Even when he feels outside of himself, even when his emotions are too much to carry, Oscar knows Lando will always share that burden. Even if it's a bit inconvenient.
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summary: You thought escaping to the bathroom would save you from a drunk and clingy Oscar, but you were wrong. He follows you, intent on proving that his stamina extends far beyond the race track. A story about overstimulation, denial, and an Oscar Piastri who refuses to let you finish until he’s completely satisfied.
pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem!reader
word count: 4.8+ k
raiting: 18+
genre: smut, pwp, romance, established relationship, fluff (at the end).
warnings: drunk Oscar (but sweet and consensual), bathroom sex, counter sex, mirror sex, overstimulation, edging, dirty talk, slight roughness, praise kink, unprotected sex (creampie), aftercare, cuddling
author note: So I wrote a new fanfic about y/n as Oscar's girlfriend. I think these will be the most frequent fics on my blog, because that's what you love the most. Actually, I had many versions of this fanfic, but I decided that this slightly drunk and dominant, insatiable version of Oscar and y/n's not-quite-protesting version would be the most interesting. It turned out so intense and long 🤭 I swear I haven't written anything more intense and dirty in all my writing (and I've written over 100 explicit scenes on another blog) 🩵 What this Oscar did to me?! 😱🫠🫢 If you like long, intense, and Oscar, then this is for you 👇🏻
The electronic key gave a quiet click, and the hotel room door opened. You walked inside, supporting Oscar, who, although capable of walking on his own, had decided he couldn’t manage without you. He was heavier than he looked at first glance. Oscar leaned his entire body weight against your shoulder; his usual composure had melted away somewhere at the bottom of his third glass of gin, giving way to a relaxed, warm heaviness.
A third consecutive victory at the Miami Grand Prix was the reason for his celebration. Oscar usually didn’t drink much—he always kept himself in check, even at parties. But this time, teammates and sponsors had insisted: "To first place! To the hat trick!" And he gave in.
Not to the point of total intoxication, no—he understood everything, but he spoke a bit lazily, drawing out his words. Alcohol made him completely unlike himself—more relaxed, more playful. A slight sway in his step and a warm smile that wouldn’t leave his face made him look both cute and funny at the same time. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw Oscar like this. Perhaps on his high school graduation day, when he got drunk with friends.
You gripped him tighter under the arm, feeling his muscles tense under the thin fabric of his black t-shirt, and involuntarily leaned closer to his neck.
The expected sharp smell of alcohol was there, but it was lost, receding into the background before what you adored to the point of trembling knees. He smelled like a storm that had finally subsided. It was a scent you would recognize among a thousand others. The smell of sun-dried wood and sea salt.
Heat radiated from Oscar’s flushed skin, and this scent was unfolding in a special way right now. It held the freshness of the wind on the Melbourne coast and the tartness of sage, which, mixing with the barely perceptible notes of expensive gin, created an intoxicating cocktail. Oscar always smelled like home.
But this dreamy moment was interrupted by his careless movement toward the bed, and you almost fell with him. You helped him land on the soft mattress, and your boyfriend fell, absolutely exhausted from the party. You ran a quick gaze over his body, sprawled across the middle of the bed, and shook your head, smiling. His black, tight-fitting t-shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing part of his flat stomach, and his white shorts had slipped down a bit on his hips.
"Champion, you definitely overdid it with the victories today," you said and sank to your knees in front of the bed to pull off his massive sneakers.
"I’m so tired..." he mumbled from somewhere above. His legs dropped limply to the floor as you removed his shoes. "But so... happy. Three in a row. Can you imagine?"
You stood up, walked to the nightstand beside the bed, and placed your purse and phone there. He turned his head toward you, and his smile grew wider.
"Are you proud of me?"
Warmth spread through your soul. You were prouder of him than he could imagine.
"I am proud of you," you whispered, leaning down to him and bracing your hands on the bed. Your lips gently touched his temple, and you felt him instantly bury his fingers in your hair. You hadn’t planned anything, just wanted to kiss him gently to express your pride. But Oscar craved more. He intercepted your lips, and his tongue slipped inside your mouth, deepening the kiss. The longer you kissed, the wetter and more chaotic it became.
Oscar pulled you toward him. You tried to resist, but he was stronger. Even drunk, he easily, effortlessly pulled you down next to him. But that wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t want you just lying next to him—he needed to feel all of you. With agility surprising for his state, he threw a leg over your thighs and in a moment, using inertia, pinned you under him.
The air was knocked out of your lungs. He was heavy. His relaxed body seemed to weigh a ton, and he didn't even try to hold himself up, trusting gravity completely. He sprawled over you, pressing you into the mattress with every inch of his body.
"Oscar... you're going to crush me," you laughed, trying to move his shoulder, but it was like moving a rock.
"No," he mumbled into your neck, and you felt his wet, hot smile against your skin. "I'm holding you. You're my main trophy today."
You were too tired for what Oscar had in mind. It was almost three in the morning, and after such a long and eventful day, you only dreamed of sleep.
"Oscar... I want to sleep..." you said. He began rubbing his nose against your cheek, then moved down to your neck, inhaling your scent as deeply as if it were oxygen. And then followed the kisses. His movements were languid, the trails wet, and the desire—obvious.
"You smell... tasty..." he whispered, lazily running his tongue over the sensitive skin behind your ear, sending a herd of goosebumps through you.
