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OP81 - His name, his number

Summary - After a long night and a short-lived game of truth or strip, you’re just trying to get ready for dinner the next day but when Oscar Piastri walks in on you singing your heart out to Lana Del Rey in nothing but his shirt and lingerie, things get a bit more complicated and dinner? Well, let’s just say that idea was quickly forgotten.

Warnings - smut (with plot), explicit content, dom!oscar, oral (f and m receiving), dirty talk, light degradation (use of names such as slut and whore) + praise kink, overstimulation, clothing kink, aftercare, swearing, semi-public sex (hotel bathroom), brief alcohol mention (past-tense)

Inspo - The reader wearing a top with Oscar’s name and number in @leclerc-hs ’s fic ‘romantic chocolates’ (op81 version)

Word count - 4.4k (4,410)

Timeline - pre-season

Pairing - Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

Masterlist <3

It had been an accident, really. You, Oscar, and some of the other driver's hadn't meant to end up back in your hotel room, but a long night paired with far too many drinks with a side of a game of truth or strip had occurred. Although the game was short lived, one thing led to another and Oscar was leaving your room– shirtless– in the early hours of the morning.

Yet those were the events of last night which had absolutely no relevance right now because you’re focused on trying to look your absolute best for your annual pre-season dinner with your favourite drivers. You have Lana Del Rey’s ‘young and beautiful’ playing loudly through your speakers and you’re leaning in close to the mirror, trying to vanish any imperfections.

“And all the ways I got to know your pretty face and electric soul. Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful…” You sing along to the song, becoming fully immersed in the tune and singing your heart out to your favourite artist. After all this was your Lana Del Rey only playlist.

You lean in closer to your bathroom mirror, guiding your hand so that your mascara wand can glide over your lashes flawlessly, elongating them in a way that only your Charlotte Tilbury pillow talk mascara can. You smile in content as you do it, your lashes and your mascara refusing to let you down once again.

You catch a peek of tonight's dress hanging on the edge of the shower in the reflection of the mirror; a short, black dress that came to just above the middle of your thighs, one that was covered all over in glittery sequins that caught perfectly in the bathroom light. Paired with matching heels that tied at your ankles; the ones that Oscar got you last year for your birthday, the ones that made you wonder how he’d managed to find a pair of shoes that were so perfect.

Young and beautiful ends and the next Lana del rey song comes on; Brooklyn baby, one of your personal favourites. “They say I’m too young to love you. I don’t know what I’d need. They think I don’t understand the freedom land of the seventies. I think I'm too cool to know ya. You say I'm like the ice, I freeze.” You sing along, picking up your hairbrush and singing into it, losing yourself to the music.

You get so lost in your mini concert that you don’t hear Oscar knock on your hotel room door, call out your name repeatedly or even enter. You’d known that you’d forgotten to do something important when you got back from lunch with a couple of your girl friends.

Oscar must have heard you singing from the entrance to the room because he makes his way over to the bathroom door and leans on the doorframe, watching you pour your soul out into your baby pink hairbrush with a tiny smile. Yet even as he stands there watching you, you don’t notice him. Instead you continue singing, giving a couple of twirls as you really get into it.

“Well, my boyfriend's in a band. He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed. I've got feathers in my hair. I get down to Beat poetry. And my jazz–” You finally stop spinning and land facing the doorway; exactly where Oscar is standing. “Fuck! Oscar–” You scream but on instinct you’d already thrown your hairbrush at the intruder in an attempt to disarm the poor aussie.

He catches it effortlessly, almost as if he knew you were going to throw something at him before he even entered the room. He pushes himself off the doorframe and closes the gap between you with a few small steps, your breathing is heavy with shock as you try to recollect yourself after that embarrassing moment.

“I believe you threw this at me.” He jokes, cracking a smile as you take the hairbrush from his outstretched hand, blushing uncontrollably. You try to avoid eye contact with him as you do it, which isn’t hard because he’s quite a bit taller than you.

“Thank you, and uh– sorry about that. I didn’t realise it was you immediately.” You try and joke but you can only feel yourself go even more red.

