kat

You’re one of those strong advocates for separating business and pleasure. You don’t get into discussions about the hottest drivers on the grid, don’t out all night drinking when the team celebrates. Don’t crush on your colleagues. That’s always been your rule.

Well. Maybe not always. You can vaguely remember some particularly messy nights out with the restaurant staff at your shitty minimum wage waitressing job. But, since you left hospitality, you’ve been strict with your rules, and especially since you started working at McLaren. McLaren has always been your dream job, so you’ve got no plans to mess that up any time soon.

When Hailey, a friend from school, started working at McLaren, you almost pretended not to know her. But then she’d managed to convince you that since you were on different teams—you being an engineer and her being a social media manager—it didn’t really count. Which is how you ended up here, two years into being best friends, sat out by the lake on a breezy September Friday, eating lunch and complaining about having to do your jobs.

“I think I have the hardest job in the world ever,” you sigh, stretching out on the wooden bench you and Hailey have claimed as your own, tilting your head backwards dramatically as you take a drag from your cigarette.

She doesn’t reply, just raises an eyebrow and takes a bite of her sandwich, waiting for you to continue, which she knows you will because she’s had to deal with years of this exact complaint.

“I do manual labour,” you continue, flexing a bicep. “It’s inhumane.”

She scoffs. “You do spreadsheets. Sometimes there’s a wrench in the room.”

You wave your cigarette around dramatically. “I’m so stressed, I’ve had to turn to smoking!”

She plucks it from your hand, takes a drag, then hands it back to you with an eyebrow raised.

You sit up and glare at her, offended. “Okay, like you’re one to talk. I’d love your job. You just scroll on TikTok all day.”

Hailey lets out a strangled gasp, loud enough to make a few approaching ducks scatter away. “How dare you,” she says, wiping her hands on a stray napkin. “You wouldn’t last an hour scrolling on the McLaren TikTok feed.”

“You talk like you’re traumatised or something.”

“I am!” She exclaims, throwing her hands out, nearly losing half her sandwich to the lake. “There’s some scary stuff on there. Stuff that has to live in my brain forever.”

You laugh and shake your head, cracking open the can of coke you’ve been thinking about all day. Whilst you’re distracted by that, she leans across and plucks your phone from your lap, fingers quickly moving to open TikTok. You should probably make a note to change your password, which she has clearly memorised. A few taps later, she thrusts your phone back towards you, now logged into the McLaren official account.

“Before you go to bed tonight,” she says, leaning back against the bench, “scroll on the for you page for an hour. Just one hour, then you can come back to me and admit you were wrong.”

You laugh again. “So you’re giving me homework now? To prove your point?”

“Do it, and you won’t be laughing tomorrow, I promise you.”

She goes back to her sandwich, grumbling under her breath about ‘edits that haunt her dreams’, and you finish your lunch still giggling, and completely unconvinced that her job could possibly be that haunting.

That night, before you fall asleep, you do exactly as you were told; you snuggle into your blankets, roll onto your side, and open up TikTok. You manage to scroll through a few normal videos—interview clips, race wins, promotional content from other teams—before you come across your first thirst edit, a shot of Charles Leclerc shirtless in an ice bath. You scroll past it quickly, beginning to understand what Hailey might have been talking about.

Thankfully, there’s not too many after that, and you become pretty good at predicting which videos are about to turn into sexy shots and skip them before they have the chance to. Approaching the thirty-minute mark, you let out a yawn, feeling your eyes flutter closed, and somewhere in between clips of Liam Lawson and Isack Hajdar, you find yourself nodding off.

When you wake up the next morning, it takes you a little while to realise what happened. You fell asleep, of course, with your phone still open. Now, it repeats a song you don’t quite recognise, the singer’s voice low and dreamy as she pulls you from sleep.

Your hand skims across the bed, searching for where your phone has ended up. When you find it, wedged under your pillow, you try to focus on the video, blinking sleep from your eyes. The video plays once.