You realized: this had to end while you still had the strength to resist. Because a little more—and his lazy, hot kisses, his weight pressing you so pleasantly into the mattress, his scent filling your lungs—would do the job. You could already feel the response warming between your thighs, your body forgetting the fatigue and starting to reach for him. So you gathered all your will into a fist. First—gently. You ran your palm down his back, as if soothing him, and laughed quietly.
"Oscar... you really will crush me. I can't breathe."
He chuckled lazily but lifted his head slightly, looking down at you with those drunk, shining eyes.
"Then I'll make it lighter," he mumbled and tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but the alcohol made his movements clumsy. Instead, he just rolled a bit to the side, still holding you in his arms, and you seized the moment.
Sharply, but playfully, you twisted out from under him, as if wrestling, and slipped down—between his arms, past his chest, past his stomach. He tried to grab you by the waist, but his fingers only slid over the fabric of your dress. You were already at the edge of the bed, on your feet, laughing quietly so as not to wake his hunting instinct too strongly.
"No, no, champion," you said, retreating back toward the bathroom. "The trophy chooses a shower and bed today."
Oscar lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking at you with an offended, drunken smile. His hair was disheveled, and in his eyes, you could read disappointment mixed with desire. You saw that he was aroused: the fabric of his shorts was taut, his breathing accelerated. He reached a hand out in your direction, as if wanting to pull you back.
"Hey, come here..." he drawled lazily. "I haven't celebrated properly yet..."
"Celebrate in your dreams," you replied, already standing in the bathroom doorway. "I'll be quick. And don't touch yourself without me, got it?"
He just chuckled, falling back onto the pillow, and you closed the door—not all the way, out of habit.
In the bathroom, you exhaled with relief. Fatigue washed over you in a wave. You took off your dress to feel free, and before getting into the shower, you started washing the makeup off your face. Although there wasn’t much, skincare was mandatory. The face in the mirror looked tired but happy. You managed quickly and leaned down to wash with cool water.
When you lifted your head, drops were running down your cheeks, and when the water finally stopped blurring your vision, you saw Oscar in the mirror. He was standing in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. The black t-shirt was still slightly ridden up; the white shorts, low on his hips, did not hide his erection. He looked at you silently, and you saw mischievous sparks in his eyes. You wiped your face with a paper towel and turned to him.
You looked at his arousal and raised your eyes, meeting his.
"What? Want to shower first?" you asked, not without a dose of sarcasm, hinting that he needed to calm down.
But Oscar didn’t answer. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly approached you. There was not even a hint of drunkenness in his movements now. His eyes ran from bottom to top over your almost naked body. You turned back to the mirror and realized that now you were definitely trapped. In a moment, he was behind you. His large, solid body pressed you against the vanity with the sink. His lips found your neck again, and his fingers, which just a moment ago were on your waist, slid down your stomach to the place that had begun to pulse. You felt his aroused cock against your buttocks.
"Oscar, I'm really tired," you said almost inaudibly, because his fingers had already found their way to your wet folds. You felt his touch and gripped the edge of the cold marble countertop with your palms. The mirror in front of you fogged up from your breath, but you still saw his reflection: eyes dark, shining, a sly drunken smile, but absolutely confident.
"I know," he answered right by your ear. "But you said it yourself... don't touch myself without you. Besides, you started it..."
His fingers on your pussy moved slowly, you would even say teasingly—not penetrating, just circling around your center. You reacted instantly: your hips pushed forward on their own, seeking more pressure, but he evaded, keeping you on the edge.
"Mmm..." you tried to protest one more time, but nothing came out, just an uncontrollable moan escaped.
He pressed harder—you felt his full length, hot and hard, through the thin fabric of his shorts against your buttocks. With one hand he held you by the waist, not letting you pull away, with the other—he continued these slow, unbearable caresses.
"You're wet," he whispered, as if surprised, as if it were a discovery for him. "Very wet. And this is after you were 'tired'?"
You bit your lip, trying not to give away how much this turned you on—specifically this drunken confidence of his, this playful cruelty, knowing you wouldn't run away now.
He turned you to face him. You ended up sandwiched between his body and the sink. His lips found yours—the kiss was greedy, passionate, wetter from the alcohol, but one that made your head spin. While he kissed you, his fingers slid down again—this time inside, unhurriedly sinking into you. You arched, pressing against his palm. Your own hands slipped under his t-shirt, lifting it up as if urging him to take it off, and Oscar, without thinking twice, got rid of it in a moment, remaining only in shorts.
He returned to your lips as soon as he fulfilled your silent request and tore away from you only when you both needed air. He looked into your eyes—and smiled. This Oscar was not at all like the one you were used to seeing in bed.
He touched your thong and pulled it down. It fell, gathering at your ankles, and the cool air touched your moist folds. Oscar grabbed you by the thighs. One sharp, confident movement—and you were off the floor. The cold of the marble countertop burned your bare buttocks and thighs when he sat you on it, but that cold instantly vanished under the pressure of his hot body. Oscar unceremoniously spread your knees wider, settling between them so tightly that not a millimeter of free space remained.
Now your faces were on the same level. In his eyes splashed dark, intoxicating pleasure—he saw you trembling, and he liked it.
"Osc..." you tried to say something, but he didn't let you finish. His lips attacked yours again—not just kissing, but as if consuming you. But this time he didn't stop at the lips.