“It’s fine, better safe than sorry y’know?” He replies and you look up at him, instantly regretting it because something about the way he’s looking down at you makes you feel an odd sense of warmth.

There’s an awkward silence that stretches over a couple of seconds before you find the courage to speak again, fighting the urge to take a step back. “Did you need something or…” You start to ask but trail off at the end, unsure on how to finish your sentence.

“Well as much as I loved your cover of Lana Del Rey, I’d wanted to know if you’d seen my top, but it looks like you already found it.” He tilts his head in a motion towards your top, the one you’d found on the edge of your bed an hour or two ago and had thrown on to wear whilst you got ready.

You look down. Shit. This was Oscar’s top. Memories of him wearing it from last night come back to you; the small, orange ‘op81’ on the left hand side on the front stands out against the dark fabric but that was the smallest of the attention grabbers. On the back, big bold and also in bright orange was his first name along with his number. How had you not noticed this when you put it on?

“Shit– uh–” You go to remove it but then remember that you have nothing but a lacy set of burgundy lingerie that covers very little underneath.

“I can come back when you're done if y’like? Unless you like getting ready in little to nothing with my name and number all over you?” Oscar teases and it sends another rush of heat to your core. Is he oblivious to what he’s doing to you or is he enjoying it? The little smirk on his face suggests that it’s the latter.

“No, no. It’s fine, I just need to put my dress on and then it’s all yours.” You say, trying to save yourself from this tense moment that is doing nothing to help the moisture pooling in your panties. Oscar steps out effectively, without you having to ask, giving you some privacy so that you can change.

You slide your hands down to the hem of the top and allow your fingers to latch around it, taking comfort in the cozy material; no wonder he was constantly wearing this top. It also had a faint smell, you couldn’t quite place it but it was something distinctly Oscar.

You begin peeling the top off of your body but as soon as you get to your hair the top latches onto the first clip it finds and makes itself comfortable, refusing to budge. You fiddle with the t-shirt and the clip, trying to get it unstuck for what feels like forever, not wanting to have to call Oscar in to help but inevitably you just end up making it worse. Leaving you no choice but to face the music and call for Oscar.

“Oscar?” You call out quietly, partially hoping that he just wouldn't hear you but of course that isn't the case.

“Yeah?” He calls back.

“Could you come here for a sec please?” You ask and you hear the bedsheets crease, most likely from him getting up to come help you.

He enters the bathroom with full confidence, as he does any room but he falters when he sees you, stopping in his tracks and inhaling a sharp breath. His eyes lock onto your bare legs and slowly inch upwards towards the middle of your thighs. Your thighs clench involuntarily under his gaze, begging for some friction. You can tell he’s noticed but he swallows and forces himself to look up.

“Your tops stuck on my clip, I tried to get it out but I couldn’t otherwise I wouldn’t have called you in here but…” You trail off to stop yourself rambling and Oscar simply nods, almost like he doesn’t trust himself to speak in such a situation. He walks into the bathroom properly and makes his way so that he’s standing behind you.

You remove your hands from the piece of clothing, allowing him space to help you but that doesn’t change the fact that you are still extremely close to one another. He begins to work through your hair and you can feel the warmth of his body due to your proximity, you can even smell his signature scent more now than you could on his top.

Oscar works the top out of the clip slowly, being careful not to cause you any discomfort but all you can think about is what it would feel like if he were to yank you by your hair and have his way with you. The thought soaks your panties more, if that’s even possible and it takes everything in you to not let out a whimper. Once it's out he slides the top back down your back, seemingly forgetting that you were meant to be taking it off to give back to him and his touch is feather-light against your skin as you fight the urge to lean back into it.

His touch hoovers for a couple of seconds at the small of your back, right above the waistband to your lingerie. He pulls away after far too many seconds for you to just brush it off as nothing. You turn almost straight away, letting out a small gasp of air because you’re basically touching.

You force yourself to make eye contact with him which you immediately deem as a stupid decision because the intensity of his gaze keeps you there and an equally intense heat spreads throughout your body, pulsating at your core.

