oscpstri

[oscpstri]

second date | piastri

piastri x fem interviewer!reader, 1.06k

you loved it the first time so he's back for more. welcome back to chicken shop date! where you take the world's hottest stars on the most awkward dates. today's reoccurring menu consists of the same crisp chicken tenders, the same greasy fries, and a now-comfortable oscar piastri.

INCLUDES: fast-paced dialogue, many cuts, not a full-block thing, funny car jokes (please laugh), they don't really eat, osco is now finally biting back, this one is longer i promise, reader is a ferrari fan, ferrari slander teehee, the team not the drivers, obviously

NOTE: inspired by chicken shop date by amelia dimoldenberg! you guys loved the first one and i definitely felt it was too short, so i made another because why not

PART ONE: CHICKEN SHOP DATE

( masterlist | more OP81 )

"You're back," you start, blinking at the man in front of you. The air still smelled like grease and chicken and the table you sat at months ago stayed the same. The only difference was the fact that Oscar Piastri no longer sat at the edge of his chair in regret. Instead, he sat up and looked at you with a cheeky grin, hands already finding their way to his drink. "Ready for this second date?"

Oscar lets out a breathy chuckle, looking down at his lap to hide the smile. "Not really."

You smile wider at this, nibbling at a fry. "Good."

"So how's life been since the last date?"

Oscar clears his throat at the question, raising his eyebrows in thought before looking back up at you. "Good, actually."

"I heard you're leading the championship now," you say, raising both eyebrows with a grin. "Some could say I'm your good luck charm."

Oscar only smiles at this, shaking his head in disbelief before picking up a tender. "They'd be liars."

You narrow your eyes at the Aussie, accusingly pointing a fry towards him. "You're lying."

"Do you have any pre-race rituals?"

Oscar looks up at you from his box, a thinking frown appearing on his face. "Not really."

You stop chewing, blinking in confusion. "So I haven't changed your life... at all?"

"Not positively."

You look at him with pursed lips, a comedic silence coming between the both of you.

"Good to know."

"Do you usually eat here?" Oscar asks, eyeing the food you were eating.

You wipe your mouth with a napkin, swallowing your food before looking back at him. "No. Why? That good?"

"No," Oscar shakes his head, "That bad."

You choke on your food, looking around at the empty shop. "You can't just say that."

"I didn't mean the food."

Oscar tilts his head with a teasing grin. Meanwhile, you give him a blank stare.

"Funny."

"I saw you're a big Ferrari fan." Oscar directs the conversation. You glance at him, impressed.

"How'd you know that?"

"Instagram." He shrugs as he says it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"How's the Tifosi experience?"

You blink at him. "My head hurts just thinking about it."

Oscar laughs at this. You only blankly stare at him in return, throwing a half-eaten fry in his direction.

"You're part of the headache. Stupid McLarens."

"You won F2 and F3. You think you'll win F1?"

Oscar sets down his drink, pursing his lips. "Definitely."

You purse your lips as well, tilting your head sarcastically. "You think you'll do that with your current team?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oscar blinks in confusion. You only raise two eyebrows at him like he knows exactly what you mean, taking a bite out of the tender you were holding.

"Check the stats."

"The stats are fine?"

"Why did you come back?"

Oscar shrugs. "Part of my contract."

You stare at him with cold eyes. He only stares back like he was serious about his reply.

"That wasn't part of the script."

"I don't think any of this is part of any script."

"How many likes for you to do this again with me."

Oscar leans back in thought, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks up at the ceiling as he ponders upon an answer. You raise an eyebrow at his antics.

"Honestly... no amount of likes will make me do this again."

Your smile drops at this, staring at the F1 driver deadpan. "Are you serious?"

A grin appears on Oscar's face, "No."

"Have you ever considered switching to Alpine?"

You couldn't tell, but you swear you saw Oscar's eye twitch a little at the mention of his lower formula team.

"Why would I do that?"

You shrug, "For the funsies."

A beat of silence washes over the both of you.

"Have you ever considered switching to McLaren?" Oscar quips.

You smile at his rebuttal, "Only if it comes with a signed Oscar Piastri hat."

The driver nods once before sticking his hand out across the table. You take it and shake his hand, nodding in sync.

"It's a deal."

"Your PR team must love you. You typically stay out of trouble."

Oscar nods at this, glancing over to behind the camera where a handful of his team stood. "Yeah, they tend to sleep well."

You hum at this. "Maybe it's out of sheer boredom."

"You're manager is a former Red Bull menace. You give 'nervous intern at the media day' vibes."

Oscar furrows his eyebrows at this, not knowing whether to be offended or amused.

"I prefer the term calm."

You tilt your head at this, pursing your lips.

"You're a LinkedIn post. Mark's a gossip headline."

"Do you often publicly reject job offers?"

Oscar immediately knew what you were talking about, a breathy chuckle escaping his mouth.

"That was... complicated."

"Right. You rejected them like they were an ex texting at 2 AM."

"Do you ever miss the days when you were a highly rated junior instead of a highly judged rookie?"

Oscar takes a sip at this, blinking in confusion. "That's dark."

"It's the truth."

"You know," you start, taking a bite out of a fry. "I love your mom."

Oscar raises his eyebrows like he wasn't surprised. "Most people do."

"Like, if I had to choose between dating you or getting a Christmas card from Nicole... I'd choose the card."

Oscar clicks his tongue at this, leaning back in his seat. "Yeah, I would too."

"Everyday you prove to be the least favorite Piastri."

Oscar looks at you with a deadpan look. "Very original."

"You definitely aren't the original I'll tell you that much."

"Rate this date out of 10. Be honest."

Oscar sits quietly for a beat, munching on his fries as he thinks about the question. You sit there with a small smile, expecting the best from the man in front of you.

"Well, the food is an 8. You're... definitely present."

Your smile falters. "Still rude."

[oscpstri]

part two of oscos chicken shop date will be posted later !! the first part was so sooo rushed

[oscpstri]

chicken shop date | piastri

piastri x fem interviewer!reader, 532

welcome to chicken shop date! where you take the world's hottest stars on the most awkward dates. today's menu consists of crisp chicken tenders, greasy fries, and an uncomfortable oscar piastri.

