-notes kind.
"Hi!" A tap on your shoulder. "I'm Lily! It's so nice to finally meet you!"
Great, you thought. Today of all days.
"My pleasure," you smiled. Or tried to.
"I was just telling Oscar how crazy it is that the boys have been racing together for over two years and we've never met!"
This was no accident. You'd been careful — you didn't want to be forced into any relationship beyond the one with Lando. Especially not WAG drama, group chats, or forced brunches. So you'd gotten good at keeping a low profile.
A skill that was currently failing you.
"Our schedules never seem to line up," you said gently, like you hadn't been actively dodging this exact situation for years.
"That's such a shame, isn't it?" Oscar appeared, placing an arm around Lily.
His eyes were on you. Not her.
"Totally!" Lily agreed. "I'm not sure if you have plans tomorrow — maybe we could all—"
A very drunk Lando interrupted, pulling you in and kissing you.
Deep. Urgent. Almost passionate — the kind that felt less like affection and more like a statement.
"Sorry," he murmured, wiping the corner of his mouth. "She just looked too pretty. I couldn't resist."
Oscar's jaw clenched. He couldn't look away. His grip on Lily tightened just enough to notice.
"She really is gorgeous," Lily laughed sweetly. "You seem to be having a great time, Lando!"
"Well, I try. Doesn't matter who stood higher on the podium — a 1-2 is a 1-2, right?"
Oscar snorted. Sharp. Involuntary.
It very much did matter who stood higher. He did.
"Of course!" Lily smiled. "Incredible teamwork!"
You placed a hand on Lando's chest. The look: wrap it up before I do.
"I actually came to steal Y/N from you guys," Lando said.
"Oh please, do take her," Oscar replied, tone light, eyes anything but.
You caught the way his gaze lingered a moment too long on Lando's grip around your waist.
"Don't mind him," Lily rolled her eyes. "Oscar's no fun."
"No shit," slipped out before you could stop it.
All three of them stared.
Lando barely holding back a grin. Oscar blinking like he'd just been slapped with honesty. Lily trying to decide if she'd misheard.
"Lily, it was so nice meeting you," you said, pulling her into a quick hug. "Let's do it again sometime."
"I'd love that," she whispered, completely unaware of the emotional landmines she'd just walked through.
~*~
Paparazzi waited outside. You and Lando both knew — they were meant to. The PR team wanted those photos.
Lando grabbed your hand without thinking as the car pulled up, stepping in front of you like a shield against the flashing cameras. Chin down, smile rehearsed. The perfect gentleman.
All of that was calculated.
What wasn't was the way he didn't let your hand go.
Even once the cameras were gone. Even once the doors slid shut behind you.
Still drunk and laughing at nothing, you both stumbled out of the elevator.
"God, I missed drinking," he said, grinning. "Remind me to do this more often."
You caught his arm just before he walked into a wall.
"Remind me to hide your phone when you do. You almost left a voice message for Christian Horner."
"I just wanted to tell him how it is," he shrugged, far too gone to care.
You laughed, shaking your head — and then your eyes met.
Just for a second. But it was enough to flip the energy completely.
He cupped your face. Gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. Then back up. Then back down. Like he was making a very serious decision.
"We're not acting right now," he said, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. "Just so you know."
"I'm aware."
And then he kissed you.
Not the neutral, PR-friendly kind you pulled out for cameras. The real kind. The kind you only share when it's just the two of you and proximity does the rest.
Or when you're drunk. Or bored. Or just in need of something that feels sort of real.
"Do you have any idea how good you look?" he murmured, kissing down your jaw, your neck. "Contract or not, you're mine tonight."
Between sloppy kisses and wandering hands, you somehow made it to your room — tripping down the hallway, bumping into walls, laughing through all of it.
His patience lasted maybe eight seconds before he started pulling your clothes off like you might disappear if he didn't hurry.
You weren't being quiet. The thin walls between your room and his teammate's next door suddenly felt very relevant.
They were, apparently, to Lando too.
The TV volume next door turned up.
Something primal crossed his face.
"Been thinking about this all night," he admitted, hands tracing every inch of your skin like he was mapping it out.
You fell onto the bed, Lando following instantly. His knee pressed between your thighs, deliberate, as his mouth found yours again.
Not far away, a door slammed. Too hard to be accidental.
"Guess someone's pissed," Lando murmured against your ear. "Good."
And finally, it clicked.
He wanted to be heard. The idea pleased him more than it should have.
His hands slid down your thighs, his mouth following, as if he had all the time in the world.
Every time you shifted your hips to feel him better, he groaned — like you were doing something to him too. Every time you moaned, you could feel his smile.
“Lando—fuck,” you cried.
"Louder," he said against your skin, voice low, certain. "I want him to hear you properly."
~*~
The morning came faster than you'd like. The sun was already warm, the pool an offensive shade of turquoise — entirely too cheerful for how little sleep you'd gotten.
Oscar was already there.
Sitting stiffly on a sunbed, towel clenched in his fist, jaw tight. He looked ruined by lack of sleep. The kind that didn't come from jet lag or training.
The safest thing he could say. Because how was he supposed to explain the way his stomach twisted every time last night surfaced? How his brain, apparently bored with peace, kept replaying sounds he was never meant to hear?
He watched the two of you arrive.
Lando's hand glued to your waist. Your laugh soft and tired. Both of you walking like you shared a secret.
Which, in a way, you did. Several, actually. None of them helpful to Oscar's sanity.
Lily lit up instantly. "Hey, you guys! Come sit with us!"
Oscar's whole body went rigid.
"Morning," Lando said, dropping your things on the table like he owned the place.
"Didn't think you two would be up this early," Oscar muttered.
Lando's smile was slow. Knowing. Annoyingly well-rested for someone who absolutely was not. "Didn't get much sleep."
Oscar's eyes flicked to you before he could stop himself. Then away. "Right."
Lando took off his shirt and sat in front of you so you could rub sunscreen on his shoulders. Tilted his head back. Eyes closed. Entirely too relaxed for a man who had just chosen violence.
Oscar watched every second of it. Hated that he did. Hated more that he couldn't stop.
"I'm gonna jump in," Lily announced, already heading for the pool. "Coming?"
"In a minute," Oscar said, not looking at her.
And suddenly it was just the three of you. Which felt illegal somehow.
"You were loud last night," Oscar said. Voice too even.
"Not really," Lando replied, grin widening. "Could've been louder."
Oscar's grip tightened on the towel. "Just don't overdo it."
"What does that mean?" you asked.
His eyes met yours. Brief. Sharp. A warning he hadn't decided how to phrase. Then he looked down.
"Distractions are expensive."
The air shifted. Not heavy — tense.
Lando's smile didn't disappear. It changed. Smoothed into something colder.
"Guess that depends," he murmured, "on who's getting distracted."
~*~
Oscar didn't fully understand what the hell was wrong with him.
He had no business caring about Lando's relationship with you. If anything, it should've been convenient. A gift.
It was not.
He'd built a decent lead in the standings after Lando's disaster in Canada. Which should've felt good.
It did not.
Because it came at a cost.
He had to keep his distance from the two of you. Like avoiding a bad habit he'd never agreed to start. He and Lando weren't friends — just teammates with a polite, functional relationship. The kind that survived debriefs and died everywhere else. And now even that felt strained.
What he heard that night in Miami had messed him up. He'd forbidden himself from acknowledging what it made him feel.
Very mature. Very ineffective.
He was having a terrible time keeping his eyes off you. The more he tried, the more he noticed. Every touch. Every whisper. Every goddamn smile.
It made him sick. Worse: curious.
He'd let himself believe that your absence from the last few races meant something.
Hope, it turned out, was a stupid habit too.
So when he saw you walking toward the McLaren garage at the British Grand Prix, his heart sank.
Of course you'd be there for Lando's home race. He briefly considered that maybe he was an idiot.
You both did your best to stay out of each other's way. Almost succeeded.
But post-race Silverstone was dangerous — full of champagne and people feeling braver than they should.
The corridor behind the garages was quieter. The noise fading into something dull and distant.
It took you a few seconds to realize you weren't alone.
Oscar.
He hadn't meant to block your way — he just stood there like a poorly placed obstacle. Your shoulder brushed his chest as you tried to pass.
"Sorry," you said automatically, stepping back.
He didn't move. "Congratulations. To him."
"Cut the crap," you replied. "I see you, Oscar. If you have a problem with me, I'd rather hear it straight."
Silence. Thick. Almost impressive.
"That night in Miami," he said finally, almost under his breath. "I didn't ask to hear that."
He regretted it instantly. Your chest tightened.
"So this is about that," you said. "You were eavesdropping?"
"Hard not to. Walls were thin."
His eyes flicked to the sound of Lando laughing somewhere nearby — effortlessly alive.
You stepped closer. Not on purpose. Or maybe exactly on purpose.
"I didn't do anything wrong. That was Lando—"
"I know," he cut in too fast. "I know."
That stopped you.
Oscar swallowed.
"That's the problem."
For a split second he held your gaze. Clearly tempted to say something catastrophic. Something that would ruin several careers and his own self-image.
"Whatever you think you heard wasn't meant for you," you said, forcing neutrality. "You don't get to hold that over us."
"And I didn't ask to be fucking affected by it."
