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hyperfixation-corner013 · 4 days ago

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P1 in World History - OP81

Oscar Piastri x Historian!Reader

summary: no one understands how Oscar suddenly dropped facts after facts on the most random historical events

based on this request (by my favorite ever)

liked by mclaren, redbullracing and 1,300,000 others

f1 🎥 Grill the Grid: High School Edition is HERE

Watch our drivers struggle with math problems, historical dates, and chemical reactions 👀

Spoiler alert: we had some surprises.

view all comments:

lando who gave oscar a cheat sheet? be honest

charles_leclerc I would like a rematch with no ancient greek questions please

yukitsunoda0511 I said “napoleon” for everything. Not my fault it worked twice.

mclaren We are also surprised. Very surprised.

redbullracing Gonna have to bring this up to the stewards 🙂‍↔️

fernandoalo_oficial finally, someone knows I was there when Caesar was stabbed

alex_albon me watching oscar answer every history and geography question with his arms crossed like he’s on who wants to be a millionaire😭

user bro oscar even corrected the quizmaster once. is he ok?

user oscar casually dropping historical facts like it’s not suspicious at all…

user i'm so glad they are f1 drivers and not doctors or something

user why did oscar answer all of that without blinking? i’m scared 💀

user nah bc that man answered “Battle of Waterloo” like it was a pop quiz at dinner. WHO ARE YOU 😩

user oscar's not real. he’s a government experiment gone rogue

user the way he SMIRKED when he got the Cold War question right?? sir who are you trying to impress 😭😭😭

user idk if i want to kiss oscar or force him to write my next essay

user charles i expected more from you

user no but Lando getting the math question was so sweet

user when max said “well technically…” I felt that in my bones.

> user he maxplained that whole video and still lost

> maxverstappen1 I want a rematch

Oscar Piastri just added to his Instagram Story

"Great read 👍"

liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername, mclaren and 757,000 others

SkySportsF1 🎤 Oscar Piastri revealed or us the secret behind all his world history knowledge:

“It just sort of happens when you date a historian. Everything becomes a lesson. She once paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism.”

View all comments:

user not me googling “how to become a historian”

user she paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism and he STAYED??? yeah he’s in love your honor

user no bc i’d explain imperialism mid-makeout if he asked 😭

user that household must be insufferable

user I too wanna monologue to Oscar during breakfast

user imagine pausing a movie to rant about colonialism and he looks at you like it’s the hottest thing ever? god i’m weak

user and he LISTENED??? he RECALLS the info??

user she taught him centuries of world history and what did he give her back? driving lessons?

user “everything becomes a lesson” sir that is the dream 😭 i want to analyze the French Revolution over dinner too

user this is what happens when you date a girl who annotates books and knows who Franz Ferdinand is

user i want what they have. and by that i mean him. and also her brain. pls.

lando so you’re telling me i lost to oscar in Grill the Grid bc his gf is smarter than everyone at McLaren combined?

> oscarpiastri: you lost because you said Napoleon invented the calendar > yourusername: to be fair… he did change the calendar. you were just off by a few emperors > lando: OH MY GOD SHE’S HERE I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T QUIZ ME

alex_albon oscarpiastri she paused a movie to explain colonialism and you didn’t RUN? bro you’re in deep

> oscarpiastri: i stayed. i took notes. there was a powerpoint. > yourusername: in my defense, it was really bad colonialism. like offensively inaccurate. > user: i am obsessed with the fact that she said “bad colonialism” like it’s a genre of film > user: alex is 100% pretending he gets this rn

georgerussell63 I want to add to the conversation that just 5 minutes ago during a chat this man casually cited the Meiji Restoration.

danielricciardo nah bc when she paused the movie he just sat there?? with his mouth shut?? couldn’t be me 💀

> yourusername he nodded. he asked questions. it was adorable. > danielricciardo stop you’re going to make the rest of us look bad

mclaren Confirmed: Oscar is now banned from date night and team trivia. Unfair advantage.

user WHY IS SHE SO CASUAL IN THE COMMENTS I’D DIE

> user she’s literally explaining history and being hot about it > user no bc she called it “bad colonialism” and suddenly I need a PhD >user someone make a TikTok of her best comments, we’re documenting greatness in real time

charles_leclerc If my girlfriend taught me history i’d listen too 🥺

> alexandrasaintmleux you can't even tell me who painted the Mona Lisa > charles_leclerc I said "history" 🙄

user do you think Ferrari can hire her to do something?

> user omg what would she even do there? > user anything is better than what they have ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, lando, mclaren and 2,400,000 others

oscarpiastri Turns out there are so many good museums in England Also I now know what mercantilism is now.

view all comments

lando i want her to quiz me

charles_leclerc I refuse to learn, but i’m proud of you

georgerussell63 do you think she tutors for fun?? asking for me

alex_albon you’re literally a walking historical source

danielricciardo please ask her to explain the entire French Revolution to me in meme format

maxverstappen1 you scare me but i respect it

user THEY ARE TOURING HISTORICAL LOCATIONS 🥹🥹🥹🥹

user i know he’s got a napoleon bobblehead

user dating a historian and surviving is proof he’s the chosen one

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, mclaren and 8,150 others

yourusername He said “teach me everything” and now he can name every Cold War proxy war. Proud of my little historian-in-training. Also yes, he scored higher than some of my students on the practice quiz.📚💋

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oscarpiastri Cold War was a vibe

georgerussell63 okay but she’s intimidating in a hot way

> oscarpiastri don’t call my girlfriend hot. LEAVE. > georgerussell63 it was a compliment 😅😅😅

charles_leclerc imagine being forced to learn at dinner 😔

lando can she explain the space race to me using memes and finger puppets

> oscarpiastri are you 2??

user “cold war was a vibe” i’m IN TEARS

user she’s not just teaching him history. she’s giving him range

user whatever taylor swift said about you know how to ball i know aristotle

user i would risk it all for her to yell about the ottoman empire in my kitchen

hattiepiastri just watched him explain the industrial revolution like it was a bedtime story

kimiantonelli who even knows what happened in 1848????

> user aren’t you supposed to be learning that in school?

user is this a kink thing?

user dating a historian sounds like a trap. a sexy, educational trap.

maxverstappen1 can you prepare me for the next grill the grid?

> yourusername sure thing!! > oscarpiastri NO

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1,450,000 others

mclaren Study season. Quiz night prep. We no longer know if this is for history or Hungary GP. 🧠🏁📚

view all comments

oscarpiastri she just asked me to rank my favorite Enlightenment philosophers. it’s 10pm. i said Kant and she said “incorrect.”

> yourusername it was a trick question. you were supposed to say “you, darling” > oscarpiastri i’m logging off before I get in trouble > user I NEED THEM TO ADOPT ME

lando does this mean i can’t cheat???

> oscarpiastri she said next time you cheat off me she’s quizzing you on Byzantine trade routes > lando nevermind i’m studying. i’m SCARED.

yourusername Quiz night winner gets free coffee. Loser gets a 20-minute lecture on the French Revolution.

> mclaren we are printing flashcards as we speak

alex_albon imagine prepping for Hungary and getting hit with “define the Treaty of Utrecht” over breakfast

> oscarpiastri: she did that. literally. it was before coffee.

charles_leclerc what’s happening? Why is everyone smarter now.