INCLUDES: fast-paced dialogue, many cuts, not a full-block thing, funny car jokes (please laugh), they don't really eat, poor osc definitely wants to get out of there, but its alright at the end, SASSY OSCAR BTW

NOTE: inspired by chicken shop date by amelia dimoldenberg! i loveeee the series its so fast-paced and witty and uncomfortably funny. planning on doing this with more drivers but osco is my first pick of the litter! enjoy :>

PART TWO: SECOND DATE

( masterlist | more OP81 )

The shop smells like grease and chicken. Oscar Piastri sits across from you, uncomfortably shifting in his seat— he does not know what he has just signed up for.

"So, Oscar," you begin, picking up a fry from your box. "Are you emotionally available?"

His eyes flick to yours, blinking comically. "I thought this was going to be a racing interview."

"I lied." You offer him a faint smile, taking a bite of the grease in your hand. "So?"

There's a long pause before he clears his throat. "I... guess I'm emotionally stable? Does that count?"

You raise an eyebrow, still munching on your food. "That's what emotionally unavailable people say."

Oscar looks back up at you with a mix of both amusement and mild concern.

You lean forward slightly, a glint of teasing in your eyes. "Do you smile this much in races, or is it just me?"

"I don’t think I smile during races at all," he says, cautious.

"So I'm special?"

His lips twitch into a smile, despite himself. "You're definitely something."

You nod slowly, pretending to be unfazed. "Flirting already? We just got our drinks."

Oscar looks down at his tray. "Yeah, I think I might need another."

"Would you rather win the championship…" you pause for effect, "or get a second date with me?"

Oscar blinks. The silence stretches.

"…Is there a third option?"

You blink in offense. "Rude."

"Sorry."

"Would you say I'm more of a red flag or a yellow flag?"

Oscar hums at the question, swallowing the food in his mouth before answering. "Can I say black flag?"

You furrow your eyebrows at this. "What am I being disqualified from?"

Oscar looks at you dead in the eyes. "Being my date."

"You're from Australia."

Oscar nods. "That is correct."

"Well, that's good. 'Cause guess what?"

Oscar softly narrows his eyes, putting down the tender he was munching on. "What?"

"I've got a pick-up line for you."

"Go on, then."

You clear your throat, wiping your greasy fingers on the napkin in front of you. You look at the McLaren driver dead in the eyes and lean forward into the table.

"Are you from Melbourne? Because you just flipped my whole grid."

It's silent for a few seconds, an amused smile slowly itching onto Oscar's face.

"Get it?" you start, "Flipped like... like upside down. 'Cause— 'cause Australia is—"

"Down under," Oscar finishes for you, "Yeah, I— I got it."

"You've won a fair amount of times already," you start, catching Oscar's attention as he takes a sip of his drink. "You think you're gonna win a lot more now that we've finally gone on this... date."

Oscar blinks a few times at this, staying silent as he puts his drink down. "I think the opposite."

You get taken aback by this, eyebrows furrowing suit. "What?"

"I might start losing more that this has finally happened." He takes a fry and gestures it between the both of you. He takes a bite to cover his cheeky smile, your mouth slightly agape.

"Are you saying I'm a distraction?"

"No," Oscar shakes his head. "I'm saying you're bad luck."

You breathe out a laugh at this. "Wow."

[oscpstri]

[oscpstri]

Your account and writing is so sexy I hope both sides of your pillow are cold

😭😭😭 ILY !!! i havent been writing recently bcs im SWAMPED with school but i'll get back to it as soon as i find the will to live

[oscpstri]

[oscpstri]

not my team | formula fun

ft. hadjar, leclerc, albon, lawson, colapinto x fem journalist!reader

formula 1 drivers know the drill: when you're given a pen and merch, you sign it. but would they still sign it if it wasn't their merch?

INCLUDES: profanity, idk man its just cute, short bcs tiktok style duh

NOTE: got this from vcarb admin giving isack an inter jersey during the finals. didn't include all the drivers because too many, just went with the first vcarb vid i saw and based it off that.

( formula fun | mics up )

★ ISACK HADJAR

You run up from behind Isack— phone recording in one hand and the other clutching onto a white shirt and a marker.

"Isack!" you call out. He walks slower when he hears your voice, turning just in time to see you next to him. His smile appears even larger when he notices the phone in your hand, already knowing that you were probably up to no good.

You stick the shirt and marker out to him, nodding once. "Could you sign this please?"

"Sure." He takes the shirt from your hands, opening the marker with ease. Until—

"This—" He stops in his tracks, making you giggle from behind the camera. He makes eye contact with the phone then to you comically, dramatically dropping the shirt and the marker.

He picks it back up after a few seconds, holding it up to the camera. The color of the shirt definitely resembled VCARB team gear which was why the rookie didn't question further. But when he actually looked at the shirt, the silver arrow of the Mercedes logo smacked him right in the face.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he asks in his thick accent, not even bothering to look at the device anymore and just asking you straight up. You laugh even harder at this, not able to look at the Frenchman directly in the eyes.

"Woops?"

★ CHARLES LECLERC

Charles was notorious for signing things that he didn't need to. Just give him a marker and something else and he'll be so caught off guard that you wonder how he hasn't accidentally signed a marriage contract yet.

So when you saw him at the Ferrari hospitality during media day signing a box-load of hats, you knew it was the perfect time to strike.

He was almost done with autographing the signature red Ferrari hats and you were off to the side, ready with your phone already recording in one hand and a driver's hat in the other. As he was down to his final one, you quickly walk up to him.

"Charles, could you sign this for me?" You ask, immediately placing the hat in front of him. And just like you thought he would, he signed it without thinking and only then realized the odd color of the driver's hat once he lifted his marker up.

He freezes in his seat, eyes scanning the papaya colored hat and the number 81 embroidered on the brim. He looks up at you with wide eyes, blinking comically like he was a kid that just got caught stealing candy.

He remains quiet as you take the hat from his hands, looking at it impressively with a smile. "Thanks!"

He buries his face in his hands, chuckling in disbelief. He looks back at you after a few seconds, mouth still carrying a smile like he couldn't accept the fact that you had just tricked him like that.

"I can't believe you just did that." You smile at him, laughing at his reaction.

"I have an Oscar Piastri hat signed by his father. Wow, this one's gonna sell."