The sharpness of his voice caught you off guard. Your composure cracked.
"You don't get to say that," you snapped.
"You weren't supposed to be part of this," he said, eyes dropping. "And maybe I'm imagining things — but I think I speak for both me and Lando when I say you make it harder to focus."
He stepped back. Easing the tension just enough to breathe.
"You should stay out of this."
"Then why do I get the feeling you don't really want me to?" you asked, already knowing he wouldn't answer.
"Please go," he said. "Before this gets worse."
You nodded — even though the idea that this was already bad lodged itself firmly in your chest — and walked past him.
Oscar didn't move.
He just stared at the empty space you left behind, knowing he'd crossed a line he could never uncross.
And worse — that he didn't regret it nearly as much as he should've.
~*~
You knew better than to show up for the next couple of races.
Mostly because you were scared of your own brain — which had recently decided to become wildly unhelpful — and because Oscar had done the worst thing he possibly could.
He'd made you curious.
The way his eyes had held yours at Silverstone. Something new flickering behind them. Not anger. Not the usual annoyance.
Something else. Something inconvenient.
Something you kept telling yourself meant nothing — and that still left you uneasy days later, like a song you didn't like but couldn't stop replaying.
You'd never really thought about Oscar as anything other than Lando's competition. A tall, quiet obstacle with excellent bone structure. But that encounter had shifted something all the same, and the questions followed you everywhere — with work, with friends, with the carefully curated image of a perfect relationship you were supposed to be maintaining.
Which was how you ended up here.
"Love?" Lando called again after a few failed attempts. "Care to join me? I promise I'm very charming today."
"Yeah. Of course," you replied, abandoning your spiraling thoughts and moving closer.
He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you onto his lap, your hands resting around his neck.
Flash.
He kissed your cheek, gently. You giggled, automatically.
Muscle memory was a terrifying thing.
Flash.
"You two look great together," the photographer said, thumbs up. "I think British Vogue got everything it needs."
"Great," Lando smiled, effortless.
You waited while he said his goodbyes, doing the same with the handful of people you knew. After all, this arrangement wasn't meant to benefit only Lando — you'd been promised access and exposure within the industry too.
He grabbed your hand and tugged you toward his dressing room, shutting the door behind you.
"That went surprisingly well," he said, dropping onto the couch. "I actually had fun."
You nodded. A beat too slow.
"Where are you?" He frowned, pulling you down beside him. "You look miles away. Is this about the jacket you hate?"
You didn't answer — mostly because your brain was doing that thing it had started doing lately, the one where Oscar Piastri showed up uninvited and refused to leave.
Lando studied your face for a second, then pulled you closer. You let him. Easy. Familiar. Safe.
Safer than the alternative, anyway.
"Careful," he murmured when your lips drifted to his neck. "Or I might start liking this too much."
"You wouldn't dare," you laughed, pulling back. Grateful for the lightness.
"Thank you for showing up today," he said quietly, thumb drawing absent circles against your arm.
"I kind of had to," you replied. "Bureaucracy and all. You know how much your lawyers would love to fine me."
He bit his lip, eyes lingering. "I really hope they're paying you well. A woman this pretty shouldn't work for free."
"Some people do like to call me a gold digger," you said, half-joking, half-testing.
"Yeah?" he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed your skin. "People say a lot of stupid shit."
He smiled.
"Doesn't make them right."
And just like that, your chest tightened — because with him, things were easy.
And lately, easy felt dangerous too.
~*~
You'd barely seen Lando over the past month — which, considering you were allegedly his girlfriend, felt almost impressive. Just once or twice after the photoshoot, and even then only to fulfill public appearance duties.
Sure, there were stolen kisses here and there. Hands held a second longer than necessary. But that was it.
You didn't let yourself overthink it. This was what you'd agreed to. The moments you shared in private were supposed to remain rare — brief glimpses of what you and Lando could be, but ultimately weren't.
That's what you kept telling yourself.
So you couldn't deny it bothered you when your lawyer called to inform that Lando's team wanted you at the Dutch Grand Prix, but had very politely, very professionally, requested separate hotels for the weekend.
You knew what that meant.
Someone else.
You reminded yourself the contract didn't cover exclusivity. As long as it stayed private and scandal-free, it was nobody's business. Not yours. Not his. Not the internet's.
So you played your part.
Showed up for free practice. Walked through the paddock wearing the cutest outfit. Smiled when you were supposed to, looked worried on cue, delivered your usual reliable performance.
Ten out of ten. No notes.
But Lando noticed your distance. He always noticed — just never quite knew what to do with it. So he didn't say a word. He knew he was the one who'd asked for space, and he'd had the audacity to do it through other people.
He should've been content. He was getting exactly what he wanted.
So why didn't it feel like it?
He found you in the garage just before the race. One of the least private moments possible — which made it perfect, because you couldn't dodge him without making a scene.
"I'm really glad you came," he whispered against your ear, hands on your waist. "I'm sorry we haven't had much time together."
"Are you, though?" Your tone was flat.
"You know we both need space sometimes," he said.
"Space." You let out a dry laugh. "Right. I must've missed the memo where space comes with a hotel upgrade."
"Don't be like that." He kissed your forehead. "You're my best friend."
That one landed harder than you expected.
"I just hate being alone during race weekends," you admitted, dropping your voice. Allowing yourself, briefly, to be honest. "I'm only here because of you."
Lando took the hit.
"I'm sorry, love, I—" He cupped your face. "I just need something different right now."
You didn't feel like talking anymore. Or begging. Or pretending this didn't sting.
"We're probably better off like this anyway," you said, gently pulling away.
The words tasted bitter. Familiar.
~*~
Of course, you thought, watching the smoke rise from Lando's car with seven laps to go.
Life really loved its timing.
You took off your headphones and set them down. Watched the screen. Felt the lump settle in your throat as the camera found him sitting on the grass, defeated.
"He's okay," someone from the team touched your shoulder. "We'll take you to him in a bit."
You hesitated. Because you weren't sure you should go. It was what everyone expected — but was it what Lando wanted?
You moved away from the group, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Full commotion filled the garage when he arrived, helmet still on. Engineers swarming, everyone talking at once.
For a brief moment, your eyes crossed.
He saw you. Away. Waiting.
He excused himself and came to you. You hesitated, then stepped forward and gently lifted his helmet off — his face red and wet underneath.
The cameras went wild in the background.
"You okay?" you asked softly.
"You don't need to worry about me." He sounded almost childish. His voice cracking gave him away.
"I know, baby," you replied, laying a gentle hand on his face. "I do it anyway."
You held each other's gaze — too long to be nothing, too short to fix anything — before he grabbed your hand from his face and kissed it.
Without another word, he headed back to his team.
You started walking away, ignoring the questions thrown at you by the media — wondering when exactly things had started to hurt this much.
~*~
No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't sleep. Your brain simply refused to clock out.
Being in Amsterdam, there was one thing you could easily get that would help with that.
So you were discreet getting on the hotel elevator, careful getting in and out of a coffee shop two blocks away, and extra cautious walking back down the hallway.
None of that was a match for Oscar's attentive gaze.
He opened his door just as you reached yours, catching you completely off guard.
"Jesus Christ!" you blurted.
"Where were you?" he asked immediately.
"Why do you care?"
"It's late," Oscar shrugged. "And it's Amsterdam."
"What does that even mean?"
"What's in the bag?"
You stood there in silence. A staring contest you were definitely losing.
"It's tea," you said, already knowing he wouldn't fall for it.
"Yeah?" He raised an eyebrow. "Come in and make me some, then."
Your mouth opened and closed while your brain screamed at you to abort mission.
"Lando's waiting for me," you lied.
"No, he's not," Oscar said, far too pleased with himself. "I happen to know Lando isn't even here tonight."
"Doesn't mean I owe you anything."
"I never said that." His eyes darkened. "I asked you to roll me a joint. Is that a terrible offence?"
You blinked.
The last time you'd spoken, he'd practically begged you to leave so he could have peace of mind. And now—
"What's changed?" you asked.
"I just had an important win," he said. "Maybe I deserve to get a bit distracted."
You looked at him leaning against the doorframe. Messy hair. Flushed cheeks. Eyes fixed on you like he'd already made his decision.
You were lonely. Wired. And the curiosity you'd been cultivating about Oscar was scratching at your brain like an itch you could no longer ignore.
"Do you have a lighter?" you asked, walking past him.
~*~
You don't even remember when the tension left your shoulders. But it felt damn good to feel this light.
Both of you were lying on the fluffy rug, shoes off, laughing easily — like people who didn't have a championship, contracts, or common sense between them.
Oscar was different like this. More relaxed. More real.
"I didn't think you'd be this much fun," you admitted.
"Same," he laughed. "I used to think you were so fucking annoying. And a bit stupid, if I'm being honest."
"What!" You propped yourself up on one elbow. "That is so rude, Oscar."
You both smiled, high as hell.
"I think I notice patterns," he said after a moment, something quieter settling over him. "You're always there for him. No matter what."
A pause.
"People don't usually show up when it costs them something."
The words hit harder than you expected.
"You mean Lily?" you asked, avoiding his eyes.
"Yeah," he murmured. "But also the team."
Another pause.
"Even today — they were too busy crying over something else to care about our win." He gestured loosely between the two of you. "But this is quieter. I prefer it."