> georgerussell63 she’s infecting the grid with knowledge. we’re not safe > fernandoalo_oficial finally.

user this is the power of a woman who annotates books and kisses you mid-lecture

user can’t wait until one of them starts mixing up tire degradation with the fall of the Ottoman Empire

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hyperfixation-corner013 · 4 days ago

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warm pt. 2 | oscar piastri

part 1

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: it all goes downhill for you and your secret feelings towards oscar when he decides to hard launch his new girlfriend

fc: different girls from pinterest

a/n: the awaited part 2 🫶🏽 i hope you guys like it! <3

—

liked by gfusername, landonorris and others

oscarpiastri nice couple of days 🇸🇦

view all comments

username wow hold on

username he’s tan i repeat he’s taaaan

username not the hard launch at a random tuesday

username the gasp i gasped

charles_leclerc they grow up so fast 🥲

username why does this seem off?

username oh but they lowkey look cute

username this is not very polite cat of you

yourusername’s instagram stories

[caption 1: reconnecting with nature because what the fuck was that] [caption 2: 🎧🍃☀️]

liked by carlossainz55, gfusername and others

oscarpiastri hola miami 🌴

view all comments

username okay shakira

username he’s down bad

username noooo 😭😭

username posting her twice unprompted? i’m afraid he is

gfusername ❤️‍🔥

username i wish you all the luck in your new relationship 😊 (i’m not curling up in jealousy internally)

username i need to do unethical things to him

username in case you’re wondering in what stage i’m in i’m still in denial thanks for checking 👍🏽

yourusername’s instagram stories

[caption 1:📍f1 miami grand prix] [caption 2: 🐬🌴]

oscarpiastri’s instagram stories

[caption 1: imola🌅] [caption 2: 🍕]

liked by oscarpiastri, flavy.barla and others

yourusername ma è tutto più bello se lo vedi da qui 💗 (but it's all more beautiful if you see it from here)

view all comments

username my queennnn you were missed 🫶🏽

username glad to see you posting again!!

troyesivan polyglot icon ❤️

yourusername duolingo payed off

username bestie went through an identity crisis or what what’s going on omg

username she’s in imola let’s gooooo

username she was in miami as well 😭

username yeah but she didn’t post as usual just a few stories

oscarpiastri vero (true)

[oscarpiastri’s instagram stories] [yourusername’s instagram stories]

[caption 2: 🤪]

liked by f1wags and others

f1gossip oscar piastri was seen last night kissing his close friend y/n y/l/n at the spanish race after party

view all comments

username bestie i don’t think that’s his “close friend”

username omg what i thought he had a girlfriend???

username i think they might’ve broke up because they unfollowed each other after miami

username if you would’ve told me at the beginning of the year that oscar and y/n were a thing i would’ve NEVER believed you

username they didn’t give me that vibe AT ALL

username i ship them idc

username nooo they look so cute like they make sense with each other 🥹

username to be a fly on the wall on their group chat

username i need to know what the other guys think about this

username new it couple

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and others

oscarpiastri right where i wanna be

tagged yourusername

view all comments

username awwww delete this

username the little lego mclaren’s 🥹

username they couldn’t be anymore cute 🥰

username oscar learned how to hard launch and didn’t let it go

username they’re so cute i love them 🥺

nicolepiastri ❤️

username no shade to his ex but THIS makes sense

username what did the guys said about this i know is not my business but i need to know

landonorris we had no idea

carlossainz55 there was some shock and some yelling

username omg 😭😭

maxverstappen1 😊❤️

username why do i feel like max is two seconds away from killing them

charles_leclerc because he is

username haters gonna hate oscary/n you do you 🤪

yourusername finally 😋

maxverstappen1 don’t piss me off

yourusername i expected some maturity from you

maxverstappen1 you expected too much

charles_leclerc while we’re are it we need to have a conversation too

yourusername oops i dropped my phone at the bottom of the ocean sorry

oscarpiastri i guess haters really gonna hate huh

—

taglist; @mxm47max @stereading @angelluv16 @anayaverse @htpssgavi @aleatorio1234 @loveelylani @smiithys @mayax2o07 @wertyuizxcvbnm @hi26loveie @budgetcupid @lilypat @reesielive @justaf1girl @kissesandmartinis @landossainz @freyathehuntress @widow-cevans @multifan-idk @in-the-marina-trench @mellowtigerprince @leclerc16s @obxstiles

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hyperfixation-corner013 · 4 days ago

Text

warm | oscar piastri

part 2

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: when two members of the friend group get secretly together it all seems to be okay, but will they be able to keep their situation with no strings attached?

fc: different girls from pinterest

a/n: it’s still april 6 where i’m at so happy birthday oscar 🎉 enjoy my favorite trope in the world (star-crossed lovers) pt. 2 will be coming some time this week :)

—

liked by alex_albon, maxverstappen1 and others

yourusername party with the boysss 👯

view all comments

username hi icon

username i love her aesthetic

username prettiest girl

francisca.cgomes 😽

username how can you look at the drivers when she’s right THERE

username pick me vibes

username 😍😍

username she’s my best friend she just doesn’t know it yet

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc and others

oscarpiastri home sweet home 🇦🇺

view all comments

username your honor he’s EVERYWHERE

username nonchalant king

yourusername i think i might’ve seen you on a billboard but i’m not sure

oscarpiastri i’m sure you did

username their friendship is what i aspire to have

username good luck this season oscar!!

landonorris too much of this

oscarpiastri cry

username can’t escape him

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and others

yourusername obsessed with this place🥢

view all comments

username and i’m obsessed with you

username the face card killed me

lilymhe mother

yourusername 你是 (you are)

username y/n 😍😍😍

username the girlies best friend 💗💗

carlossainz55 you should move here

yourusername i’m hiding your ipad

troyesivan ate

yourusername 😎

yourusername’s instagram stories

[caption 1: 😋] [caption 2: 📍suzuka international circuit]

oscarpiastri’s instagram stories

[caption 1: 🥳]

liked by f1wags and others

f1gossip oscar piastri was seen yesterday after the japanese grand prix partying in company of an unknown girl

view all comments

username this is the first thing i saw when i woke up btw

username oh to be the unknown girl partying with oscar 😩

username the way he’s grabbing her you’d think they’ve been dating for a while

username why do these things don’t happen to ME

username these news had to be delivered to me more delicately 😔

username no babe i’m not okay oscar was kissing a random girl and it wasn’t me

username like jb would say, that should be me

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and others

yourusername 🌺

view all comments

username she won’t be at the triple header? 🥺

username i could’ve sworn she would since she was in japan :(

username it’s weird cause she said at the beginning of the year she was excited to go to bahrain and jeddah

username 🧐

username so so pretty 🥰

username noooo why is she back in monaco 😭

alexandrasaintmleux miss you 🤍 (liked by yourusername)

username it’s actually strange cause isn’t she in pr? she should be there

username the complete change in aesthetics is confusing me

maxverstappen1 come back the kids miss you

yourusername i’m actually chilling with jimmy, sassy, donut and nino pretty hard

maxverstappen1 :0

charles_leclerc miss us

yourusername or what

charles_leclerc i’ll revoke your leo privileges

yourusername alexandrasaintmleux this is abuse 😔

carlossainz55 i think you took the wrong flight btw

yourusername i think i’m good actually

landonorris i don’t like this joke anymore

yourusername 🤪

2K notes · View notes

hyperfixation-corner013 · 4 days ago

Text

love when a mother asks if they have ever done anything to hurt you. ma'am, you will literally never be ready to have this conversation

34K notes · View notes

hyperfixation-corner013 · 4 days ago

Text

teach me jealousy

════════════════════════

summary: You haven’t talked in weeks. But in one drunken night, in the dark heat of a club, jealousy does what silence couldn’t — it cracks everything open.

content: 18+ !! smut, jealousy-fueled club sex, emotional chaos, mutual pining, intoxicated decisions, possessive touches, messy history, miscommunication, physical memory, unresolved tension, soft heartbreak, guilt-laced intimacy

word count: 2,2 k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: i am kinda not sure if I like this but imagine how they are both kinda really drunk and yeah

teach me series

════════════════════════

You don’t even mean to look for him, you didn´t kow he was there in the first place.

