♡ reqs are open rn! (I'm a full time emt and in school + planning a wedding so forgive if it takes a while my brain is typically fried all week 😭 sometimes im inspired others im not)
♡ open to writing hard kinks but it's up to discretion lol just ask first. It might get posted it might not but I'll definitely look it over and try my best. I try my best to tag my harsher content with plenty of tws so no one's caught off guard.
♡ no minors on any of my posts, I don't want yall here, this isn't the place for you. 🔞 MDNI always.
Blehhh ive been kinda sickly the last few days and prepping for a trip so ik this is rushed but it helps me get some ideas out and into the world so I can come back to use them later lol
*MDNI, NSFW BELOW THE CUT*
Normally idgaf abt post captions but this is ABSOLUTELY something he would both say and do. Condescending dom Oscar is my hill to die on.
Ik hes a dom and all but hes also a yearner and a desperate one at that so ya some "if I dont get further inside you im going to die" thrusts on the couch fit him well
Post race reminder he can still be soft sometimes and body worship is an addiction
Breeding kink haver Piastri who feels like his job ain't done unless you get folded into a mating press
Yeah. He would.
Making him late as FUCK to a drivers meeting cause hes too deaf to hear the 10000 phone calls and texts he got over the sound of your pretty moans
Summary: Oscar has a biting kink and is ashamed of it while you are obsessed with it
Song: My Love · Justin Timberlake
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 18+ ONLY! 🤭🫶
Word count: 3.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Stop looking at me like I’m a piece of fruit you’re trying to decide whether to buy," Oscar muttered, though he didn't move his shoulder away from your reach.
He was still in his team kit, the fire-retardant fabric stiff and smelling of ozone and spent rubber, a sharp contrast to the sterile, chilled air of the motorhome.
He kept his gaze fixed on the telemetry data on the screen, but the slight tremor in his jaw gave him away; he was vibrating with a tension that had nothing to do with the qualifying lap he’d just nailed.
"I'm not looking at you like fruit, Oscar," you replied, your voice dropping an octave, trailing a finger along the sensitive line where his neck met his collarbone. "I'm looking at you like someone who knows exactly what you're suppressing."
He let out a sharp, jagged exhale, a sound that was half-sigh and half-groan. "It's animalistic," he whispered, finally turning to face you, his eyes dark and clouded with a guilt that only served to make the air between you thicker. "It's not… it's not polished. It's not how I'm supposed to be."
"Who decided you had to be polished in this room?" You didn't wait for an answer, sliding your hand up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down until his breath hitched against your skin.
You could feel the heat radiating off him, a feverish intensity that broke through his carefully curated composure. When his lips finally brushed yours, it wasn't a kiss—it was a reconnaissance mission, hesitant and searching, until you tilted your head, exposing the pale, vulnerable stretch of your throat as a silent invitation.
The shift was instantaneous; the restraint snapped with an audible sharpness. He didn't just kiss you; he claimed a territory, his teeth grazing the junction of your shoulder and neck with a predatory precision that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your pelvis.
You gasped, your fingers knotting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as he sank his teeth in—not enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a deep, blooming ache.
The sensation was a bruising pressure, a rhythmic pulsing of heat that radiated outward, leaving a searing map of ownership across your skin that would take days to fade.
"Is this what you're afraid of?" you managed to choke out, your voice trembling under the weight of his intensity. "That you're not… polished enough?"
You tilted your head further back, offering him more space, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Because I don't want polished, Oscar. I want the parts of you that you try to hide from the cameras."
He let out a sound that was less a word and more a guttural vibration, his forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat of suffocating silence.
"It feels like losing control," he admitted, his voice rough, stripped of its usual composure. "Once I start, I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be gentle when the only thing I can think about is how much you're shaking for me."
He didn't move away, but instead shifted his weight, his thigh brushing against yours with a slow, deliberate friction that made your breath hitch. He began to trace the line of your jaw with the pad of his thumb, the pressure barely there, a ghost of a touch that felt like a live wire sparking against your skin.
