Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female reader

Word count: 3.4k

Summary: You weren’t supposed to have a thing for Oscar in a balaclava. Unfortunately, Oscar figures it out in the middle of the McLaren garage, and he absolutely does not let it go.

Tags: 18+ content, established relationship, oral (m receiving), piv intercourse, praise, dom! oscar, fingering, choking, mask kink, not sure what else...

A/N: So I just saw a slow mo edit of Oscar putting his balaclava on. And this happened. Enjoy.

The Silverstone garage was a controlled maelstrom. A symphony of organized chaos where the scent of high-octane fuel and hot rubber was a perfume you’d come to crave. Headsets crackled with clipped, urgent voices, and engineers swarmed around Oscar like worker bees attending their queen, their movements a blur of practiced efficiency. You stood by the pit wall, feigning a casual interest in the telemetry screens, but your entire being was tuned to one frequency: him.

Then, Oscar pulled the black balaclava over his head.

The world didn't just go quiet; it flatlined. The noise, the people, the frantic energy, it all dissolved into a dull, distant hum, eclipsed by the sight before you. The fabric was a second skin, clinging with an infuriating perfection to the sharp line of his jaw and the high planes of his cheekbones. It carved his face into something new, something dangerous. It shadowed his eyes, turning the familiar warm brown into a dark, intense void that seemed to see right through you.

When he turned his head toward you, the movement catching your peripheral vision, your breath hitched, a physical jolt like a misfire.

Oscar paused. It wasn't a grand gesture, just a fractional stillness, the kind of subtle shift only you would ever notice. His brows furrowed slightly behind the mask, his voice emerging as a low, muffled query. “…Why are you looking at me like that?”

You blinked, a frantic, useless attempt to reset your brain. “I’m not looking at you.”

He tilted his head, a slow, deliberate movement that was pure predator. “You definitely are.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “I’m literally just standing here.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, the sound laced with a skepticism that was far too knowing. “Right.” His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with the sharp, analytical focus he usually reserved for race data. He was dissecting you, reading the flush creeping up your neck like a tell on a poker player. Oscar Piastri missed nothing. “What’s going on?” he asked, stepping closer until his voice was a private thread in the roar of the garage. “You’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You are.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” He took another step, invading your space, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his race suit. His voice dropped, a low, intimate rumble that vibrated through your bones. “Is it… the balaclava?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body seized up.

Oscar’s eyes widened behind the fabric, the dawning realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. “…It is.”

Your face combusted. “Oscar—”

“Oh my god,” he breathed, a soft, huff of laughter escaping him. “You have a thing for it.”

You spun away, mortified. “Can you not—?”

He didn’t gloat. He didn’t call attention to it. He was Oscar. He was smarter than that. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Look at me.”

You did. Against your better judgment, you turned your head and met his gaze. Hooded, dark, and framed by the stark black fabric, his eyes held a new kind of power. A visible shiver traced a path down your spine, and he saw it. Of course, he saw it.

His entire posture shifted. The easygoing driver vanished, replaced by something sharper, more confident. He straightened up just slightly, his shoulders squaring, his stance shifting into something proprietary. He murmured, “…Oh. That’s why.”

“Can we please not do this here?” you hissed, your voice a strained whisper.

“We’re not doing anything,” he said, his tone a devastatingly dry amusement. “You’re the one looking at me like I’m the main event in a fantasy you’re not supposed to be having in public.”

You slapped a hand over your burning face. “Oscar, shut up.”

He laughed, a quiet, warm sound that was just for you. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice softening. “They have no idea.” He gestured with a subtle chin lift to the engineers, still oblivious. The garage was deafening, the world kept spinning, but you were trapped in this silent, charged bubble with him. He leaned in again, the black fabric whispering against your cheek. “I’m going to be thinking about this for the next ninety minutes, you know.”

Your breath hitched again. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, I will,” he promised, his eyes glinting through the narrow opening. “Because now I know why you get that look on your face every single time I put this on.”

You stumbled back a step, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hummed, a low, pleased sound. “Only for you.”

A mechanic waved him over. “Two minutes, Oscar!”

He gave a short nod, but his eyes were still locked on yours. Dark, teasing, and just this side of dangerous. Before he turned away, he lowered his voice one last time. “You said you weren’t staring,” he murmured, a slow smile evident in the crinkle of his eyes. “But if you keep looking at me like that…” He let the pause hang in the air, thick with promise. “…you’re going to make me late.”

Your heart nearly hammered its way out of your chest. Then he put on his helmet, climbed into the cockpit and lowered his visor. The engine roared to life.

The hotel door clicked shut, the sound echoing in the sudden, profound silence after the deafening roar of the track. You dropped your bag by the door, the day's adrenaline finally giving way to a bone-deep exhaustion. Oscar was already moving, his back to you as he shrugged out of his team polo, the muscles in his shoulders flexing under the thin fabric of his undershirt.