You tell yourself it’s not about him. Just a party. Just a night out. Just something to forget the weight in your chest that’s been settling heavier since you stopped answering his messages.

But when you step inside — low lights, heat curling through the air like a second perfume — your eyes find him before your brain even registers it.

He’s across the room.

Sharp in black. Shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, hair pushed back. A drink in one hand. Other arm draped casually on the back of the velvet booth he’s sitting in.

You freeze mid-step.

Because he looks good. Unfairly good.

And worse than that — he looks happy. Loose-shouldered, easy-smiled, surrounded by noise and movement and women.

It’s been weeks. You haven’t seen him since the night you sent him that screenshot and final message. Not in person. Not like this.

He laughs at something someone says. The sound reaches you across the hum of music, low and familiar and cruelly fond.

You should look away.

You don’t.

Then like gravity his gaze slides over and lands on you.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

Just watches.

A single beat. Then two.

And suddenly it’s hard to breathe in your dress.

His eyes drag slowly over you. From your heels to your bare legs, the hem of your tiny black dress, the exposed line of your collarbone. He pauses at your mouth.

You see the change in his expression before he says a word. The flicker of something, heat, annoyance, want settling in the sharp line of his jaw.

He tilts his head.

You lift your chin. Don’t smile.

You don’t go to him.

Instead, you make your way to the bar, slow and deliberate, pretending not to feel the weight of his eyes tracking your every move.

You lean in, order something strong, laugh at something the bartender says even though you barely heard it. The drink hits your hand cold, the glass sweating in your grip.

A guy appears at your side.

Tall. Built. Confident. He clocks your outfit, your hair, your mouth and smiles like he’s already halfway inside your head.

You don’t even catch his name. Don’t care. He’s attractive in the way you need right now wide shoulders, cologne that clings, no idea who you are or who you’ve been wrapped up in lately.

You let him touch your waist.

Let him lean in close to say something low against your ear.

You even laugh — soft, indulgent — and tilt your face toward him like it’s natural.

But it’s not.

Because across the room, Oscar is still watching you. Still draped across that velvet booth, but now the set of his jaw is tighter, the smile gone. And you can´t shift your gaze from him either

There are girls around him, of course there are. One��s leaning in close, whispering something with her hand on his forearm. Her nails are red. Her laugh is fake. Her top is barely there.

And he lets her.

He turns toward her, gives her just enough attention to make your chest burn.

He doesn’t touch her at first.

But when your hand slides up the guy’s arm beside you, fingers curling just slightly around his bicep, Oscar’s fingers brush down the girl’s bare arm, casual, lazy.

Like a mirror.

You almost choke on your drink.

You should stop. Leave.

But you don’t.

The guy says something about dancing. You say sure.

You don’t look back as you let him lead you onto the dance floor, not until you’re swaying together under the haze of lights, his hands low on your hips, pulling you in too close.

And then, in the corner of your vision Oscar moves.

The girl from the booth is still clinging to his arm, lips glossy, cheeks flushed. She follows him out onto the dance floor like she belongs there.

You nearly laugh. Almost.

But you’re too busy letting the guy behind you settle his hands firmly at your waist, pulling you back into his chest as the bass pulses through the floor.

Your body moves without thinking, slow, deliberate, matching the beat. It’s a performance, mostly. Something you do for the burn of it, for the way Oscar’s eyes find you instantly even from across the crowd.

The other girl doesn’t wait.

She presses herself to Oscar’s front, grinding without shame, arms looping around his neck like she’s done it a hundred times before. Like she knows he won’t stop her.

But he doesn’t look at her.

Not really.

He looks at you.

Eyes locked, expression unreadable. Not smiling. Not playful. Just heat — sharp, hard, buried under a thin layer of restraint.

So you give him more to watch.

Your hips roll deeper, pressing back against the guy behind you, letting your body go loose and confident. His grip tightens, mouth brushing the shell of your ear like he’s about to say something filthy.

But you’re not listening.

Not to him.

Oscar’s hand slides down the other girl’s back, fingers splayed possessively at the curve of her hip. She tilts her head back, mouth parted like she’s already thinking about what happens after the music stops.

You feel the guy’s hand start to slide lower, grazing the top of your thigh.

You let it happen.

For a moment, it’s all silent war. A slow-burn standoff with no rules — only reactions.

And then the guy behind you grips your ass tight and sudden.

You flinch. A sharp intake of breath. Not fear but surprise.

Your body jerks before you can stop it, muscles going rigid, eyes still locked with Oscar.

He sees it.

His gaze flickers downward — just for a second — to where the guy’s hand is, to the way your body reacts.

And when his eyes lift back to yours, the air between you changes.

Like a crack in the tension, Oscar’s jaw clenches. His mouth twists, brows drawing together.

He turns to the girl in front of him. Says something low.

Pushes her back not harsh, but final.

Then he steps away.

You barely have time to react before he’s cutting across the dance floor, eyes storm-dark, zero hesitation in his stride.

You turn, just slightly, lips parting like you might say something.

But he doesn’t give you the chance.

He doesn’t stop walking.

Not when the guy behind you notices.

Not when you raise a brow like you might block him.

Not even when your breath catches at the look in his eyes — like a fuse burning straight to its end.

Oscar grabs your wrist.

Not roughly. But not gently, either.

It’s not a question. It’s an answer.

Final.

The guy sputters something behind you — a protest, confused.

You don’t hear it.

Oscar doesn’t say a word.

He just leads you — through the crowd, past the bar, down a hallway that smells like spilled drinks and something else. Until you’re pressed up against the inside of a bathroom stall and the lock clicks shut behind you.

“Fuck.”

“What the fuck was that?” he asks, voice low and ragged, the alcohol slurring just slightly at the edges.

You don’t answer.

He’s staring at you — hard. Unblinking. Like he’s trying to burn the question into your skin.

And you could speak. Could snap something back. Could explain or deflect or lie.

But instead — your eyes flicker to his lips.

Just once.

It’s all he needs to start kissing you.

Hard. Hungry. No hesitation, no buildup — just mouths colliding, hands pulling, teeth grazing lips that remember every touch.

You gasp against him. He swallows the sound.

“You’re pissed,” you breathe, breaking the kiss.

He bites your bottom lip, doesn’t deny it. “You let him touch you.”

“You let her grind all over you.”

“You looked like you liked it.”

“So did you.”

“You are drunk”

“You´re drunk”

Drunk on adrenaline, liquor, and something neither of you want to name.

He growls something under his breath unintelligible, full of want and lifts you onto the toilet tank with a controlled urgency that feels too familiar. Like second nature. Like muscle memory.

Your back hits the cold wall. Your thighs part without hesitation.

His mouth is still on yours when his hands move — already under your dress, rough palms skimming up your thighs like he’s starving for every inch of skin. One hand grips the back of your leg, lifts it, hikes your dress higher. The other slides between your thighs, fingers finding the soft heat of you like he already knew exactly where to go.

You gasp into him.

His fingers slip lower, slick already and the groan he lets out is low, sharp, almost pained.

“Fuck. You’re soaked.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

Two fingers slide inside you, deep, curling just right, dragging a broken whimper from your lips.

You squirm against the cold tile, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he fucks you with his hand, steady, filthy, deliberate. His thumb finds your clit and you jolt.

“Stop,” you breathe, voice cracking.

And he does.

Immediately.

His fingers still inside you. His eyes flick up, suddenly wide, a breath caught in his throat. His whole face softens like you just punched the air out of him. Hurt flickers there, fast and raw, under the drunk.

