bibs

you give the crowd your practiced, polite smile, but your focus never leaves him. you know the second his attention lands on you, because his jawline hardens, and his breaths deepen, filling his chest until the muscles strain against the scarlet fabric of his shorts. he is coiled energy, but for that one, stolen moment, he is focused entirely on the sight of you.

the bell clangs for round eight. you step quickly outside the ropes as he launches himself forward, a hurricane of elbows and determination. the commentators yell something about his ‘unrelenting aggression’. you know the real source of the rush. oscar piastri moves like he needs to finish this, needs to prove something, and he always fights dirtier when you are there. he lands a punishing hook to the body—a brutal, beautiful strike—and the crowd erupts. his head snaps back towards you after the blow lands, and the sudden, cocky grin he flashes is purely for you. a silent, did you see that? followed by a slow, knowing wink that makes your stomach clench. you barely notice the crimson smear of blood on the opponent’s cheek.

you are supposed to be impartial, a professional. but you’ve watched him fight so many times, and the primal thrill of seeing him like this—all adrenaline and fury—is intoxicating. your gaze lingers on the damp strands of dark hair plastered to his forehead, on the sharp, powerful curve of his shoulder, the way his bicep bulges as he throws another combination. you wonder how many more rounds you’ll have to wait.

then, in the ninth round, it is over. a clean right cross, a stunning display of power. the opponent goes down like a sack of bricks. pande-fucking-monium. the referee jumps in, pulling oscar back. he barely registers the win; he is looking for you, his chest heaving, his mouth curved into that devastating, victorious half-smirk, demanding your attention before the chaos swallows him whole. you turn and walk towards the dressing rooms, leaving the roar of the arena behind you, knowing he will follow.

the lights in the corridor are dimmer than the arena, softer, but the tension between you burns brighter than anything outside. oscar stands in front of you, chest still rising from the fight, shoulders broad and flushed with heat. he hasn’t even taken his gloves off. he hasn’t needed to.

“you really ran off fast,” he says, voice low, almost amused. he takes a slow, deliberate step closer, crowding your space.

“i wasn’t running,” you reply, your hands come up to lightly press against the wall on either side of you, a futile anchor, though your back is already against the wall and his body is already far too close. “i was working.”

he hums, a dark, knowing sound. his eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue and adrenaline, drop to your mouth briefly. “you always say that. but i know when you’re avoiding me.”

“why would i avoid you?” you tilt your head slightly, a subtle challenge.

his mouth twitches into something lazy and dangerous. he leans in, his heat radiating off him like a furnace. “because you know exactly what i look like after i win.”

your breath catches. of course you know. the sweat, the heat, the curve of his grin, the bite of adrenaline still humming under his skin. he leans in until his shadow swallows yours.

“you shouldn’t look at me the way you do,” oscar murmurs. his voice is a low rumble directly next to your ear.

you raise a brow. you don’t flinch, holding his intense gaze. “and how exactly do i look at you?”

he exhales a laugh, soft and sinful. the man before you pulls back just enough to see your face. “like i’m the only thing in the room worth touching.”

you blink once, steady. your gaze doesn't waver. “because you are.”

that gets him.

oscar's expression darkens, softens, shifts into something focused. the kind of look he gets before landing a punch that knocks the air out of someone. only this time, you’re the one he aims for.

he lifts a gloved hand and taps your chin with the edge of it, the leather brushing your skin, tilting your face up. “say that again.”

“no.” you press your lips together, refusing.

“say it,” he repeats, a little rougher now. his thumb, heavy with the glove, remains against your chin, applying gentle pressure.

you smirk as your eyes sparkle with the dare. “make me. ”

he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, shaking his head slightly, like you’ve just challenged him to another round. “you really want trouble tonight, yeah?" he mutters under his breath.

you lift your hand and rest it casually on his heavily muscled shoulder, right where the heat is most intense. “i want you to stop talking like you haven’t been staring at me all evening.”

his jaw ticks. he shifts his weight, anchoring himself in front of you. “i always stare at you.”

“i know,” you say. “that’s why i walk slower around the ring.” you let your fingers drum lightly against his shoulder.