You swallowed. You'd always known Lando was McLaren's golden boy. You just hadn't stopped to think about what that meant for Oscar.
"Don't get me wrong," he said, running a hand through his hair. "But where the fuck even is Lando right now?"
You bit your lip before the truth could slip out.
"I don't think he realizes what he has," Oscar said. "Or how easy he has it."
You didn't interrupt. That alone felt new.
"It's not that I want what he has," he continued, eyes on yours. "I just don't understand how he doesn't lose his fucking mind trying to keep it."
You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
"I think the championship is taking a toll on you boys," you said lightly.
He smiled. Just barely.
"Don't act like it's just the championship," he said, voice lower now, gaze drifting briefly to your lips.
"Oscar," you cut in gently. "You're lonely and you heard something you weren't supposed to. Lando got in your head and now you think—"
"You seriously think it started that night?" he interrupted. "I noticed you way before Miami."
You sat up slowly, never breaking eye contact.
"And if I'm wrong," he continued, "then why do I get the feeling you flirt with the same idea?"
Because I do, you thought.
"You're too smart for your own good," you said.
"And you're too stubborn to admit it."
You held his gaze a second too long before looking away.
"Am I being a piece of shit?" he asked.
You laughed, unfiltered.
"I like it when you laugh like that," Oscar said quietly.
"You're different without the team around," you pointed out.
"I don't usually talk this much," he admitted. "And I don't get high. You make things complicated."
"That's what makes me such a good distraction."
"My favorite one."
Your eyes locked again. Bodies shifting closer without either of you deciding to.
"If you stay," he said softly, "I might stop being careful."
Your heart pounded.
"Don't tempt me," you whispered. "I thought that was my job."
You didn't know who moved first — only that suddenly his mouth was on yours, warm and urgent, like he'd been holding back for too long. Your legs wrapped around his waist as you settled on his lap, his hands gripping you like he was grounding himself.
"I want to fucking ruin you so bad," he muttered against your ear. "It's actually stupid."
"Maybe I like you stupid."
"Bet you get off on it."
His mouth found yours again.
"Oscar," you breathed. "We shouldn't."
"I don't want to stop," he said, eyes honest. "And I hate when you're right."
You pulled back, fixing your clothes. Heart racing.
"This was fun," he said, standing, exhaling slowly.
"I should go."
He nodded and offered his hand. You took it — and noticed he didn't let go until you were outside his room.
"Well," he scratched the back of his neck. "This Dutch weed is insane."
"Tell me about it," you laughed. "Guess I'll see you around, Oscar."
"Not if I hide from you first."
You didn't look back as you walked to your room. The door clicked shut behind you, and you stood there staring at it like it could contain the mess you'd just made.
Sleep, you realized, was not happening anytime soon.
~*~
After you skipped the next two races, you showed up to the cocktail Lando's team had arranged before Singapore — meant to celebrate his British Vogue cover launch before things got even more serious as the season went on.
It was supposed to be intimate. It rarely ever was. Hard to keep a small circle when everyone wants a piece of one of the hottest drivers of the moment.
Your plan was simple: keep a low profile, avoid public figures, other WAGs, and anything that smelled like drama.
A solid plan. Right up until it wasn't.
Because when you saw Oscar across the room, your heart did something embarrassing.
Even from a distance, you could tell he hadn't fully bounced back from the last race weekend. And after everything that had happened in that Amsterdam hotel room, you felt an almost ridiculous urge to check on him.
Almost ridiculous. You went anyway.
You approached when he stepped away from his group, touching his arm lightly — discreet, brief.
"Hey," he greeted, his fingers brushing the spot where your hand had been. "The party looks expensive."
"It probably is," you rolled your eyes. "I've been meaning to reach out. But I don't have your number."
"Don't say that." You frowned. "It was just a bad race. You still have it in you, Oscar. The championship, I mean."
"Wow." Lando appeared out of nowhere, hand firm on your waist, kiss pressed to the top of your head like punctuation. "Let's dial it back a notch, shall we? Dangerous words to throw around in a room like this, love."
Your cheeks burned. Oscar let out a dry laugh.
"She really is the cutest little thing, isn't she?" Oscar said, taking a sip of his drink. The sharpness in his tone calibrated to keep Lando comfortably ignorant. "Thanks, Y/N. But I don't need consolation. I'm a big boy."
"You sure are, mate," Lando replied, fist-bumping him. "Stuff like that happens to any of us."
Oscar nodded, smiling with his mouth.
"Still hoping to put up a good fight this season," Oscar said.
"Oh, I know I will," Lando replied easily, pulling you closer. "Got my lucky charm with me. Speaking of — where's Lily?"
Oscar's eyes flicked to you for half a second.
"Busy," he shrugged. "She'll probably show up to a couple races."
Your expression went blank.
Jealous? You filed that away to be horrified about later.
"Maybe we should grab a drink," you said to Lando.
"You read my mind." He kissed you again. "If you'll excuse us, mate. Gotta cause some trouble."
Trouble, indeed.
You didn't see Oscar again for the rest of the night. You also didn't look.
One drink turned into three, then four. Laughter grew louder. Touches sloppier. Lando's hand never really left your waist. Somewhere between the music and the endless champagne, the weight you'd been carrying for weeks finally loosened.
By the time you were in the back of a car, his mouth was already on yours — desperate and clumsy, like he'd been holding back for too long.
"It's funny," Lando said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I don't usually care who you talk to."
He wiped the corner of your lip with his thumb.
"But with him, I notice," he added quietly. "People might get the wrong idea."
"About what?" you asked.
His hand slid under your dress, fingers pressing against the lace of your underwear with the kind of familiarity that came from way too many stolen moments like this.
"About who you belong to."
You gasped into his mouth. He smirked, watching your face as his fingers dipped lower.
"We exchanged like three words," you managed. "I was just being a good team player."
Lando's hands slowed for a fraction of a second — deciding whether to believe you or not. A moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.
That did it for him. As long as he kept winning and you kept melting under his touch, people could think whatever the fuck they wanted.
"You have no idea what you do to me when you look like that," he whispered. "Tell me you want this."
"You're insufferable."
"Yeah?" His grin was criminal. "Then why are you—"
His sentence died when you bit his earlobe.
"You are a fucking devil."
The wet sounds filled the car, mixing with your moans and his heavy breaths, as Lando had two fingers inside you, curling them against that spot that made you see stars.
“Stop teasing,” you begged. “Fuck me already.”
You reached for him, moving your body to sit on his lap. In a hurry, he opened his belt and you guided him to your entrance. Lando thrust in deep, filling you completely in one smooth movement.
You both groaned at the stretch, the way he hit every nerve inside you.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered.
His hands gripped your thighs, helping you move up and down as he pounded into you, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the tight space.
You did your best to pull him deeper, nails digging into his shoulders.
Sweat on his forehead, his curls sticking to his skin. You clenched around him deliberately, making him curse under his breath.
“Don’t,” he warned you. “I won’t last long if you keep up with this shit.”
And you let it happen. Goddamn, you wanted it to happen.
The windows fogged up, the world outside forgotten as he fucked you harder and deeper, pushing both of you over the edge almost at the same time.
Even with all the distance and silence, this was still you and Lando. You couldn’t even dare to deny you’d missed him like crazy.
His mouth, his hands, the way he took over your space until there was nothing left but heat and breath and need.
Only him could make everything else go quiet. And for a few hazy, drunk hours, it almost felt easy again, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
~*~
Three weeks later, Singapore.
The McLaren Constructors' celebration was loud enough to rattle the press area. You watched from behind the barriers, cheering, clapping, playing your part perfectly.
It took you a few minutes to notice someone was missing.
Oscar.
You scanned the area again. Nothing. No sign of him, or anyone from his circle.
That didn't sit right.
You knew you shouldn't go looking.
So you did anyway.
They already had what they wanted — photos of you cheering for Lando, videos of you whispering I love you back at the kiss he blew your way. You excused yourself early.
It didn't take long to find Oscar sitting alone in hospitality, champagne bottle in hand, drinking straight from it like he'd stopped pretending hours ago.
"Congratulations," he said as soon as he noticed you. "Funny how you seem to be more part of this team than I am."
"I came looking for you," you said, ignoring the jab.
"Well, that's new." He took another sip, then handed you the bottle. You accepted without comment. "Sorry. It's just — frustrating."
Silence filled the space between you.
"This," you gestured vaguely around. "All of this. It's kind fucked, if we're being honest."
He nodded, like that wasn't news.
"I hate it here," you admitted, pulling out a chair beside him.
"Then why?" He frowned. "Why do you keep doing this? Are you that in love with him?"
You wished you could tell him the truth. But Oscar wouldn't understand — you were already sure of that. And you knew better than to blow everything up for someone who would judge you for it.
"He's my best friend," you said. A half-truth, carefully delivered.
"I've tried," Oscar replied. "But I genuinely don't understand how that works."
A curve formed at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile.
Almost. It looked more like pity.
"He doesn't respect you," he said quietly. "The things I've seen him do when you weren't around—"
"And how's that any different from what we did?" you shot back.
Oscar stared at you like you'd handed him a puzzle with a missing piece.
"The difference is — I didn't pick you up at some party for a quick fuck and pay you to disappear," he said, barely above a whisper.