★ ALEX ALBON

Alex immediately clocks you walking up to him as he made his way down the paddock. A grin appears on his face as he practically side-eyes you, already anticipating the worst.

"Could you sign this for me?"

You stick the hat and marker out for Alex to sign, urging him to take it. He only looks at it with a knowing look on his face. Damn Alex Albon and being chronically online.

"You've seen this before haven't you?"

He nods at your question, a giggle leaving his mouth as you groan in exasperation. He still takes the hat and marker anyway, popping the cap off and signing on the brim of the hat.

"Charles told me about what you did. Hilarious by the way." Alex gives you the marker and the hat back, still smiling ear to ear.

"Thanks." You look at the autographed Mercedes hat then back at Alex. "I'll give this back to George. Say his idol signed it for him."

Alex nods once at this before looking back up with a shimmer in his eyes. "Or you could give it to Lando."

You look at the man like he just solved world hunger. A grin broke out on your face as the both of you nod in agreement.

"I should have you help me out more on these pranks."

★ LIAM LAWSON

"Oh god." Liam groans as he sees you walk up to him, phone held up as you recorded the interaction. "What do you want?"

You look at him with faux sadness, sticking your bottom lip out dramatically. "I'm hurt."

Liam tilts his head at this, shaking his head in disbelief at your antics.

"Sign this for me, will you?" You toss him the team shirt, marker following suit. He catches it effortlessly, going to remove the cap from the marker.

You catch his eyebrows furrowing at the color of the shirt before he finally lays it flat on the table. He sees the familiar logo of his senior team and his shoulders drop, hand falling onto his lap as he looks at you with a flat stare. You swore his expression screamed: "I'm not paid enough for this."

"This isn't even my team." He nods his head towards the shirt. You zoom the camera in to the Red Bull logo before zooming back out to capture the New Zealander's face.

You feign innocence, shrugging like you didn't know any better. "Red Bull, Racing Bulls. Tomato, tomahto. Same same."

Liam continues to look at you in exasperation, a smile of disbelief on his face. He was absolutely done with your pranks. You bite back your smile, eyes still carrying a mischievous glint.

"Wait. You are Max Verstappen, right?"

★ FRANCO COLAPINTO

You couldn't really sneak up on Franco, because as soon as he saw you, he immediately lit up and started yapping away. He never even noticed the phone you held up, nor the hat and marker you had in your hand.

"And did you know that—"

"Franco," you cut him off. "Could you sign this?"

He quickly glances at the things in your hand before taking them without a question. He continues on what he was talking about, not taking his eyes off of you while his hands pop off the cap of the marker. He seems to find the brim of the hat immediately, marker making contact with the surface. But before he could continue on signing, he instinctively looks down and only then notices the black hat he was holding.

His hand immediately retracts, blinking and staring at the hat like it would somehow tell him why this was all happening. He then looks back up at you with his eyebrows furrowed, a confused look on his face.

"This is... Haas?"

You laugh at his confusion. The poor guy still didn't get it until you told him, his concern going away as he then joined in and laughed with you.

"But I— There's a dot on it from the marker." He shows you the crime scene, a tiny white dot from the marker was left on the brim where he initially made contact. It wasn't noticeable and you definitely didn't mind. He did though.

"Don't worry. It's mine."

He looks up at you with knit eyebrows, a worried expression on his face. "Are you sure? I can get you a brand new one."

You shake your head at his offer, putting your hand out so you could take back your things. "It's fine, Franco."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." You chuckle at his worry, reassuring him that it was fine.

"I'm still getting you a new one."

Sure enough, Franco came up to you in the paddock next week with a fresh Haas hat— the exact same one as your crash test dummy. Except this time, it was signed by the driver who actually owned the number on it.

[oscpstri]

1K IS CRAZY WOWOWOWOW

born to ride | grid

ft. verstappen, norris, leclerc, sainz, piastri (fem!reader)

the perks of dating a formula 1 driver was that they had an arsenal of cars at their disposal and they knew how to drive them. but what if you took the wheel this time?

INCLUDES: fluff, its funny ok please laugh, use of y/n, use of endearments for certain drivers, they're cute, not proof read

NOTE: born to ride or wtv lana said. I GOT CARRIED AWAY W MAX AND LANDO SO IF YOU WANT MORE DRIVERS ILL GET TO IT IN ANOTHER POST !!!! these were the first ones i did before it got WAY TOO LONG

( masterlist | more grid )

★ MAX VERSTAPPEN

You should've known better.

Your boyfriend being a Formula 1 driver had its perks, one of them being the fact that you had a personal chauffeur whenever you had anywhere to be.

Ever since you and Max started living together, you had created a schedule to follow during the summer breaks. The both of you would run errands on Saturday morning, cook lunch together, then cuddle all day until the sun falls over the horizon. Simple enough.

Today was different, though. It was the first day off of the summer break and Max had spent the entirety of yesterday getting as much training as possible before putting his phone on Do Not Disturb. Because of this, he got home quite late and was absolutely exhausted. Poor guy didn't even get a chance to properly change out of his clothes.

You felt bad having to wake him up early, so you did what you thought was best. You took the car keys off the wall and started heading out as quietly as possible. As you turn the car on, you scroll through your phone to try and find the best music to fit the vibe. You were so lost in trying to find the perfect playlist that you didn't notice the blue-eyed blondie walking towards your side of the car.

A knock is what brings you out of your trance. You jump in your seat, startled at the sound before snapping your head towards your door. You could only sigh in relief as you saw the familiar face of your beloved in a hoodie.

He opens the door before you could even put your phone down, a deadpan look on his face. "I'm driving."

You stay frozen in your seat for a beat, before getting up and heading to the passengers side of the car. By the time you had settled in to your usual spot, Max immediately brings the car to life.

The both of you drive in silence for a few minutes. You would glance every so often towards your boyfriend but he only looked straight ahead.

You slump in your seat, a tinge of disappointment coursing through you as you start overthinking if you had fucked up. Max seems to notice this as he leans over to grab your hand from your lap, intertwining your fingers like you always do.

"I'm not mad. Just wake me up next time," he comments, glancing over to you with a gentle smile. You nod at this, muttering a 'sorry' in return.

"Schat, I literally drive for a living," he starts. "No matter how tired I am, I will always drive you. Always. As long as it's you."