Every millimeter of contact felt amplified, the static electricity between you humming louder than the distant roar of the idling engines outside the motorhome.
His fingertips dipped lower, grazing the hollow of your throat where your pulse was hammering a frantic rhythm, his touch hesitant, almost questioning, as if he were waiting for you to recoil from the hunger he couldn't quite mask.
The tension snapped when he finally lunged, not for your lips, but for the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder. This time, there was no hesitation; he sank his teeth in with a focused, deliberate intensity that elicited a sharp, involuntary cry from your lungs.
The sting was immediate and electric, a searing point of contact that bloomed into a deep, thrumming heat.
He sucked the skin upward, the pressure creating a vacuum that pulled the blood to the surface, marking you in a way that was visceral and undeniable, a bruised signature of his hidden nature.
You arched into him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms, pulling him flush against you until there wasn't a sliver of air left between your bodies.
The smell of him—salt, adrenaline, and a hint of expensive cologne—filled your senses, dizzying and intoxicating. As he moved to the other side of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin with a predatory precision, you felt the low growl vibrating in his chest, a sound of surrender to the very instinct he had spent his entire career suppressing.
He paused, his lips hovering just millimeters from a fresh patch of skin, and for a heartbeat, the silence in the motorhome became a physical weight.
He didn't commit; instead, he let his hot breath ghost over the surface, a teasing torture that made your skin prickle and your core ache with a demanding void.
His hand slid from your neck down to the small of your back, his palm pressing firm and heavy, anchoring you to him while the anticipation coiled tight in your stomach, a spring wound too far, waiting for the slightest trigger to snap.
The friction of his team kit against your thighs was a coarse reminder of where you were, a stark contrast to the wet, sliding heat where his mouth finally clamped down again.
He didn't just bite this time; he lingered, swirling his tongue around the mark he'd made, tasting the salt of your skin before pulling back with a sharp, sudden nip that elicited a strangled gasp from your throat.
It was a calculated rhythm of pain and pleasure, a silent dialogue of hunger that bypassed words entirely, leaving only the visceral evidence of his desperation.
"You're shaking," he whispered, the words vibrating against your collarbone, his voice now a dark, honeyed rasp. He shifted his grip, his fingers splaying across your hip to pull you tighter against the hard line of his body, ensuring you felt every erratic beat of his heart.
The control he prized so highly was fraying at the edges, replaced by a raw, urgent need to leave a map of his desire across your skin, one bruising mark at a time.
He didn't go back to your neck immediately; instead, he began a slow, agonizing descent, his fingertips tracing the ribs beneath your shirt with a lightness that felt like a dare.
It was a sensory contradiction—the heavy, possessive weight of his body pinning you back against the cold wall of the motorhome, while his touch remained teasingly tentative, barely grazing the surface.
The friction of his calloused fingertips against your skin sent tremors through your thighs, a starving kind of tension that made you want to scream for him to either stop or shatter you completely.
You reached for him, your palms sliding over the slick, fire-retardant material of his sleeves, trying to find purchase, to pull him back into the violence of the moment.
When your fingers finally locked behind his neck, pulling his face back up to yours, you caught the flash of something primal in his gaze—a hunger that was stripped of all apology.
He didn't kiss you; he simply leaned in until his nose brushed yours, his breath mingling with your own in short, jagged bursts, the air between your lips charged with a static that felt thick enough to taste.
The silence was punctured by the distant, metallic clatter of a tool trolley in the paddock, a sudden reminder of the world outside their sterile sanctuary. Oscar flinched, the sound momentarily snapping him back to the persona of the poised athlete, but the instinct won.
With a low, guttural sound, he bypassed your lips entirely and buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his teeth finding a fresh, unmarked stretch of skin.
He clamped down hard, a sudden, sharp pressure that forced a broken moan from your throat, the pain blossoming instantly into a searing, concentrated heat that radiated down your spine.
"Does it make you feel like you're losing it?" you gasped, your voice a fractured wreck of its former self. You tilted your head back, offering him a wider canvas, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the wet, heavy suction of his mouth claiming the mark. "Does it make you feel like you're finally not in control, Oscar?"
