the piastri method - op81
✦ pairing: oscar piastri x fem!oc
✦ genre: fluff, romcom, est. relationship, domestic, smut
✦ warnings: 🔞, explicit sexual content (period sex, menstrual blood, sexual touching and penetration, condom use, dirty talk, orgasm, breast/nipple stimulation, possessive/rough sexual language, light humor during sex), aftercare, mention of menstrual cramps & headaches, medical-ish dialogue that should absolutely not be taken as actual medical advice!
✦ wc: ~10k+
VERY IMPORTANT A/N:
This fic contains period sex, including menstrual blood being explicitly acknowledged and described. If that isn't your thing, this is your very gentle warning to simply scroll away because I promise there is enough blood in this fic to make that decision very easy.
Also, Oscar's whole “science says this will help” argument is fictional and heavily exaggerated for the sake of the story. Please don't use anything he says here as actual medical advice. Period sex can be perfectly fine for some people, but everyone's body and comfort level are different, and cramps/period symptoms aren't something you should feel pressured to “fix” through sex.
Most importantly: this is a consensual established relationship between two adults. The teasing/chasing is written as playful within their relationship, and the actual sexual scene involves mutual participation and checking in.
(Requested!✨️)
You slide out of bed with all the speed of a dying snail, your legs trembling as soon as your feet touch the cold floor. Every single muscle in your core feels like it has been dragged through a meat grinder and then set on fire. It isn’t just a bellyache; it’s a full-scale physical assault taking place right behind your belly button, a continuous, dull throb that occasionally spikes into a sharp, twisting agony. You stand there for a second, clutching your lower stomach, genuinely weighing the pros and cons of just collapsing right onto the rug and declaring this spot your permanent residence. Standing up to walk to the bathroom feels like an athletic feat you didn't train for, and the thought of pouring yourself a simple glass of water seems as exhausting as climbing a mountain. You groan, a low, pathetic sound that vibrates in your chest, and start dragging your feet toward the hallway.
Oscar is sitting on the living room sofa, completely absorbed in his work. His laptop is resting on his knees, the screen casting a pale light over his face as his fingers tap away at the keyboard. He looks calm, peaceful, and entirely unbothered by the fact that your internal organs are currently undergoing a violent revolution. The moment the soft, miserable sound of your footsteps hits his ears, his head snaps up. He doesn’t even wait for you to say a word. In one swift, practiced movement, he saves whatever document he’s working on, closes the laptop lid, and pushes it onto the coffee table out of harm's way.
"Come here," Oscar mutters under his breath, his eyes full of immediate concern as he shifts his hips to clear space on the cushions.
You don't reply. You don't have the breath or the patience for words. You just shuffle over, practically falling sideways onto the sofa, and drop your heavy, aching head directly onto his lap. You pull your knees up toward your chest, curling into the tightest ball humanly possible because somehow squeezing your abdomen makes the invisible hot iron inside you feel marginally less lethal.
"It feels like someone is using a dull rusted spoon to scoop out my lower back," you mumble into the denim of his jeans, your voice muffled and thick with pure misery. "And my head is pounding. Every time my heart beats, my skull expands."
Oscar places a warm, steady hand on your shoulder, his thumb making slow, gentle circles against your shirt. He’s learned over time exactly how to navigate this monthly minefield. He knows the rules by heart now: don't make sudden movements, don't ask stupid questions like 'are you sure it hurts that much?', and above all, do not breathe too loudly.
He takes a breath, intending to sigh sympathetically, but catches himself halfway through. He carefully meters his exhalation, letting the air slip out of his nose in absolute silence so the movement of his chest doesn't dislodge your head or irritate your hyper-sensitive nervous system.
"The spoon metaphor is new," Oscar says, his voice dropped an entire octave into a quiet, low rumble. "Yesterday, it was a meat tenderizer."
"It upgraded," you snap, though there’s no real heat behind it, just pure exhaustion. "It’s a multi-tool of agony."
"Right. Got it. Upgraded to rusted cutlery." He reaches over to the side table, his movements agonizingly slow and deliberate, and picks up a soft plush throw blanket. He drapes it over your shoulders, tucking the edge under your chin with precision. "Do you want the heating pad? I can go plug it in."
"No. Moving requires energy I don't possess," you grumble, pressing your forehead harder into his thigh. "If I move, my head will explode, and then you'll have to clean the walls."
"Fair point. I'd rather avoid the painting project," he says quietly.
For a few blissfully quiet minutes, you just lie there. The rhythmic circle of his thumb on your shoulder is somewhat distracting, a small anchor keeping you from dissolving entirely into your own pain. But as the sheer physical discomfort continues to simmer, your senses dial up to an unbearable frequency. Everything becomes an annoyance. The world is suddenly too loud, too heavy, too much.
Oscar shifts his weight by half an inch to adjust his posture. The tiny rustle of his jeans against the couch fabric sounds like a thunderclap in your ears.
You stiffen immediately, pulling your face out of his lap to glare up at him with narrow, accusatory eyes. "Can you not?"
Oscar freezes mid-movement, his left leg suspended an inch off the cushion. He blinks down at you, totally motionless. "Can I not... exist?"
"Can you not squirm around like you have ants in your pants?" you demand, your voice tight. "You’re vibrating the entire sofa. My brain is rattling inside my head."
"I moved two millimeters," he whispers, slowly lowering his foot back down with the delicate care of a bomb disposal expert. "I was trying to prevent my foot from falling asleep."
"Let it fall asleep," you say bluntly, dropping your head back down onto his leg with a thud. "Sacrifice the foot for the greater good."
"Understood," Oscar says softly, his face completely deadpan. "Goodbye, left foot. It was a good run."
You let out a tiny, irritated huff, settling back into his lap. But the silence doesn't bring peace for long. Now that he’s holding perfectly still, a new sound invades your consciousness. It’s a rhythmic, faint clicking noise coming from his throat every time he swallows. It’s entirely natural, completely quiet, and under normal circumstances, totally unnoticeable. Right now, it sounds like a ticking time bomb.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore it, but with every swallow, your irritation spikes higher. It’s like a tiny drop of water falling on your forehead over and over again.
"Oscar."
"Yeah?" he responds, keeping his tone as neutral and soothing as humanly possible.
"Are you swallowing glass?"
He blinks, genuinely confused. "What?"
"Why are you swallowing so loud?" you ask, turning your head so one eye is fixed on him in an unblinking, icy stare. "Is your throat lined with sandpaper? Do you need to swallow every three seconds?"