Then twice.

Then a third time.

The fourth time, something clicks inside your groggy morning brain, and you realise what exactly you’re sat watching, and you’re hit by a wave of horror. It’s quick cuts of Oscar Piastri, then slow zooms, shots of his hands as he takes his gloves off, his fireproofs clinging to him as he’s sprayed with champagne, his fingers tapping idly on his leg in an interview.

You shriek and throw your phone against the bed like it’s the problem and not the entire internet and everyone who’s ever used it.  You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and rub, hard, in a pathetic attempt to scrub your mind of what you just watched.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. You didn’t see anything. You didn’t watch a TikTok thirst edit of your colleague, Oscar Piastri.

And you definitely, definitely did not enjoy it.

Over the weekend, you do not think about that video. For more than, like, an hour.

Maybe two.

You think you’re maybe being a bit normal about it, when a text pings through from Hailey, and your brain is suddenly back on Oscar’s hands.

‘Ready to eat your words yet?’

You’re pretty sure you’re ready to eat a car, or something.

You type out your reply straight away. ‘You are our strongest soldier. I’m so sorry.’

She doesn’t respond to that, just laugh reacts to it, and clearly reads your mind that you’ve been through some deep trauma already and definitely don’t need her to rub her win in your face.

And that’s exactly why you two are friends.

After that interaction, it feels like the video starts to loop in your brain again. But then you distract yourself, starting with an ice-cold shower and ending with a deep clean of your flat, followed by a major session of online shopping while on FaceTime with your sister.

By the time Monday rolls around, the video has completely erased itself from your mind.

Clearly the universe is on your side in this situation, because you then don’t see Oscar all week. Of course, it could also have something to do with the fact that it’s a race week, and he flies out several days before you do, choosing to sleep in your own bed as often as possible.

Either way, you keep your head down, focusing on your work, and the video doesn’t cross your mind again.

Until Friday morning, when you’re in the paddock, in a blisteringly hot country, where the humid air makes you feel disgusting and sticky even just sitting still. You thought you’d be productive, getting in early enough that you can fire off a series of reports before your manager chases you about them, and you are, for about an hour. You’ve got your headphones on, fingers flying against the keyboard, pausing only to sip your overpriced iced coffee. You’re feeling pretty good, despite the sweatiness.

You don’t realise there’s anyone else in the room, until Hailey is pulling out your headphones, a sharp shriek escaping you. She laughs, handing your headphones back to you.

“Damn, girl. You’re locked in.”

You nod, gesturing to the file open on your laptop. “You know how people get about reports on race weekends. Thought I’d get everything out the way first thing while it’s quiet in here.”

“Totally,” she replies, gesturing to the empty room. “That’s why I’m here too. Do you mind if we do some quick filming, or do you need it silent in here?”

You frown, blinking at her, the bright fluorescent lights above you making you squint a little. “Film? Like, me?”

She barks out a laugh. “No, stupid. I’m getting some clips of Oscar for the socials.”

“Oh,” you say, a little bit too quickly, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, that’s fine. That’s okay, I can work with noise.”

You absolutely cannot work with noise. Or, at least not with this noise. This presence, which you could feel even if you weren’t looking.

But you are looking. In fact, fifteen minutes later, when you’re meant to be finishing off a graph, you’re outright staring at Oscar’s every move. The camera is angled on him as he circles the car, and you’re so transfixed you forget you’re even mean to be pretending to type. He’s just holding the wheel, but your eyes trace the length of his forearm, and the way the muscle there shifts every time he changes his grip.

There’s a thin line of sweat at the bend of his elbow, glinting under the harsh light, and when he pushes the wheel slightly forward you can see the veins rise under the smooth tan of his arm.

As he talks, you realise you’re following the movement of his lips, but not actually registering anything he says to Hailey.