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris until his eyes were two bottomless pits of hunger. "I hate how much I like the way you look when I do it," he admitted, the words barely audible, stripped of any pretense. "The way your breath hitches, the way you stop thinking… it's the only time the noise in my head actually goes quiet."
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, arching you into him with a force that knocked the remaining air from your lungs.
The coarse fabric of his racing suit scraped against your skin, a tactile friction that served only to heighten the sensitivity of every nerve ending. He didn't wait for a response; he simply lunged forward again, his teeth grazing the underside of your jaw with a slow, deliberate precision that promised a slow descent into a very beautiful, very bruised kind of chaos.
As he shifted his weight to anchor you more firmly against the wall, the heavy muscle of his inner thigh drove upward, his legs pressing against your pussy with a blunt, insistent pressure.
The heat of him soaked through the layers of fabric, a searing weight that mirrored the pulsing throb between your legs. Every time he breathed, every time he shifted to find a new patch of skin to claim, that relentless pressure ground deeper, creating a friction that felt like a slow-burning fuse leading straight to your core.
The sensation was an anchor, grounding the dizzying vertigo of his bites with a visceral, physical demand. You could feel the hard line of him, the sheer strength of his legs pinning you in place, making it impossible to retreat even if you wanted to.
It was a territorial claim of a different sort—not the visible marks he was leaving on your neck, but a hidden, crushing intimacy that left you breathless.
You let out a strangled sound, half-sob and half-sigh, as you wrapped your own legs around his waist, pulling that heavy pressure closer, desperate to collapse the final sliver of space between you.
Oscar paused, his lips hovering just above a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone, his chest heaving in a ragged rhythm. He didn't look at you, but you could feel the tremor in his thigh, the way the muscle jumped against your heat, betraying the fragility of his remaining composure.
The silence of the motorhome felt heavy, saturated with the scent of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of desire, as he waited for the exact moment your resistance would snap and you would beg for the very thing he was too ashamed to name.
"You're not even trying to stop me," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to echo inside your own chest. The admission was stripped of his usual calculated poise, replaced by a raw curiosity that made his teeth graze the surface of your skin once more, a teasing promise of a deeper pressure.
"Most people would tell me I'm being too much. They'd tell me to dial it back, to be careful with the skin."
"Who is 'most people'?" you countered, your voice a strained, breathless wreck as you arched your back, practically shoving your throat into the path of his hunger. "I'm not most people, Oscar. I'm the person who wants to wake up tomorrow and see exactly where you’ve been, in a way that no amount of concealer can hide."
You felt him shudder against you, a sudden, violent ripple of surrender that made him growl, the sound vibrating through your ribs. "Do it again," you whispered, "and don't you dare be gentle about it."
The command acted like a trigger, snapping the last thread of his restraint. He lunged forward, his teeth sinking into the juncture of your shoulder with a sudden, bruising force that made your vision blur and your toes curl against the backs of his calves.
It wasn't a kiss; it was a claim, a sharp, focused point of intensity that sent a cascade of white-hot sparks radiating down your spine and pooling in the heavy ache of your pelvis. T
he sensation was visceral and grounding, a rhythmic thrum of pressure and release that left you gasping, your fingers locking into the muscles of his shoulders as he began to systematically map the territory of your skin with a desperate, starving hunger.
As he shifted his focus, his mouth sliding toward the sensitive dip of your collarbone, a low, fractured sound escaped you—a moan that started in the depths of your belly and tore through your throat, raw and unplanned.
It wasn't a soft sound; it was a jagged, guttural admission of how much you craved the violence of his touch. The vibration of it seemed to electrify him, causing his grip on your hips to tighten until his knuckles went white, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches that mirrored the frantic cadence of your own heart.
He answered that sound with one of his own, a deep, resonant vibration that felt less like a voice and more like a physical weight pressing against your chest. It was a sound of absolute surrender, the noise of a man who had stopped fighting the animal inside him and had finally decided to let it lead.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, the friction of his stubble scraping against your skin, and let out a shuddering, half-smothered sound that vibrated through your entire frame, a sonic reflection of the bruising pressure he was applying to your skin.