Oscar stares at you for a moment, clearly running a quick internal risk assessment. He knows better than to argue. Arguing with someone whose hormones are currently rearranging their pain receptors is a losing battle, and he knows it.
"I didn't realize I was swallowing with such passion," he says, his lips twitching slightly despite his best efforts to stay serious. "I will simply cease all bodily functions until further notice."
"Thank you. I'd appreciate that."
He lets out a tiny, almost imperceptible breath, carefully keeping his throat still. He sits there like a statue, barely daring to blink, his hand still diligently working those soft circles into your shoulder. He knows he’s walking a razor-thin line between comforting you and becoming the target of your unbridled wrath, but he can't help the slight, affectionate smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"What?" you snap instantly, catching the faint shift in his expression even with your eyes half-closed. "Why are you looking at me like that? Are you laughing at me?"
"I wouldn't dare," Oscar says quickly, raising his free hand in a gesture of absolute surrender. "I value my life."
"You're smirking. I can feel the smirk radiating off your face. It's warming up the air above my head."
"It's not a smirk," he lies smoothly, smoothing down a stray lock of your hair with his fingers. "It's an expression of profound respect for your terrifying resilience."
"You're annoying," you mutter, though you don't move away. In fact, you lean further into his hand as his fingers gently run through your hair, massaging your scalp just at the base of your skull where the tension from your headache is gathered in a tight, throbbing knot.
"I know," he says gently. "I'm the worst. A monster, really."
"The absolute worst," you agree, letting out a long, heavy breath as the pressure in your head recedes just a fraction under his fingers.
The cramps roll through your lower abdomen again, a sharp, wringing sensation that makes you wince and tighten your grip on the fabric of his shirt. You dig your fingers into his thigh, anchor yourself against the wave of pain. Oscar doesn't flinch. He just accepts the crushing grip on his leg, adjusting his fingers on your scalp to apply a little more pressure, right where you need it most.
"Still spooning out the lower back?" he asks quietly, keeping his voice a low, steady murmur.
"Now it's a meat grinder," you whisper back, your eyes closed tight as you wait for the spasm to pass. "A rusted, hand-cranked meat grinder."
"Rough," he says, his hand moving down to rest over your own where it’s clamped onto his knee. "Do you want me to try the hand-warmer trick? My hands are pretty hot right now."
You hesitate, debating whether accepting help is worth the effort of acknowledging it. "Fine," you grumble. "Put it right here."
You take his large, warm hand and drag it down, pressing it firmly against the lower part of your stomach, right over the center of the aching coil. The heat from his palm radiates through your thin t-shirt immediately, offering a tiny, blessed counter-press against the internal writhing. You let out a soft sigh, your entire body deflating an inch into the sofa cushions.
"Better?" he asks softly.
"It's acceptable," you say grudgingly, squeezing your eyes shut. "Don't move it. If your hand strays even half an inch, you lose the hand."
"Noted," Oscar says, his tone dripping with fake gravity.
You lie there in silence for another ten minutes, the sharp edges of the pain slowly dulling into a heavy, manageable ache. His hand remains steadily pressed against your stomach, warm and unwavering, while his other hand occasionally twirls a strand of your hair or gently rubs your temple.
The absolute stillness is nice, but your brain, currently fueled by a chaotic mix of physical agony and hormonal unpredictable swings, suddenly finds another issue to fixate on.
His breathing.
It's quiet. He’s being as careful as possible. But every time his chest expands, his lap shifts by a fraction of a millimeter. And every time it contracts, your head dips down just a hair.
You open your eyes, staring blankly at his belt buckle. "Oscar."
He pauses, his chest holding mid-breath. "Yes?"
"You're chest-breathing."
"My... what?"
"You're breathing into your chest," you say, turning your head slightly to frown up at his jawline. "It's lifting your whole upper body. You need to belly-breath. Low and steady. You're moving my head."
Oscar stares down at you, his eyes wide with a blend of utter disbelief and deep, resigned amusement. He takes a slow, careful second to process the request.
"You want me to alter my fundamental respiratory technique," he says slowly, testing the words out.
"Yes."
"So that your head doesn't move one sixteenth of an inch."
"Exactly. I knew you were smart."
Oscar lets out a tiny, silent shake of his head, accepting his fate entirely. He deliberately relaxes his shoulders, sinking deeper into the back of the sofa, and shifts his breathing down into his diaphragm. His chest stays completely still now, his abdomen subtly rising and falling instead.
"Is this acceptable, your highness?" he whispers, his voice carrying that subtle, dry humor you usually love, but right now find marginally suspicious.
"It's better," you say, closing your eyes again. "See? Was that so hard?"
"Extremely," he mutters under his breath, though his hand on your stomach flexes gently, offering another burst of warmth to your aching core. "I'm burning double the calories just trying to stay biologically inert for you."
"Good. You can spare them."
You pull his hand a little tighter against your belly, pressing your face back into the soft fabric of his shirt. The headache is still lurking behind your eyes, and the dull, heavy throb in your lower abdomen isn't going anywhere anytime soon, but the sharpest, scariest edges of the pain have finally begun to smooth out.
Oscar doesn't move a muscle. He sits there in total, deliberate stillness, acting as your human heating pad and pillow, completely resigned to his role as the silent, unmoving center of your chaotic universe. He doesn't pick up his laptop, he doesn't check his phone, and he certainly doesn't swallow too loudly. He just stays right where he is, letting you bleed out your annoyance against his unwavering patience, waiting out the storm with you until the worst of it passes.
The quiet in the room stretches out, broken only by the low, rhythmic hum of your own shallow breathing as you fight off another rolling wave of dull discomfort. Oscar’s palm remains locked against your lower belly, serving as a steady, radiating anchor of heat. But then, the texture of his touch changes. The firm, stationary pressure softens, shifting into a deliberate, slow glide. His fingers trace small, agonizingly lazy circles over the fabric of your shirt, slipping lower toward the hem, his thumb brushing just along the top band of your sweatpants.
You keep your eyes closed at first, assuming he’s just trying a new massaging technique to knead out the knot in your guts. But then the movement pauses, his hand coming to a total rest right over your pelvis. You can feel the sudden, subtle shift in his weight above you. The stillness in his body isn't the careful, frozen posture of someone trying not to annoy you anymore; it’s the heavy, deliberate focus of someone who just had a sudden, terrible stroke of genius.
You open one eye, peering up at him suspiciously.
Oscar is staring down at you. His head is tilted just a fraction, his dark eyes narrowed with a calculating, speculative gleam that makes your internal alarm bells immediately start ringing. The soft, long-suffering expression he’d been wearing for the last hour is completely gone, replaced by a look that is equal parts dangerous and absurdly hopeful.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you ask, your voice raspy and laced with immediate skepticism.