But you shake your head fast, desperate.

“No—” you murmur, voice thick, slurred. “Don’t stop.”

It’s not even a full thought. Just instinct. Want. The fear of losing that feeling, that closeness.

You crash into him, lips catching his, swallowing whatever apology he was about to give. Everything else guilt, confusion, second-guessing drowns in the pulse between your legs, in the way his hands fit around you like they never forgot how.

You tug him closer with both hands, fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, your hips rolling without shame against his hand. “Please. Just—don’t stop.”

The sorrow vanishes like smoke.

He kisses you again hard, messy, all teeth and tongue, and his fingers start moving again, fast, deep, obscene. You moan into his mouth, half-sobbing with it, your body arching into every motion like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Then suddenly he’s pulling away, muttering “fuck, fuck,” under his breath.

You hear the sharp metal flick of his zipper. The low hiss between his teeth as he frees himself.

And then he’s there.

Pressing in.

Thick. Hot. Bare.

You both gasp one ragged breath as he sinks inside you in one brutal, deep thrust.

Your head thunks back against the tile. You muffle a moan into his shoulder, breath caught sharp in your throat. His hand clamps over your mouth — not to silence you, but to feel you. The vibration of every cry. The tremble of every gasp.

Just to own it.

Your fingers grip anything — his shirt, his shoulders, his hair. You need something to hold you up, because your body is unraveling fast, melting around the thick, fast drive of him.

You’re both chasing something, control, release, each other.

His hips snap into you with ruthless rhythm. Not cruel, not careless. Just urgent. Focused. Intentional. New and different to before.

The kind of sex you don’t talk about later.

The kind that tastes like a dare.

His mouth finds your neck, biting just enough to leave proof.

Your body tightens, clenches down hard and his rhythm stutters.

“Fuck” he gasps. “So fucking tight. I missed this”

You’re already there, blinking through the blur as the orgasm tears through you. Your thighs shake, your fingers dig into his arms, your moan muffled against his palm as you pulse around him.

He groans like you just knocked the air out of him.

And then, he shudders.

One more thrust, deep and breaking, and he pulls out just in time thick, hot spurts of cum landing across your stomach as his forehead presses to yours like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

The air is dense with heat and silence.

His hands still grip your thighs.

Your heartbeat pounds like it wants out.

Neither of you speak.

He steps back, gaze dropping. Watching. His release smeared across your skin, glistening under the flickering bathroom light. A slow drip slipping toward your navel.

He just stands there chest heaving, expression unreadable like the weight of what just happened hits him too late.

You don’t ask if he’s okay.

You don’t ask what this means.

You grab a square of toilet paper and wipe yourself clean, careful and quiet. Careful not to meet his eyes. The ache already creeping into your chest like smoke under a door.

You straighten your dress, legs still unsteady beneath you.

Then you reach for the stall door.

And without looking back you leave.

You don’t wait to hear if he says your name.

Don’t wait for the guilt to settle in his throat.

You just leave.

Your heels click down the hallway like punctuation sharp, echoing, final. The bass of the music creeps back in like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just let him fuck the ache out of you in a public bathroom because you didn’t know what else to do with the way he looked at you.

You don’t go back to your friends.

You don’t go back to the bar.

You just leave the building.

Outside, the air hits you cold and too real. Your hands shake as you flag down a car, your body still sore in a way that feels too intimate for what this wasn’t.

And as you sit in the back seat, legs crossed tight, dress rumpled, perfume faded beneath sweat and memory, you close your eyes.

You don’t cry.

But you feel him in your skin.

Your breath still stutters like he’s kissing your neck.

And your thighs press together like you’re trying to hold in the parts of him he didn’t take with him when he let you walk away.

PREVIOUS PART - NEXT PART

v smol taglist

@sealife-for-life @notgirlsummerr @koalalafications @urmomsgirlfriend1 @wadupppp @elle-28 @saudianna @18lovers @kaworusgf @random-movie @lilasthoughtss

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hyperfixation-corner013 · 4 days ago

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no comment

summary: a professional outburst pushes emotions to the surface

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, emotionally repressed idiots, workplace setting, semi-public sex, praise, light angst, p in v, blowjob (m receiving), desk sex, unresolved tension resolved extremely thoroughly

word count: 3.3k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a´s masterlist

You’ve handled world champions before in other sports, numerous sponsor scandals, and a driver in F2 who once live-streamed himself getting a sunburn on purpose.

But nothing—nothing—has tested your limits like Oscar Piastri.

He’s polite. Unproblematic. Sharp as hell. But in the media pen, he’s… “Impossible,” you mutter under your breath, watching his latest interview wrap up.

You slam your laptop shut.

The motorhome is quiet. Too quiet. Except for the sound of your pacing footsteps and the faint hum of the paddock outside.

Oscar watches you from the couch. Still. Hands folded in his lap. Calm in that infuriating, unmoved way that makes you want to scream.

“This interview was supposed to be it,” you snap. “And now the social numbers are tanking, your quotes are dry as hell, the sponsors are—God, I can’t make you interesting if you won’t meet me halfway!”

Nothing. No reaction.

You throw your pen onto the table. “Say something.”

He shrugs. “You’re doing great.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment you snap.

“Fuck this,” you say, chest heaving. “Fuck this whole job. I’ll quit. I’ll change teams. I’ll go to Ferrari, to Williams, to Haas, I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore.”

He goes still.

His jaw tightens. His hands unclasp.

“What?” he asks. Quiet. But not as calm anymore.

“I said I’ll leave. Maybe they’ll appreciate me there. Maybe they’ll actually respond when I ask them to do something. Maybe they won’t just sit there like—”

“Don’t.”

It’s one word. But it cuts through the air like a crack of thunder.

You blink. “What?”

He stands. Slowly. Doesn’t look away.

“Don’t leave.”

You’ve seen Oscar after wins. After losses. After everything in between. But you’ve never seen him like this, his voice low and tight, eyes dark, shoulders stiff like he’s barely holding something in.

“What?” you ask again, sharper this time, like maybe you misheard him. Like maybe you imagined the crack in his voice. “What do you mean, don’t leave?”

He swallows but doesn’t move.

And something in you just snaps.

“I can’t work like this, Oscar,” you say, arms flying out. “This—whatever this is—isn’t sustainable. You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t give me feedback, you don’t smile unless someone crashes or you’re watching race highlights. You sit there like a statue while I try to promote you to the world, and I’m the one who has to spin it into ‘mysterious Aussie charm’ instead of just zero effort whatsoever.”

Still nothing.

“And I’m tired,” you say, voice catching. “Because I care. I care about how you come across. I care about my job. About how you’re perceived. And you… you make it really fucking hard.”

He finally speaks, quiet but unflinching. “I’m not good at this.”

You stare at him, breathing hard. “At what?”

“At saying things. At… at knowing what I’m allowed to say.” He exhales sharply, looks away, then back at you. “But I really enjoy being around you.”

You blink. “You what?”

“I enjoy being around you.”

There’s a beat.

And then you burst out—half laugh, half incredulous bark: “Have you considered telling your face that?! Or expressing that in literally any way that a human person might pick up on?”

“I thought I did.”

Your facial expression says it all.

He sees it—clearly. And something in his chest shifts. You notice the way he breathes deeper, chest rising a little too quickly, like his body is betraying what he’s trying to keep contained.

He takes a step forward.

You don’t move.

Maybe it’s stubbornness. Maybe it’s hope.

His voice is low when he says, “Maybe this will express it.”

And then he kisses you.

Not gently. Not like a testing-the-waters moment. It's a collision—urgent, unpracticed, like the truth finally breaking free after being kept behind his teeth for too long.