“Long day,” he murmured, his voice raspy. He disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the rustle of clothes, the sound of the shower starting. You sank onto the edge of the plush bed, kicking off your shoes, your mind replaying the conversation about him in the balaclava.

You were still lost in the memory when the water shut off. A few moments later, he emerged, a cloud of steam preceding him. He’d changed into a pair of soft grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, his chest and feet bare. He looked like the Oscar you knew, the soft, comfortable boyfriend you curled up with on movie nights. The race driver was gone, packed away with his fireproofs.

He watched you for a moment, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He padded over to his race bag, unzipped a side pocket, and pulled out the black balaclava.

Your heart gave a nervous little flutter.

He didn’t say a word. He just shook it out, the fabric whispering in the quiet room, and then, with agonizing slowness, he pulled it back over his head.

And just like that, he was gone. The soft boyfriend vanished, replaced by the sharp, dangerous stranger from the garage. The man who had looked at you with eyes like flint and promised you a private show.

He leaned against the dresser, arms crossing over his bare chest, the black fabric a stark contrast to his skin. He said nothing, just watched you, his gaze heavy and analytical. The silence stretched, taut with electricity, until it was almost unbearable.

“You know,” he finally said, his voice a low, muffled murmur that sent a jolt straight through you, “I couldn’t focus. Not really.” He pushed off the dresser and began to walk towards you, his movements deliberate, predatory. “All I could think about was this. The look on your face when you thought no one was watching.”

He stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down at you. “You were practically undressing me with your eyes in front of half the team.”

You couldn’t find your voice. You could only stare, your pulse hammering in your throat.

“Cat got your tongue, love?” He knelt on the bed, crawling towards you until you had to lie back, his body caging yours. He braced a hand beside your head, his masked face just inches from yours. “Or is it just the balaclava?”

His free hand came to rest on your hip, his thumb stroking slow circles through the thin material of your shirt. “Because if it’s this…” He leaned down, his masked cheek brushing against yours, the fabric a strange, thrilling texture against your skin. “...we’re going to have a lot of fun.”

A shiver wracked your body. “Oscar…”

“Mm, say it again,” he commanded softly. “I like the way you say my name when you’re all flustered.”

His hand slid from your hip up your side, tracing the curve of your ribs. His touch was maddeningly light. “You were so desperate to get away from me in the garage. But now… now you’re not running.” He lowered his head, his covered mouth finding the sensitive skin of your neck. He didn’t kiss you. He just breathed against you, hot and damp through the mask, until you were squirming beneath him.

“Please,” you whimpered.

“Please what?” he murmured, his voice a dark tease. “Please stop? Or please don’t ever stop?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Good girl.” His praise was a low rumble that vibrated through you. He shifted, his knee nudging your thighs apart. He settled between them, his weight a delicious pressure. “Tell me what you were thinking about. When you were staring at me.”

Your face burned. “I… I can’t.”

“Oh, I think you can.” His hand found the hem of your shirt, his fingers toying with the fabric. “Or maybe I’ll have to get it out of you.” He tugged the shirt up, his knuckles brushing against your stomach and breasts as he slowly exposed your skin. He lifted it over your head, his eyes never leaving yours, and tossed it aside. His gaze was appreciative, hungry.

Next, his fingers went to the button of your jeans. He popped it open with a deliberate flick, the sound loud in the quiet room. He drew the zipper down tooth by tooth, his knuckles pressing against your clothed core. He hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, lifting your hips to help him. He peeled the denim from your legs, leaving you in just your panties.

“Much better,” he murmured, his eyes dark and intense behind the fabric. He moved back, settling on his knees at the foot of the bed. “Come here.”

You shuffled forward on your knees, confused, until you were kneeling in front of him on the plush duvet.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his own sweatpants, pushing them down just enough to free himself. He was hard and heavy, a sight that made your mouth water.

“Come on. Open nice and wide” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a quiet, firm command that left no room for argument. Not like you didn’t want to.

You leaned forward, but he stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. His other hand tangled in your hair, his fingers wrapping around the strands at the base of your skull. He didn’t push, just held you there, establishing his control.

“Look at me,” he ordered. You obeyed, your eyes meeting his dark, shadowed gaze. “Good. Now, put your mouth on me. Show me how much you wanted this back in the garage.”

You lowered your head, taking him into your mouth. He let out a soft, muffled groan, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to be a thrilling reminder of his authority.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his voice a low, muffled rumble. “Just like that. Fuck, your mouth feels so good.” He began to guide you, his hand a steady, controlling presence as you moved, his hips rocking slightly to meet your movements. “Look at you. So eager. Did you get this wet just thinking about me wearing this? Just from staring?”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. You could only manage a weak nod, your mouth too full to form words.