"I'm sorry," you muster up, throwing him a sheepish grin. He smiles warmly at this, rubbing his thumb over your hand.

"No need to be sorry. I'm sorry if you thought I was mad." You chuckle at this, bringing your connected hands to your mouth and planting a kiss on top of his knuckles.

"But seriously, you have a four-time world champion at your service and you decide you want to drive yourself?" he starts, energy slowly coming in. "Schat, I literally won at driving. Four times!"

★ LANDO NORRIS

You had accepted the invite to your boyfriend dragging you around while they filmed for Quadrant all day. It was always a rare occurrence whenever Lando would be free to join in on his company's shenanigans, so you decided to come along.

It was lunch time and everyone was scattered around the area, munching away and socializing with the team. Although Lando had urged you to eat earlier on, you just didn't feel like eating anything. It was that time of the month and your appetite was never much for actual food during it. So while there was a good buffet in front of you fit for the whole team, you wanted cupcakes. But not just any cupcakes, Cecil's Cupcakes. This wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for the fact that Cecil's was an hour drive from where you were filming, and with only 20 minutes left before they start production again, you knew you couldn't drag Lando to drive you there.

So what did you do? You silently grab his car keys, sneak out of the huge building, and trudge towards the car park. It wasn't until you reached the door when you notice someone following you. And it wasn't until they got closer when you realized that it was the lovable face of Lando Norris doing so, one hand still holding on to his plate of food and the other shoving nutrients into his mouth.

Your eyes narrow upon seeing this, Lando stopping in his tracks when he notices that you've seen him. A boyish grin creeps up onto his face, still chewing on his food. "Where are we going?"

"We? You have to film in," you glance at your watch before looking back up at him. "15 minutes."

He swallows harshly, throwing away the plastic plate and utensils. "So? Not like they'll fire me."

You scoffed at his response, "Unbelievable."

Lando seems to hear this, walking towards the drivers side and stopping beside you. "So... where are we going?"

A smile creeps up onto your face, shaking your head in disbelief. "Cecil's."

Lando's eyes go wide at the bakery, stealing the car keys from your hand. "You were about to drive an hour to get cupcakes by yourself?"

He places his hands on your shoulders, pushing you towards the passengers side. You giggle at his actions. He opens the car door, pushing you down on the seat while muttering something under his breath. You couldn't make out what he said, but you heard the phrase 'did she forget?'

When Lando plops down onto the driver's seat, you laugh at the sulky look on his face. He looks at you like a hurt puppy before bringing the car to life. "Have you forgotten what I do for a living?"

You try to stifle your laugh, looking forward. "Lan, I didn't wanna disturb—"

Out of nowhere the car comes to a halt, your eyes go wide as you grip the seat. You turn to look at your boyfriend who was already looking at you with a crazed expression: eyes wide, mouth agape, "Is this your way of telling me I suck?"

Your facial features fall. You exhale loudly at the antics of your boyfriend, blinking at him with a deadpan look. "Seriously?"

He purses his lips, putting the car into drive again as you make your journey towards fluffy cupcakes. "I don't suck..."

"No you don't, my love."

★ CHARLES LECLERC

"Oh my god!" You get up from your position on the couch, head shot up from Charles' arms. He looks at you with both eyebrows raised, both concerned and shocked from your excitement.

You turn to look at him, shoving your phone screen in his face. "It's open! It's here!"

Charles raises an eyebrow at your happiness, taking your wrist and adjusting the screen so he could read what you were showing him. It was an Instagram post from your favorite coffee shop back in Spain. You and Charles had discovered the place when you went with him for the Barcelona Grand Prix and you were constantly praying for the day it would open a chain near you. And it finally did.

"Do you wanna go get some right now?" Charles asks, an endearing look on his face as he watches your eyes light up in delight. "Yes! Yes please!"

He chuckles at your enthusiasm, and before he knew it, you bounced off the couch and went to go get ready. Charles stayed on the couch, scrolling through his phone when he looked up as he felt your presence near him. When he met your figure though, his eyes went wide and it was his turn to bounce up off the couch.

"Why are you holding that?!" He exclaims, snatching the car keys that you were twirling around your finger. You blink in confusion, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

"I'm gonna drive, duh." You said that like it was a given— like it was the most obvious answer in the world. This situation could have passed immediately, but Charles needed to be dramatic.

"What?! What do you mean drive yourself?!" He grabs you by the shoulders, eyes still wide like a crazed person. "Do you forget what I do for a living?!"

You laugh at this, shaking your head in disbelief. "You're seriously going crazy over the fact that I offered to drive?"

Charles shakes his head profusely in reply, grabbing your hands in his. "Mon amour, when I'm around, I drive."

"But you drive all the time!"

Charles starts stuttering, head still shaking like this was the stupidest concern in the world. "And? I drive. No questions asked."

You giggle as he grabs your hand, heading towards the door. "I drive. I always drive. I drive all the time. You should never drive."

"Charles, I get it—"

"I always drive you! Never do that ever again!"

★ OSCAR PIASTRI

You and Oscar had gotten home from the airport early and jet lag hit you two like a rocket. So as soon as the both of you got home, you dropped everything and headed straight to bed. Early enough that the sun was still setting and the two of you were already halfway to dreamland.

Here's the thing— you two never had dinner. So when you woke up at midnight, stomach grumbling like a lion, you weren't exactly surprised. You weren't surprised either that your boyfriend was still asleep next to you, the different time zones affecting him more than the lack of food.

You slowly got out of bed and trudged sleepily to the kitchen. Your eyes were barely open and your hair was the standard definition of bedhead.

You rummage through the refrigerator like a mad man, trying to find anything that could satisfy you. Upon finding nothing, you slump into a chair, head in your hands as you try to fend off both the sleep and the hunger. You thought that this was it, you were about to fall back asleep at the kitchen table in the dead of night, until a glint of silver catches your eye.

Oscar's car keys.

It lay perfectly by the end of the table, shining in all its glory. It was practically calling out to you, screaming your name, directly hit by the kitchen light like it was put there for you.

So what did you do? You got up and took it. You pocketed it in your pajama pants and headed back into the bedroom, making a beeline for the first hoodie you saw lying about. As you put it on, you could instantly tell it was Oscar's.