His hand grips the side of your jaw, thumb brushing just below your ear, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you right there. Like his mouth is the only part of him that knows how to speak properly.

You're startled at first—eyes wide, heart hammering—but you don’t pull away.

You lean into it.

Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, yanking him closer, like if he’s going to finally give you something real, he better do it right. He groans into your mouth, low and quiet, and it makes your knees threaten to give out.

The kiss doesn’t slow. It deepens. Like every clipped reply and unspoken thought between you is being rewritten—translated now, not in words, but with tongue and breath and too much feeling.

When you finally break for air, you're both breathless, staring at each other like you just stepped off a cliff.

Oscar is flushed. Chest rising and falling. Completely unguarded.

His hands haven’t left you. One still cups your jaw like he doesn’t know how to let go now that he finally allowed himself to touch. The other rests on your hip, thumb stroking unconsciously over the fabric of your shirt.

“I don’t want to stop,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and barely there.

The words don’t echo—they press. Press against your ribs. Your spine. Your throat.

The room suddenly feels smaller. The overhead light buzzes like background noise, but you only hear him. Only feel his breath brushing your cheek, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist like he’s waiting for a signal that it’s okay to keep going.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head spinning.

And then you’re kissing him again. Desperate. Messy. All of it too much and not enough.

He moves without thinking, turning both of you so his hips hit the edge of the desk. He drops back just enough to half-sit, one leg bent, the other bracing for balance as he pulls you with him. His thigh wedges between yours, firm and unyielding.

You gasp against his mouth at the contact. He breathes in sharply like he felt it too.

Your hands slide under his hoodie, fingers skating over warm skin. He shudders. not from cold, but from the shock of being touched like this, finally. Like someone wants him and isn’t afraid to show it.

He kisses down your neck now, less cautious, more needy. Your hips press forward, involuntarily grinding down on his thigh, and his breath stutters against your skin.

His hands slide down your back, anchoring you in place as your movements grow more heated. Every shift of your hips against him pulls a sound from deep in his throat—surprised, aroused, alive.

“You’re…” he breathes, eyes searching yours, “…so different from everything else in my life.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “So show me.”

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s not repressed at all.

You grind down once more on his thigh and his hands seize your hips like he’s drowning. His mouth breaks from yours with a gasp—sharp, almost shocked by how much he feels, how much he wants.

“I—” he starts, then stops. “I’ve thought about this.”

You blink, breathless. “Thought about what?”

“This,” he says, dragging his hands up your spine. “You. Me. Like this. But I didn’t think I’d ever get to…”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again—hard, needy—and he groans, sliding his hands further under your shirt like he’s memorizing you through touch. His palms are warm, almost reverent, but there's nothing slow now. Nothing shy.

He helps you up onto the desk in a stumble of limbs and quiet curses. The surface is cluttered—notes, a water bottle, a pair of team headsets—but neither of you cares. He shoves them aside with one arm, lifting you onto the edge like you weigh nothing.

You pull at his hoodie and he lifts it over his head, revealing a strip of toned skin that flushes beautifully as you look at him. He doesn’t hide. Doesn’t joke. Just watches you like this is the first time he’s let himself want something out loud.

Your hands find his skin—his chest, his stomach, the small notch of his hip—and he jerks slightly, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur, a half-smile breaking through the haze.

He kisses you again, and this time he presses his hips into yours, grinding the growing hardness in his jeans right against where you need him. You moan into his mouth, and he swears under his breath, voice raw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, lips brushing your neck.

“I want you,” you breathe. “All of you. Now.”

He exhales hard, like he’s holding back a wave. “Here?”

You nod. “Here.”

His hands slide beneath your waistband, thumbs hooking your underwear and pants in one smooth motion. He watches your face the whole time, like if you flinch, he’ll stop. But you don’t. You lift your hips for him. You want this just as much.

When you’re bare in front of him, his hands still on your thighs, he just stares for a moment—open, reverent, wrecked.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers.

You pull him in. He grinds against you again, and this time there’s no pretense left. Just friction and gasps and hands clutching desperately. He fumbles with his zipper, and you help, frantic with a kind of anticipation

You hop down from the desk with a fluid, determined motion that makes him blink—uncertain for just a breath.

“Wait, are you—” His voice is quiet. Almost unsure.

But then your hands go to his belt, and his mouth falls open.

You don’t say a word as you unbuckle it—slow, smooth, fingers confident. His eyes stay fixed on your hands like they’ve got gravity. Like he can’t believe this is really happening.

When the metal clinks softly, he sucks in a breath. His jeans slide down with ease. And when you press your palm against the hardness beneath his boxers, he gasps, shoulders tensing, eyes darkening.

“Shit,” he groans, the sound ripped from his throat.

You do it again, press a little firmer, fingers tracing the shape of him and he curses under his breath, hips twitching like he can’t help it. His hands grip the edge of the desk now, white-knuckled. He’s trying so hard to hold still, but his body betrays him, every small reaction magnified.

You look up at him, eyes soft. “You okay?”

He laughs, breathless. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

And you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pull them down, slow and deliberate.

He hisses in air when he’s finally bare, completely vulnerable in front of you now. All sharp cheekbones and flushed skin and need, so much need.

His hand brushes the side of your face—tentative, reverent. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” you cut in, meeting his eyes.

Because this isn’t just about arousal. It’s about all the ways he’s held himself back—emotionally, physically, all of it. And now you get to show him what it’s like to be wanted, deeply, openly, without fear.

He swallows hard, chest rising and falling like he’s still catching up to his own heartbeat.

He leans back against the desk, eyes locked on yours, chest rising unevenly. You’re on your knees before him now—not rushed, not teasing, but purposeful.

You wrap your hand around him first—gentle, steady, like you’re testing weight, warmth, size. He shudders visibly, a breath catching hard in his throat. He’s so quiet in most things, but now he’s unraveling with every exhale.

You stroke him once, slow. His hips twitch. He groans, barely audible and one hand reaches to tangle loosely in your hair.

“Fuck…” It slips out like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

You meet his eyes when you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. His head falls back against the wall behind the desk with a dull thud.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile and then close your mouth around him.

He jerks, cursing under his breath again, and tightens his fingers just slightly in your hair. Not pulling. Not guiding. Just holding on.

You move slow. Purposeful. Letting him feel the heat of your mouth, the glide of your tongue along the most sensitive part of him. You hollow your cheeks just slightly and he bucks forward without meaning to, immediately groaning like he’s ashamed of the sound.

“Shit—sorry—”

You hum, sending vibrations through him, and his whole body tenses. That shuts him up fast.

You settle into a rhythm, slow strokes of your mouth, your hand twisting at the base, every movement calculated to pull more sound out of him. His other hand joins the first, both now buried in your hair, thumbs brushing your temples like he’s grounding himself on you. On this. On the realness of it.

His thighs tremble. His abs clench. You glance up and he’s watching you now, jaw clenched so tight it’s almost painful. You pull back slowly, lips slick, and stroke him with your hand while meeting his eyes.

“You okay?” you ask, voice wrecked from the pace of your breathing.

He nods a little too fast. “Y-Yeah. Just—fuck, just don’t stop.”

So you don’t.

You take him in again, deeper this time. Slower. You let yourself feel it—his hands, his reactions, how his whole body seems to hover on the edge between restraint and collapse. His fingers twitch in your hair every time you moan around him. The tension builds so tight, you can almost taste it on him.

“I’m—” he chokes out, voice hoarse. “You have to stop. If you don’t stop I’m gonna—”

But you keep going. Not to tease. Not to push him too far. But because you want to see it. You want to be the one who makes him fall apart.