"I'm thinking," Oscar says, his tone unnaturally smooth. His hand on your stomach doesn't pull away; instead, his fingers flex slightly, pressing just a little deeper into the warm skin beneath your shirt.
"Stop thinking. It’s making your face look weird, and it’s unsettling."
"I read something," he begins, his voice dropping into a low, persuasive rumble that instantly triggers your suspicion. "A very reputable, scientifically backed fact."
"Oscar."
"No, listen to me," he continues, his fingers beginning another slow, deliberate track upward toward your waist, dragging the fabric of your shirt with them. "It's a proven biological mechanism. Endorphins are natural painkillers. Uterine contractions during... an event... actually help flush out the lining faster and relax the muscles. It’s basically medicine."
It takes your brain three full seconds to translate his clinical, overly intellectualized phrasing into what he’s actually suggesting. When the realization hits, a sudden, incredulous laugh bursts right out of your chest, rattling your aching ribs.
"Are you serious right now?" you laugh, trying to push his hand away, but his grip is like an iron vice wrapped in velvet. "My body is currently rejecting its own internal wallpaper, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and your solution is period sex?"
"I'm just saying, the science supports it," Oscar says, not flinching for a single second. The calculating look in his eyes sharpens, his gaze dropping to your lips and then sliding down the length of your body with the unhurried, predatory patience of a lion watching an injured gazelle. "You said you wanted the pain to stop. I am offering a natural, highly effective therapeutic intervention."
"You look like a predator," you snort, pressing your hands against his chest to push yourself up, suddenly feeling very much like the prey in this equation. "You have that exact look in your eyes. Get away from me."
"I'm a healer," he corrects seamlessly, though a dark, wicked smirk stretches across his mouth as he shifts his legs, effectively trapping you between his body and the back of the sofa. "A selfless medical provider."
"You're an opportunist!"
You scramble backward, using every ounce of remaining energy in your body to wriggle out from under his heavy thigh. You drag your feet off the cushions and make a frantic, half-hazard bolt for the hallway, your socks sliding slightly on the floor as you try to gain traction. You don't even make it three steps before you hear the sudden, sharp thud of his feet hitting the floor behind you.
"Where do you think you're going?" Oscar’s voice bounces off the walls, laced with pure amusement and a sudden, dangerous surge of energy.
You let out a shriek of half-pain, half-laughter as you hear his heavy, fast footsteps closing the distance instantly. You try to corner around the doorframe to the bedroom, but Oscar is infinitely faster, longer-limbed, and entirely unbothered by menstrual cramps. Before you can even reach for the doorknob, two large, warm arms wrap around your waist from behind, cutting off your momentum entirely.
"Gotcha," he murmurs directly into the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your neck as he pulls your back flush against his chest.
"Oscar, let go!" you protest, squirming fruitlessly in his grip, though the utter absurdity of the chase has you laughing so hard your stomach aches for an entirely different reason. "I am sick! I am fragile!"
"You ran pretty fast for someone sick," he hums.
In one fluid, effortlessly smooth motion, he sweeps his arm under your knees and hoists you up into the air, scooping you into a complete bridal carry. Your world tilts upside down for a second, and you instinctively throw your arms around his neck to anchor yourself, glaring up into his face. He isn't even out of breath. He looks down at you with that same dark, triumphant hunger, his eyes practically gleaming with victory.
"Put me down, you absolute lunatic," you command, though your fingers are tangled tightly in the soft fabric of his collar.
"As you wish," he says smoothly.
He strides two steps into the bedroom and drops you onto the mattress. You hit the soft surface with a quiet gasp, rolling onto your back to scramble away, but before you can even get your elbows under you, Oscar climbs onto the bed and hovers directly over you. He cages you in completely, his hands planting firmly on either side of your head, his broad shoulders cutting off the rest of the room from your view.
The air between you instantly shifts. The playfulness evaporates into a thick, suffocating wave of heat as his gaze locks onto yours. He lowers his head, his heavy chest pressing lightly against yours, knocking the remaining breath right out of your lungs.
"Oscar—" you start, but the word is cut off as his mouth comes down on yours.
The kiss isn't gentle, and it isn't hesitant. It’s deep, possessive, and warm, his lips moving against yours with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your toes curl inside your socks. His hand slides from the mattress to the side of your neck, his thumb tracing the jawline up to your ear, holding you right where he wants you. You let out a quiet sigh against his mouth, your resistance dissolving into the sudden, intoxicating pulse of warmth spreading through your lower belly.
He breaks the kiss just enough to trail his lips down your jawline, pressing hot, lingering kisses against the sensitive skin of your throat. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt, his fingers hot and slightly rough as they slide over your ribs, mapping the curve of your waist with a deliberate, agonizing slowness that makes your breath hitch in your chest.
You're not entirely against it. In fact, as his weight presses down on you and his hands work their magic, the deep, throbbing ache in your pelvis actually starts to blur, replaced by a heavy, liquid heat that is far more welcome. But as his fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants, reality slams back into your brain, bringing a wave of practical, messy concerns with it.
You place your hands firmly against his shoulders, pushing him back just an inch so you can catch his eye.
"Wait, wait, wait," you pant, your chest heaving as you look up at his dark, flushed face. "Oscar, hold on."
He pauses, resting his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "What? Is it hurting?"
"No, it's not that," you say, your mind racing through the sheer logistics of what he’s proposing. "It's... Oscar, it's a crime scene down there right now. It's going to be a complete mess. It's going to get everywhere. The sheets, the mattress—everything."
"I don't care about the sheets," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your cheekline as he speaks, refusing to lose the momentum.
"I care!" you insist, wincing at the thought. "And what about... protection? You can't just raw-dog through a period, Oscar. The risk of infections and the smell—it's going to smell like iron and copper the entire time. It's not romantic."
Oscar pulls back just far enough to look you straight in the eye, completely unfazed by your list of medical and hygienic horrors. A slow, supremely confident smirk touches his lips.
"First of all," Oscar says, his voice thick and low, "I don't care about the smell, and I don't care about the mess. I will clean every single drop of it up afterwards. You won't have to lift a finger."
You blink up at him, momentarily stunned by his total lack of hesitation. "Oscar, it's literal blood—"
"Second of all," he cuts in smoothly, slipping one hand into his front pocket and pulling out a small, foil packet, flashing it right in front of your eyes before tossing it onto the nightstand beside the bed. "I bought condoms three days ago specifically because I checked your tracker app and knew your period was starting this week."