He stopped himself. Confusion flashing across his face before he could hide it.
"Did you do that?" he asked. "This. With me. To get back at him?"
"Of course not," you said sharply. "If you had the slightest idea of what I am risking—"
He reached for your hand.
"Maybe we shouldn't be risking anything," he said, eyes dropping, "when the stakes are this high."
He pulled his hand back first.
"Thank you for checking on me," he added. "But you should go."
"Friends?" you asked, already knowing.
His hazel eyes lifted, locking onto yours.
"I can't," he said.
The door swung open. An assistant, walkie-talkie already raised in relief.
"Found him. We'll be there in a second."
Oscar leaned back in his chair. Closed his eyes for just a beat.
And whatever you almost had slipped out of reach.
~*~
Both phones ringing early in the morning should've been your first sign something was wrong. The way Lando's eyes went wide — like he'd just heard the juiciest gossip on earth — should've been the second. The three hundred plus notifications you'd woken up to were the undeniable third.
"Hey, so," he called from across the room, voice already walking on eggshells. "Please don't freak out."
"Oh, that definitely helps," you replied.
He handed you his phone.
Your jaw dropped.
"What the fuck is this?"
"Well," Lando started. "It's… us."
You slapped a hand over your mouth. "No shit, Sherlock."
There you were: caught in the hotel mirror, happy and very visibly ruined. The flash swallowed half of Lando's face, but not his bare chest or the white towel slung low around his hips. His arm was tight around you, your body bent over the sink, head turned slightly from the camera. Nothing but a towel wrapped around your hair.
The fogged mirror sealed it — intimate, unmistakable, and absolutely impossible to deny.
"If I had to guess," he continued, scratching the back of his neck, "it's from summer break. Greece."
"How did they even get this?" you asked. Horrified. Or maybe just deeply offended on principle.
"Mark says they're looking into it."
You tossed the phone onto the bed. "Mark knows?"
"At this point," Lando said calmly, "it's probably easier to ask who doesn't."
You groaned. "What did he say?"
"Team knows. They want me to talk."
"Great," you whimpered. "I'm now fake dating a Formula 1 driver and starring in a soft porn scandal."
Lando rubbed your back, trying very hard not to smile. "I mean. I'm shocked. Deeply. Traumatized, even."
You glared at him.
"But," he added quickly, "on the bright side — we do look hot as fuck, love."
You stared at him. Speechless.
"I'm just saying," he rushed on, "there are way worse photos of us that could've leaked."
"Please shut the fuck up," you groaned, throwing yourself face-down on the bed and pulling the sheets over your head.
"Honestly, it's not that bad—"
"It's a mirror selfie!" you yelled from under the covers. "Do you think they can tell we fucked right before taking it?"
Lando raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you're emotionally prepared for the answer to that."
Silence.
Then you peeked out from the sheets.
"…We do look fucking good, don't we?"
Lando smiled, already resigned.
"Absolutely."
~*~
Oscar absolutely should not have done this. He knew that. He was painfully aware of it, in fact.
And yet.
He'd spotted you shopping around Monaco a few days before the circus packed up for Texas, and had made a series of increasingly questionable decisions that ended with his foot stopping your apartment door from closing.
To be fair, the alternative was exchanging polite, awkward hellos during race weekends for the rest of the season. When he framed it like that, following you home seemed almost reasonable.
It was not reasonable at all.
You didn't notice him until it was too late. You'd been busy spiraling — professionally, emotionally, cosmically, the usual — and the sudden appearance of Oscar Piastri in your doorframe nearly launched your heart out of your chest.
"What the fuck are you doing?" you snapped, eyes wide.
Then you actually looked at him.
Flushed cheeks. Apologetic eyes. A man who knew he was approximately thirty seconds away from being murdered.
Your voice dropped to a whisper immediately. "What the actual fuck do you think you're doing?"
He hesitated. "Visiting a friend?"
Silence.
"For… a visit?"
You stared at him.
"Since when are we friends?" You squinted. "Actually — since when do you know where I live? And don't you dare tell me someone leaked that too."
Oscar considered lying. It would've been elegant. Dignified. Entirely fictional.
"Depends on what you consider a leak," he tried, going for charming.
You didn't smile.
"I followed you," he admitted. "Alright? Can I come in before someone sees me and I ruin all of our lives in one go?"
You sighed, opened the door wider, and waved him in — immediately scanning the hallway behind him like a paranoid raccoon.
A photo of this would be catastrophic. A blind item? Nuclear.
"So," he said, glancing around your living room, hands shoved into his pockets. "This is your hiding spot."
"It's called an apartment."
"Smells like you," he added. Way too casually.
You froze. Then pointed at the couch. "Sit. Don't touch anything. I'll be right back."
You dumped your bags in the bedroom, splashed water on your face, stared at your reflection like it might offer guidance.
You can do this, you told yourself. You can have a normal conversation with Oscar Piastri without emotionally combusting.
Your reflection looked unconvinced. Honestly, fair.
When you came back, he was exactly where you'd left him — sitting stiffly, leg bouncing like it owed him money.
You sat beside him.
"So," you said. "What's up?"
He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the floor.
"That photo," he said.
Your stomach dropped straight through the couch.
"What photo?" you tried, weakly.
"Don't," he said. "Not with me."
You leaned back, exhaling. "I didn't think you'd—"
"See it?" He almost laughed. "Yeah. I did. Believe me, I did my best to avoid it."
A pause. Something shifting in his expression.
"You looked happy," he said.
He stopped himself.
"Comfortable," he corrected. Like that was safer.
"This isn't fair," you said quietly. "You don't get to—"
"I know," he cut in. "Doesn't make it stop."
Your pulse roared in your ears.
"Why does it bother you?" you asked.
Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Because every time I tell myself to stay in my lane," he said, "something happens that reminds me you're not just around him."
He exhaled.
"You're with him."
You shook your head. "I don't know what you want me to say."
The silence that followed was thick enough to sit in. You shifted closer before you could stop yourself — not much, just enough that your knee brushed his. Oscar noticed. His eyes dropped for half a second before he straightened, like the contact had woken him up.
"This was a mistake," he muttered. "I shouldn't have come here."
"You're already here," you replied..
"Doesn't mean I should stay."
But he didn't move.
Your hand rested on his knee almost distracted. Oscar looked at it. Then at you.
"You make this very difficult," he said.
His hand lifted slowly — hesitating halfway, still deciding if this was a terrible idea. His fingers brushed your jaw, warm and careful. You didn't pull away.
"This is exactly what I was trying to avoid," he said, almost to himself.
"Then stop."
His thumb traced your cheekbone. He didn't stop.
"I'm sorry that photo went public," he said instead, voice quieter now. Redirecting with the precision of someone who'd decided the other direction was a cliff. "And I'm guessing you're not the one who leaked it."
"God, no," you said. "Absolutely not."
He nodded. His leg had gone still.
"Still," he said, eyes on yours. "Don't think for a second that seeing you like that didn't make me wonder what it would take to be the one next to you when you look that unguarded."
The room felt smaller.
You laughed softly despite yourself, your hand drifting to his chest without permission. You filed that away to deal with never.
"I'm glad you're here, stalker," you said. "I could use the company."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "What about Lando?"
"He's not around tonight," you said simply. "Doesn't mean we have to ruin our lives though."
Oscar didn't answer with words.
He closed the gap — one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist — and kissed you. Unhurried. Like he'd made his decision and wasn't interested in second-guessing it.
You kissed him back. That felt like a decision too.
The kiss was soft at first, a gentle press that deepened into something profound — his mouth warm and inviting, his tongue slipping past your lips to taste you.
You sighed into it, your body melting against him, fingers threading into his hair to hold him close, as if letting go would shatter the moment.
His hand slid from your jaw down your neck, over your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breast through your shirt with feather-light touches that made your skin tingle.
You arched into him, nipples peaking under the fabric as he cupped you gently, his thumb circling the hardened bud with care.
“You’re going to be the end of me,” he murmured, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, pressing kisses to your neck, nipping lightly at your earlobe.
Your hands explored him with equal reverence, sliding under his shirt to feel the warmth of his chest, the subtle strength of his muscles toned from endless laps on the track. You traced the lines of his abs, feeling him shiver under your touch.
He captured your mouth again, the kiss turning deep, tongues dancing like they belonged together, hips shifting forward instinctively, his erection pressing against your thigh through his jeans.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"Who even are you?" he asked softly.
"You don't want to know."
He smiled against your mouth.
"Maybe I do."
You pulled him into a hug that surprised both of you. His arms came around you after a beat — tentative, then firm, like he was allowing himself something he'd been refusing for months.
"That's sweet of you," you murmured against his ear.
"I can be sweet," he replied. "I can be a lot of things."
And somehow, that felt like both a promise and a warning.
~*~
"I cannot decide how to react to this information," Lando confessed, running a hand through his hair. "I absolutely hate that for you. For us."
"I don't want to keep secrets from you, Lan," you said, heart hammering. "I can't do that."
"I know." Something tight flickered behind his eyes. "Oscar kissed you. Twice. And you liked it. And he's still walking around the paddock with Lily like nothing happened."
You breathed out loudly, unsure of what to say next.