And when he finally does—when he comes with a broken moan, hips twitching, voice raw—it’s quiet, but devastating. His grip on you goes slack. His body shakes. He tries to catch his breath, but he can’t quite manage a full inhale until he’s leaned down, pulling you up into his arms and kissing you like he doesn’t know how else to say thank you.

His hands roam, memorizing every inch of you now that he’s tasted what it’s like to stop pretending.

He presses you back against the desk again and as your breath stutters, his fingers trail down, slipping beneath your waistband with ease—familiar now, and bolder.

The moment his fingers slide through your wetness, he groans against your mouth. “Fuck…” His voice is tight, low, wrecked by the combination of how ready you still are—and the sound of his name, soft and breathless, falling from your lips as you roll your hips into his hand.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your jaw, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that make your knees weak.

“Oscar—” it slips out without thought, part plea, part confession.

He shudders. You feel him twitch against your thigh, already getting hard again. The sound of your voice, the way you melt against his touch—it lights something primal in him, something he’s buried for so long under dry wit and carefully timed smiles.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he mutters, and kisses you again—this time slower, deeper. But his fingers don’t slow. They slide inside you, curling just right and when you gasp, he smiles against your mouth. “That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—panting into each other’s mouths, your hand slipping down to wrap around him again, feeling him throb under your touch. It’s all so close. So intense. And when he finally pulls his fingers away and lifts you onto the desk again, both of you already flushed and trembling you know exactly what’s coming next.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. No second-guessing, no quiet restraint just the press of his hands on your thighs, spreading you open on the desk again like he already knows what you need. Because he does. He’s memorized it in the way your voice trembles when you say his name, in the way your body arches for him with the barest touch.

Oscar lines himself up, still flushed and half-breathless from before, but hard again, impossibly so. The sight of you, slick and ready for him, has undone every ounce of control he ever thought he had.

His eyes meet yours, dark and glassy. “You sure?”

You nod, pulling him in with your legs. “Oscar. Please.”

He sinks into you slowly, not teasing, but savoring the stretch, the heat, the way your breath catches as he fills you. His jaw clenches. His hands tremble at your hips.

“God, you feel—” he can’t even finish. Just buries his face in your neck and groans as he starts to move.

The rhythm is different now. Less frantic, more deliberate. He thrusts into you with deep, rolling movements, like he wants to feel every inch, every flutter, every soft whimper you let out. One of his hands slides to your back, holding you steady, while the other finds yours—intertwining your fingers, grounding you to him like this is something sacred.

Your head falls back, and he kisses along your throat, murmuring your name like a vow.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he breathes.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, chests flush. “Maybe I already have.”

He thrusts harder, deeper, drawing out a cry from your lips. Your legs lock tighter around him and the desk shifts with the rhythm of your bodies. The risk of being overheard, the messy tangle of half-dressed limbs—it only heightens everything. It’s like the world shrunk down to this: you, him, and everything unsaid now being written into your skin with every movement.

Oscar’s breath stutters. “I’m close …”

You kiss him, biting at his lip just enough to make him groan. “Then let go.”

And he does. hips stuttering, breath ragged, holding you like he might break from how good it feels. But you follow seconds later, drawn into it by the rhythm of his body and the low, desperate way he moans your name as he comes.

This time, when you both collapse against each other, trembling and wrecked, there’s no fear in the silence. Only heat. Breath. The weight of something real settling between your ribs.

You’re both still breathless, your forehead pressed to his, skin hot and damp, laughter caught somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief. His arms are wrapped around you like he’s never letting go—and for a second, you don’t want him to.

Then you murmur, voice wrecked but playful, “Fuck… that’s the emotion I needed in an interview.”

Oscar huffs a laugh, still panting. “So what, you want me to repeat this in front of the media?”

You grin, eyes still closed, lips brushing his jaw. “Please do. Let’s see you emotionally climax mid-press conference.”

He snorts, finally pulling back to look at you—cheeks flushed, hair a mess, eyes lit with something between amusement and awe. “You realize that would be a PR disaster.”

You laugh, full and unguarded, letting your head drop to his shoulder. “Yeah. But honestly? It would finally be an good one.”

Oscar grins, his fingers tracing idle circles along your spine. “God. We’d both be out of a job by Monday.”

You kiss him once more—quick, sweet, still smiling. “Worth it.”

tag list

@mara1999 @random-movie

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hyperfixation-corner013 · 4 days ago

Text

🤗 i dont like this emoji. this is not a hug to me. this is someone doing condescending jazz hands in my general direction when i am in need of affection. not comforting.

🫂 i love this emoji. this is a hug. we are hugging and its nice. and as a special bonus they appear to be my old friends from the msn messenger logo? very comforting.

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hyperfixation-corner013 · 4 days ago

Text

keep it quiet

on the runway : Oscar Piastri x younger!fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : smuttt!! (fem receiving! oral, dirty talk, praise, p in v, overstimulation, semi public (house setting)), older Oscar (early 20s, unspecified) x younger reader ( 19, its legal, ok?), brothers best friend trope

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : You've been integrated into the piastri family since your brother pushed Oscar into the sandbox and proceeded to roll toy trucks over the short, mousey child's back. fast forward many, many years- they were still thick as thieves, with your brother being a mechanic in the McLaren garage and his co-parter in crime being one of the drivers; and you, were the lame "younger sister" tag-along who was co-existing with your brother and Oscar in his home for the summer, working your first corporate job, whilst they enjoyed their down-time from the season. But what happens when you notice Oscar has been staring at you like he’s seconds from ruining both of your lives. and when he finally snaps, he does it with a hand over your mouth, and a whispered promise that you’re not gonna make a single sound.

designer notes : Well its a cliché but its MY cliche and you all are gonna like it, wether you want to or not, cause in this household we go out like soldiers. anyway, kisses xx

The hallway creaks under your socked feet as you pad toward the bathroom. It’s early - not quite sunrise, not quite night. You’re still half-asleep, and you’re not expecting anyone else to be up, just needing to quickly use the restroom.

The door’s ajar. The light’s on. But your exhausted brain chalks it up that someone forgot to switch it off.

So, you push it open, carelessly, clumsily.

And there he is.

Oscar.

Steam clings to his back like the ghost of a shower - hot and recent, droplets slinking down the ripples of his muscles. A towel sits low on his hips, back dimpled arched into his skin, his hair dripping as he pats it dry with one hand. He’s facing the mirror but turns slightly at the sound of the door.

The moment stills.

His eyes drag up, then down. Not fast enough to play it off as polite. And not quick enough to play it off as surprise.

You freeze, fingers still on the doorknob, oversized sleep shirt clinging to the tops of your thighs. No bra. Nothing but your skin beneath it. You blink once. Twice.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks.

And that look says everything you’ve been ignoring for weeks.

Because this summer has been long. And weird.

You were only supposed to be here for a few weeks.

A favour, really. Your summer internship at a soulless corporate firm happened to be fifteen minutes from the Piastri house. Your parents were away. Hotel rates in Melbourne were offensive. Oscar’s mum offered the spare rooms to your brother and you. It made sense.

What didn’t make sense was how often Oscar looked at you like that.

He’d been your brother’s best friend for years - a little awkward, a little polite. He’d always been more of a fixture than a real presence in your life, just some scruffy-haired boy who showed up in holiday photos and ate too many Weet-Bix.

But he’s not a boy now. You barely noticed at first, how every summer he would rotate back into your life, slightly more tan, more muscular, more experienced.

You weren’t entirely sure if he noticed how you changed, that was until now. You couldn’t deny his attention. Not when he would stand in the doorway, every time you would come back from work, leaning against the archway of the foyer, silently watching in a hoodie as you would bend down to peel off your heels, eyes dragging down your legs. Not when his gaze would catch on the sliver of cleavage that you would reveal when you would sigh and unbutton your shirt two buttons too far, talking with his mum about the “terrible Australian heat” and how the “paper thin walls” did nothing to help.