His hand slid lower, the rough material of his racing suit scraping against the silk of your underwear as he pressed you harder into the wall, his thigh now a relentless, grinding force against your center.
The contrast was dizzying—the cold, sterile air of the motorhome biting at your exposed skin and the searing, concentrated heat of Oscar’s mouth wherever he chose to land.
He began to suck a long, slow line from your jaw down to the valley of your chest, his teeth grazing the surface just enough to leave a stinging trail of anticipation, ensuring that by the time he reached the soft swell of your breast, you were trembling with a need that felt like a physical hunger.
The sudden, sharp rap of knuckles against the door shattered the silence, followed by the muffled, insistent voice of his engineer. "Oscar? You in there? We need to go over the turn-four data before the press conference, Zac is already in the briefing room."
The voice was casual, oblivious to the wreckage of composure occurring inches away, but the sound caused Oscar to freeze, his lips still clamped firmly onto the curve of your shoulder.
He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he let out a low, frustrated hiss, the sound of a man caught between two different worlds, his forehead leaning heavily against yours while his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"Just a minute!" Oscar called back, his voice a jagged, strained rasp that sounded nothing like his usual measured tone. He didn't move an inch away from you, his eyes dark and searching, his teeth still grazing the skin of your neck in a silent, stubborn refusal to let go.
"Give us two minutes!"
The engineer paused, the silence in the hallway heavy with a sudden, flickering curiosity. "Everything alright? You sound… strained. You're not having a panic attack about the tires, are you?"
You let out a stifled, shaky laugh, the sound vibrating against Oscar’s chest as you felt him tighten his grip on your hips, a silent promise that this was far from over.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a ghost of a whisper that sent a fresh shiver cascading down your spine.
"He has no idea," he murmured, the words tasting of hunger and desperation, "that I’m currently trying to decide exactly how many more marks I can leave before I have to put the helmet back on."
"Then stop deciding and start doing," you breathed, your voice a fractured sliver of its usual self, your fingers digging into the fire-retardant fabric of his shoulders.
You could feel the heat of him, the sheer, concentrated intensity of his focus shifting from the door back to the pale, bruised expanse of your skin. "Let him wait. Let Zac wait. Let the whole world wait while you figure out exactly how much of me you can claim."
"You're a menace," he rasped, though the way he looked at you—pupils blown wide, eyes dark with a raw, unvarnished need—betrayed the fact that he was completely undone.
He didn't move away; instead, he shifted his weight, the heavy, hard muscle of his thigh grinding deeper into your center with a slow, deliberate friction that made your vision swim. "You want me to lose my mind in front of the telemetry screens, don't you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, his mouth crashing back into the hollow of your throat with a sudden, bruising force that stole the air from your lungs.
This wasn't the tentative exploration of a man ashamed of his urges; it was a calculated demolition of restraint, his teeth sinking in with a sharp, rhythmic precision that sent a jolt of electric heat straight to your core.
You arched into him, your heels digging into his calves, the sensation of his teeth clamping down creating a searing, focused point of pleasure that blurred the edges of the room until there was nothing left but the scent of ozone and the visceral, bruising weight of him claiming you.
He began to work his way downward, his lips leaving a trail of scorching heat across the pale expanse of your chest, each touch a deliberate mark of ownership.
Every time he pulled back, it felt like a physical loss, a sudden void that made your skin prickle with a desperate need for the pressure to return. He wasn't just kissing you; he was carving a map of his desperation into your skin, leaving deep, blooming hickeys that felt like warm embers glowing against your flesh.
The friction of his racing suit against your thighs was a coarse, grounding reminder of the ticking clock outside, yet the way he lingered on the curve of your collarbone felt like a defiance of time itself.
The engineer’s voice drifted back, more insistent now, the sound of a world demanding Oscar’s return to the polished, calculated version of himself.