"Thank you for telling me," he said, standing abruptly and heading for the door. "I'm going to fucking kill that little bitch."
"Lando, no!" You stopped him. "I'm telling this to my best friend Lando. Not my fake-boyfriend Lando."
"Has it ever occurred to you," he asked, exasperated, "that they are the same fucking person?"
He paced the room. You stayed quiet and let him.
Looking at it from a colder angle, he couldn't really call it betrayal. The whole point of the contract was freedom on both sides, and he had taken advantage of that more than once. More than you ever did.
But still.
"He has a girlfriend," Lando said finally, his voice landing somewhere between angry and tired. "A real, sweet, official girlfriend."
"I know."
"And even if I was okay with sharing—" He stopped himself, jaw tight. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch people speculate about something that's supposed to be mine? Even if we both know the truth?"
"I'm tired of pretending I don't want more than what I'm allowed to have," you said, taking a step back from his touch. "Aren't you?"
"Are you doing this to get back at me?"
You rolled your eyes. "I know it might come as a surprise to you, after almost three years of my life—" you started, sharper than intended. "But not every aspect of my silly little existence revolves around you, Norris."
"When did this even happen?" He ignored your jab. "Why didn't you come to me before it got messy—"
"What makes you think I wanted to avoid it?"
"Uh, I don't know, maybe keep our asses safe from the shit PR will give us?" He sounded genuinely annoyed now. "You have no idea how fast they can turn you into a villain in this business."
"You have to decide what your main concern is here," you said. "If you're more worried about how this makes you look—"
"Shut up." His eyes went sharp. "Don't you dare insinuate that I care more about optics than I care about us. About what we actually are to each other."
A silence stretched between you. Not comfortable.
"Does he know?" Lando asked, voice going neutral. "About the true nature of our relationship."
"Of course not."
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. He walked around the room once, twice, like he needed the laps.
You stayed still.
"How does this leave us?" he asked finally.
"I'm not leaving you," you said. "I'm not even saying I'll have anything with him. I just couldn't lie to you. We go way deeper than that."
"Does it change how you feel about me?" A beat. "About us?"
"I don't think so."
He stopped pacing.
"This was never supposed to hurt," he said, quieter now. "They told me to protect my image. No one told me how to protect you. I know I failed that."
"I didn't sign up to disappear when it gets uncomfortable," you said. "It doesn't have to change anything."
"But it sort of does," he said honestly. "I don't like sharing what keeps me sane. Even if I know I don't get to control it."
He crossed the room and grabbed your hand, pulling you closer. Pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"Be careful, love," he whispered. "Not just with us. With you."
"I won't do anything too stupid."
You kissed his cheek. He held onto you a second longer than necessary.
"Don't make me compete with a straight man for attention," he muttered into your hair.
"You win most categories already."
"Good," he murmured. "Because if Piastri breaks your heart, I'm still killing that fucking dog."
He held you then — carefully, like you were the most important thing in the room. And then, with everything that made him Lando, he kissed you on the lips.
Sealing your dirty little deal once and for all.
~*~
The Texas heat hit differently in October. Dry, relentless. The kind that clung to your skin even when the wind picked up across COTA.
The paddock was already buzzing when you stepped out of the car. Cameras flashed the second Lando appeared beside you. He didn't hesitate — his hand slid into yours automatically, fingers lacing together like it had been rehearsed a thousand times.
Maybe it had.
You smiled for the cameras, tilting your head toward him just enough to sell the moment. Lando leaned closer, murmuring under his breath while his free hand waved at a group of fans.
"Remember," he said, "if I crash this weekend, you're contractually obligated to still pretend you like me."
"Don't worry," you replied. "I've survived worse acting jobs."
Journalists shouted from behind the barriers as you made your way to the garage:
"Norris, are you worried about internal competition?"
"Is it truly helpful to have your partner around at such a critical point of the championship?"
Lando pulled you tighter against his side, thumb brushing the back of your hand.
"I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her," he said, easy smile plastered on, photographers eating it up.
Half the paddock thought you were the most supportive girlfriend in Formula 1. The other half thought the same thing, just with more cynical intentions attached.
Neither version was the truth.
Across the garage, Oscar noticed anyway. He hadn't meant to look. But once he saw Lando's hand wrapped around yours — the way his body looked so comfortably pressed against yours — it was impossible to unsee.
That entrance alone made the McLaren garage tense from the start.
You did your best to keep a low profile and stayed near the hospitality unit while the mechanics swarmed the cars. Lando was already deep in conversation with his race engineer, gesturing sharply at the telemetry on a tablet.
That's when you felt someone step up beside you.
Oscar.
"Texas suits you," he said, voice low enough to be swallowed by the air guns in the pit lane.
"You've seen me in Texas for like five seconds."
"Still counts."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Lando's side of the garage.
"Busy weekend," you said, crossing your arms.
He exhaled through his nose. A faint, humorless trace of a smile. "Apparently."
"You two are fighting for a championship," you added. As if reminding him of the stakes would somehow restore the boundaries between you. A very optimistic theory.
"So I've been told," Oscar replied.
Silence. Heavy with everything you weren't saying.
He looked like he wanted to say something else — something that definitely didn't belong in a crowded garage — but a McLaren staff member called his name from across the room.
He didn't say goodbye. But as he turned to leave, his hand slid low against yours — just long enough for his fingers to catch your skin. Deliberate. Hidden.
You held your breath.
"See you around," he murmured without looking back.
"Yeah."
You watched him walk away, your stomach twisting into a tight, complicated knot. You gave yourself approximately four seconds to feel whatever that was, then filed it under not now and went back to looking like you belonged there.
You barely had time to get your heart rate under control before Lily appeared.
She walked into the hospitality unit looking bright and effortlessly pretty — a stark contrast to the thick, suffocating tension that seemed to follow you, Lando, and Oscar around like a bad smell.
"Hey!" She offered you a warm smile, scanning the room. "Have you seen Oscar? He said he was coming over after his media loop."
"He just went back to his side," you said, your voice coming out slightly tighter than intended. You forced a smile. "Do you want to sit?"
"Oh, gladly. My feet are killing me."
Before she could ask how your week was going, Lando practically stormed in. Finished with his briefing, and by the look on his face, it hadn't gone well.
He ripped his team kit collar open a fraction, dropped into the seat next to you with the energy of a man personally wronged by the laws of physics.
"If one more person asks me about team orders, I am going to launch myself into the nearest tyre wall," he muttered, throwing his phone on the table. Then, noticing Lily, his expression adjusted in a fraction of a second — smooth, charming, perfectly recalibrated. "Oh, hey, Lily. Didn't see you there."
"Rough morning?" she asked.
"The worst. Marketing wants me to wear a cowboy hat for the driver parade." He leaned back, arm dropping casually over the back of your chair. "Tell her I'd look ridiculous, love."
"You know damn well you're not allowed cowboys hats," you shot back.
Right on cue, Oscar walked back in. He froze for a microsecond when he saw all three of you, then his face smoothed into that unreadable mask and he took the empty seat next to Lily — which put him directly across from you.
Of course it did.
"There you are," Lily said.
"Media ran long," Oscar said shortly. He picked up a menu, thumb tracing the edge of the laminated paper. Not looking at you. Not looking at Lando.
"Lando was just complaining about the cowboy hats," Lily offered, trying to inject some lightness into the table.
Oscar flicked his eyes up to Lando's. The silence between them lasted a second too long.
"You should wear it," Oscar said. "Might distract people from your Sector 3 times."
Lando let out a sharp laugh, eyes going cold. "My Sector 3 is fine, mate. Focus on your own launch data. I saw your simulator runs. Brutal."
"Just keeping you honest," Oscar replied, entirely devoid of warmth.
You sat frozen between them, eyes moving from Lando's tight jaw to Oscar's white-knuckled grip on his menu.
"Anyway," Lily cut in, leaning forward with genuine, sweet concern. "I wanted to ask — are you guys doing okay? With everything that happened recently?"
Lando's eyes locked onto her. "What do you mean?"
"The photo," Lily said, voice full of pity. "I just wanted to say I'm so sorry. It's such a horrible invasion of privacy."
Across the table, Oscar went rigid. He didn't look up, but the muscle in his jaw twitched.
"PR is handling it," Lando said flatly, glancing at you.
"It just looked so unfiltered," Lily murmured, shaking her head. "You two are just — very physical. Very comfortable with your intimacy."
She paused.
"Oscar and I don't really do that kind of stuff."
"Lily," Oscar said. Low. A warning.
"I'm not saying it's a bad thing!" she rushed. "I just mean it must be exhausting to have something so personal exposed."
"It is," Lando said. His voice had dropped into something razor-edged. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Oscar. "You'd be surprised how easy it is for some people in this paddock to forget that boundaries exist. On and off the track."
Oscar raised his eyes. The look he gave Lando was charged with pure, concentrated loathing. For a second you genuinely thought he might flip the table.
"Maybe we should go get changed," Oscar said instead, standing and knocking his chair back. He didn't look at Lily. He didn't look at you. "Engineering briefing."
"Oh. Okay," Lily blinked, flustered. "Sorry if I brought up a bad topic. See you guys later?"
"Yeah. See you, Lily," you managed.
The second they walked out, the silence left behind was deafening.
Lando didn't look at you. He stared at the empty space where Oscar had been sitting, fingers curling into a fist on the table.