He began real torture. Oscar covered your jawline with kisses, descending to your neck, intentionally lingering on the most sensitive points where the blood pulsed. He sucked on the tender skin, alternating it with light bites that made you arch back, nearly hitting the back of your head against the mirror.
He didn’t take off the bra you were still wearing; he just yanked it, and it rode up, freeing your breasts.
His lips fell to your aroused nipples, and he caressed them with his tongue. The arousal intensified from these caresses because your breasts were an erogenous zone for you, and Oscar knew it well.
His hand ended up between your bodies, found the place that was the main trophy for him. And he acted ruthlessly.
His fingers moved inside in a rhythm he set himself, completely ignoring your chaotic attempts to adjust. He would speed up, sharply thrusting deeper and forcing you to throw your head back, then almost stop, barely touching, teasing you to tears. It was masterful, planned overstimulation. And you didn’t know what you were being punished for. Was it for running away?
You felt everything at once: the cold stone under your palms, the heat of his breath on your chest, and this unbearably sweet pressure below. Your moan became louder, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom.
"Shhh..." he whispered right into your mouth, stealing your breath. "The neighbors will hear..."
"Then... you... need... to stop..." you barely said, and your voice still broke into a loud moan from the overstimulation. Oscar had no intention of stopping, and you realized this when he sped up his movements. A wave of pleasure was already rising to your throat, your body tensed, preparing for the explosion. You instinctively squeezed his shoulders, pushing your hips toward his hand, begging for the finale.
But he sensed it. And abruptly stopped.
His fingers froze inside, ceasing movement exactly the second it was vitally necessary. Your body trembled treacherously from the incompleteness, and you opened your eyes, looking at him with a mixture of indignation and despair.
Oscar looked at you, breathing heavily, with a self-satisfied smile atypical for him. He ran his thumb over your lower lip, enjoying your reaction.
"Hmm... I'd like to try something else," he said. You let out a loud breath, feeling resentment that he tortured you so much but didn't allow you to come.
When he dropped to his knees and his face was right between your legs, you felt your walls contract in anticipation of his actions.
Oscar placed his palms on your thighs, spreading your legs even wider and securely fixed you in this defenseless position.
At first, you felt only his hot, ragged breath scorching your most sensitive skin, causing your stomach muscles to contract involuntarily. And then his tongue touched you—softly, broadly, from bottom to top, gathering all your juices.
"Mgh!..." you threw your head back, pressing the back of your head against the mirror. The cold of the glass sobered you a little, but the heat below was unbearable.
Oscar was in no hurry. It seemed he decided to taste every millimeter of you. He kissed the inside of your thighs, slowly approaching the center, teasing you with his slowness. His tongue moved confidently and wetly, and you felt him enjoying the taste as if you were his favorite vanilla ice cream.
But the real torture began when he focused on your clitoris. He didn't apply strong pressure, no. He barely touched it with the tip of his tongue, vibrating quickly, then suddenly switched to slow, wide circular motions. It was maddening. You wanted harder, faster, rougher, but he kept you in this state of weightlessness where pleasure bordered on the pain of tension.
"Fuck..." you exhaled, trying to move your hips toward his mouth to increase the pressure. "Oscar... please..."
He reacted, but in his own way. His hands gripped your thighs to the point of bruising, not letting you move on your own.
"Quiet..." his hum vibrated against your skin, sending a new electric shock through you.
Suddenly he added fingers. Two fingers abruptly entered inside, filling you, and began to move in the same rhythm as his tongue. This double attack knocked the air out of your chest. You grabbed his hair with your hands, clutching the strands, trying to hold on to reality, which was blurring before your eyes.
He played with you like a race car on a track—accelerating you to a crazy speed, forcing you to breathe raggedly and moan loudly, then abruptly dropping the revs, leaving you trembling at the very peak, but not letting you cross the finish line.
He pulled away for a second, and you felt the cold air on your wet skin. You opened your clouded eyes and saw him looking up at you from below. His lips were wet and swollen, his chin glistened with your juices, and that same devilish, drunken satisfaction burned in his eyes.
"You're so tasty when you beg," he rasped, his voice vibrating with arousal. "Want to come?"
He knew the answer. He saw your body taut as a string.
"Yes... Oscar, yes!" you almost shouted.
He smiled, and that smile promised you everything. He fell upon you again, but this time without games. His tongue moved fast, hard, knowing exactly where to strike. He began sucking on your clitoris with such intensity that you forgot how to breathe. His fingers moved inside madly fast, curling, seeking your G-spot, and when they found it, the world exploded.
A wave of pleasure crashed over you with such force that your vision went dark. Your legs trembled, and if Oscar hadn't held you with his strong hands, you would have just slid off that countertop onto the tiles. You gasped for air, trying to calm your heartbeat, which seemed to echo even in your ears.
But Oscar didn't give you time to rest.
He stood up from his knees, his face wet with your juices, and his eyes—dark and even greedier. He didn't even kiss you—just ran his hand along your wet thigh, as if checking the result of his work, and grunted with satisfaction.
"Thought that was it?" he rasped. "I haven't really celebrated yet..."
He easily lifted you off the countertop. Your legs gave way, your knees were like cotton, but he pressed you firmly against him, not letting you fall. He led you deeper into the bathroom, to the toilet, the lid of which was down.