You try to go back to your work, but you quickly catch yourself staring again, at his hands, as he turns the steering wheel. He runs a finger along its curved edge, voice steady as he continues to explain the purpose of the various different buttons and switches littered across the wheel. You sip your coffee, trying to regain your focus, but the ice in it has melted and gone watery in the time you’ve been staring. Before you can get yourself in a bad mood over the coffee, Hailey’s voice cuts through the air.

“What do you think? Should we cut that bit down for TikTok?” she asks, looking at you expectantly.

You freeze mid-sip, realising you’ve missed the entire question. “Uh… What? Sorry?”

If Hailey notices why you’re so distracted, she doesn’t say anything, instead sighing dramatically, and turning back to Oscar, muttering something about you having your head stuck in your laptop. You feel your face heat even more, and you finally drag your eyes back to your work, spending the rest of the day hidden behind the screen.

By Saturday, you’re actually grateful for how busy you are, running numbers and sending emails until the icons on your screen blur together as one, because it means your brain has precisely zero free seconds to wander to the topic of Oscar Piastri’s infuriatingly hot self.

Even when you see him briefly after qualifying, helmet under his arm and hair damp and curling against his forehead, there’s only time for him to flash you a grin and ask how your day’s going.

And you, determined not to let your brain win, to reply with a vague mumble of something that might be polite if said with a smile, but definitely feels a bit harsh when paired with the straight expression on your face.

“I’m busy, sorry.”

He shrugs at you, then disappears off into the crowd behind him.

That evening, after you’ve showered and changed out of the McLaren branded clothes you’ve been sweating in all day, you decide you actually deserve a glass of rosé for all the hard work you’ve done.

You find a quiet corner of the hotel bar and settle yourself into a booth. Apparently, in this moment, the universe decides you’ve had enough peace, because you’re halfway through your first sip when the seat next to you shifts, and Oscar drops into it completely uninvited.

“I was just going to take this upstairs,” you say quickly, hoping that he’ll take the hint and leave you alone.

Either he doesn’t get what you’re saying, or he chooses to ignore it. “That’s alright,” he says, setting his beer on the table. “You can get another one to take upstairs after you’ve had this one with me.”

You try to think of another way to excuse yourself, but you come up with nothing. So, you decide that one drink with Oscar Piastri might not be the worst possible way to end your day.

“Should you be drinking?” you ask, pointing to his pint, an eyebrow raised.

“A bit of beer has never killed anyone.”

“I’m actually pretty sure beer has definitely killed at least one person.” You shoot back.

“Okay, a beer has never killed me.” He says, clinking his glass against yours before taking another sip.

Though it hurts to admit it, you have quite a bit of fun chatting to Oscar. He’s easy to talk to in a way you didn’t expect, slipping in comments that make you choke on your wine because they’re bold enough to catch you off guard but not quite enough to mean anything.

When you finish your wine, you’re no longer completely desperate to escape, but you excuse yourself nonetheless.

You plan to go out for a quick cigarette. You don’t plan for Oscar to follow you, which he does.

You step out into the evening air, the light breeze a sharp contrast to the unrelenting heat of the day. You shiver a little, not dressed for cool weather at all.

You pull a cigarette from the pack in your pocket and hold it between your lips as you root around for your lighter, a shitty neon green Bic that barely works on the best of days. You side eye Oscar a little as you do this, because what’s he about to do, stand and watch you have a smoke break before bed?

You can’t fully contain your shock, when Oscar shuffles around in his pockets for a second, before pulling out a pouch of tobacco and a crumpled stack of rolling papers.

You stare at him, lips parted in a gasp.

And there they are again—his hands, quick and precise, rolling the paper and tobacco without thought.

“Those are bad for you, you know?” he says, as you struggle with your lighter, a pathetic spark against the cool evening breeze.

You raise an eyebrow and nod towards the neat roll between his fingers. “I’m an engineer. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a driver,” he replies, before plucking the lighter from your hand and proceeding to light his own cigarette. He takes a drag, leaving his eyes on yours as he does.