“Thank you.” You manage to whisper without stumbling over the two simple words but instead of responding like a normal person he reaches up with his hand and cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You look at each other for a second, properly drinking each other in and for that second everything is happening in slow motion but the next? His lips are crashing down on yours as though he physically couldn't wait a moment longer.

You kiss him back passionately, a single kiss saying everything you’ve wanted to do with him for a lot longer than just today. You bite back a moan as his hands feel the curve of your breasts as they make their way down to your waist. Once his hands are at your waist he uses your hips to assist him in pushing you back against the bathroom wall whilst simultaneously making out with you.

Your back hits the wall and you wrap your hands around his neck as he takes his attention away from your lips and begins to work along your jawline, cherishing you like he has never held something so valuable: which is ironic because he’s a multi-millionaire who has probably seen prettier things than you, but to him? You’re the prettiest thing he will ever see.

You tilt your head back in pleasure and he takes that as an invitation to move down to your neck. He concentrates on a couple of areas, trying to see what will make you snap and he finds it quickly causing your body to jolt with the unexpected pleasure.

“Oscar…” You moan, threading your fingers through his soft hair and tugging at it slightly as he nips and sucks at the sensitive part of your neck.

He pushes you against the wall harder, his thumb rubbing teasing circles just below the waistband of your panties. You get an overwhelming whiff of his intoxicating cologne and it makes you dizzy in the best way possible.

Oscar comes back up to your lips again and latches onto them, making sure to tug slightly at your bottom lip to make the experience even more enjoyable for you. He brings a singular hand up to your breast and begins fondling it over his shirt, squeezing it as if it owes him something. You arch your back in an attempt to generate more of his touch and you feel his hard cock press in between your thighs making your needy cunt clench around nothing.

He uses that hand that was circling your hip to rub your ass underneath your underwear and you moan into the kiss at how good it all feels, but you can’t help but need more.

You pull back from the kiss and he looks at you, breathing heavily, like he physically needs more. “Please, Osc, no more teasing.” You beg, fighting the strong urge that’s telling you to slide your hand in between your thighs.

He smirks. An evil, cocky smirk. “Tell me what you want, pretty girl.” He brushes a finger over your slit but pulls the touch away almost immediately, leaving you desperate for more. “Do you want me to pull down these soaking panties and have you come all over my face?” He uses his hand to guide your hand to the large bulge in his shorts. “Or should I force you down onto your knees and have you take all of my cock like a good little whore?”

You don’t answer with words, instead you remove your hand off of his cock and try to rub your swollen clit because the ache is becoming unbearable. Yet he catches your hand just above your most sensitive area, preventing you from doing anything about your heat.

“Fucking whore.” He murmurs, sinking down onto his knees at a frustratingly slow pace before looking up at you. “You tell me to stop and I will, okay?” He asks and you nod but for him that’s not enough. “I need words, pretty girl, even if it’s you telling me that you want to stop.”

“Yes, Oscar, I want this.” You reply breathlessly.

He slides his hands up the backs of your thighs and yanks your underwear down, leaving your soaking cunt bare for him. He slips them off past your feet and shoves them into his pocket, as though he’s saving them for later. He nudges your legs open and braces himself with one hand against your thigh.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. He lowers his head and begins kissing and sucking your thighs, catching you by surprise with the warmth of his tongue whilst he moves higher and higher, towards your heat.

He gets there pretty quickly, his impatience getting the better of him and he does one long, slow lick along your slit, deliberately avoiding your clit to tease you but once he’s had a taste? He goes fucking feral.

“Fucking hell, I’ve hardly even touched you and you’re soaked.” He says, diving back in to taste you for a second time and your body jerks forward at the action, begging for more but he holds you still with the hand that was bracing himself on your thigh.

His tongue moves in and out of you like it was made for this. Like its soul purpose in life is to pump in and out of you like its life depends on it. He alternates between maddingly slow licks and torturous sucks on your throbbing bud, both of which make your knees buckle.

“Osc–more please–it feels so fucking good.” You whimper, begging him to keep doing what he’s doing because it feels unbelievably good.

He groans into your cunt at your words of praise and the vibrations ripple through your body and nearly send you over the edge, the sensation making you cry out in pleasure and you can practically feel him smirking at how loud you’re being.