"Stand here," he commanded softly. You leaned your back against the cool wall, watching him through a fog of pleasure. Oscar stood before you, flushed, incredibly handsome in his drunkenness and desire. His fingers, a bit clumsy from alcohol but impatient, gripped the waistband of his white shorts. He jerked them down, along with his underwear. The fabric fell to his ankles, and he carelessly kicked them aside, standing before you absolutely naked.
You involuntarily lingered your gaze on him. His cock stood straight up, hard, engorged with blood, pulsing with impatience. On the pale skin of his thighs, where his shorts usually were, the contrast with his tanned legs stood out. He looked powerful, and at the thought that all of this would be inside you right now, a wave of arousing heat ran through your body again.
Oscar sat on the toilet lid, spreading his legs wide, and pulled you by the hands toward him.
"Come to me," he called, looking you straight in the eyes. "Sit on top."
You took a step toward him. His warm palms rested on your buttocks, guiding you. You threw a leg over him, straddling him. His thighs were hard under yours.
You felt his head press against your wet, swollen entrance. It was a sensation on the edge—you were so sensitive after the orgasm that any touch seemed almost excessive, but at the same time, you felt an emptiness that only he could fill.
Oscar put his hands on your waist, helping you find your balance.
"Slowly..." he warned, though his own breathing was ragged.
You began to lower yourself. Centimeter by centimeter, he entered you, stretching, filling every corner with himself. You felt his hot hardness, his girth, and it made you throw your head back and moan loudly.
"Oh God..." you groaned.
When you lowered yourself all the way, your buttocks touching his groin, Oscar pressed his face into the curve of your neck with a noisy exhale. You sat face to face, tightly intertwined, skin to skin. It was intimate, hot, and incredibly tight. You felt his heart beating against your chest—just as madly as yours.
You tried to take the initiative and start moving yourself to find a comfortable rhythm, but Oscar stopped you. His large palms squeezed your waist, fixing you in place.
"No..." he mumbled, burying his nose in your hair. "I'll do it myself."
And he began to move. These were not the fast, rhythmic thrusts you were used to. Because of the alcohol, his body worked in a different mode: his movements were slow, languid, but incredibly deep. He would toss you up with his hips, and then forcefully lower you onto himself, burying himself in you to the very hilt, hitting your cervix.
For your body, which had just experienced an explosion of pleasure, this was a real test. Your walls were still spasmodically contracting, nerve endings were exposed, and every deep movement of his felt too sharp—on the border between pain and pleasure. You bit your lips, trying not to scream, because the sensations were so intense that tears gathered in your eyes.
"Oscar... that's... too deep..." you groaned, bracing your palms on his shoulders, trying to lift yourself at least a little to reduce the depth of penetration.
But he didn't listen. Or simply couldn't stop. Alcohol played a cruel joke on him for the first time: it dulled his sensitivity. What was overstimulation for you was insufficient for him. To feel you, to get closer to release, he needed more friction, more pressure, more time.
"I don't feel... the edge..." he rasped, and in his voice, irritation mixed with lust could be heard.
He began to move more insistently, rougher. He entered you at different angles, searching for that point that would finally allow him to break. He rubbed his pubic bone against your clitoris, which was already burning, forcing you to shudder with your whole body. It was like an endless loop: he stretched you, filled you, withdrew almost completely, and burst inside again, giving you not a second of respite.
You felt sweat trickling down your back, hair sticking to your neck. The air in the bathroom became heavy and humid.
"Oscar, I can't take it anymore..." you exhaled, feeling your legs starting to go numb from the awkward position, and everything inside burning from the continuous friction. "Please, finish..."
He raised his head and looked at you. His eyes were clouded, pupils dilated. He saw your fatigue, but that seemed to turn him on even more. He was aroused by having complete power over you, that you were entirely at his disposal, even when you had no strength left.
"I'm trying, baby..." he said playfully. "But you're so tight... and wet... I want this to last forever."
He changed tactics. Instead of deep thrusts, he began to grind into you with his hips, creating frantic friction inside. He squeezed your buttocks so hard that you knew—tomorrow there would be marks from his fingers there.
"Damn..." you cursed when he hit that same, overexcited G-spot again, forcing your body to treacherously react again, preparing you for a second wave you didn't ask for, but which he was striving for. "You're mocking me..."
"A little," he smiled crookedly, and a drop of sweat rolled down his temple. "That's for running away." He confirmed your guess as to why he decided to just kill you today.
You realized that if you didn't take the situation into your own hands (or rather—into your own body), this drunken marathon would last until dawn, and you would simply pass out right on top of him. You needed to push him over the edge, break through that alcohol haze that had dulled his sensitivity.
Gathering the last crumbs of strength, you stopped resisting his chaotic rhythm and did the only thing that could work without unnecessary movement. You hugged him around the neck, pressed your cheek to his wet temple, and squeezed your internal muscles with all your might.
Oscar hissed, freezing abruptly. You felt his cock twitch inside from this unexpected tight ring.
"Oh..." he exhaled, and his fingers dug painfully into your thighs.
You didn't let go. You continued to rhythmically squeeze him, combining it with short, barely perceptible pelvic movements to meet each of his thrusts. It worked. The pressure and heat finally did their job, switching something in his brain.
His breathing turned into a hoarse moan. The chaotic movements became short, sharp, and frantic.