When this makes you roll your eyes, he leans in close, letting smoke curl between you, and angles the burning tip towards your mouth.

Your pulse catches for a second, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face as you inhale, lighting your cigarette against his.

Suddenly you’re grateful for the breeze against your now-flushed skin.

The next day is, again, mercilessly hot, in that way that settles on your skin and refuses to shift, no matter how much water you drink or how many times you wipe sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. You’re completely exhausted before the race has even started, but somehow Oscar looks cool as a cucumber as he gets into his race gear, laser focused on the task ahead of him.

You almost forget how to stand when he offers you a water bottle, like he’s noticed how much you need it. Like he’s been paying attention to you.

You take it, fingers brushing against his, and it’s ridiculous and a little bit embarrassing, the way your stomach ties itself in knots over such a tiny sliver of contact. He smirks, ever so slightly, like maybe he noticed, and maybe he’s going to make a comment. When he says, quietly, just loud enough for you to hear it over the roar of business around you, “Careful, wouldn’t want you passing out on me,” you’re not sure if you want to roll your eyes or bury yourself alive. Maybe both.

Later, when Lando stands on the top step of the podium, and Oscar stands next to him in second, spraying him with champagne, you try to pretend you’re not disappointed. A win for McLaren is what you should be rooting for, no matter the driver. And you’ve never picked favourites before, so why now?

Everyone piles out the door together, mutters of club names spreading through the crowd like wildfire, people continuing to cheer for Lando and pat him on the back as they pass him.

You plan to slip away quietly, and head back to the hotel, letting the whole team celebrate without you. The parties, the drama, they’re not really your scene.

You’re not expecting to arrive back at the hotel at the same time as Oscar, and you’re certainly not expecting him to convince you to stay with him for a drink again. But he does.

“Hey,” he says, as he catches up to you with ease, walking through the grand main entrance to the hotel.

“Why aren’t you out with the rest of the team?” you ask, a mix of genuine curiosity and frustration that your plan to sit alone has been crashed.

“I could ask you the same question.” He replies.

“I don’t really feel like celebrating tonight,” you say, hoping that’s enough of an answer to make him back off.

 He tilts his head towards the bar, soft light glinting off empty glasses stacked behind it, and lets a glimmer of something shine through his voice, when he says, “Me neither. Why don’t we drown our sorrows together?”

And even though all the sane parts of your body are screaming at you to remember your rules, your only set of rules, the part of you that’s warm and fuzzy when Oscar looks at you like that takes over, and replies, “Why not?” and lets him lead you to a table in the corner of the room.

He pulls your chair out for you, like a complete gentleman, then returns from the bar with a bottle of champagne.

“This feels like a celebration, not a pity party,” you say, eyeing up the bottle. That thing definitely came with a hefty price tag.

“Well,” he replies. “I still got second place.”

You laugh, and let him pour you a glass. Which becomes two glasses, then three, because he’s making you giggle, then blush, and way his fingertips brush against yours on the table makes you want to stay sat with him forever.

But you manage to convince yourself to stand up when the bottle is done. Owing to the huge bowl of pasta you wolfed down at the paddock, you’re not drunk. If you were, you might have suggested a second bottle. Instead, you tell Oscar you should head to bed.

He doesn’t stop you. In fact, he agrees that it’s been a long day, and he should probably head off too.

So that’s how you end up in the lift together, unbearably aware of just how small the space is, surrounded by the sound of Oscar’s breath, and the feeling of him right next to you, arm brushing against yours as he pushes the close door button.

The seconds stretch out, daring you to move, to do anything. By the time the button dings softly at floor 3, you’re desperate to get out.

“This is my floor,” you say, without turning to look at him. He doesn’t reply.

The doors open, and a part of you hopes there will be someone stood on the other side, to force the two of you apart, and shatter the building tension between you. When there isn’t, and all you’re greeted with is an empty hallway, you swallow hard and step out.