You thought you were being quiet, pacing around the room trying to find a clip, hair tie, anything to make your hair not look like it was ran over by a train. But apparently you weren't, because as you turn around to open the door and leave, you stop dead in your tracks when you hear—

"Y/N?"

You turn on your heel, slowly taking in the tired appearance of your boyfriend on your bed. He was sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking at you with a worried expression.

"Where are you going? It's—," he reaches for his phone, blinking profusely when the light from the screen practically jolts him awake. "It's midnight."

You walk over to him, sitting on the bed. "I'm hungry."

He blinks, eyebrows furrowing. "Okay. Is there nothing in the kitchen?"

You shake your head in response. Oscar starts getting out of bed, also pulling a hoodie on. He takes your hand and you follow as you both head out. He seems to notice that his car keys weren't where they usually were. He doesn't say anything, probably not to alarm you, but you already knew he was panicking deep down.

You fish the keys out of your pocket, poking his arm and dangling it in his face. He blinks comically, "You were about to drive yourself to get food?"

Now it was your turn to blink, a sheepish smile now on your face. You lower the car keys, nodding slowly. "Yeah?"

Oscar was surprised, you knew that for a fact. He was normally the one that drove you around. He treated you like a queen— never letting you even touch the steering wheel like his life depended on it.

He nods slowly, "Okay."

The both of you stand there for a minute, not really knowing what to do or say. You shift uncomfortably under your boyfriend's gaze, not exactly knowing what he was feeling in that moment.

"Do you want to drive?" He softly asks, taking your hand in his. Your mouth is slightly agape, barely stuttering out a reply. "Yeah. Why? Do you wanna drive?"

"No, it's fine," he shakes his head, pulling you closer to him. "Well, that's my job but... you can do whatever you want to do."

You smile softly at this, looking up into his eyes.

"But," he starts, piquing your interest. "Can I come with you?"

You laugh at this, resting your forehead on his chest. "Of course."

★ CARLOS SAINZ

Carlos insists that Monaco is too chaotic for you to be driving yourself and that you're too pretty to be doing any hard labor. Which is why no matter the time and the date, he always insists on driving you everywhere.

Until today.

You were getting ready to go out. One of your close friends was flying into Monaco and you were going to give them the privilege of showing them around. Unfortunately for you, your boyfriend was out training so you had to drive yourself. This wasn't really ever a problem, Carlos just always made it out be one.

You had texted him an hour ago about the arrangements you had made. You informed him that you would be gone for the day and not to be surprised if he came home to an empty house. He was busy so you weren't surprised that he never replied.

You grab your car keys on the way out and take one last final look in the mirror. As you open the door though, you're surprised to see the love of your life standing outside. Your eyes go wide at this, mouth slightly agape. Why was he here?

"Amor?"

He smiles when he sees you. His eyes drop down to what you were holding and his eyes narrow. "Ay, you're not supposed to be holding this."

He takes the keys from your hand and replaces it with his hand instead, grinning at you from ear to ear when you look at him with a done expression. "What are you doing?"

He perks up at this, heading into the house and closing the door behind him. "I'm driving you, of course."

He says it like it was an obvious answer, immediately darting to change out of his sweaty clothes into a fresh set. You follow after him, shaking your head at your boyfriend's antics.

"Seriously, Carlos? You dropped halfway through training to drive me?"

He stops in his tracks and turns to look at you, a mischievous smile on his face. "Of course, cariño."

"Your trainer is going to kill me."

He walks up to you adjusting his shirt and bends down to plant a kiss on your forehead. "He'll have to get through me first."

You're weak in the knees from his actions, accepting his hand as he drags you out of the room. "I can drive myself, you know?"

He stops when you reach the living room, turning his body to look at you. "Eh? Drive yourself? Your hands cannot be damaged by hard leather."

You quirk an eyebrow at his words, "Hard leather?"

"Yeah," he smiles. "Of the steering wheel, duh."

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the smile that forced its way onto your face. Upon seeing this, Carlos smiles even more. He squeezes your hand before leading you both towards and out of the door.

"Road rage does not suit you, amor. Let me handle the driving."

[oscpstri]

abu dhabi | verstappen

verstappen x rbr driver!reader, 759

in the final race of the season, the championship comes down to two drivers: max verstappen— desperate to prove he earned every bit of success, and you — the first woman to ever fight for a formula 1 world title.

INCLUDES: mentions of abu dhabi 2021 (don't be mean), use of y/n, angst woops, brocedes-type lore (its glaringly obvious)

NOTE: a retelling of abu dhabi 2021 bcs i just re-watched an hour-long video of the f1 controversial races lore and reflected on how their reactions were so different. no one better start bitching about it again alright, we've all moved on. also brocedes teehee!

The grid is alive with noise. Journalists, engines, anthem static. But everything feels distant.

You stand by your car, fireproofs against your skin, gloves already on. Your hands are steady, but your heart is anything but.

This is it. The final race. Equal points. One of you leaves tonight as a world champion. The other leaves with a broken heart and a highlight reel that will haunt them for decades.

You feel eyes on you. You already know who they belong to.

Max stands across the grid. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. When your eyes meet, he looks away.

It was never supposed to be like this.

Karting kids with crooked smiles and scraped knees. You two would split ice creams and trophies on the same weekends. Your names would be written side-by-side on junior podiums then eventually on the same contract with the same team logo stitched near your heart.

This is what you two had always dreamed about— winning together, racing together, being in the same damn team together.

Friends. Teammates. Childhood buddies. Rivals. Champions in the making. Everything but a lover.

But then the title fight came. You were both fast enough to matter. The team stopped saying us and started saying one of you.

And now the both of you were on opposite sides of the garage, matching suits and silence. You haven't spoken in months— not since the 5th race of the season, when you touched wheels and you didn't check up on each other afterwards.

You can't remember the last time you laughed with him, but you remember the look on his face the day you outqualified him in his home race. You remember the day you sprayed champagne on everyone but him. You remember the day you two couldn't even look each other in the eye despite a good race result. You remember the last time he hugged you— Abu Dhabi, the year before. The year before everything.

Today is the final race of the season. Equal points. Winner takes it all.

Max raced for his father's recognition, for the childhood he lost for a stupid prize. You raced for the women in motorsport, for the journey in a sport that never expected you.