"Yes... yes, like that... don't let go..." he babbled into your shoulder. You felt yourself relaxing, and his cock hitting exactly where it needed to. A second orgasm covered you today, and your walls began to contract around his again.
He made a few more deep, desperate thrusts, burying himself in you with the full weight of his body, and finally broke. His body tensed like steel, his back arched, and with a loud, drawn-out moan, he poured into you. You felt the hot, pulsating waves of his orgasm, which seemed to never end.
When the last spasms subsided, Oscar went limp. He dropped his head heavily onto your chest, breathing as if he had just run a marathon. You were completely exhausted too. Legs trembling, heart pounding, eyelids heavy as lead.
"I think I died..." you protested, having no strength even to move.
Oscar made some undefined sound, similar to a chuckle, and lazily kissed your collarbone.
"I'll revive you... tomorrow," he mumbled in a hoarse, sleepy voice.
"Shower," you whispered peremptorily, realizing that if you didn't wash the sweat and everything else off yourselves right now, you would simply fall asleep right here, on the toilet in the bathroom. "And this time—only to wash."
He laughed quietly, the vibration from his chest transferring to you.
"Yes, ma'am."
He helped you stand up. Your legs barely obeyed you, trembling after such tension, and Oscar, noticing this, just scooped you up under the arm, pressing you tightly to his side. Together you walked into the shower cabin.
Oscar turned on the water, and in a moment, pleasant warm steam enveloped you. When the streams of water hit your skin, you barely held back a moan of relief. The water washed away the stickiness, fatigue, and the remnants of the alcoholic haze.
This time he was surprisingly tender. Oscar took the shower gel and lathered it in his palms. He slowly ran his soapy hands over your shoulders, back, moving down to your lower back. His touches no longer demanded or teased—they soothed. He washed the traces of his fingers from your thighs, kissing the wet drops on your neck.
You, in turn, just leaned your forehead against his chest, allowing the water to run down both of you, and lazily moved your palm over his torso, washing away the sweat.
"You can barely stand on your feet," he mumbled into the top of your head, rinsing the foam from your hair.
"Whose fault is that?" you tore yourself away from his chest and looked up at him. He smiled, and now this man looked like "your Oscar" and not that wild lover who barely left you alive. The combination of three consecutive wins and a large amount of alcohol had revealed a new version of your boyfriend to you. And you would definitely never forget it.
Having dried off with one towel for two—quickly and carelessly, because the cold of the bathroom had already started to bite at your heated skin—you finally left the bathroom.
Reaching the bed seemed like the last task for today. As soon as you were near it, Oscar simply collapsed onto the mattress, pulling you with him. The cool bed linen seemed like the most pleasant thing in the world.
He immediately scooped you under him, settling into the "little spoon" position. His hand possessively lay on your waist, pressing your back to his chest, and his legs intertwined with yours. You felt his warmth, his even breathing by your ear, and that familiar scent, which was now clean and fresh.
Darkness and fatigue instantly swallowed you both. And although Oscar won the race in Miami today, his main victory, undoubtedly, was you, peacefully sniffling in his arms right now.
Lando likes to think he can read Oscar pretty well. He's seen the discourse about whether or not his teammate has emotions—"What a load of horseshit, of course he does!" he'd wanted to scream. He wears them on his sleeve, just like Lando, but only if you know where to look.
Oscar shows his emotions in his eyebrows. It's in the set of his jaw, the twitch of an eye, the scrunch of his nose. It's all so small and minute, so imperceptible, that you just might miss it if you aren't paying attention.
Three years is a long time to be paying attention, though, and Lando likes to look at Oscar.
Or, the one where Lando falls in love with Oscar over the course of the 2025 season.
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a/n: idk what this is other than me thinking abt going shopping with oscar and surprising him by trying on lingerie and it's been stuck in my head for the past few weeks so YEAAAAH whtever enjoy this brain rot :3 xx
word count: 2.4k (no warnings other than suggestive language)
it was just meant to be a harmless suggestion, swear.
“osc! i’m going shopping, baby,” you say, grabbing your purse and keys from the rack by the door. your boyfriend’s disheveled face appears from behind the couch cushions, hair pushed off his forehead from his gigantic gaming headphones.
“wait, you’re leaving?” oscar pouts, hooking his chin over the back of the couch. he looks so forlorn, giant brown eyes shining that you melt, padding over to cup his cheek. you can hear his friends yelling over his headset, video game forgotten.
“i’ll only be gone for a few hours,” you say, brushing his hair away from his forehead. he leans into your touch like he was made for you, pursing his lips. then you smile, crouching down so you’re eye-level with him and press a kiss to each cheek. “orrr…you could come with me.”
oscar’s face pinches. “i mean…”
with one last little tug to his ear, you shrug and stand, making your way back to the front door. “that’s fine. i was planning on looking at some pajamas. maybe something else if you’re being good.” you add the last part on for effect, shooting a cheeky little look over your shoulder. (knowing full well you were notin the market for lingerie, but if it got your boyfriend to hang out with you–well, it couldn’t hurt.) oscar’s eyes widen just a fraction.
you pause with your hand over the doorknob. “are you sure you don’t wanna come with?”
the ride to the mall is pleasant as you chatter about some of the items you were looking for, the tops you had seen in ads on your socials, celebrity gossip, anything you can think of. oscar listens on in amusement, chiming in every so often with his thoughts. his hand rests on your thigh, thumb skirting lightly over the inside of your knee.
it surprised you when you started dating to learn how touchy oscar actually was, always wanting to have you within an arm’s length of him. now his touch is as normal as breathing.