Your jaw literally drops. You stare at the little square packet on the nightstand, then drag your eyes back to his smug, devastatingly handsome face.
"You planned this?" you whisper, thoroughly scandalized and deeply impressed all at once. "You strategically pre-bought supplies for period sex?"
"I am a planner," Oscar says simply, his hand sliding back down your waist, his thumb pressing into the dip of your hip bone with enough force to send a shiver straight down your spine. "I told you. It’s science. I came prepared."
You stare up at him, a nervous, heated giggle escaping your throat. The sheer effort he put into calculating this exact moment is so absurdly typical of him that you can't even be mad. The heavy, sweet tension in the air is pulling at you now, the dull ache in your abdomen completely eclipsed by the sharp, electric friction of his body pressed against yours.
"Okay, fine," you breathe out, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his face back down toward yours until your lips are almost touching. "Fine. But I have conditions, Mr. Scientist."
"Name them," he murmurs, his dark eyes fixed on your mouth.
"You are going to the closet right now," you say, putting a firm hand against his chest to keep him from kissing you just yet. "And you are getting the darkest, oldest, ugliest towel or blanket we own to put under us. I am not ruining this mattress, and if a single drop hits these sheets, you are doing the laundry for the next month."
Oscar lets out a low, throaty laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he presses one quick, hard kiss to your lips.
"Done," he whispers, his hands lingering on your hips for one more excruciating second before he reluctantly pushes himself up off the bed. "Don't move. I'll be back in five seconds."
Oscar practically leaps off the bed, his enthusiasm so unhinged and frantic that he looks like a golden retriever that just heard the word walk. He sprints across the room toward the closet with absolute urgency, his socks sliding against the floorboards before he disappears inside. You lie back on the pillows, trailing your eyes after him, and a helpless, breathless laugh escapes your chest. The pure absurdity of the situation hits you all over again. Here you were, just twenty minutes ago, convinced you were actively passing away from uterine betrayal, lying in a heap on the couch and complaining about the volume of his throat swallowing. And now, your boyfriend is charging around the bedroom like a man on a mission, entirely thrilled by the prospect of throwing down in what is essentially a biological disaster zone.
"Found it!" Oscar shouts from the depths of the wardrobe, his voice muffled by hanging clothes. "The giant navy blue bath sheet! The one we never use because it looks like a tarp!"
"Perfect!" you call back, shaking your head, your fingers twisting into the duvet. "Bring the tarp!"
He emerges a second later, clutching the dark, heavy towel under one arm, but he isn't just walking back to the bed—he’s already stripping his clothes off on the move. He pulls his t-shirt over his head in one swift, practiced motion and hurls it toward the laundry hamper, exposing his wide shoulders and the smooth, warm expanse of his chest. His hands immediately drop to the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down his thighs along with his boxers, kicking them off his feet without even breaking his stride.
Your jaw drops slightly, your eyes widening as your gaze travels down his body. You snap your mouth shut, your eyes locking onto him in sheer disbelief. He is already fully, throbbingly hard, his shaft erect and pressing heavily against his lower stomach, twitching slightly with every step he takes toward you. The sheer excitement radiating off him is ridiculous. Just the thrilling, taboo thought of working his way through your period, of taking you while your body is at its most raw and sensitive, has him completely primed and ready to go.
The sight of him looking so thoroughly turned on instantly sends a sharp, molten jolt straight to your core. Your instinct kicks in, and your legs snap shut together so fast your knees knock, your teeth sinking hard into your lower lip to bite back a sudden, breathless gasp.
"Look at you," you whisper, half-laughing, half-intimidated as he approaches the edge of the mattress. "You are absurd. You're practically glowing."
"I told you," Oscar says, his voice dropping into a thick, low register that makes the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "I'm dedicated to your medical relief."
He leans over the bed, his large hands sliding beneath your hips to gently lift your lower body off the mattress. With impressive care, he unfolds the thick, dark navy towel and smooths it out underneath you, making sure it covers a massive radius beneath your back, hips, and thighs, shielding the bedding completely.
"There," he murmurs, his knuckles brushing against the side of your waist. "Protected zone established. Now, hold still."
He shifts his weight, kneeling between your calf muscles, and reaches for the waistband of your sweatpants. His fingers hook into the elastic, pulling the heavy fabric down over your hips with deliberate, unhurried slowness. You lift your hips slightly to help him, and he peels the pants all the way down your legs, tossing them onto the floor behind him.
Then comes the real moment of truth. His hands hover over the elastic of your dark cotton underwear.
As he begins to pull them down, the faint, unmistakable rustle of the pad sticking to the gusset echoes in the quiet room. You catch a glimpse of the messy, dark crimson smear lining the cotton, a stark, unglamorous reminder of the internal crime scene currently taking place. Mortification hits you like a cold bucket of water. The sheer intimacy of him seeing the literal evidence of your uterine lining is enough to make your entire face flush hot with embarrassment.
Your knees instantly fly back together, closing like a steel trap, blocking his view. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, turning your face into the pillow, unable to look at him.
"Oscar, don't look," you whine softly, your hands flying up to cover your red cheeks. "It's awful. It looks like a horror movie down there. Just... don't look at it."
Oscar doesn't giggle, he doesn't pause, and he certainly doesn't pull back. Instead, you feel his warm, heavy hands cup the sides of your knees, his thumbs gently stroking the skin above your joints.
"Hey," he says softly, his tone completely devoid of judgment or disgust. "Open your eyes."
You keep them squeezed shut for another second before peeking out through the crack of your fingers.
Oscar is looking down at you with nothing but steady, dark heat in his eyes. He carefully peels the underwear the rest of the way off your legs, dropping them to the side onto the towel, completely unbothered by the sight. He doesn't glance at the mess with even a hint of hesitation. To him, it’s just a minor detail, an added layer of warmth and intensity that he has zero intention of letting ruin his focus.
"I don't care," he says firmly, reaching out to capture your hand and pull it away from your face, pressing a warm kiss into your palm. "I love your body every day of the month. A little blood isn't going to scare me off. Now stop overthinking."
He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the small foil packet he placed there earlier. With a flick of his wrist and his teeth, he tears the wrapper open, pulling out the thin latex ring. You watch from the pillow, your heart hammering against your ribs, as he rolls the condom down the full, rigid length of his shaft. The smooth, glistening latex stretches tight over his form, making the thick outline of his head look even more prominent.