"He's losing his mind," Lando whispered. Dark, satisfied, and furious all at once. "Did you see him?"
"Lando, stop."
"I'm not doing anything," he said, turning to look at you. "But if he doesn't keep his fucking hands off you this weekend, I'm going to make sure his championship ends right here in Austin."
You didn't say anything.
Because the worst part wasn't the threat.
The worst part was that some small, inconvenient corner of your brain noted that Oscar's hand on yours had lasted maybe three seconds — and Lando had somehow already noticed.
~*~
Both of them. Reckless and impulsive.
Double DNF.
The McLaren garage went dead silent. Zak Brown threw his headset onto the desk.
Ten minutes later, the back corridor of the motorhome became a warzone. You were already there when Lando stormed in, helmet off, slamming it into the wall.
"Are you fucking insane?!" he screamed as Oscar walked in behind him, unzipping his suit with frustratingly steady hands. "You divebombed me like it was personal!"
"You closed the door on purpose," Oscar shot back, voice finally cracking out of its usual monotone. He stepped into Lando's face. "You'd rather wreck both cars than let me past for one second!"
"Because you don't respect limits!"
Lando shoved Oscar's shoulder.
Oscar didn't hesitate. He grabbed Lando's collar and slammed him into the lockers. "Say another word about it. I dare you."
"Separate! Right now!" Mechanics and PR staff threw themselves between them.
Oscar let go. But his eyes stayed on Lando — and then, for just a second, they found you over his shoulder.
Raw. Unguarded. Gone before anyone else could catch it.
You looked away first. Made yourself smaller in the corner of that tight, suffocating room and tried very hard to be furniture.
It didn't entirely work.
~*~
The hotel corridor was quiet in the way that felt cruel after all that noise.
You were reaching for your keycard when a shadow blocked the light.
You didn't need to look up.
"Oscar," you breathed, turning around.
He looked exhausted. Still in his race suit.
"We shouldn't be doing this here," you whispered, checking the empty hallway. "If Lando sees you—"
"Lando is downstairs threatening to fire his personal trainer," Oscar cut in. He stepped into your space — not touching you, just closing the distance until thinking straight became optional. "I don't give a fuck about Lando right now."
"You two crashed," you reminded him. "The team is on fire. You almost got physical in the garage."
"Because he looks at me like he owns you," Oscar said, jaw tight. "Because I had to sit at that table and listen to Lily describe how comfortable you two look together."
The mention of Lily landed like it was supposed to.
"It's just a photo," you said, looking anywhere but his eyes. "An old one."
"Don't lie to me."
Not loud. Just certain.
"We haven't even properly touched each other," he said, "and look at me. I just wrecked two cars because I couldn't get the image of his hands on you out of my head."
Your throat went dry. "Oscar—"
"At first I barely talked to you because I knew exactly what would happen." His voice dropped. "I forced myself to look away. It's not working anymore."
His gaze fell to your lips for a fraction of a second. Then back up.
"I can't keep doing this," he said. "Not after tasting you."
You opened your mouth to tell him to leave.
His mouth found yours instead.
Rough. Urgent. Nothing like the patience he usually carried around like a personality trait. One hand in your hair, the other pulling you against his chest.
A chime from the far end of the hallway — elevator doors opening.
Panic spiked clean through the moment.
Without breaking the kiss, your hand found the door handle behind you. You pushed it open with your back and pulled him into the dark, slamming it shut.
The silence of the room swallowed you both.
Oscar didn't let you breathe. The second the door locked, he had you against it — hands on your hips, face buried in your neck, a sound escaping the back of your throat that you'd be embarrassed about later.
Later, you thought. Problem for later.
His hands slid to the back of your thighs and lifted you like it was nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically.
He carried you to the bed.
He was desperate — you could feel it in every touch, the way his hands moved like he was trying to cover ground he'd been forbidden from for months. His mouth traced up your stomach, your ribs, your jaw, before finding yours again.
"Tell me to stop," Oscar whispered against your lips. "Say it now."
You didn't say it.
He pulled back just far enough to look at you — really look, the way he almost never let himself — and whatever he saw there made something in his expression break open.
Then he froze.
His hand went still. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.
Ten seconds of just his breathing, ragged and controlled at war with each other.
Then he rolled off you and sat on the edge of the bed, back turned, head in his hands.
"Oscar?" Your voice came out embarrassingly unsteady.
He stood up. Adjusted his shirt. Didn't look at you.
"Lily is here," he said, walking to the door. "I'm going back to my room."
He paused with his hand on the handle, looking back over his shoulder.
"Think about what you actually want," he said. "Because the next time I come into your room, I'm not stopping."
The door opened. Clicked shut.
Gone.
You stayed on the bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.
Right, you thought. Fine. Completely fine.
Sleep was not happening.
~*~
Lando was spent.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands, blue bruises from the seatbelts already blooming across his collarbones.
You sat beside him without a word. After a moment, he laid his head on your lap, arms wrapping around your waist.
"I'm so sick of this," he murmured. "Of him."
You ran your fingers through his curls. Said nothing.
"Thank God you're here," he said into your stomach. "Honestly."
The weight of what you weren't telling him pressed down, heavy.
You had the perfect opening. Oscar outside your room. His hands. The door slamming shut. All of it.
You looked at Lando's exhausted, bruised shoulders.
"I'm here," you said instead, still touching his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
Worst part? You meant it.
~*~
The noise at the Mexico Grand Prix was completely hollow to Oscar's ears.
Lando had won. P1.
He'd officially overtaken Oscar in the standings.
While Lando drowned in champagne on the podium, Oscar had slipped away early and gone back to the hotel. He'd lost the lead on the track. But standing in the dark of his room, the anger vibrating under his skin wasn't about the points anymore.
It was about him.
Your knock at midnight was quiet. Almost hesitant.
When Oscar pulled the door open, you were standing there still dressed for a party you hadn't wanted to attend, head spinning slightly from trying to keep up with Lando's frantic evening and the alcohol meant to numb the anxiety of it.
"Look, I—"
You didn't finish the sentence.
Oscar reached out and pulled you inside. The door slammed shut behind you, and before you could catch your breath, his mouth was on yours.
This wasn't like Austin.
No hesitation. No ten-second pause. Whatever restraint he'd forced himself to maintain for months had completely evaporated with Lando's victory lap, and what replaced it was something quieter and more dangerous than rage.
Focus. Like he'd made a decision and was done negotiating with himself about it.
"Oscar, wait—" you breathed against his lips. "Lando—"
"Has the trophy," Oscar said. His hands slid to the back of your thighs, lifting you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically, like your body had already agreed to things your brain was still debating. "He has the points. He can have the whole fucking thing."
He carried you to the bed.
"But he doesn't have this," Oscar whispered, his eyes dark in the dim light. His hand tangled in your hair, tipping your head back. "He doesn't have you."
Doesn't he, you thought — and then stopped thinking entirely.
He was desperate, but it was a desperation with direction. Every touch deliberate, every movement building toward something. Like he'd been running calculations for months and had finally, finally reached the answer.
"I've been losing my mind watching you," he said against your skin. "You did this to me."
You had approximately zero arguments against that.
When he finally pushed inside you, stretching you open, a sharp breath caught in your throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth on yours. The rhythm he set was relentless — driven by months of locked glances in garages and conversations that always stopped just short of the truth.
He didn't hold back. And he didn't look away.
Every thrust was deep, heavy, and desperate.
Every time you pulled him closer, his grip on you tightened as he buried himself deeper and deeper into you, chasing his release.
Every time your hips rose to meet his, something in his expression cracked open further — like he was watching something he couldn't believe was actually happening and refusing to blink in case it disappeared.
"Oscar, please, it's too much—" you gasped.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice rough. "Right now and I will."
"We shouldn't—" Your fingers dug into his shoulders. "Lando's going to know—"
"Let him."
The two words landed like a verdict.
When you finally fell apart, Oscar followed — his body trembling as he spilled inside you, face buried in your neck, holding you so tight it felt like he was trying to make sure neither of you could come undone separately.
The silence came back slowly.
He didn't move away. He stayed, his head on your neck, heartbeat wild against your ribs. His hand spread flat over your hip — warm, possessive, completely still.
You stared at the ceiling.
Lando was king of the paddock tonight. Celebrating his P1 somewhere loud and bright and full of people who wanted to be near him.
Oscar had you.
And from the way his arms tightened around you — like letting go was something he hadn't budgeted for — he wasn't planning on pretending otherwise.
~*~
The tension didn't wait for the cars to hit the track in São Paulo. It arrived with the circus, hovering over the hotel lounge like a storm waiting to pick a victim.
Lando was walking around with a cocky, untouchable aura. Oscar had retreated into a cold, predatory silence. And you were doing what you always did in situations like this — working the room just enough to be present without being interesting.
You were good at that. Mysteriously, inexplicably good at that, considering.
Lando was at the bar, loudly debating something with George Russell, a laugh booming from his chest. Oscar was sitting with Lily across the room.
His eyes hadn't moved from you in ten minutes.
You finished your wine in one long sip and got up to leave.
Your foot caught the edge of a heavy rug.
The wine glass tilted. Your balance went with it.
A hand grabbed your forearm before you hit the floor.