You don’t turn back, but you wait for the doors to close, for the knowledge that he’s gone and you can breathe again. A light thud tells you they have closed, and you’re about to walk away, when they open again, and Oscar’s hand is on yours, pulling you back to him.

He presses you against the wall, foreheads touching, and his breath is hot against your mouth when he mutters, “tell me you don’t want this.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t move. You barely even breathe. And it’s the answer he’s been waiting for, because then his lips are crashing against yours, in one messy, breathless movement.

Oscar’s tongue licks into your mouth, exploring freely as the lift doors close behind you. He tastes like champagne, and you almost laugh when he grinds his hips against yours, because how can somebody who was so restrained thirty seconds ago be so impatient now?

A soft ding tells you you’re at Oscar’s floor. He breaks away from the kiss first, but leaves his body pressed against you, lips brushing across yours as he parts them to breathe. His doe-eyes meet yours, and there’s something softer about them now, more pleading, like the teasing façade of the past few days has crumbled to the ground, leaving just raw, desperate want.

Something shifts, as the doors open, because suddenly this is real and you’re not just kissing in the lift like drunk teenagers, you’re letting Oscar snake his arm around your waist—grip firm like he’s done this a thousand times before—and guide you down the hall to his bedroom.

When he removes his hand from your waist to fumble for his room key, you actually feel yourself lean into him with a gasp, chasing the skin-to-skin contact. He notices, and his hands are back on you the second the door is open, settling right at the bottom of your McLaren shirt, which has started to rise up, revealing a strip of bare skin. You shudder slightly as his fingers brush against you, thumbs digging into the soft, exposed flesh.

His teeth graze your lips, then his tongue follows, pressing his mouth against yours again, in a wet, pleading kiss.

He pulls you backwards into his room, flush against him as he walks. Your eyes are closed, tongue memorising the shape of his mouth, as he guides you both straight across his room. You feel him kick his shoes off somewhere around the middle of the room, and you copy him, grateful you’re wearing a pair that slip off without tripping you over.

The back of Oscar’s knees hit the bed, and he sinks down onto it, pulling you forwards still so you’re straddling him fully. His hands grab your ass, adjusting you in his lap, and you finally break apart, giggling as he puts you where he wants you.

One of your hands holds his waist, and the other steadies you, soft against the back of his neck. You study his face, a grin tugging at his lips as he looks back at you.

His lips are flushed and wet from kissing you, and his eyes glassy with that same concentrated desperation you saw earlier. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss to its centre. Your other hand still cupped around the back of his neck, you tighten your grip on him as you shift in his lap, ass pressing against his now fully erect cock.

He exhales sharply, and digs his fingers into your side, but doesn’t stop you, as you begin to grind against him. There’s too many layers between the two of you, the friction not quite enough, but you continue to tease him with the pressure, chasing another sharp gasp with each movement.

Your movements continuing, Oscar tugs at the hem of your shirt. You pause to let him pull it over your head. He doesn’t waste any time, removing your bra straight away, and then his mouth is on your tit like he needs it to survive.

He grazes his teeth along the sensitive skin, humming in pleasure when you groan into his neck. His hand works your other breast, fingernails scraping against you softly before rolling your nipple between two fingers.

Then it’s your turn to grab at his shirt, hands sliding up underneath it, thumbs tracing the soft definition of abs you find there. He’s surprisingly solid, you think, despite how skinny he looks.

You feel his thigh muscles flex through his trousers, and it’s almost embarrassing how insane it makes you feel.

After you pull his shirt over his head, Oscar’s hair is a little ruffled. You throw his shirt to one side and kiss him again, softly.

The kiss doesn’t last long though, because you shift just a bit too hard, and Oscar grunts out a moan, lifting you to your feet.

Before you can fully register what’s happening, he flips you round, so he’s in front of you, and you’re stood facing him, back to the bed.