Once he’s secured, Oscar shifts his body back over yours. He places his large hands against the insides of your thighs, his fingers digging gently into the soft flesh, and slowly, firmly pushes your knees apart. He glides his knees forward, positioning his body directly between your parted thighs, his sheer weight settling down over you like a heavy, suffocating blanket of pure heat.
"Better?" he asks, his dark eyes locking onto yours as he settles his hips against the junction of your legs.
"Much better," you whisper back, your hands reaching up to wrap around his broad shoulders, your fingers digging into his warm skin.
Oscar leans down and captures your mouth in another deep, thoroughly consuming kiss. This time, the tenderness from earlier is laced with an unyielding, possessive drive. His tongue slides against yours, demanding a response, pulling you under his control before you can even think about the residual cramps in your lower belly.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth across your cheek, his lips hot and wet against your jawline as he moves down to your neck. He nuzzles the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sucking softly on the skin until a low, helpless moan pulls from the back of your throat.
"Oscar..." you gasp, arching your chest off the mattress as his lips slide further down, tracing the line of your collarbone.
His hand travels down the side of your body, his warm palm gliding over your ribs before sliding up to cup your breast over your t-shirt. He squeezes the heavy shape in his hand, his thumb working its way up to search for your nipple through the fabric. When he finds the hard peak, he pinches it gently between his thumb and forefinger, sending a sharp, electrical shock straight down to your lower pelvis.
You gasp loudly, your hips reflexively jerking upward against his.
That tiny upward movement brings your center into direct, heavy contact with him. Because he’s hovering directly between your legs, the thick, latex-sheathed head of his shaft slides right along the sensitive seam of your labia, dragging straight over your swollen, hyper-sensitive clit.
The sensation is so immediate and intense that your eyes fly wide open, a sharp, ragged breath catching in your lungs. The natural lubrication mixed with the slick blood makes the friction insanely smooth, every micro-movement of his hips sending a wave of slick, fiery pleasure shooting straight through your nervous system.
Oscar feels you react, letting out a low, victorious hum against your neck. He doesn't push inside you yet; instead, he intentionally holds his body back, using the tip of his hard shaft to slowly rub up and down along your slick fold, repeatedly pressing against your clit with agonizing precision.
"You like that?" he murmurs directly into your ear, his breath hot and ragged as he shifts his weight, grinding his hips in a slow, heavy circle that leaves you breathless. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
"Yes," you choke out, your legs wrapping tighter around his outer thighs, pulling him down harder against you. "Oscar, please—"
"Shh," he whispers, his fingers pinching your nipple again through your shirt while his lower body continues to torment you with that agonizingly slow, slick friction. "We're taking our time. Let the medicine work."
Oscar shifts his weight forward, his hands planting firmly into the mattress on either side of your head as he lowers his chest to pin you down under his heavy frame. The deliberate, agonizing slowness of his movements is driving you out of your mind. He doesn't rush to sink himself inside you. Instead, he uses the full length of his thick, latex-wrapped shaft to glide up and down between your slick, swollen folds, intentionally dragging the rounded head of his cock over your hyper-sensitive clit with heavy, punishing pressure.
Every single pass feels like an electric shock straight to your spine. The combination of your body’s natural warmth and the slickness of your period creates a friction so smooth, so entirely frictionless, that every microscopic ridge of his shaft registers with overwhelming clarity against your nerve endings.
Your eyes snap shut tightly. Your breath catches in the back of your throat before escaping as a sharp, high-pitched gasp, your head thrashing back into the dent of the pillow as a violent shiver rolls through your body. You arch your back off the dark towel, your chest rising to press against his, your hips instinctively twitching upward to meet him, begging for more pressure, begging for him to finally stop teasing and fill you up.
"Look at me," Oscar murmurs, his voice dropping into a thick, low rasp that vibrates straight through your collarbone.
When you force your eyelids open, you catch him watching you with absolute, unadulterated fascination. His dark eyes are completely fixed on your face, taking in every single twitch of your eyebrows, every ragged gasp that parts your lips, and the way your teeth drag over your lower lip as you fight the intensity of the sensation. There isn't a single trace of hesitation or grossed-out reluctance on his face; he looks like a man who just discovered a gold mine and has no intention of walking away.
"You are... an absolute menace," you manage to choke out, your fingers digging so hard into the muscles of his upper arms that your knuckles turn white. "You're enjoying this... way too much. Look at your stupid face."
Oscar lets out a low, dark laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He deliberately rolls his hips in a tight, heavy circle, dragging his shaft directly over your clit once again, making your hips jump off the bed.
"Maybe I am," he whispers, leaning down until his lips brush against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "Can you blame me? You're warm, you're incredibly slick, and you're making sounds you don't normally make when you're just lying on the couch complaining."
"Because you're torturing me!" you gasp, your heels hooking over the backs of his thighs, trying to pull him closer, trying to force his hips down so he'll finally align himself and push inside. "Oscar, stop rubbing and just—"
"Shh. I told you, we're taking our time," he cuts in smoothly, his voice laced with a possessive, unyielding authority that sends a fresh wave of liquid heat straight to your core. "We're doing this slow. Your body is already sensitive enough right now; if I rush this, you're just going to tense up."
He pauses his movements for a brief second, resting the broad, blunt head of his shaft directly against your open entrance. The heat radiating off him down there is staggering. You can feel the heavy, rhythmic throb of his pulse pressing against your center, perfectly synced with the rapid hammering of your own heart.
Oscar reaches down with one hand, his fingers slipping between your bodies to adjust himself slightly, guiding the tip of his condom-clad cock straight against your tight, slick opening. He doesn't just shove in. He applies the barest, most agonizing increment of downward pressure, letting the rounded head notch just past your entrance, stretching you open by a mere millimeter.
A low, trembling moan slips out of your throat, your fingers tightening their grip on his shoulders until your nails dig into his skin. The sheer sensation of him filling that empty, aching void in your lower pelvis sends a wave of relief so intense that the last remaining embers of your menstrual cramps seem to completely evaporate, swallowed whole by the overwhelming stretch of his size.
"Oscar..." you breathe out, your eyes fluttering shut again as you tilt your chin up toward the ceiling.
"Eyes on me, baby" he commands softly, his tone quiet but leaving zero room for argument.
You open your eyes, blinking through the haze of arousal to find him staring down at you, his face flushed, his jaw tight with the immense self-control it’s taking him not to just push all the way in.
He slowly, agonizingly, presses his hips forward another inch.