“mm, osc, what do you think about this?” you ask innocently, holding up a photo on your phone of a pink and girly babydoll lingerie set on a model. oscar hums, flicking his eyes to your phone unknowing, before turning bright red. he pulls his hand from your knee to the steering wheel, suddenly very interested with the road and the cars in front of you.
“yeah, it’s-um- pretty,” oscar replies and clears his throat.
you smile to yourself, brush your knuckles against his flaming cheek affectionately, and resume browsing on your phone like nothing had happened.
oh, this was going to be very fun indeed.
the first place you stop in is a swanky department store, dragging oscar behind you. always a good sport, oscar agrees to try on a few fancy shirts and suits, protesting all the way.
“i don’t understand why you’re making me do this,” he grumbles, throwing his t-shirt over the dressing room door.
“because we’re shopping, oscar, that’s what you do,” you roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. “it’s just for fun.”
the lock clicks and the door swings open, revealing your boyfriend in a black silk shirt, fitted around his shoulders and loose around the waist. he sighs, turning around to look in the mirror, giving you a nice view of the contours of his back peeking through the thin fabric. you stand, laying your hands flat against his shoulders.
“you look very nice, osc,” you say, tiptoeing around to face him, smoothing your hands down his chest, plucking at one of the buttons. “very handsome.”
he turns pink, tugging on the collar of the shirt and mumbles under his breath. you just laugh, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth as you both turn to look at him in the mirror.
“i mean why would i even need this?” he complains, tugging at the collar again. you grab his hand, interlacing your fingers together and wrap your arm around his waist. the color makes his eyes look darker and richer, brown against black. he looks so handsome it makes your stomach hurt.
“please, you don’t have any nice shirts like this.” oscar makes a sound of protest and you flip back around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck in the process. “you have to admit–” the flush creeps down from oscar’s cheeks to his throat as you lean in close. “–it looks very sexy.”
oscar coughs– hard– jerking away from you. he waves you away as you hover around him in amusement, smacking a hand hard against his back.
“you’re so lame,” you tease, drawing the door closed behind you over oscar’s embarrassed face.
you manage to convince oscar (with plenty of kisses and some mild pleading) to try on a few more items, like a Hugo Boss suit jacket and a beautiful Balmain cashmere sweater. oscar isn’t the type to care about fashion or brands, really, but it’s fun to run around shoving articles of clothing at him to try on like your own personal fashion model.
“i feel ridiculous,” oscar grumbles, coming out of the dressing room again, tugging at the sleeve of the sweater. his face is still pink from embarrassment as you fawn over him in the mirror. honestly, it’s infuriating how good some of the things look on him, elevating his boyish features to that of a high-end J-Crew model.
it takes everything in you not to pounce on him in the middle of the store.
“i don’t know, osc, it looks pretty good,” you say, using your sweetest voice possible. it works, and oscar tilts his head in the mirror, considering the sweater for a beat longer.
“it’s not bad, i guess…”
you fiddle with the collar of the sweater, pressing it flat under your fingers, smoothing out the shoulders, admiring your boyfriend’s athletic build. while the clothing may have been for him, the show and tell was absolutely for you. similar to the black silk, the deep blue brings out the warmth of his skin and hair, turning his undertones gold even in the harsh store lighting.
“you look so good, baby,” you whisper against his ear.
twenty minutes and many stolen kisses later, you and oscar walk out of the store with one new shopping bag and pockets considerably lighter than when you started.
“we should go out tonight,” you say a few hours later. you gaze into store windows, pointing out some things to oscar as you pass. your linked hands swing loosely between the two of you, shopping bags crinkling loudly as they bump oscar’s leg every so often. being who he is, oscar is more than happy to carry all of them, quietly taking them from your hands after the cashier gives them to you.
oscar hums in response. “i don’t know, i’m kind of tired. i was thinking we could just hang out tonight and maybe order a pizza.”
you pull your face into a pout. “osc, it’s been ages since we’ve gone out to dinner… plus you should show off your new sweater. it makes you look very dashing.” oscar shakes his head, mortified but secretly pleased as he bites back a smile.
“what were you thinking?” he asks, but your attention has already been caught by a different store.
“oh, let’s go in there,” you say, barely giving your boyfriend the chance to respond before you’re dragging him through the front door. oscar’s hand goes stiff in your grip as he freezes, suddenly surrounded by hot pink, frills, and a considerable lack of fabric.
“oh, i mean, i can wait for you outside–”
you sneak a look back at oscar and gently extract your hand from his nervous grip, smiling sweetly. “no, baby, stay. you were sooo gracious to try things on for me, now it’s my turn.” you press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the heat from oscar’s skin under your lips and flit away to one of the lit wall racks, leaving your flustered boyfriend to scramble after you.
it’s cute how nervous he gets around you sometimes, hovering behind you as you feel lace and silk and velvet between your fingers.
“what do you think about this?” you hold up a strappy emerald green number with less coverage than you would ever consider, keeping your face as straight as possible. oscar’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates.