Oscar.
For a fraction of a second, the world stopped. His hand stayed clamped around your bare skin, thumb brushing your pulse point, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that had absolutely no business existing in a public lounge.
He didn't just catch you. He held you.
"Careful," he murmured.
"Thanks," you breathed, pulling away quickly.
You didn't look back as you walked to the elevators. You could feel him watching.
What you didn't see was Max Verstappen, leaning against a nearby pillar with a drink in hand and the expression of a man who had just been handed a gift.
He waited until Oscar walked past.
"Careful, Piastri," Max said, dry and amused. "Going after your teammate's girl?"
Oscar didn't stop walking. "It's not like that."
Max chuckled. "Sure, mate. Keep telling yourself that."
He took a sip of his drink, deeply unbothered by the chaos that only ever seemed to benefit him.
~*~
Later that night, the silence inside Oscar's room was loud.
Lily hadn't taken her shoes off. Hadn't sat. She stood with her arms crossed, watching him like she was waiting for something to confess on its own.
"You were quiet tonight," she said.
"It's been a long day." Oscar threw his room key on the table.
"It's been a long few months," Lily replied, tone carefully calm. "And don't insult me by pretending you don't know what I mean."
He rubbed his face. "You're imagining things."
"No," she said. "I'm noticing them. I notice how you look at her when you think no one's watching."
"Lily—"
"Do you even realize you're doing it?" Her voice cracked, just slightly. "Looking at her like that? I noticed how you reacted when she touched your arm. When you caught her. And I noticed you didn't pull away." She paused. "Everyone in that bar saw it. Max was laughing."
Silence.
"I'm not asking if you slept with her," Lily said. "I'm asking when you stopped being here with me."
Oscar stared at the floor. "It's complicated."
She laughed once. Dry. Bitter. The laugh of someone who had been prepared for a lot of answers and not this one.
"Funny. Because it feels painfully simple from where I'm standing." She took a breath. "I came here because I love you. But I won't compete with ghosts, Oscar. Or with women who don't even know they're being placed between us."
"She knows," he said.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Lily's eyes snapped to his. Widening in the specific, horrible way of someone whose worst theory just got confirmed.
"Oh," she whispered. "So it's worse than I thought."
He stepped forward. "Lily—"
"No." She raised a hand. "Don't try to fix it tonight."
She grabbed her bag from the bed.
"I'm going home tomorrow. First thing."
Oscar frowned. "In the middle of the race weekend?"
"Yes," she said, standing tall despite the tears. "Because I refuse to sit in a paddock watching my boyfriend fall in love with someone else."
"That's not what's happening," he said. Too fast.
She paused at the door. Looked back at him one last time.
"If you truly believed that, Oscar," she said quietly, "you wouldn't look this scared."
And then she left.
The door didn't slam. That was almost worse.
Oscar stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, not moving.
He thought about texting you. Decided against it. Thought about calling Lando. Decided against that too, for obvious reasons.
He sat on the edge of the bed instead, in the quiet left behind by someone who had loved him cleanly and simply, and thought about how thoroughly he had complicated his own life.
He didn't regret it.
That was probably the most damning thing of all.
~*~
By Friday afternoon, the McLaren garage was toxic.
Lando was enjoying his moment as WDC leader with the energy of someone who had never once considered being humble about anything. The rumors and whispers from the night before had put Oscar on edge anyway, which meant the combination was particularly lethal.
During a break between sessions, you were sitting at a table in the hospitality lounge when Oscar walked in to grab a drink.
Lando, leaning back in his chair, tracked his teammate across the room with the focused patience of a man who had been waiting for an excuse.
"You've been paying a lot of attention to my girlfriend lately, Piastri," Lando said, loud enough to carry.
It sounded like a joke. His eyes said otherwise.
Oscar didn't turn around from the drink fridge. He grabbed his bottle, closed the door with a click, and finally looked at Lando.
"Someone has to," Oscar replied.
Flat. Calm. Entirely unapologetic.
Lando's grip tightened around his water bottle until the plastic crunched. The realization hit him slow and then all at once — Oscar wasn't backing down anymore.
You looked at the table and said nothing.
Which was, frankly, the only reasonable response to that sentence.
~*~
Sunday night in São Paulo brought suffocating humidity and a club that seemed to exist specifically to make bad decisions feel inevitable.
Interlagos had delivered its usual chaos. The result had only amplified the shift.
Lando had won. Oscar had crossed the line in a frustrated, silent P5.
On the track, Lando was untouchable. In the club, he was acting like it.
He was in full party mode — surrounded by mechanics, influencers, and people whose names he'd forget by morning. Turning over shots. Eyes bright with that specific dangerous energy that meant he'd be impossible to manage and completely charming about it.
He wanted you there. He pulled you into his side by the waist, pressed open-mouthed kisses to your lips just to make sure the room registered the claim.
But Lando also wanted the noise. He was pulsing with adrenaline and high on victory, so five minutes after kissing you he was already leaning into a circle of gorgeous strangers, enjoying the attention with the enthusiasm of someone who absolutely deserved it and knew about it.
He loved you. Tonight, he also wanted a taste of everything São Paulo had to offer.
He'd earned it. Allegedly.
You stood a few feet back, leaning against the wall, holding a drink you shouldn't be touching at this point of the night.
"Congratulations on Lando's win," a voice said near your ear.
George Russell. Entirely composed, which made him a stark contrast to basically everyone else in the room.
"Thanks, George."
"He's in a good mood," George agreed, taking a sip of his drink. Then his tone shifted — softer, but laced with something careful. "Tell me something. Are he and Piastri going to kill each other before Abu Dhabi? The vibe in the paddock is worse than Mercedes in 2016."
Your stomach did a violent flip. "It's just track rivalry, George."
George let out a low, dry chuckle. His eyes drifted toward the darkest corner of the VIP area, where Oscar was sitting alone, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that was doing absolutely nothing for your blood pressure.
"I don't know, Y/N," George murmured. "Oscar looks like a man who lost the championship but won a consolation prize. And he hasn't taken his eyes off you all night."
You said nothing.
"The paddock is small and people talk. God knows Max doesn't shut up about it." He patted your shoulder. "Just be careful. Oscar isn't the type to play loud. But when he moves, he's precise. Don't let Lando get blinded by the champagne."
He melted back into the crowd, leaving you with a half-empty drink and a very full head.
You finished the drink. Left the VIP area. Went looking for somewhere to breathe.
The corridor leading to the private restrooms was dimly lit, the bass from the main room reduced to a dull vibration through the walls. You pressed your back against the cool tile and closed your eyes.
A shadow fell over you.
You opened them.
Oscar.
He didn't waste time. He stepped directly into your space, one hand braced against the wall beside your head, close enough that thinking became a courtesy you could no longer afford.
"Oscar, stop," you whispered, hands pressing against his chest. "Everybody is right outside, Lando is—"
"Busy," Oscar said. His eyes were dark. "You keep pretending like nothing's happening. Like you're happily in love with him."
"I am with him, Oscar—"
"You were under me in Mexico," he said fiercely. "You didn't look happily in love with him when you were saying my name."
Before you could argue, his mouth found yours.
Desperate. Hungry. The kind of kiss that had been building since Amsterdam and surviving on restraint alone.
You gasped into it, hands tangling in his shirt, your body doing that deeply inconvenient thing it always did around him — deciding on its own that this was exactly where you were supposed to be.
He groaned, pulling you closer.
Click.
The heavy door swung open.
You pushed Oscar's chest, breaking the kiss just as a shadow filled the doorway.
Lando.
Breathing slightly harder than usual. Eyes moving from your flushed face to Oscar, who hadn't stepped back — his frame still half-blocking you from view.
The silence in that corridor lasted approximately one thousand years.
Then Lando smiled. Slow. Sharp. The smile of someone who had just decided exactly how to play this.
"Oh, good," he said pleasantly. "My favourite Australian."
Oscar looked at him dead-on. "You say that like you know more than one."
Lando let out a laugh — dry, short, the humor disappearing the moment it arrived. He stepped forward until he and Oscar were inches apart, the air between them pulled taut.
Then he got around Oscar, reached past him, and wrapped a hand around your wrist — pulling you out from behind his teammate and into the space between them.
Both of them looking at you now. Different reasons. Same weight.
"You can't possibly think I don't know," Lando said to Oscar, voice dropping into something quiet and vicious, "about the extent of your relationship with my girlfriend."
Oscar's breath hitched.
A small crack in the composure. The first one.
The realization hit him fully — Lando knew. Had known, at least to some extent, this entire time. And you'd both let him walk through it blind.
Oscar felt the room tilt.
He had stripped himself raw, risked everything, spent months drowning in guilt — and both of you had been standing on solid ground the whole time.
Lando saw the moment the math landed. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping further.
"Guess we're not just fighting for points anymore," he murmured.
Oscar said nothing. For once, he had nothing.
"So maybe you want the whole room out there to know why our garage is falling apart?" Oscar said finally, the paddock and the championship and your silence crashing down on him all at once.
Nobody answered.
With one last look directed entirely at you — dark, unreadable, and absolutely not forgettable — Oscar pushed the door open and walked back into the club.
The silence he left behind was a different kind of loud.
Lando didn't drop your wrist immediately. He stood there, chest rising and falling, the adrenaline bleeding out and leaving only the complicated wreckage of what you two actually were.