It is a painfully languid, deliberate slide. You can feel every single millimeter of his girth working its way inside you, stretching your tight, sensitive walls around his shaft. The slickness makes the entry effortless, but his insistence on moving at a glacial pace turns the pleasure into a slow-burning agony. He gives your body time to adapt to every tiny fraction of an inch, letting your muscles stretch and mold around him until he's buried halfway inside you.
You let out a shuddering breath, your hips lifting slightly to take more of him, but Oscar places a heavy, firm hand on your hip bone, holding you pinned down against the dark towel, refusing to let you control the tempo.
"Don't rush it," he rasps, his thumb stroking the smooth skin over your hip bone as he pauses again, letting you adjust to his depth. "Feel every bit of it."
"You're unbelievable," you whimper, your chest heaving as you stare up into his dark, focused eyes. "It feels... it feels so heavy."
"It's supposed to," he murmurs. He slowly pushes forward again, taking another inch, his thick shaft sliding deeper into your heat until the base of his shaft presses firmly against your outer lips, burying himself completely inside you.
The full, solid weight of him resting deep within your pelvis causes a soft, helpless gasp to explode from your lungs. He fills you so completely, pressing against every tender, hyper-sensitive spot inside your lower belly, that the deep, hollow ache you had been carrying all morning is instantly replaced by a thick, overwhelming fullness.
Oscar rests his full weight on top of you for a long, quiet moment, his chest pressing your small frame into the mattress. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking a deep, ragged breath as he holds himself buried as deep as he can possibly go. You can feel the hard, rigid length of him throbbing inside you, his heartbeat vibrating through your entire pelvis.
"You okay?" he whispers into your skin, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the fierce intensity in his eyes. "Does it hurt at all?"
"No," you breathe, your arms wrapping tightly around his back, pulling him as close as humanly possible. "It doesn't hurt. It feels... ridiculously good. Just... don't stop."
Oscar pulls his head back, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his lips as he looks down at you. "Told you. Science."
"Shut up," you laugh breathlessly, kicking the back of his leg lightly with your heel. "Just move."
"Alright," he murmurs, his tone shifting back into that low, thick murmur. "Slow."
He begins to draw his hips back, taking almost his entire length out of you with agonizing slowness. You can feel the latex-wrapped shaft dragging against your inner walls, pulling every inch of your awareness along with it until only the very tip remains notched inside your entrance. Before you can even process the loss of his heat, he presses his hips forward again, sliding back in with that same smooth, heavy, unhurried pressure.
It’s an excruciating rhythm. He doesn't pick up the pace, he doesn't pound into you, and he doesn't lose his rhythm. He just works his way in and out of you with heavy, measured strokes, turning the simple act of sex into a slow, methodical undoing of your entire nervous system. Every time he glides back in, the head of his shaft rubs against your internal sweet spots, sending warm, liquid ripples of pleasure radiating outward through your stomach, completely washing away the last traces of your period pain and replacing it with a deep, consuming, hypnotic desire.
The slow, agonizing torture of his measured rhythm starts to melt your brain into absolute slush. Every excruciating slide inward stretches you to capacity, and every excruciating slide outward leaves you feeling hollow, desperate, and completely at his mercy. The deep, heavy fullness inside your pelvis isn't just taking the edge off your cramps anymore—it has completely hijacked your entire nervous system. The internal ache that had you crippled on the couch an hour ago has morphed into a tight, coiled spring of pure, unadulterated need right behind your pubic bone.
Oscar stays true to his word for a few more excruciating strokes, his body moving over yours like molten tar, thick and slow. But as the slick friction builds between your thighs, his own restraint starts to show visible cracks. You can see it in the way his jaw muscles clench, the way his breathing turns into a ragged, heavy rasp against your collarbone, and the way his knuckles turn white where he’s holding himself up against the mattress.
He pulls out until just the rounded head of his shaft remains anchored inside your entrance, holding himself there for two agonizing seconds while his dark eyes lock onto yours.
"Oscar," you whimpered, your hips reflexively lifting off the dark towel, chasing his heat, trying to force him back down. "Please. Stop pausing."
"Don't you like it when I go slow?" he rasps, his chest heaving as he looks down at your flushed face.
"No—yes—I mean, I don't care, just move," you plead, your fingers digging into his biceps, your nails biting into his skin. "Stop teasing me."
A dark, dangerous smirk breaks across his face, all traces of his gentle, cautious care vanishing into thin air. "Alright. No more teasing."
He doesn't just slide back in this time. He snaps his hips forward with a sudden, sharp burst of momentum, burying his entire length into you in one deep, heavy thrust that knocks a loud, breathy gasp straight out of your throat.
Before you can even recover your breath, Oscar draws back and drives into you again, faster this time, the heavy thud of his hips meeting your thighs echoing through the quiet room. The slow, therapeutic pace is officially dead and buried. Oscar picks up speed with terrifying efficiency, his long, powerful legs driving his lower body into yours with a rhythmic, relentless intensity that shakes your entire frame.
The slickness from your period, combined with the latex of the condom, makes the movement impossibly smooth and hot. Every thrust glides deep inside you with zero resistance, hitting that exact, deep sweet spot near your cervix over and over again. It’s like an electric current snapping through your lower abdomen, completely short-circuiting your ability to form a coherent thought.
"Oscar—oh my god," you cry out, your head thrashing side to side against the pillow as he sets a punishing, unyielding pace.
"Is this better?" he pants out, his voice thick and rough as he stares down at you, his hips working like a piston, driving into you without a single second of hesitation. "Tell me if it's too much."
"No! Don't stop, please!" you beg, your voice shrill and desperate as you completely abandon all pride. "Harder, Oscar. Please, just fuck me harder!"
Hearing those words explode out of your mouth turns whatever remaining thread of self-control Oscar had into total ash. His eyes go dark, almost pitch black, and a low, guttural growl rumbles from deep in his chest.
He shifts his weight, lowering his chest until he is pinned directly over you, his heavy frame crushing you into the mattress. He captures your mouth in a kiss that is completely devoid of the gentle warmth from earlier. It’s messy, aggressive, and wild. His tongue thrusts into your mouth in time with the punishing drive of his hips below, taking complete ownership of your breath, your sounds, and your body.
You can't even catch your breath. Every time you try to inhale, his lips are there, sealing over yours, drinking down the high-pitched moans that break from your throat. When he finally tears his mouth away from yours, he doesn't stop his frantic assault; he buries his face into the side of your neck, his open mouth trailing hot, wet, bite-marked kisses down your jawline, over your throat, and straight down to your chest.