He tries to hide it. He really does.

But his jaw clenches. His ears go red. His eyes flick down when you speak and don’t come back up for a while.

And you? You don’t help.

You ask him what he's doing for the rest of summer, act surprised when he tells you he's just training and laying low. You sit too close on the couch during race replays. You walk barefoot into the kitchen in those tiny sleep shorts like you don’t notice him staring at your ass.

He does stare. And you barely noticed the way his gaze would follow you. You thought it was fleeting curiosity.

But now you’re seeing it clearly.

Now you know.

His mouth parts slightly, but he still hasn’t said a word.

“I thought the bathroom was empty,” you say softly. You don’t step back.

He nods, turning back to the mirror, eyes flicking to the curve of your legs in the reflection. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

You hum. “No rush.”

You let the door close behind you, slow and deliberate, like you didn’t just catch your brother’s best friend halfway to being naked.

You don’t breathe until you’re back in your room. And when you crawl back under the sheets, you can’t help but wonder how long he’s been looking at you like that.

And how long it’ll take before he snaps.

The house is quiet. Midnight quiet.

You’re in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboard in one of your oversized t-shirts - except it isn’t oversized on you. It’s short. Thin. And Oscar, who walks in half-asleep and shirtless, seems to notice exactly how short it is.

He pauses in the doorway, blinking.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice still hoarse from dreaming.

“Needed something sweet.” you shrug, biting into a cupcake you found.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes dragging down your legs like gravity pulled them there.

“You always walk around like that?” he asks. It’s not teasing - it’s careful. Too careful.

You shrug, nonchalant. “Only when I’m not expecting company.”

A pause.

The fridge hums. You both pretend not to look at each other.

Then his voice drops, quiet. “Your internship going, okay?”

You nod and lick the icing off your fingers. You ignore the way his eyes follow your thumb, “Fine. Boring. Too much Excel. I’m not built for cubicles.”

Oscar smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You still wear those skirts?” he asks, and then immediately regrets it. You watch his face with an astonished grin, full flush before he adds, “The… business ones. With the-uh…”

“The pencil skirt?” you supply, sweet and smug.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. That one.”

You lean against the counter, inches away from him now, toe nudging his barefoot under the table. “You’ve been watching me leave for work every morning, haven’t you?”

Another pause. You can hear his swallow.

“I’m not blind,” he mutters.

You grin and tilt your head at him. “Didn’t say you were.”

The silence that follows is thick. You don’t say it. He doesn’t say it. But the air is heavy with everything that’s building - the looks, the casual touches, the stares you both pretend not to notice.

And then he shifts.

Moves just a bit too close. His hand grazes yours on the edge of the counter. Not enough to touch - just enough to feel the static.

You don’t move away.

You let it sit there - unspoken and burning.

“Night,” he finally says, pulling his hand back.

You nod. “Night, Oscar.”

He leaves, but you feel the heat of that moment long after the door clicks shut.

It’s barely been an hour since the kitchen, when you hear him.

Your bedroom’s dark. The blanket's kicked to your ankles, sleep long gone. You’ve been tossing for over an hour - wired, restless, rewinding every moment with him like it’s stuck in your teeth.

Then, footsteps. One pair. Slow. Hesitant.

They stop outside your door.

You hold your breath.

Seconds stretch out, long and heavy. You picture him just on the other side - maybe running a hand through his hair, maybe trying to talk himself down. Maybe thinking about how your legs looked when you leaned over the kitchen counter earlier. Maybe remembering every time, you would intentionally unbutton your shirt further when you could feel his eyes.

You wonder if he wants you to open the door.

You almost do, pushing off the duvet from your knees.

But then, a shift. A sigh. The footsteps fade.

Your heart thuds against your ribs. Not disappointment, exactly. But something just as sharp.

He walked away.

You smile in the dark. You don’t sleep. Not for a while.

It’s stupid how early you wake up. The sky’s still grey. Cold light spills across the hallway carpet as you pad into the kitchen, arms wrapped tight around your chest. You were going to sneak a mug of tea and go back to bed. Nurse the nerves that wouldn’t die down since last night.

You stop short when you see him.

Oscar’s already there, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, one hand cradling a mug, the other braced against the counter like he needs the support.

He doesn’t flinch when you enter. Doesn’t speak either.

“Sleep?” you ask softly.

A dry laugh, low in his throat. “Not a fucking second.”

You drift to the counter, standing beside him. There’re only a few inches between you - and too much unsaid.

You glance up. “You were outside my room last night.”

He stares down into his mug like it’ll answer for him. Swirling the steaming early grey in the cup contemplatively before he silently takes a sip and nods, gulping.

“Yeah.”

You lean against the fridge. “You were gonna knock.”

His jaw tenses. He barely looks, merely shifting his pupils to you, “I wanted to.”

Silence swells.

“I’m trying not to be the asshole here,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “You’re-nineteen. Your brother’s best friend. It’s just ...fucked.”

“But you keep looking at me like that,” you murmur.

Oscar finally turns. And that look - wide eyes, flushed cheeks, breath caught somewhere between restraint and regret - says everything he won’t say out loud.

You step in. He doesn’t move, but his eyes widen a fraction.

“You’re allowed to want things,” you say, palm flattening lightly over his chest. His heartbeat stutters under your touch.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, an internal struggle between wanting to look away and not being able to, his voice is shaky. Weak. “I really, really shouldn’t.”

You stretch up on your toes. “Then tell me to stop.”

You press your mouth to his.

He doesn’t stop you.

Instead, he groans appreciatively, thanking you for putting him out of his misery. Hands flying to your hips, dragging you in, clumsy and frantic like he’s been holding this back for weeks - months, since the minute you stepped into his house after a year. His mouth is hot, desperate, all tongue and teeth and finally. It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s all tension snapping at once.

His back hits the fridge.

You’re already pulling his hoodie off.

Oscar gasps, breaking the kiss just enough to whisper, “Your brother’s gonna kill me.”

“Then make it worth it,” you breathe.

The kitchen feels impossibly small for how close you and Oscar suddenly are. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the faint hum of the fridge - and the thundering of your heart pounding loud enough it feels like the whole house could hear.

His hands find your hips, steadying you as his mouth drops to your neck, lips warm and teeth grazing, leaving burning trails that make you shiver despite the cold tile beneath your feet.

“Quiet,” he hisses, breath hot and desperate. “Your brother’s like, three rooms away.”

You press a finger to his lips, smirking against the heat of his skin. “I’m not exactly known for my silence.”

He chuckles at that, shaking head, “Jesus you’re dangerous”

His hands slide beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the bare skin of your ribs, sending sparks of fire shooting through you. You clutch the edge of the counter, bracing yourself as his mouth finds the curve of your collarbone, teasing, sucking, biting just hard enough to make you gasp.

You try to keep quiet, pressing a hand to your mouth when the breathy noises escape, but it’s useless. His hand shoots up to cover it, a fierce look in his eyes.

"Shh. Don’t wake the house."

You nod, biting down hard on your lip as his mouth moves lower, tracing a slow, scorching path down your torso.

His hands slide under your shirt, palms skimming your thighs with reverent care. He pushes the hem up, up - and groans quietly when he sees you’re not wearing anything underneath.

You gasp softly, one hand flying to the counter to steady yourself.

"Oscar-"

"Quiet." He kisses your inner thigh, warm breath trailing behind. "You want me to stop?"

You shake your head, lips parted, heart in your throat.