You stand on the grid, eyes forward. Max stands across from you, jaw tight. There was no nod today, no eye contact, no small smile from across the room. No pre-race banter, no fighting talk, no quiet reach for your hand.

Just tension. Just thunder.

You want to say something, he does too, but you don't. Because he made his choice. And you made yours.

You lead most of the race. He gets you on the final lap. The world explodes.

P2. Again.

You sit in your car, helmet still on, throat dry. The grandstands were loud, but all you could hear was the buzz of disappointment that rang in your ears.

"If we're ever fighting for a title, I'd rather lose to you than anyone else."

Max was 10 when he said that. You guess that promise expired once the trophy got closer.

The paddock is electric— champagne in the air, camera shutters going off, fireworks painting the night sky. Max Verstappen is the World Champion.

You walk alone. No cameras chase you, no microphones in your face. You would be the story if he wasn't the headline.

You keep your head down until the crowd starts to thin. Until the noise fades into the distance. Until it's just you. And him.

Max is leaning against the Red Bull hospitality wall, still in his suit, still wearing the championship cap, still cradling his trophy. He doesn't look victorious— he looks tired.

You stop a few feet away. Neither of you speak.

The silence stretches— thick with everything you two never said. With everything you used to be.

His eyes meet yours and for a moment, it feels like standing on that karting podium in Italy again. Fourteen years old, grinning through sweat, bumping shoulders as you raised your trophies.

But all of that is gone now.

The Max in front of you isn't your best friend. He's your rival. Your history. The reason your name isn't etched into the record books tonight.

You look at each other and for the first time in months, you see it.

Not victory. Not regret. Just recognition. That you had something once, and now it's gone.

You give him the smallest nod. He doesn't return it, just watches as you walk away.

He doesn't call your name. You don't look back.

[oscpstri]

HELLO ,, ive seen a few comments of ppl wanting to be added to a taglist so i'm creating this post bcs i CANNOT find the posts these comments were in. if you wanted to be added to a taglist for future posts please do comment on this one !!!

[oscpstri]

max + angst = mangst. i have mangst in my drafts. short mangst but mangst nonetheless

[oscpstri]

life gives, life takes!

[oscpstri]

but you like it | piastri

piastri x motogp!reader, 3.5k

oscar piastri was a force to be reckoned with, and you found that true when he made your heart go 250 miles per hour. it didn't make it any better that you always somehow found your way back to each other.

INCLUDES: use of y/n, reader and osc are the same, reader is a badass though, quad lock being the enabler, lando being the number 1 shipper, inaccurate timeline, fictional events, they're literally flirting man like just KISS ALREADY UGHHHHH, literally doing everything BUT making it official so annoying

NOTE: came to be when someone requested for a oneshot so why not! TWIN FLAMES acts as a prologue to this but it's not necessary to read that in order to understand this (but still do teehee its cute)

( masterlist | more OP81 )

Oscar wasn't supposed to stay this long.

Not in Austria, not at the track, and definitely not in your garage. But somehow he found himself leaning against a wall in the back, hand in his hoodie pocket, pretending to scroll through his phone like he wasn't stealing glances at you.

You were crouched by your bike, deep in conversation with your engineer, hands moving as you spoke. There was something about the way you talked— firm but relaxed, all fire with an ice-cold edge. Oscar watches as you cross your arms and tilt your head as you listen, nodding every once in a while in agreement.

You hadn't noticed him. Or maybe you did but acted like you didn't.

"You're back," one of your mechanics teases him, passing with a sly grin.

Oscar raises his eyebrows, playing it cool. "Here for work."

"Right. Want me to get you an autograph?"

Oscar smirks but doesn't answer, gaze already lingering back to you.

That's when you feel it. The distinct buzz of someone watching.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to lock eyes with the Formula 1 driver. He gives you a small nod as your eyes meet, to which you narrow your eyes back. It was like a secret language by now.

You walk towards him, passing your helmet to a mechanic who offered.

"Can't get enough of me, huh?"

Oscar shrugs. "Just making sure you don't fly off your bike again."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "Weren't you the one that crashed last weekend?"

Oscar raises a brow, a small smirk on his face. "Almost crashed. I still won."

A smile threatens to grow on your face. Your eyes flicker to the logo on the hoodie he was wearing, looking back at him with furrowed eyebrows and a small smile. "You used Quad Lock as your excuse to be here?"

He glances down at his hoodie before looking back at you with a cheeky grin. "Can't have people knowing I'm here voluntarily."

You tilt your head in disbelief. "You're annoying."

"Yeah, but you like it."

You shake your head at his antics, turning on your heel and walking off. Oscar watches you go, lips twitching. God, he couldn't get enough of you.

The thing about you and Oscar was that you two were practically the same. Not just in the paralleling careers in different motorsports, but also in personality.

You were both calm under pressure, stoic even in high-tension moments. You were both precise and calculated with every move you pull out in races, nothing was done without reason. You two also had quiet confidence— you didn't need to trash talk another driver because the results you put in did all the talking for you. If they were giving shit, you wouldn't notice. You'd have to read between the lines in order to catch what they meant— shade with style. You two also were a media mystery. Never saying more than you had to, never giving more than what interviewers asked for, never revealing anything unless asked.

You two were mysterious, and it got the whole world talking. So much so that the moment you magically appeared in the McLaren hospitality in casual clothes and sunglasses, the entire paddock started whispering. Because you not hiding behind Quad Lock gear made everyone think that you were there, not for content, but because you wanted to be— which was true but no one needed to know that.

"Fancy seeing you here," a familiar voice says, plopping down onto the chair beside you. You look up to see McLaren's more experienced driver, clad in papaya.

"And not against your own will." Lando quirks an eyebrow, catching the absence of anything Quad Lock on your body. Your silence makes his face light up, a knowing smile forming on his lips.

"Oh my—"

"Don't," you snap. The Brit only grins more, a cheeky smile on his face like he was a toddler that was just told a secret.

"Y/N," he starts. "Do you like my teammate?"

Silence falls between the both of you, Lando patiently waiting for the answer. You only scoff, a smile growing on your face as you leaned back into the chair— that was enough to give him an answer.

"Oh my god," he whispers excitedly, shaking your knee like he couldn't believe it.