“You taste like fucking heaven.” He murmurs and the sight of him in between your legs with his lips slick with your juices makes you want him to never stop.

Oscar’s fingers slide into your cunt with practiced ease, curling in all the right places to make you whimper and scream and he sucks on your clit like a man starved. The combination of actions builds a tight pressure in your stomach and you know you're coming close.

“Oscar! Please, I need more.” You tell him, trying to chase your release by grinding on his face but he holds you still, preventing you from doing so.

“Look at you – fucking losing it,” he teases, his breath warm on your thighs as he looks up at you to see your reaction. “But I control when you come, if you want to dance and sing along to your songs like a little slut, with my name and number on your back then I decide when as well as how I unravel you.” He increases his pace as well as the amount of fingers that he’s pumping into you with and you cry out whilst tugging at his hair, hard.

He presses down on your clit with his thumb, holding eye contact with you the whole time.

“Oscar…” You whimper, needing release desperately. “I need to come.”

“Beg for it, whore.” He demands and you hesitate for a hot second. He must notice because he completely stops moving, he doesn’t remove his fingers but he just stops, leaving you to clench around his stationary fingers.

“Please, Osc, please. I need this so badly, please make me come, Oscar.” You beg, hoping that’s enough for him.

“Whose name and number are you wearing?”

“Yours, Oscar, yours!” You cry out, your legs shaking uncontrollably and Oscar being the only thing stopping your knees from buckling.

“Go on then, pretty girl,” he breathes, beginning to pump into you again with relentless speed, watching your face, your chest rising and falling at an intense pace. “Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

His words flip a switch inside of you and release crashes into you, almost knocking you off of your feet and for a moment you forget that you're in your hotel room bathroom because all that matters is you, Oscar, and this. He uses his tongue to finish you off, using it to lap up the juices on your most sensitive parts and you shudder, feeling goosebumps pepper your body. You cry out softly, voice trembling, overwhelmed by the intensity, your world narrowing down to the warmth and wetness surrounding the pleasure he’s given you.

Your mind goes hazy with the force of your orgasm, and all that escapes your lips are broken moans and scattered words that don’t make any sense. He comes back up to your level, holding you upright with an arm around your waist. “Y’okay?” He asks, placing a kiss on your forehead. “You did so fucking well for me and you tasted so fucking good, I can’t wait to ruin you all over again in a second.”

Your breathing is still shallow and sucking in air feels like a chore, your bodies trembling with the aftershocks of the orgasm he just gave you. His arms cradle you with such care, his hands rubbing your breasts so gently over his top but it does nothing to slow down your cunt from getting soaked again.

“You did so fucking well for me,” he murmurs again, lips brushing your jaw. “But don’t tell me you’re too tired to return the favour, pretty girl, not after I let you come all over my face — with my name and number stretched across your back.”

You don’t say anything but his grip on your waist loosens and you sink down onto your knees, the cold material of the bathroom floor contrasting with the heat that's spreading throughout your body as you become more and more eager to please him.

“Fuck. Look at you–so fucking eager to take me. I bet your cunt is dripping all over the floor right now, you’re such a slut for me.” He threads a hand through your hair gently — at first.

Your fingers fumble slightly at his waistband, and he just watches. He’s so hard it’s almost cruel, painful even and you suddenly feel increasingly grateful that he waited so long for his own pleasure. When you finally free his cock, it springs forward — flushed, leaking, twitching. Your mouth waters yet you're unsure how he wants it so you wait for him to tell you–it’s almost like when he’s commanding you you’re incapable of forming a singular thought.

“Open, whore.” He commands and you do.

You moan around him the second he slides in — not too deep yet, just enough to stretch your lips. You feel him pulse already at the warmth of your mouth. His hand tightens in your hair and your cunt clenches around thin air.

“Eyes on me,” he growls. “Wanna see that pretty little face as you choke on my cock.” You do — watery-eyed, lips swollen, lashes fluttering. He uses his tight grip on your hair to shove his cock further down your throat,

He continues to guide your pace: slow, deep thrusts as he fucks your throat inch by inch. You struggle a little, drool leaking out the corner of your mouth, but he loves every single second of it.