He pulls your trousers down, pushing you down onto the bed when he’s got them past your ass. When your trousers are gone, he hooks a finger around the edge of your panties, and you lift your hips just enough to allow him to pull them down your legs. He buries his face into your neck, planting a wet kiss at its base, then sucking so hard you’re sure there will be a mark tomorrow.

His hand falls to your pussy, and he inhales sharply, fingers dipping into soft wetness. He drags a slow circle against your clit—the movement devastatingly soft, the friction not quite enough. You move against him, a quiet whimper escaping your lips, and he pulls his fingers away. He brings them to his mouth, and sucks, eyes falling shut as he tastes you on his skin.

When he’s licked his fingers clean, he drops them back down to your core, thumb circling your clit roughly. You drop your head to his shoulder and let your teeth sink into the bare skin. When he chokes out a moan, you bite harder, which makes him press his hips forward, into you. The outline of his cock—now fully erect, hits you, and the sheer size of it sends a shiver through you.

“If I’d known—” Oscar says, slipping one finger into you and relishing in the gasp it forces from your lips, “If I’d known you wanted it too, I would’ve had you like this months ago.”

You want to reply, tell him he can have you like this whenever he wants, wherever he wants, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on anything other than him inside of you, and how badly you’re aching for more. So, you nip his ear between your teeth, and grind into him, the palm of his hand brushing your clit deliciously.

He seems to understand your silent demand, because he slips a second finger in, eyes locked on your face, ready to watch the way your head rolls back, lips parted just enough to suck in a breath. As his pace increases, so does the number of curses that slip from your lips.

“Fuck,” you manage to whisper into his hair, as his fingers curl up, hitting that perfect spot.

“I know,” he mutters in return, fingers pounding in and out so hard you’re already thinking how ruined you’re going to be when he gets his cock in you.

One hand grips his shoulder so tight your nails bite into his skin, and the other runs through his hair, like clinging to him is going to ground you, and stop you from losing yourself as he fucks his fingers into you, closer and closer to release.

A third finger slips in far too easily, and you’re so wet for him, so pliant, it makes him groan as he sinks to his knees before you, face dropping to meet your dripping pussy.

He runs his tongue up your thighs without slowing his fingers, just shifting his palm to one side—giving his mouth full access to your swollen, throbbing clit. He takes it between his teeth, and it’s nearly enough to send you over the edge, panting as your hips twitch upwards, but he lets go and clicks his tongue the second he notices the involuntary movement.

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he mutters, running his tongue up from your entrance, where his fingers still press into you, to your clit, which sends sparks through your body when he reaches it. “Gotta let me savour you.”

He doesn’t wait for you to reply. He knows you’re beyond words. Instead, he works at you with his tongue and fingers, unrelenting and desperate to make you come completely undone.

You pant out his name, thighs pressing against his face as your head falls back. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulse racing as you feel yourself clench around his fingers, the sensation building and building until you reach your climax with another string of curses.

And Oscar laughs—he actually laughs against you, and the vibrations send another electric-hot jolt through you, your legs still twitching, your core sensitive beyond words. His fingers still, but he doesn’t remove them, and keeps his mouth exactly where it is. Even the soft heat of his breath sends shivers down your spine, and you squirm, not sure if you’re trying to escape his reach or push yourself back towards his perfect tongue.

One press of his hand into your thigh stops you moving entirely, and you lock eyes with him as he stares up at you, lips wet and covered in you. His cheeks are flushed pink, and the way his hair is pushed back out of his face sends warmth through your face. The look is so tender it could kill you. How can a man produce both the perfect, unrelenting orgasm, and this caring softness?

You don’t have time to finish that thought, because the moment passes, and Oscar’s tongue is flat against your clit once more, fingers starting to slowly pump in and out again. The sensation burns straight through you, and you fall back onto the bed, completely deprived of any energy you’d been using to keep yourself upright.

Your hips buck upwards, barely past your last orgasm, but Oscar keeps going, three fingers pumping in and out, tongue tracing tiny circles against your clit.