His large, calloused hands leave the mattress and slam down onto your hips. He grips your waist with absolute, bruising force, his fingers digging into the skin of your hip bones, anchoring you firmly against the dark towel so you can't slide away from him. With you locked in place, he uses the leverage to drive himself even deeper, his shaft plunging inside you with a heavy, wet rhythm that turns your brain into static.
"Oscar, please—" you sob out, your hips moving in frantic, uncoordinated synchronization with his, lifting to meet every single downward plunge of his body. "It's too much—it's so good—"
"You asked for this," he rasps against your skin, his teeth lightly nipping at the soft flesh where your shoulder meets your neck, making you gasp violently. "You told me to go harder."
"I know! I love it! God, don't stop!"
Your legs, which were trembling from cramps just an hour ago, are now wrapped tightly around his waist, your ankles locked behind his back as you pull him as close as humanly possible. You crave every single millimeter of him. You want him deeper, harder, faster—you want his entire weight to crush the lingering memory of your pain until there’s nothing left inside you except for him.
Oscar leans back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours as he continues his relentless, heavy assault. He reaches down with one hand, grabbing the hem of your t-shirt, and violently shoves it up over your chest, trapping your arms momentarily as he exposes your bare breasts.
He leans down and buries his face in your chest, capturing one full mound in his mouth. He sucks heavily, his tongue flicking over your sensitive, hardened nipple while his teeth gently tug at the peak.
A sharp, high-pitched scream escapes your lips as the sensation shoots straight from your chest down to your core, joining the chaotic firestorm already raging between your legs. While his mouth devours one side, his free hand reaches up to brutally knead and squeeze the other breast, his fingers pinching and rolling your nipple until you are squirming uncontrollably beneath him.
"Oscar!" you cry out, your hands clawing at his back, your fingernails dragging over the smooth, hot skin of his shoulder blades. "Oscar, I'm gonna—I'm close, please!"
He doesn't slow down to let you catch your breath. If anything, hearing that you're on the edge drives him into an even crazier frenzy. He pulls his mouth off your chest, a slick string of saliva connecting his lips to your nipple, and looks down at you with a fierce, possessive glare.
"Then do it," he growls, his hips driving into you with a sudden, relentless speed that borders on manic. The heavy, wet thud of his body slamming into yours fills the room, a rhythmic, unforgiving sound that matches the frantic beating of your heart. "Come for me. Show me how well the medicine works."
His shaft hits that hyper-sensitive node inside you with every single stroke, over and over and over again, refusing to give you a single second of relief. The friction is blinding. The slick warmth of your period creates an effortless, fiery glide that builds the pressure behind your belly button into an unbearable, suffocating peak.
Your hips go wild, arching off the bed, meeting every single vicious thrust with an equal amount of desperation. You are practically climbing up his body, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling his face down to yours as you scream your pleasure directly into his mouth.
"Oscar! Yes, fuck, right there!" you scream, your voice cracking with sheer intensity.
"That's it," he pants against your lips, his own breathing ragged and completely out of control, his hands digging so hard into your hips that you know there will be dark finger-shaped marks there tomorrow. "Take it. Come for me."
The tight, coiled spring inside your lower abdomen finally snaps.
A violent, explosive wave of contractions hits your uterus, but this time, it isn't the sickening, hollow agony of menstrual cramps—it is the sharp, overwhelming, mind-shattering bliss of an intense orgasm. Your internal walls clamp down tightly around his latex-wrapped shaft, milking him with rhythmic, uncontrollable spasms that send shockwaves straight through your entire body.
Your head flies back into the pillow, your throat releasing a long, raw, trembling wail as the climax crashes over you in heavy, relentless swells. Your toes curl tight, your fingers dig into his back, and your entire body shakes uncontrollably under his heavy frame.
Oscar feels your tight, pulsing walls gripping him like a vise, and it instantly pushes him over his own edge. He lets out a low, animalistic roar, his jaw clenching tight as he drives himself into you one last, impossibly deep time, burying his length all the way to the base. He locks his hips tight against yours, his chest heaving violently as his own orgasm takes over, his body shuddering violently as he spills himself into the condom deep inside your slick, contracting heat.
For a long, breathless minute, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the heavy, ragged sound of your combined breathing, two chest cavities rising and falling in frantic, uncoordinated unison.
Oscar remains completely buried inside you, his heavy frame pressing you down into the dark, crumpled towel beneath your hips. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, his hot, sticky skin pressed flush against yours, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Slowly, agonizingly, the intense, blinding haze of the orgasm begins to clear from your brain, leaving your body feeling completely weightless, melted, and thoroughly spent. The deep, agonizing cramps that had crippled you all morning are completely gone, replaced by a soft, humming, thoroughly satisfied warmth that radiates through your entire pelvis.
Oscar lets out a long, shuddering sigh against your neck, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your collarbone before he slowly pushes himself up onto his forearms. He looks down at you, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and thoroughly satisfied.
A tiny, breathless, slightly dazed laugh slips past your lips as you look up at his flushed face.
The heavy, crushing weight of his body rests on top of yours for a long, unmoving moment. The only sound in the room is the sound of both of your chests expanding and contracting in rapid, violent synchronization, as if you’ve both just finished running a full marathon. His forehead is buried deep in the crook of your neck, his skin slick with sweat, his hot, ragged breaths fanning across your collarbone every time he exhales. You can feel his heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic, heavy rhythm that matches the frantic pulse still throbbing between your thighs.
His shaft remains buried deep inside you, still thick and warm, acting like a cork that holds the absolute aftermath of the storm at bay. Your legs are still loosely draped over his back, completely devoid of any strength, your muscles feeling as weak and pliable as overcooked noodles. The violent, white-hot ecstasy that just ripped through your entire nervous system has left behind a heavy, buzzing numbness—a total, complete erasure of the sharp, spoon-scooping cramps that had held you hostage all morning.
Oscar lets out a long, heavy sigh that vibrates straight through your chest, his shoulders finally dropping as his muscles fully unclench.
"Holy..." he mutters, his voice completely wrecked, muffled against your skin. "Science."
A soft, breathless laugh bubbles up from your chest, shaking both of your bodies slightly. "Don't start," you gasp out, your hands lazily tracing the sweaty expanse of his broad back. "Do not take credit for that."
"I am taking full credit," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jaw as he speaks. "That was textbook therapeutic intervention. The research papers didn't lie."
"You are an absolute idiot," you say, though your fingers twist affectionately into the ends of his damp hair.
He slowly shifts his weight, propping himself up on his forearms so he isn't completely crushing you. He looks down at your face, his dark eyes still hazy with lingering heat, a lazy, thoroughly satisfied smirk plastered across his lips. But as he begins to slowly pull his hips back, reality comes crashing straight back into your brain with the speed of a freight train.