You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper, use your hand to stroke what you can’t fit. He groans louder now — head tipped back, hips stuttering slightly. You moan softly again and begin shifting your thighs together, seeking friction without thinking.

“Don’t even think about touching yourself,” he warns, voice sharp, yanking your hair just enough to send a jolt down your spine. “You’re here to please me now, not grind your desperate little cunt on the floor.” He pauses, thumb brushing your tear-streaked cheek.

“If you want to come again later, you earn it.”

That makes your pussy clench. It makes your pussy clench so hard that you're filled with a whole new sense of determination. So you refocus — tighter lips, deeper strokes, hand twisting just right, tongue flat under the shaft, working in sync with his movements. You gag again and tears spill down your cheeks.

“Fucking hell—” he hisses through gritted teeth, his control slipping. “You’re making me feel so good, pretty girl, you're such a good slut for me.” His hips jerk harder now — he’s close. You can feel it. He thrusts into your throat and pulls back to look at the absolute mess he's made of you.

“Look at yourself,” he pants. “Drooling, gagging, tears running down your cheeks. My perfect girl.” You moan as he growls, tipping over the edge. “Swallow it all,” he commands.

And you do, obediently, sucking him through it, moaning around his release like it’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.

When he finally pulls out, you're breathless, chest heaving, mouth still open slightly. His thumb brushes over your lips again, wiping a drop of cum off the corner of your mouth.

“Good fucking girl,” he whispers.

He leans down and pulls you up to your feet, arms winding around your waist to steady you once again. A soft kiss is pressed to your jaw.

“Y’okay, pretty girl?” He asks you but you’re too dazed to speak, so you don’t respond, feeling extremely hazy. “Pretty girl?” He questions again, leaning your head against his shoulder and you find it in yourself to nod, the daze of your mind still extremely overwhelming.

Your weight sags against him and despite how much you enjoyed it, it was very clear that it had taken its toll on you; physically and emotionally, and even if you wanted to go for another round tonight you knew that you just didn’t have it in you. Oscar seems to have noticed that, along with the glazed over look in your eyes.

“Hey, hey. We’re going to be done for today, okay, pretty girl?” He establishes and you whine but you’re unsure whether it’s from pain or desperation, either way he seems to understand. “I know, I know and you did so good for me today, so good. But you need a break now, okay? Just so that your body can recover.”

You whimper slightly and your knees threaten to buckle beneath you again. Oscar wastes no time picking you up effortlessly, being so careful because he doesn’t want to cause you any level of discomfort, and placing you on a clutter-free area of the bathroom countertop.

“I’m gonna clean you up now, pretty girl, is that okay? Just with a flannel and some warm water.” Oscar says, waiting for your thumbs up before moving.

“Yeah, m’kay.” You say, the words are so faint that they could just be another inhale of air, but he catches it.

He moves slowly, as though he’s trying not to startle you. He grabs a small, white flannel from the cupboard under the sink and your eyes follow him as he moves, mesmerised by the way his muscles roll whilst he carries out the different actions. He turns on the hot tap at the sink, letting it run for a couple of seconds so that it can become lukewarm before running the flannel under it.

The veins in his arms and hands protrude as he wrings it out and then he crouches down in front of you, parting your legs slightly so that he can clean the mess you’ve made.

“This may sting a little where you’re still sensitive, pretty girl, so be prepared.” He warns you and begins peppering kisses from your knee upwards to prepare you in his own way.

Once he gets high enough he lifts up his top and he drags the flannel along your thighs, his touch feather-light but you still wince slightly as he continues to clean you up.

“There you go, pretty girl, you’re okay.” He reassures you and reaches up to wipe away a stray tear that slides down your face as he cleans your most intimate parts.

He works in silence for a couple of minutes, sensing your emotional fatigue but just as he’s finishing up you call out to him.

“Oscar?” You ask, your voice raspy.

“Yes, pretty girl?” He responds immediately, looking up to make eye contact with you.

“Thank you… thank you for this.”

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