It wasn't until then when he noticed the familiar hat sitting on your lap. It was black so he didn't pay much mind to it, but when he finally got a close-up of the design, he gasped so loud the entire hospitality thought he was dying.

You catch what he was looking at, covering the hat like you didn't just expose yourself even more in that moment. You didn't care that Lando knew, but you did care if anyone else did.

"That's from when he won in Baku," Lando says under his breath, staring at the 1st place Pirelli hat like it was a pot of gold.

"Was hard to wash out the champagne but," you inspect the hat, "I got it clean eventually."

Lando continues to sit there like his brain just went into overdrive. "You two are gonna be the death of me."

You giggle at his words, eyes locked onto the hat like it was the key that uncovered every interaction you had with its owner behind closed doors.

You and Oscar weren't dating— not yet. But you two had an unspoken connection that no matter how far you two were from each other, did not go away. That's why you two texted everyday, that's why you two bickered through call, that's why you exchange reels on Instagram that reminded you of each other, that's why you would stay up until past midnight to talk to him, that's why he would set an alarm for 4 in the morning just to talk to you.

That's why you were in the McLaren garage, Oscar's Pirelli hat on, leant against the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked onto the man in papaya who was heaving like he would explode any moment now.

The media’s swarming, the team’s whispering, the cameras are zoomed in a little too close. But Oscar? He’s stone-faced.

No slammed steering wheel, no screaming into the radio. Just a tight jaw, a clipped 'I’m okay' to his engineer, and a quiet walk back to the garage.

But you know better.

His suit’s still half-zipped down, fireproofs around his waist, gloves stripped off with more force than necessary. His expression is blank — almost too blank. Like a dam holding back something sharp.

He doesn’t see you until he rounds the corner.

"Didn’t think you’d be back here," he says, voice dry.

"Didn’t think you’d throw the car into the wall," you counter, light enough to make it a joke— not a jab. He doesn’t smile.

That’s how you know he’s really mad.

You push yourself off the wall, taking a step closer. "How bad?"

He shrugs. "It happens."

"Not what I asked."

He's silent for a while, trying to distract himself from looking at you. Putting his helmet on the table, gloves somewhere else, tossing the balaclava wherever. When he realizes that there was nothing he could do anymore, he sighs, turning to look at you.

"I had the pace— I had it. Then I lost it because I pushed too hard. That's it. It was stupid."

You pause. He looks at you. Sharp but not angry. You reach up and tug at the collar of his suit— gentle, grounding. "Don't talk about my favorite driver like that."

He blinks. Something flickers in his eyes and eventually Oscar swears he could hear his heart in his ears.

"I'm your favorite?"

You let go of him, stepping back and shrugging. "By default. You're easy to beat."

A beat passes. A small smile etched onto Oscar's face.

"You're annoying," he says softly.

"You like it," you shoot back, already walking back to the front of the garage. "Now go fix your ego before I start sending helmet designs for when I switch sports and replace you."

He watches you go in awe. He lets out a long breath and forgets all about the rage he felt mere minutes ago.

It was late. The kind of late where the world was quiet, the air hung heavy, and the only thing louder than the silence was your own heartbeat. You were curled up on the hotel couch, hair still damp from a rushed shower, scrolling through race footage on your laptop when a knock echoed through the door.

You didn't need to check who it was. When you opened it, Oscar stood there— hoodie wrinkled, hair tousled, and a tired kind of weight behind his eyes. Not sad, not dramatic, just… worn.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked softly.

He shook his head. "You?"

"Not really."

A pause.

"You wanna come in?"

He hesitated. Then nodded once, stepping inside.

The room was dim, just the warm glow of the TV playing on mute and the faint light from your laptop screen. Oscar took a seat on the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure where to put himself.

"I keep replaying it," he said eventually. "That corner. That one mistake. It's pathetic."

You looked over from your spot on the couch. "It’s not."

"I had the pace," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "The tires were warm. I knew the entry line. And still, I turned in too early and… gone. Just like that."

You closed the laptop. Set it aside.

"I've seen that look before," you admit. "Usually in the mirror."

Oscar glanced at you, brows furrowed.

"That blank one you wear when you're pissed at yourself but don’t want to let anyone know. You were holding it all in like it wasn’t already written across your shoulders."

He didn't answer. Just looked at you like you had peeled something open without trying to.

"I get it," you added. "Everyone talks about how you're calm, collected. But no one ever asks what it's like to keep it all in when you want to scream."

Oscar's jaw flexed, but he didn't speak. You could tell he was still chasing the perfect words— still trying to frame his frustration into something he could take in.

You walked over and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Not too close— just enough.

"If it helps," you said lightly, "you're still the best driver on four wheels I've ever met."

He snorted softly. "That's a low bar coming from someone who lives on two."

You nudged his shoulder with yours. "Careful. I might take that personally."

A beat.

He turned his head slightly, eyes meeting yours— calmer now. Less clouded.

"You're the only person I've ever met who makes me feel like I'm not already one step ahead," he said quietly.

The words settled in your chest like thunder after a flash. You tried to smile, but it came out smaller than usual. "That supposed to scare me?"

Oscar's gaze dropped to your lips for half a second too long.

"No," he said, voice rough. "It's supposed to scare me."

You didn't say anything after that. You didn't have to.

He stayed for a while. Just sitting there— side by side. No more racing, no more pressure. Just a quiet understanding between two people who had finally met their match and couldn't look away.

It started innocent enough. A quiet cafe somewhere tucked in Barcelona's backstreets. The walls covered in polaroids, espresso strong enough to fuel an entire grid.

You had found the place first. Hidden, warm, local. The kind of spot not even MotoGP fans would think to look.

Oscar showed up ten minutes late, hoodie over his head, sunglasses on like it wasn't painfully obvious who he was.

"You look suspicious," you said as he slid into the booth across from you.

"I look anonymous."

"You look like someone about to rob the counter."

He cracked a smile, fingers wrapping around the drink you'd already ordered for him. He blinked once, looking back at you with his mouth slightly agape.

"I don't drink coffee," he mutters, watching as you take a sip from your cup.

"I know," you start, "that's why that's a smoothie."

He blinks even more. “You remembered,” he muttered.

You shrugged, putting your cup down. "Was tempting, though. Figured the caffeine might help your cornering next time."