You feel it deep in your stomach this time—a solid, burning ache for the feeling of him buried deep in you, the sound of skin hitting skin, his solid frame above you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fully riding his face and fingers now, rocking backwards on the bed as he fucks you further towards your next climax, edging you closer by the second.

The pressure continues to build at your core, like a knot being pulled tighter and tighter, and you fist your hands into the bedsheets, eyes still shut, gasping out choked breaths.

“Please,” he whispers into you, lips sending more jolts of energy through you, “come one more time for me.”

And you do, his name spilling from your lips as a second orgasm rips through your body, toes curling as your legs shake.

When you open your eyes again, Oscar is grinning, wide and genuinely proud of himself, like he’s just won a race. And the sight is so endearing you think you just might have to give him a proper thank you.

“Get up,” you say, shifting your body up on the bed so you’re sat upright.

He blinks at you, searching for the whimpering, needy mess you were a few moments ago. You don’t say anything, though. You just stare him down, waiting.

He stands, eventually, unbuttoning his belt, and you can’t help but lick your lips. There’s something almost powerful, in knowing that despite the fact that he just had you melting in his hands, you’re about to have him moaning your name.

When he’s in just his boxers, you press the palm of your hand against the solid outline of him showing through the thin fabric. There’s a wet spot forming in the middle, and you let one finger press against him there, delighted by the sharp inhale he takes.

You grip his cock through the boxers, rubbing up and down his length once, then twice. The third time, his hips thrust forwards. The way his head falls back, and the groan that falls from his lips, tell you that this wasn’t an intentional movement.

You look up at him, eyes wide and doe-like. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No—” he hisses, hand tangling into your hair, as you palm his dick again. “Fuck. No." So, you let yourself slip off the bed, knees hitting the ground.

You reach up to the waistband of his boxers, and he helps you out, pulling them down until they hit the floor. And then you’re face to face with his dick, hard against his chest. All you can do is stare for a second, as he steps out of his boxers and tosses them to the side.

Oscar’s cock isn’t just ‘big’. It’s pretty. Annoyingly so. The perfect shade of pink at the tip, swollen and throbbing for you. The tiniest drop of precum beads at the tip, and you swirl your finger across it, before running it down his length.

You almost want to take a picture of it, and keep it, with the knowledge that you did this to him. But you don’t. Instead, you bring your tongue to his tip, swirling it at the end, teasing him as he did you.

You drag your fingers down his chest, nails scraping gentle lines across the faint outline of his abs, tracing down to the trail of light blonde hairs that usually disappear beneath the waistline of his trousers.

Now though, they serve as the perfect road, leading your hand to join your mouth, cupping his balls as your tongue finds a thick vein along the underside of his cock and traces it.

You try, as you run your tongue back along the vein, to commit this to memory. The taste of Oscar’s cock, throbbing, hard for you. The way his breath catches ever so slightly when your teeth graze against him, or when your fingernails dig half-moon kisses into his thighs. The way your name spills from his lips like a prayer, as he thinks of only you.

Just in case it never happens again.

Then, once you’re sure you’ve savoured the moment, you take him in your mouth entirely, gagging just a little as he hits the back of your throat.

You hold him there as long as you can, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, before you pull off him with a slight choke. Spit dribbles down your chin. You don’t wipe it away.

You return your mouth to his tip, bobbing up and down his length, increasing your pace, hungry for the little sounds that spill from his lips as he pushes into you.

You let yourself gag around him again, cheeks hollowing out as you keep him there, at the back of your throat for as long as you can manage.

When he grips your hair just tight enough to make you pause, you look up at him through your lashes, eyes wide and vision blurred by tears, and he lets out a choked, low, “fuck.”

You blink, tears spilling from your eyes, and he lets the palm of his hand cup your jaw, as his thumb swipes across your cheek.