“it’s– yeah, it’s–“ he clears his throat, and jerks his head in what you think is a nod. or he might be seizing; it’s difficult to tell.
“should i try it on? what do you think?” your boyfriend looks at you with something akin to fear, shrugging and fumbling for words. “ok, hold this please.”
you drag him around the rest of the store, picking out sheer babydoll dresses, lacy bodysuits, and even a few bustiers. oscar takes every new piece from you without a fight, and from far away it might’ve looked as if he was unaffected if not for the flush deepening with every second that passed.
only when oscar looks like he’s on the verge of potentially blacking out, you drag him to the fitting room.
“no, i really think i should wait out here,” he murmurs, looking mildly panicked amidst a pile of shopping bags and lingerie.
you shush him, pulling him into the biggest dressing room and sitting him down on the little seat in the corner.
“i’ll be fast, ok?” you hang the assortment of hangers on the wall, pulling at the zipper of your jeans. “no peeking,” you tease. oscar’s ears go pink, and he squeezes his eyes closed, obediently turning towards the wall.
it’s extremely difficult to wrestle yourself into the first piece, a little black teddy with more straps than fabric, and about a million clasps up the front of the bodice. you feel a little foolish looking at yourself in the mirror, like a teenager trying to be more grown up than they really were.
you clear your throat and spin around to face your boyfriend, who still has his eyes adamantly closed. without warning you capture oscar’s mouth in a kiss, pulling a sound of surprise from his throat. his fingers find lace and elastane on your hips instead of denim and he frowns.
oscar’s eyes fly open, his face once again flushing when he sees what you’re wearing.
his lips form words, but no sound comes out. you giggle, pulling away to do a little twirl in the mirror. oscar’s gaze is hot on your skin and you suddenly feel self-conscious, arms wrapping protectively around your stomach.
“what do you think?” you ask, voice coming out much quieter than you anticipated. oscar is at a loss for words, rising to his feet as if in a trance. your heart rate spikes as he steps close, eyes roaming across your body.
“wow,” is all he says at first, pulling your arms away from your body to spin you around again. you laugh breathlessly as his hands skim across your hips, feeling the lace under his fingers again– as if he can’t quite believe you’re real. “wow.” oscar’s cheeks are flaming as he struggles for words.
then he murmurs, “you look so pretty, baby,” as he turns you around to look at yourself in the mirror. gone is the nervous man from earlier, replaced instead by the cool-headed version of oscar you only ever saw at home. goosebumps erupt across your skin as he gives you another once-over.
“beautiful,” oscar mumbles again, and you hide your face in your hands, flustered by his quiet reverence. he’s seen you entirely butt-naked before, but the look in his eyes feels like this is the first time all over again.
“ok, that’s enough,” you say, fanning your face. “close your eyes.”
oscar pouts. “but i’ve seen you before.” you shake your head, fingers fumbling with the first few clasps.
“we’re in public right now, and i can’t say i trust you to behave,” you reply, voice teasing. oscar makes a sound of protest, but closes his eyes anyway, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.
you try on the next item, a pretty maroon babydoll dress that leaves almost nothing to the imagination, splitting down the middle to reveal your bare stomach. the fabric is cool against your skin, and soft enough to feel like you’re wearing nothing at all, and when oscar opens his eyes, he’s even less collected than before.
oscar groans, shaking his head as you do another spin for him.
“this is so mean of you.” he beckons you closer, thumbs skirting over the expanse of your stomach, grinning up at you through his lashes as your muscles jump under his touch.
you gasp as his lips find your skin, right above your bellybutton and you jerk, shoving his head away in shock.
“oscar!” you hiss, and he laughs, the flush now creeping from under the collar of his t-shirt. you look in the mirror again, blushing seeing oscar behind you in the reflection. “yes or no?”
he comes up behind you, pressing against your back, arms looping around your waist. he noses along your throat, lips finding the ticklish spot under your ear.
“i think yes,” oscar murmurs against your shoulder and you shiver, “just so i can take it off you later.”
you’ve never gotten dressed so fast before.
at the register, you lay the garments on the counter, offering the cashier a shy smile, and after your items have been rung up and totaled she asks, “cash or card?”
“uh, card.” you rummage around in your purse for your wallet when oscar appears next to you, quietly offering his card to the cashier. despite yourself your heart feels like it could burst in your chest and you smile sweetly at your boyfriend, kissing oscar on the cheek and beaming at the cashier.
she eyes oscar curiously, plucking the black card out of his hand without much more thought, and you take the bag from her graciously as the two of you finally leave the store.
“are you ready to go? i think i’m ready to go home,” oscar says casually, but you see the tense set of his shoulders. you feel his palm pressing into the small of your back, warm and insistent.
you simper, pursing your lips. “are you sure? there’s nothing else you wanted to see?”
oscar groans, already steering you towards the entrance of the mall. he presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “i can think of a few things.”
the drive back home has never felt longer. after all, you have a fashion show to attend.
how about one where she had a long working day so ocs helps with her migraine and flare up bub turning off lights and takes care of her after a nap by feeding her and braiding her hair. hope it is not too hard to write. btw love ur pcos pieces.
keeping the lights low
Oscar Piastri x PCOS!reader
summary: oscar takes care of reader after a long, painful day.
warnings: pcos mention, migraine, chronic pain, flare up
A/N: hiyyyaaa i’m so glad u enjoy this series, it’s my most written 😭 i hope this is to ur liking and expectations. ENJOOOYYYY!!!! ❤️
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the door clicks shut behind you, the quiet thud of your bag hitting the floor following right after. your head’s pounding, legs heavy, and every part of you feels like it’s been wrung out, body screaming from a full day of moving, thinking, pushing through.
oscar’s already crossing the room before you can say a word.