“Christ,” he groaned. “That’s what I thought. You’re dripping for me, aren’t you? All from a stupid mask.” He let you work for a few more moments, his breathing growing ragged, the only sounds in the room the wet slide of your mouth and his muffled curses. “That’s enough. Don’t want to finish before I’ve even had a turn.”

He gently pulled you off by your hair, pushing you back onto the bed. He followed you down, his body covering yours as fully took off his pants and boxers, throwing them away. He settled between your legs, his masked face hovering just above yours.

“Let’s see,” he murmured, his voice a dark, teasing whisper. He shifted his weight, and his fingers trailed down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your soaked panties. “Oh, I was right.”

He slid one long finger through your folds, gathering your slickness, and your back arched off the bed. “You are soaked,” he observed, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. “And all because of me wearing the mask? Or because you had my cock in your mouth, mhm? You really do have a thing for this, don’t you?” He nudged the balaclava with his chin, a gesture that was both mocking and incredibly hot.

He circled your clit with his thumb, a slow, deliberate pressure that had you writhing. “Does that feel good, love? Tell me how good it feels.”

“So good,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets.

He slid a finger inside you, then a second, his palm pressing against your clit as he began to pump them in and out. “I want you to come on my fingers first. I want to feel you soak my hand before I even fuck you.”

His words were your undoing. The combination of his fingers curling inside you, his thumb on your clit, and that dark, muffled voice whispering filth in your ear was overwhelming. The pressure built rapidly, a tight coil in your stomach, until it snapped. You cried out, your orgasm crashing over you, your walls clamping down around his fingers as pleasure flooded every nerve ending.

He worked you through it, drawing it out until you were a trembling, breathless mess. Only then did he pull his hand away. He brought his fingers to his mouth, pushing the fabric of the balaclava aside just enough to lick them clean.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his eyes burning into yours. He positioned himself at your entrance as he covered his mouth again, the head of his cock nudging against you.

He pushed into you in one slow, deep thrust that stole the air from your lungs. He gave you a moment to adjust, to feel the full, overwhelming stretch of him inside you. Then he began to move.

There was no gentle build-up. He set a punishing rhythm from the start, his hips snapping against yours with a force that stole your breath. The headboard knocked a steady, demanding rhythm against the wall, a sound that was both obscene and thrilling. His masked face hovered above you, his eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours as he drove into you again and again.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled, his voice a low, muffled snarl that vibrated through your entire body. “This is what you were thinking about in the garage, wasn’t it? Me bending you over and fucking you where anyone could see?”

You couldn’t speak, could only moan and clutch at his shoulders as he pounded into you.

“Answer me,” he demanded, his hand tangling in your hair again, fisting the strands and pulling your head back just enough to expose the line of your throat. “Tell me this is what you were fantasizing about.”

“Yes!” you cried out, the word ripped from your throat. “Yes, Oscar, fuck, yes!”

“Good girl.” His free hand slid from your hip, up your side, until his fingers wrapped around your throat. He didn’t squeeze, not yet. He just rested his hand there, his thumb stroking your pulse point, a silent, terrifying promise of what was to come. The feeling of his hand, the fabric of the balaclava, the relentless drag of his cock… it was all too much.

“You love this, don’t you?” he murmured, his hips never ceasing their brutal pace. “You love being under me like this. Taking what I give you.”

He applied the slightest bit of pressure, and your eyes widened. The air flow restricted just enough to make your head swim, to heighten every sensation until it was almost painful in its intensity.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice dangerously soft. You struggled to focus, your vision blurring at the edges. “Don’t you dare look away. I want you to see who’s fucking you.”

His grip tightened infinitesimally, and a choked sob escaped your lips. The pleasure was blinding, a white-hot wave that was building, building, building…

“That’s it,” he grunted, his own rhythm beginning to falter, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. “Come for me. Come all over my cock.”

The command was your undoing. Your body arched, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming. Your vision went white, your walls clamping down around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He followed you over the edge a moment later with a raw, muffled groan, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep inside you, his body tensing as he found his own release.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged, desperate gasps for air. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He slowly released his grip on your throat, his hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. His other hand untangled from your strands, his thumb caressing your scalp.

He stayed inside you for a moment longer, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing hot and heavy against your skin. Then, with a groan, he pushed himself up and slowly pulled out.

He reached up and, with trembling hands, pulled the balaclava off. His hair was damp with sweat, his face flushed, his eyes soft and sated. He was Oscar again. Your Oscar.

He tossed the mask aside and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to your lips, a real, proper kiss this time.

“You okay?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice back to its normal, warm tone.

You could only nod, completely boneless and utterly spent.