“You’re gonna ruin me, baby”

He pulls out of your mouth, a string of drool connecting you to him. You don’t bother wiping it away, still staring up at him. He tangles a hand into your hair, pulling you up. The sharp tension at your scalp is so deliciously painful you almost ask him to drop everything and make you come like that, finger-fucking yourself as he pulls your hair.

But then you feel his cock press into you as you stand, and you remember just how badly he needs to be inside you. And how badly you need him inside you.

You let yourself drop back onto the bed, bringing your knees up towards you so you’re spread perfectly open and completely on display for Oscar.

He kneels on the bed, crawling over your body, hands tracing up your curves.

He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he lines himself up with your core, letting his cock hit your clit as he does. You press your hips forward, begging him to do it again, to return that pressure. And he does, letting out his own little moan at the feeling of your soft wetness against his flushed tip.

Just a few circles is all he can manage, before he needs to be inside you, filling you up.

He pushes into you slowly, savouring the feeling of you adjusting to his size, as you clench around him. The first few strokes are gentle, too.

His hand caresses your hair, as he bottoms out. It’s almost too much—the combined softness of his touch, and the feeling of being so stretched out by his cock.

He gets into a steady rhythm, and his eyes drop to your tits. He watches the way they bounce as he fucks into you, and it makes him go faster, harder.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve pictured this,” he says, one hand lifting your thigh, allowing him better access to you, somehow fucking you even deeper than before, while the other hand grabs at your tits greedily, rolling a nipple between his fingers until you gasp. “How many times I’ve cum in my hands thinking about you.”

He thrusts into you again, the hand he was using to prop up your leg dropping to your clit, rubbing fast, hard circles. “I imagined the sounds you’d make as I fucked you,”

And you let out another one of those sounds, a soft and pathetic whine that falls from your lips as he pushed into you once more, filling you up so well that your vision blurs at the edges. “But this is more perfect than I could’ve ever imagined,” he chokes out, the words half broken by a moan that falls from him as you clench around him. “So fucking perfect.”

He moves his hands so they’re either side of your head now, and he lets his body follow, so you’re fully pressed against each other, noses touching, hot breath hitting each other’s lips as you pant, both completely spent, both chasing the other’s climax.

Your hands trail up his back, before letting your nails dig into his skin, hard, dragging them down. His pace is steady now, fucking you in and out, so deep inside you you’re not sure what day of the week it is. When your eyes meet again, he drags one hand down to your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles. He watches your face, observes the way your breath hitches at that specific spot, and doubles down, thrusting harder until you cry out, and he still doesn’t stop until he feels your climax ripping through you—legs twitching as you clench around him so perfectly.

As he fucks you through your orgasm, sparks jolting through your body, brain completely devoid of any thoughts unrelated to Oscar-fucking-Piastri, you scrape your teeth along his jawline, slightly scruffy with stubble.

At that, he pounds into you harder, the sound that escapes his lips almost pornographic. You continue to drag your teeth down his neck, nipping at the soft skin lightly as you go, and you watch as his grip on the bedsheets tightens, and his thrusts become harder, less controlled and steady.

You clench around him, before sinking your teeth into his shoulder, hard. It’s what he needs to send him over the edge—one final thrust and he’s spilling into you, filling you up as you run your tongue along the sensitive spot you’ve just bitten.

He lets his weight drop onto you, and rolls to your side, still inside you, cock still twitching. You barely move, letting your body stay as close to his as possible, pressed up against him.

Oscar pulls you into his arms, cheek nestling into your neck. He pushes some of the sweaty hair that’s stuck to your face back, and plants a kiss on your cheek. “Stay?” he whispers, devastatingly quiet. You lace your fingers through his, where they hold you at your waist, and nod.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper, the sudden emptiness feeling completely wrong. He turns you to face him, and your hands drop to his chest.

Your lips meet his again, and this time it’s softer. So much softer than before.

Because this time, you’re not racing to an end goal. You’re just letting Oscar’s tongue explore your mouth, as his hands learn the shape of your body.

You fall asleep like that, intertwined in each other.