“lights,” you mumble, wincing.
he’s got you — one hand guiding you to the couch with a soft, “sit down, baby,” and the other flicking every switch until the room falls into a warm, safe kind of darkness. the curtains get drawn, too, until there’s just the softest amber spill of light from the hallway.
you don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel him kneel in front of you and brush your cheeks dry with both thumbs. “migraine?” he asks quietly.
you nod, curling in on yourself. “and a flare up. and i feel gross. and—”
he kisses your knee. “no need to explain. you’ve done enough for one day.”
his hands help you out of your shoes, easing them off like he’s holding something fragile, and he whispers, “lean back,” guiding you gently to lie down. he covers you with your favorite blanket, tucks it around your shoulders, and presses a soft kiss to your temple. “nap for a bit. i’ll be right here.”
you fall asleep to the sound of his quiet breathing and the occasional hum of him scrolling through his phone at a distance, making sure nothing’s loud, nothing’s jarring, nothing disturbs you.
when you wake up, it’s to the smell of something warm and sweet. you’re still fuzzy when oscar crouches beside the couch again, thumb brushing your cheek.
“hey, baby,” he whispers. “made you some soup.”
you blink at him, sluggish. “you didn’t have to…”
“shh.” he slides a pillow behind your head and lifts a spoon to your lips. “you don’t lift a finger tonight, yeah?”
you let him feed you, let him wipe a little broth from your chin when you miss your mouth. his smile is fond, soft as his voice. “there she is,” he murmurs, like your whole world fits in the space between each breath he takes.
later, when your stomach’s full and your body’s still aching, he helps you sit upright between his legs, back against his chest, and starts combing his fingers gently through your hair.
“gonna braid it for you,” he says into your shoulder. “keep it from tangling while you rest.”
his fingers work slowly, carefully — the braid’s a little loose, a little uneven, but it doesn’t matter. it’s from him, done with love, done with care.
you whisper, “thank you,” voice hoarse.
he kisses the back of your neck. “anything for you, baby.”
and he holds you there, arms wrapped around you tight, both of you quiet in the dark. pain still there, but somehow smaller now. somehow lighter. all because of him.
omg what if oscar got his deadpanned nature all from his older sister and those two as they get older are always sarcastic together towards everything
my little echo
Oscar Piastri x older sister!reader
summary: oscar piastri slowly turns into a smaller, sassier version of his older sister. simply because he thinks she’s the coolest person alive.
warnings: sibling sarcasm, chaotic household, oscar being your mini-me
A/N: i love this au so much, well i love all of the older sister au’s but baby oscs got a soft spot in my heart. thank u for the request anon!! enjoy, sweet angel 🫶
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you’d barely gotten three steps into the kitchen before chaos greeted you like a warm, screechy welcome mat.
edie was standing on a chair yelling about how mae stole her diary. mae was yelling back that she didn’t, that she was just looking. hattie was stirring a pot of something violently on the stove, earbuds in and completely oblivious to the screaming behind her.
you just blinked. took a deep breath. leaned against the fridge and stared blankly at the wall.
“sounds peaceful,” oscar said from beside you, mirroring your stance, hands in the pockets of his hoodie like he’d been doing this for years.
you glanced at him — twelve, gangly, hair sticking up at odd angles — and raised one eyebrow. “tranquil, really. zen.”
“serene,” he added, nodding solemnly.
edie’s voice went up an octave and mae hurled a cushion across the room. it missed everyone and hit the dog.
you sighed. “we’re being punished for something.”
“you think mum cursed us for eating the good biscuits?”
“only logical explanation.”
he stood there, shoulder to shoulder with you, arms crossed and expression perfectly blank. and it hit you — not for the first time — how much he’d started to act like you. the timing. the tone. the subtle sarcasm. like he’d watched you handle the chaos a hundred times and decided, yeah. that’s how i’ll do it too.
it was kind of adorable. and also mildly terrifying.
“you know you’re turning into me, right?” you said, half a smile pulling at your mouth.
he shrugged. “there are worse people.”
“aw,” you teased. “is that love i hear?”
“don’t ruin it.”
you tousled his hair. he didn’t fight you, just scowled and smoothed it back in a very you kind of way.
he even sighed like you.
“you’re like a little clone,” you said, grinning. “my echo.”
“your taller echo,” he muttered, smug.
“barely. and watch your attitude, or i’ll make you be the one to tell edie that mae drew hearts around her crush’s name.”
he blanched. “i’ll do the dishes instead.”
“wise choice.”
nicole passed through the doorway, gave you both a look. “if you’re standing there judging everything again, go take the bins out.”
you and oscar, in perfect, practiced unison:
“wouldn’t dream of it.”
“not at all.”
she rolled her eyes. “you’re raising a monster.”
“i’m raising a legend,” you said proudly, clapping a hand on oscar’s shoulder.
he stood a little taller.
and as the house swirled with noise and crashing and the smell of something mildly burning, the two of you remained side by side — still, dry, unfazed — a matching set.
