brotherâs best friend -> OP81
warnings: suggestive content, sexual jokes, this is just a drabble PLEASE drop an ask in my inbox if you want a full-length version
âGood morning, sleepy.â
You shiver as you hear his voice, footsteps approaching you from behind. Oscar brushes past you into the kitchen with a soft chuckle as he glances over at you, watching as you rub your eyes with the sleeves of your jumper, leaning over the counter.
âIs he awake yet?â You grumble.
âYour brother?â He replies, opening the cupboard where the mugs are stored with an ease as if heâs in his own home. âNot yet. Iâm making the coffee now anyway. Heâs a bit of a cunt in the morning.â
âYou know him too well,â you tease, even if you donât quite sell itâyour voice starts to tremble the moment you turn to look at Oscar, with his perfect bedhead hair and a permanent hint of a smile. âYouâre starting to resemble an old couple. Arenât you too old now for sleepovers?â
âArenât you too old now to be spending Friday nights in alone reading your porny little books?â He quips back too easily, barely able to stifle his grinning. You know his eyes are raking over your flushed face now, and all you can do is roll your eyes. âDonât get mouthy with me, missy. Iâm more observant than you think.â
You stand up straight, clearing your throat. âI read real literature, too.â
âOf course.â He sets off the coffee machine, and it whirrs as the espresso drips into his mug. âBut your weekend nights are for a special kind of literature.â
You get even redder than you thought was possible. He sticks the steamerâs wand into a little jug of milk, carefully stirring around the liquid as it heats, foam condensing at the bottom. âNow, if you ask me, little miss,â Oscar continues, and you can hear the smile in his voice now, âI think you could do much better. Youâre all grown up now. Why read about fucking a soccer player when you could just, you know, do it?â
You turn around now, arms folding over your chest as you furrow your eyebrows. âThatâs not even a book I own.â
âI know,â he says, the jug now in his hand as he carefully tilts the mug, pouring the foamed milk into it slowly. âBut I have seen one of them on your desk. Think it was about another sport, actually.â
He walks to you, hands you the mugâitâs a latte, with a cute little heart on top of it. Oscar smiles. âIt was racing, wasnât it?â
Your eyes drop to the floor immediately at his words. You take the mug hastily, taking a sip of the searing hot coffee as he watches.
âThis tastes like shit,â you say.
Oscar laughs heartily, his chest rumbling gently as he crosses his arms. âYouâre welcome, love.â