His grip on your hips firms as he noses in, tongue flicking out in a soft, almost reverent lick up your centre. Your legs nearly buckle.

He doesn’t give you a chance to process. His mouth latches on properly - slow, controlled, like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.

His tongue moves with a precision that makes your toes curl, circling your clit in maddening spirals before dipping lower, teasing your entrance, groaning softly when you grind down into his face.

You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle the noises that threaten to spill, eyes squeezing shut. Every wet sound, every shaky breath, echoes in the kitchen.

"I said quiet," he growls, voice muffled between your thighs. " You want your brother to walk in and see what a mess you are for me?"

You whimper behind your palm and shake your head, your other hand finds his hair, fingers tugging, and he moans into your cunt - the vibration shooting sparks straight through your core.

He’s relentless. Eating you out like a man obsessed, like he’s been imagining this all summer. Which, judging by the way he’s groaning into you, he has.

"Taste so fucking sweet," he mumbles. "Could live here."

You try to pull away, too sensitive, too close, but he holds you there, nails biting into the flesh of your thighs. When you come, it’s sudden and overwhelming, your legs shaking, a soft, muffled cry escaping behind your palm.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re gasping, thighs twitching, and trying to push his head away with shaky fingers.

When he finally rises, lips and chin slick with you, he looks pleased. Ruined. Starving for more.

"So delicious," he whispers, biting his lip when you shudder at the feeling of his hands brushing against your stomach.

You yank him down by the collar of his hoodie, crashing your mouth to his in a kiss that tastes like want - salty and sweet, messy and mindless. You can’t get enough. Neither can he.

"Bedroom," you whisper against his mouth.

He lifts you with surprising ease, hands under your thighs, and your legs wrap around him instinctively as he carries you out of the kitchen like you weigh nothing.

The guest room door clicks shut behind you. The world is smaller now. Hotter. He presses you against the wood, hands roaming everywhere, not leaving an inch of you untouched,

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Walking around this house in those tiny little skirts, making me stare like some fucking perv.”

He drops you onto the bed, hands already dragging your shirt off completely, tossing it somewhere into the shadows.

You do the same to him - hoodie, shirt, boxers - until he’s bared, flushed, breathing hard.

He presses you into the mattress, kisses trailing down your neck as he settles between your legs.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Tell me this isn’t just some game to you.”

You cup his jaw, breath shaking. “I want this. I want you.”

His hand slides down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushes in slow - inch by agonizing inch - and your head falls back.

“Breathe through it. Just like that.” His mouth trails down your neck. “You're doing so good for me.”

You wrap your legs around him; knees hooked at his hips; he presses into you harder.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel-so fucking tight.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes back in harder, deeper. You cry out before slapping a hand to your mouth, “You feel that?” he asks, hips buried deep. “That’s what you’ve been teasing me for all summer.”

He coos as he barely shifts inside you and you dig your fingers into your cheek, saliva collecting behind your hand as tears prick at your eyes.

“Hold the pillow,” he growls. “Over your mouth. Now.”

You fumble blindly for it, pressing it to your face, muffling the sounds he’s tearing from you with each deep thrust.

His rhythm is slow, but brutal. He grinds into you at just the right angle every time, making your legs shake, your stomach twist.

“You like this,” he pants. “You like knowing your brother’s just down the hall while I’m fucking you full.”

You clench around him, and he curses, loud and ragged.

“Jesus. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He drops his forehead to yours, sweat dripping onto your chest. You’re both trembling, flushed, soaked in each other.

You feel yourself getting close again, body tightening, walls fluttering. He pauses briefly, flipping you over, “Hold onto the headboard,” he murmurs, voice low and thick. “You’re shaking too much.”

You swallow, and arch out to his hold, shuddering as his eyes devour you from behind. When he enters you again, barely just the tip, he has to bend over and plaster his chest to your back to muffle his sounds, you bite your lip fruitlessly, already moaning too loud for the quiet of the house outside these four walls.

He pushes fully inside you slow and deep, filling every inch with unquenchable hunger. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he sets a slow, deliberate rhythm.

His hand finds your jaw as he tilts your face upwards and his mouth finds yours again, tongue tangling, breath mingling.

“Not a sound,” he reminds, voice hoarse.

You nod, biting back moans as his pace deepens - slow, hard, relentless.

“Come for me,” he whispers. “Be good and let me feel it.”

You do - hard, fast, a white-hot flood that rips through you like a scream you can’t let out.

He follows with a guttural moan, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you, holding you tight against him like he never wants to let go.

You wiggle out from beneath him, laying your head on his shoulder, chests rising and falling together.

Oscar finally lifts his head, face wrecked, lips kiss-swollen.

"Your brother’s gonna fucking kill me."

You smile through the haze. “Then he’d better make it quick.”

The first thing you register is warmth - skin-on-skin heat beneath the sheets, the weight of an arm draped lazily across your waist, and the dull ache pulsing through your thighs like a secret only the two of you know.

Oscar shifts behind you, half-asleep but already pulling you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is slow and even, a little raspy, and it ghosts over your skin in lazy waves.

You smile into the pillow, muscles deliciously sore.

There’s a mark on your hip - his doing. A bruise on your collarbone - also his. You glance down at your thighs and feel yourself grin, smug and a little horrified, because there’s no way you’re walking to breakfast like you haven’t just been absolutely wrecked by your brother’s best friend.

Oscar groans softly behind you, nuzzling in. “Too early.”

“It’s ten,” you whisper, trying not to laugh.

He doesn’t open his eyes. “Feels earlier.”

“Feels like a crime scene,” you mumble, sitting up slowly, letting the duvet slide down. His eyes flick open at that, catching the sight of your bare back and shoulders before dragging up to your face - smug and sleepy all at once.

“Morning,” he says, voice scratchy, ruined.

You raise a brow. “You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

He grins, unrepentant. “You should be proud of me too. You didn’t exactly keep quiet.”

You roll your eyes. “You were literally covering my mouth for half of it.”

“Because you kept saying my name,” he replies, far too pleased. “Like-” he mimics your voice, low and whiny, “‘Oscar, oh my God, right there-’”

You shove him with a pillow before he can finish. “Shut up.”

He laughs, eyes bright and fond now as he rolls onto his back. The duvet slips low on his hips. You try not to look. Fail.

You sigh dramatically. “Well. If my brother didn’t hear us, I’m putting it down to divine intervention.”

Oscar stretches, arms over his head, muscles flexing just to show off. “Or he knows and is choosing to spare me.”

You look over your shoulder. “Unlikely. He finds out, you’re a dead man.”

Oscar doesn’t flinch. Just smirks.

“He finds out,” he says, voice low again, all smug confidence and affection wrapped in a morning haze, “it’ll still be worth it.”

You freeze. Look at him.

His smile fades to something softer. Realer.

“Wouldn’t take it back,” he adds quietly.

You bite the inside of your cheek, heart a little traitor in your chest.

“…Me neither.”

There’s a pause. You both know you should probably get dressed. You both don’t.

Then-

A voice, faint, from the hallway. Your brother.

“Oi! You up?”

Oscar’s eyes go wide. Your heart lurches.

You bolt upright. He grabs the sheet to cover himself, like that’ll help.

You scramble to the edge of the bed, whisper-yelling, “You need to leave. You need to leave now.”

Oscar’s laughing quietly as he fumbles for his hoodie. “Can I at least put on pants?”

“Only if you put them on fast.”

You toss his shirt at his head, giggling now, the two of you a mess of limbs and panic and tangled sheets. But even under all that chaos, there's something stupidly happy in your chest.

You don’t know what this is, not yet. But it’s not going away.

And if your brother’s about to kill him?

Well.

He’ll have to beat you to it.

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