The slick, wet sound of his departure echoes clearly in the air, and as he slides completely out of you, a fresh wave of mortification washes over your face.
You instinctively try to close your legs, but Oscar’s thighs are still wedged between yours. You look down, and your stomach does a tiny, embarrassed flip. The condom rolled over his shaft is practically covered in a thick, dark layer of crimson blood, slick and heavy. And beneath your hips, the navy blue towel looks practically black in spots, having absorbed the complete, messy aftermath of his relentless thrusting.
Your cheeks instantly flare up, turning hot enough to melt lead. You snatch the edge of your bunched-up t-shirt and yank it down over your stomach, shielding yourself, and turn your face away into the pillow.
"Oh god," you groan softly, covering your eyes with your hand. "It's horrible. Look at that. It looks like a slaughterhouse."
Oscar pauses, glancing down at himself, and then looks up at your hidden face with a soft, affectionate frown. "Hey. Stop that."
"Oscar, it’s literally covered in blood," you whine from beneath your hand, feeling wildly self-conscious. "It’s disgusting. I told you it was going to be a disaster."
"And I told you I didn't care," Oscar says firmly. He reaches over, gently grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand away from your face so you're forced to look at him. His expression is completely devoid of any disgust or judgment; he looks at you with the exact same warmth he had before he stripped his clothes off. "It’s just blood. It means your body is doing what it’s supposed to do. I knew what I was getting into when I threw you on the bed, remember?"
He carefully reaches down, pinching the base of the condom with two fingers, and slides it off his shaft in one smooth motion, tying a tight knot at the end of it so nothing leaks. He wraps it onto a piece of tissue on the nightstand, completely unfazed before throwing it in the trashbin.
"Now," Oscar says, his voice shifting into a calm, gentle tone. "Stay right there. Don't move."
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing up completely naked without a single care in the world. You watch as he walks out, the quiet sound of running water echoing a second later. He comes back out carrying a small glass of fresh, cold water in one hand and a warm, damp washcloth in the other.
He kneels down at the edge of the mattress, guiding you up to drink before setting the glass on the side table. Then without asking, he gently takes the damp cloth and begins wiping down your inner thighs, cleaning away the slick, dark smears with agonizingly gentle, light strokes. He takes his time, making sure he doesn't miss a single spot, turning the potentially humiliating moment into something so sweet and tender that the knot of embarrassment in your chest completely dissolves.
"Better?" he asks softly, looking up at you as he tosses the used cloth toward the hamper.
"Yeah," you whisper, feeling a soft, warm bubble of affection expanding in your chest. "Thank you."
"We're not done," he says, standing back up and reaching his arms out toward you. "Up you go. Time to pee."
"Oscar, I can walk—"
"I am not letting you waddle to the bathroom after I just worked you over for thirty minutes," he interrupts seamlessly, leaning down and scooping you right off the mattress into that same, effortless bridal carry.
You let out a small gasp, wrapping your arms securely around his neck as he carries your bare lower half through the bedroom door. He steps into the tiled bathroom, carefully setting you down directly onto the toilet seat.
"Pee," he orders gently, tapping the end of your nose. "Washing out the bacteria is non-negotiable. I don't need you getting a UTI on top of your cramps."
You roll your eyes, but you obey, letting out a long, grateful breath as your bladder empties. Oscar stands right at the sink, completely unbothered by his own nakedness, turning on the faucet to thoroughly wash his hands and himself with soap and warm water. He dries his hands on a hand towel, then turns around and opens the bottom cabinet beneath the sink, pulling out your box of pads without even having to ask where it is.
He unwraps a fresh, thick pad for you, peeling off the paper backing with practiced ease. He grabs a clean pair of dark cotton underwear from the basket in the corner and neatly sticks the pad right into the gusset, aligning the wings perfectly over the edges.
"You've done this before," you remark, watching him with a fond, tired smile as you wash and wipe yourself down with toilet paper.
"I observe, I learn, I execute," Oscar says smoothly, holding the fresh underwear out for you as you stand up from the toilet.
He helps you step your feet through the leg holes, pulling the fresh, soft cotton all the way up over your hips, making sure the pad sits securely against your skin. The clean, dry feeling is an instant relief. He then grabs a small bottle of mild soap, washes your hands under the warm water, and dries them off for you like you're a tired toddler.
Once you're both completely clean, Oscar scoops you back up into his arms before you can even protest, carrying you out of the bathroom and straight back toward the bed.
While you were in the bathroom, he had already taken the time to yank the dark navy tarp-towel off the mattress, bundling it up along with the stained sheets and tossing them directly into the laundry hamper in the corner. The bed is now fresh, stripped down to the clean fitted sheet, with the soft duvet pulled back waiting for you.
He lays you down gently onto the pillows, pulling the duvet all the way up to your chest, tucking the edges around your shoulders so you're completely wrapped up like a tight little burrito.
He walks around to his side of the bed, pulling on a clean pair of soft grey sweatpants, completely abandoning his shirt. He slides under the duvet beside you, bringing an immediate, overwhelming wave of furnace-like body heat with him.
Without a word, Oscar pulls your back flush against his chest, wrapping one heavy, thick arm over your waist. He pulls your knees up slightly, slotting his body behind yours like two matching spoons. His hand slides beneath your t-shirt, his warm, broad palm resting firmly right over your lower abdomen—back at its original post, right over your uterus.
He presses his lips against the back of your hair, taking a long, deep breath. "How's the stomach feeling?"
You lie there, completely enveloped in his warmth, mentally checking in with your body. The sharp, twisting agony that made you want to cry two hours ago is completely gone. In its place is just a soft, heavy, sleepy numbness, your pelvic muscles totally relaxed and drained of all tension.
"The spoon was put back in the drawer," you whisper, a tired smile tugging at your lips as you rest your hand over his on your stomach. "No more scoopings."
"See?" Oscar murmurs, his dry, quiet humor returning in full force as he nuzzles deeper into your hair. "I should charge insurance for this. I'm practically a licensed practitioner."
"Don't push your luck, Piastri" you laugh softly, letting your eyes flutter shut as the sheer physical exhaustion of the morning finally catches up to you. "If you breathe too loudly right now, I will still hit you."
"Understood," he whispers into the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady, quiet rhythm.
You sink back against his broad, warm chest, his steady hand pressing warmth straight into your belly, feeling completely safe, cared for, and entirely free of pain as you drift off to sleep in his arms.
