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.”
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.”
“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.”
“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?”
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?”
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.
“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.
jbbartram-illu
origamiaround
romaincrisis
2087
dededos