He leaned his back against the wall. Looked down at you.
"Don't play him like this," you said, voice low. "Don't risk everything for an imaginary fight."
"He hates that you're mine," Lando replied.
"I'm not."
A faint, tired smile touched his lips. His grip on your wrist softened — thumb brushing your skin once before he let go.
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.
The sun may be up, but Oscar isn't letting you go just yet.
𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒚 𝒐𝒔𝒄
⊱ 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ⊰
The sun's soft glow of the early morning was spilling through the thin fabric of the curtains, painting a golden hue across the entire bedroom.
Everything felt quiet, snuggled in a peaceful silence before the rest of the world decides to wake up.
There was only a occasional sound of birds chirping to their own song ooutsid and the sleepy breathing against your neck that belonged to Oscar.
You slowly woke up, your eyes blinking to adjust to the sudden light intruding your sleep. For a minute, you decided to just lay there, enjoying the warmth around you.
You noticed how Oscar had somehow migrated during the night. One of his arms was lazily draped around the curve of your waist, his face tucked into your neck as if he decided in the middle of the night that you were the best pillow.
His hair was messy and tickled your chin with every breathe he took, his legs were entwined with yours in such way that escaping his grasp would be nearly impossible.
A smile formed on your lips as you glanced down at him, he looked ridiculously peaceful. He looked so different from the focused formula one driver everyone saw on race weekends
Here in your arms he was just Oscar. Sleepy, warm and surprisingly clingy Oscar
You absentmindedly ran your fingertips through his soft hair.
The action earned you a tiny hum of approval that made your heart melt.
"You awake?" you whispered softly against his hair, fingers still softly massaging his scalp.
"Mmm..."
Not exactly an answer.
You felt him nudge his nose against your pajama top before he let out the smallest sigh you had ever heard and snuggled even closer. You let out the softest laugh, "I think that's a yes."
Then another sleepy hum escaped him, "...No."
"You literally answered me.", your voice was full of admiration as you glanced down.
"No, I didn't." He continued to protest, his morning voice making you weak.
"You did."
"I dreamed it."
"So I'm also dreaming with that logic. Are we sharing a dream?"
"Mhm." he sighed against your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine but you couldn't help but grin. Morning Oscar was something else. Eventually, you glanced over at the bedside clock. It was already pretty late and one of you should probably have started making breakfast already.
Carefully, you tried sliding your arm out from underneath him. That was one big mistake. Before you eveven managed to move, Oscar's grasp around your waist tightened on instinct.
"Nuh-uh."
"I haven't even done anything." you let out a breathy whine, your hands flying up to his shoulders.
"You moved."
"I barely even shifted." your voice was laced with amusement as you watched him.
"You shifted with escape intentions." he kept coming up with excuses for his reasoning.
"I need the bathroom." You whined as you left gentle taps against his shoulder blades.
"No."
You stared down at the top of his head, "...Oscar."
"Mmm?"
"I physically have to get up." He responded by burying his face deeper into your chest.
"No." he kept on whining with a raspy voice.
"You can't hold me hostage." you tried your best to say with a stern voice but failed.
"I can."
"You absolutely cannot." you were completely amused by ohis tactics to keep you in bed with him.
"I believe in myself." A laugh escaped from your lips before you could stop yourself. "You are so unbelievable."
"I've been told, darling." His voice was so sleepy that every word blended together perfectly.
One again you tried, but this time you tried by gently pushing yourself upward.
Oscar let out the most dramatic little whine, "Mmmmmm..." It wasn't very loud. It wasn't actually even very coherent. It was just one long, raspy complaint.
His arms wrapped around you even tighter, "Five more minutes, please babyyy." You sighed at words, hearing it for the second time that morning, "You said that ten minutes ago."
"I did?"
"You did." you said with a little giggle in your tone.
"...Then another five."
"Oscar..." you tried protest but it was no use with him.
"Please." His voice was just too adorably raspy from sleeping. "So comfy."
"I know, but—"
"You smell nice."
"...That's your argument?" you raised your brows at his words, knowing he's using every tactic he can think of.
"Mhm."
"You realize flattery isn't going to stop time." you whispered against his hair again making him laugh.
"It might stop you." you said softly with a hopeful tone as he tilted his head up just enough to look up into your eyes.
He looked adorable with his hair sticking up in every possible direction and eyes barely even open. His cheeks still had those little lines indented into his skin from his pillow or maybe even your shirt.
He looked so ridiculously domestic.
And impossibly cute.
"I don't want you to go." He continued with his whining as his fingers slipped underneath your shirt and started tracing random figures on your stomach.
His fingers were ice cold against your skin, each touch making your stomach flip, "I'm not going anywhere."
"You were." his fingers stopped tracing and he looked back up at you.
"I was going to brush my teeth." tried your best to reason with the sleepy man, "You can do that later.", but he had something to say for everything.
"I don't think society would appreciate morning breath."
"I appreciate you staying here." Damn your heart for melting so easily at his words.
"You know," you whispered, your hand brushed through his messy hair again, "you're a lot clingier than people think."
"I'm not clingy." He immediately denied your words as if he's not almost completely on top of you, "You've practically fused yourself to me."
"I'm conserving warmth." he continued to defend himself.
"It's summer."
"...I'm emotionally conserving warmth." his voice of tone was a lot less confident with his answer.
You giggled so hard that the bed beneath you to slightly shook, but Oscar didn't find it amusing at all, a frown covering his lips ddramaticall, "You're laughing at my completely valid scientific explanation."
"Oh, absolutely." He only huffed at your response and snuggled his head back into your chest, "...Mean."
"I'm mean?" you looked down at him with a confused expression covering you face.
"Mhm."
"You won't let me leave the bed." It was your time to defend yourself.
"I love you." The words left his mouth so naturally, so casually as he whispered it into your shirt. You almost believed he didn't realize he said it, it made you freeze for a second before a big smile covered your lips. So big that it did hurt your cheeks, "I love you too." He immediately squeezed his arms around again, satisfied and content with you saying it back.
Also how to him those words were more than enough to convince him that there was no reason for either of you to move. Minutes kept passing one another quietly. You started to trace lazy circles over his bare back as he slowly drifted between being awake and being asleep.
Every few second or minute he pressed a soft little kids against your chest or neck without opening his sleepy eyes as if he was doing it instinctively.
Every kiss made your heart flutter. Eventually, you looked back toward the clock, "Okay."
"No." He immediately whined again against your chest.
"I haven't even said anything." you whispered yelled in a questioning tone.
"I know that tone."
"What tone?"
"The responsible tone." he said softly as a tiny pout lingered on his lips, making you giggle, "We really do need to get up."
Only silence followed.
"...Oscar?"
Haven gotten no response in return made you glance down at him, "...Did you really fall asleep again, baby?"
"...Maybe." he mumbled quietly.
"Oscar."
"Mhm?"
"I know you're awake." you shaked his shoulders a little.
"No proof." he hummed against your skin.
"You literally just answered me, you dummy."
"...Lucky guess." His response made you reach down and gently pinch his side and he let out the softest squeak before he looked up at you with slight mock betrayal, "You attacked me."
"I motivated you." You simply responded to him making him huff, "I'll remember this."
"You won't. You'll forget after i make you your favorite coffee." you gave him a teasing smile.
"I don't forget." he mumbled under his breath.
"You forgot where you put your phone yesterday." You tried to reason with him again but again, he has excuses for everything, "...That was different."
"It was in the fridge." you whispered yelled again, stunned by his logic.
"I had reasons!" Before he could continue you responded, "You absolutely did not."
He sighed and looked away from your gaze as he continued with his confusing logic, "I was...testing the cooling capabilities."
"For your phone?"
"Mhm."
You raised an eyebrow, "Sure."
Oscar tried his best to keep a straight face, but failed as a smile spread across his lips before he could stop it. A little laugh quickly followed after his smile, the sound was still rough and raspy from being tired.
You leaned down and left a gentle kiss on his forehead, "Come on, baby." And yet again he groaned dramatically, "Nooooo!!"
"Breakfast?"
"No."
"Coffee?"
"...Maybe." he raised his eyebrows, slightly getting interested in your offerings for getting up.
"Pancakes?"
One eye cracked open.
"...Chocolate chip?"
"If you actually get out of our bed." you said with a teasing voice. As you looked at him, you realized how he's considering the offer with overly exaggerated seriousness, "...Fine."
You smiled triumphantly, "I win."
"I never said you won." He immediately followed up.
"You surrendered." You said with a certain tone.
"I strategically retreated." he continued...
"You accepted pancakes." You proudly said.
"...The pancakes won."
And before you could have teased him again, he abruptly reached up and cupped your face with one of his hands and pulled you down into a slow, lingering kiss. The kids was messy and warm and wasn't rushed.
As he pulled away, he gently rested his forehead against yours.
"...Actually," he mumbled.
"What?" you asked curiously.
"...Five more minutes?"
You reluctantly laughed as you wrapped your arms around him once more, "Five minutes."
Oscar smiled triumphantly before immediately snuggling back into your chest, perfectly content.
"...Best decision you've made all morning."
"...We are absolutely going to be late because of you." you sighed into his hair.
"Worth it."
✨Thank youu✨
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