“tsk,” he drags his tongue over his bottom lip, eyes dropping to your mouth. “you enjoy winding me up.”

“well, someone has to. otherwise, you get too cocky.”

he steps closer until his chest brushes yours—the slight impact makes you suck in a sharp breath—not fully, just enough to make your pulse thrum. “i get cocky because you’re watching,” he whispers. “you know that.”

“oscar—,”

you don’t get the rest out.

he kisses you.

his gloved hand cups the side of your neck, his fingers firm beneath your jaw, pulling you fully against his heat. not rushed. not messy. not gentle, either. it is deliberate. focused. the same startling precision he uses in the ring, but tempered with a heat that coils slow and deep in your stomach. his mouth moves against yours like he’s tasting every moment he’s imagined this, every look you’ve thrown him, every time you’ve smirked from the ropes and walked away before he could touch you.

his lips press firm, confident, coaxing rather than taking. and my god, does he take his time. but his restraint is its own kind of hunger. he kisses you like he intends to memorise you, but like he’s seconds away from losing his patience entirely.

your hands slide up to his shoulders, your grip tightening on his damp shirt, pulling him in, and he groans into your mouth—a sound that vibrates straight through you. he deepens the kiss, tilting your head slightly with the edge of his glove, and the friction of contact is maddening. all heat, all tension, all unspoken things you’ve both been brewing for weeks.

when he finally pulls away, his breath is warm against your cheek. he doesn’t step back.

“you have no idea,” oscar mumbles quietly, his voice thick with effort, his eyes dark and dilated, “what you do to me.”

“mm, i think i do,” you whisper. your own breath is ragged, and your hand slides from his shoulder to curl against his hot neck.

his eyes drop to your lips again. he traces your bottom lip with his thumb, the roughness of the glove incongruous with the gentle touch. “you’re trouble.”

you drag a finger along the strap of his glove. you look down at the heavy leather covering his hand. “and you’re still wearing these. planning to keep me pinned?”

he grins, wicked and feral. he flexes his fingers slightly within the glove. “trust me. i don’t need the gloves for that.”

your pulse stutters. you can feel the rapid beat against his chest where you’re pressed against him.

“you’re arrogant.”

“you love it.”

“i tolerate it.” you lightly push against his chest, but it's an invitation, not a rejection.

he nudges your knee with his, a playful, possessive move, leaning in, voice dropping to a whisper that skims your throat. “ah. yet you kissed me back like you more than tolerated it.”

your fingers curl into his shirt. your nails lightly scratch the fabric over his ribs. “don’t get used to it.”

“too late,” he murmurs. he takes your hand from his shirt, raising it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to your wrist. “been thinking about it since the first time you walked that ring.”

your heart jumps, and he kisses you again. slower this time. deeper. oscar's gloved hand leaves your wrist and slides around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. like he’s sealing something between you.

when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in. his fingers flex possessively against your back, holding you close.

“come home with me,” he says, voice soft but certain. “not just tonight. after every match. every win. every loss. just you.”

and this—this is exactly the part of him the cameras never see. the way he gets after a win, all adrenaline and need, wanting you close, wanting your hands on him like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded. you’ve lost count of how many nights he comes home buzzing, wanting to prove himself all over again in private, wanting your hands on his skin like your touch is the victory he’s actually chasing. and truthfully, you’re no better. you want him the same way, greedy and breathless, wanting everyone to know he’s yours when the doors close. two hands on him, two hands on you, never letting go.

your stomach flips, warmth spreading through your chest.

“you asking,” you whisper, your fingers trail lightly over the perspiration dampening his hair, “or telling?”

he smiles, the kind that makes you weak. he pulls back and looks down at you, the triumph in his eyes is unmistakable. “whichever gets you to say yes.”

you kiss him once—quick, sure. a feather-light affirmation on his lips.

“yes.”

oscar grins like he’s won the world title and not just the match. he laces your fingers with his, the thick leather of his glove warm against your bare skin, tugging you gently.

“good,” he says. he squeezes your hand, a firm, grounding pressure. “i fight better when i know you’re coming home with me.”

— please do not copy , translate or repost any of my works anywhere.