But as Oscar sank his teeth into the soft dip of your shoulder one last time, he didn't pull away with the suddenness of a man caught; instead, he let the pressure linger, leaving a bruised signature that pulsed in time with your own frantic heartbeat.
He lingered in the space between the public and the private, his breath a ragged heat against your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the exact scent of your surrender before the sterile air of the paddock claimed him.
He eventually stepped back, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling exposed and shivering, though your skin was humming with a thousand electric needles.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sound of his uneven breathing and the distant, muffled chaos of the paddock. He didn't look at you as he smoothed the front of his kit, his fingers trembling slightly, the ghost of his hunger still flickering in the dark intensity of his gaze.
He was leaving the room, but he was leaving something behind—a map of heat and soreness that burned through your clothes, a secret language written in purple and red across your collarbone. . . .
If I could have one Oscar fic branded on my eyeballs, this would be the one.
The way you describe the urge, how you describe the pure craving and the way he just snaps and gorges himself on the sensation and need. It’s just. The cherry on top. Him being given the green light to drown in it.
I’ll have this as a permanent thought of him now. Truly indulges two of my favourite thoughts, all in one.
how would dark! oscar act around you on a race weekend?
thinking about recent stuff...
dark! oscar had a DNS? oh he's furious. Don't even think about talking to anyone else. He'll need you by his side immediately, like that can fix everything. So if you talk to anyone else, whether it's from mclaren or another team… it'll only fuel his anger.
why would you talk to anyone else? there's no need. Especially not now.
and if it was his fault, you know he'll need your attention, your eyes and hands on him all the time, reminding him how good he is, how much you trust him, and how you'll always be his number one fan.
you won't achieve that if the first thing you do is talk to someone else. He can't allow that.
but what if it was someone else's fault? god, no one can save you. He's going to use you, he's going to break you. He's going to be so rough that you won't even have a voice once he starts. But you don't complain, because something inside you is maybe.... just as sick, and you like it. You like being useful to him. You like that he needs you, as much as he needs to breathe.
and what if it was someone else's fault and he sees you talking to that someone? oh, that person is dead. His eyes are on you, burning, boiling until you feel uncomfortable. And he touches your arm, your waist. His grip is so tight that you know the only thing you can do is go after him immediately.
because for dark! oscar, there's no better medicine than going anywhere with you, watching you kneel before him, ready to receive him, to spoil him for a while, just as he trained you.
thanks to dark! oscar, you had to abandon modesty, a large part of your morality. Because he's always hungry, and he doesn't care about being on the job. Did you dress up for him? he falls for that. Are you talking to some other driver? he'll pull you away immediately. Are you too distracting for him? he'll have his fun right there, even if your cheeks burn, even if you can barely hold back your moans.
dark! oscar even loves to play with you in front of the cameras, making you put on a small vibrator, which only he could control. Making you get distracted, making you forget the sensation for a moment, until the men with the cameras approach the guest area, and he can't help himself, turning on the small device inside your pussy, watching you react with panic, trying to hide, to run away; making him feel in control, bringing a smile to his face.
he'll always be watching, everything you say and do, every person who comes near you. Almost to a paranoid level, though he hides it by clenching his jaw, letting himself be labeled as serious, stoic, someone who doesn't care about anything, even though inside he's burning up at the thought of you talking to someone else.
even like that, dark! oscar loves having you there, showing you off, and proving to you that you chose the right one, the one who will always make you proud. So he just tries to find ways, like getting one of the guys you talked to "accidentally" to catch you in the act, or having one of the team members see you shaking from the toy inside you that he's controlling.
small things
because dark! oscar would do anything, except ask you to stop going. He could never do that. He could never keep you away.
Straight up cackling like an over the top villain when you post or reblog Oscar.
In the hole you go. Deeper and deeper.
Ive always loved him as a driver (he's my dad's favorite actually!!) And just never rlly looked at him too long ig? Spent the last 3 days TUMBLING into the deepest Piastri pit ever dear god im whipped 😭
Tbh I dont wanna be saved 🤷♀️ in fact, make it worse bring it on