That earned a light kick to your shin under the table. You grinned.

The conversation wandered easily— racing, Netflix edits, who had the worse simulator setup. He leaned in closer when you teased him about still using traction control, and you found yourself tugging his sunglasses off just to prove a point.

You didn't notice the phone— not right away. It was only after you'd laughed— head thrown back and eyes scrunching— that Oscar paused, eyes flicking briefly over your shoulder.

Too late. Someone had already taken the photo. A fan. Smart enough to stay quiet about it— for now.

It wasn't until the both of you got back to the hotel when you noticed the amount of messages you were getting from fellow drivers and riders.

"I told you to sit facing the wall," Oscar muttered, scrolling through the chaos on his phone.

You flopped down on the bed beside him, snatching the device from his hands. "You also told me the disguise was foolproof."

He gave you a flat look. "I didn't think me wearing sunglasses would trigger a media meltdown."

"Please. You smiled. That's enough to spark a scandal."

He laughed. Quiet, barely there, but real. Then, softly:

"They think we're dating."

You looked at him, curious. "Does that bother you?"

Oscar hesitated. Then met your gaze.

"No," he said. "Does it bother you that it doesn't bother me?"

You stared at him, heart stalling for one stupid second.

"No," you said back, voice just above a whisper. "It really doesn't."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was charged— full of all the things you both weren't ready to say.

But maybe, just maybe, you were starting to feel ready.

The aftermath of it all was entertaining.

It starts with a Quad Lock conference, a sit-down with reporters and a new brand ambassador. The beginning to the crossover event where all the brand's ambassadors try out each other's sports.

They made you sit next to each other, you knew Quad Lock planned this all from the very beginning.

Your name is called first. You lean into the mic, perfectly composed— at least from the waist up. Oscar leans back in his seat beside you, arms crossed, face unreadable except for the faint twitch of his mouth.

A reporter raises their hand, grinning like they already know the answer. "So... that cafe in Barcelona. Cozy, wasn't it?"

You hum, chin tilted enough just to be smug, an eyebrow raised. "Should I be asking for your coffee order?"

Oscar's already smirking, mic lifted casually. "She rated it an 8. Don't think we'll be going back, though. What with the... unexpected company and all."

The room loses it. Laughter erupts, a dozen camera flashes, some even gasp at the subtle confirmation. You shake your head, trying to bite back the smile. Oscar doesn't even blink.

Then comes the real question:

"Are you two together?"

You and Oscar both pause.

"No."

"Not yet."

It comes from him and it silences the room. You turn your head so fast you almost pull a muscle. "Excuse me?"

He clears his throat. "That was supposed to be a thought."

You bite your cheek to keep from laughing. You whisper into your mic, "You're making this worse."

He glances sideways. "Am I lying?"

Another pause.

You look straight into the camera. "No comment."

Twitter dies, fan pages erupt, and you don't even bother checking your phone this time.

Then comes the inevitable team meeting. You're told to report to your team principal's office after the press conference.

You had expected a scolding, not Oscar already sitting there, arms folded, sipping from a water bottle like this was a casual debrief.

You stop at the door. "Is this… couples therapy?"

"I prefer public image management," he says.

Your managers stare at you like you've both just announced a pregnancy.

"Are you dating?"

You both glance at each other. Oscar sighs, adjusting himself in his seat. "I like her. I'm not gonna hide that."

You freeze. He's not looking at the managers, he's looking at you.

You swallow. Shrug a little. "I'd consider signing a multi-year race contract."

There's a beat of silence.

Your manager scribbles something furiously into their notes. Probably 'chaos imminent'. They finally look up at you and mutter: "Do we need to start printing shirts?"

Then it's the first race since the scandal. Your name is on every tabloid. Oscar's too. You figured he'd stay far away.

But there he is. Leaning casually against the garage, team pass hanging from his lanyard, sunglasses back on like that's going to stop anyone from recognizing him.

Your mechanics whistle when you walk into the garage and see him.

You raise an eyebrow. "You lost?"

Oscar just grins. "You'll crash if you keep staring."

You throw your towel at him. "You wish."

You win that race, obviously. Fastest lap, pole to podium, champagne in your hair, and gold on your collar.

When you walk back to the garage, Oscar is still there— a new team cap in his hand.

He tosses it to you without a word. You catch it. Thumb running over the '81' embroidered on the brim.

"Figured I owed you one," he says, a little breathless, like he ran to make sure he didn't miss you.

You tilt your head, playful. "You came all the way here just to even the score?"

He shrugs. "No. I came for you."

Your smile is slow, wide, unstoppable. And suddenly, it's not about press photos, or rumors, or what the media thinks anymore.

It's just him. It's just you. It's just the quiet, terrifying, electric realization that you've finally found someone who matches you beat for beat and it's the best thing that's ever happened to either of you.

Oscar was on pole. The McLaren garage was buzzing with the electric sort of tension that only came with race day. Tire warmers humming, radios crackling, mechanics pacing with tightly wound nerves. But the real reason everyone kept sneaking glances over their shoulders?

You.

Sitting confidently on the orange garage stool with a headset resting around your neck and the most deliberate papaya jacket zipped halfway over your MotoGP uniform. You weren't hiding. You hadn't even tried.

People stared, whispered, took photos. And you met every look with a raised brow and a smirk that said, yes, I'm here, and yes, I'm staying.

"Thought you said papaya wasn't your color," Oscar said as he passed you, helmet in hand, voice low enough just for you to hear.

You leaned back and smiled up at him. "It isn't. But you are."

He blinked. Almost stumbled. And for the first time in years, Oscar Piastri— calm, cool, unshakably composed— looked like he didn't know what to do with himself.

"You're going to ruin my race focus," he muttered, voice slightly higher than usual.

"I hope so," you teased. "Win anyway."

You watched every lap from the garage, headset finally over your ears, half-listening to strategy while keeping your eyes locked on that papaya blur carving through every sector.

He was perfect— composed, ruthless in defense, smooth on exits.

And when he crossed the finish line first, fists pumping in the cockpit, the entire garage exploded around you.

You didn't move.

Not until he pulled into parc fermé. Not until the camera caught him looking straight toward the garage before he even unbuckled. Not until he jogged in, helmet off, curls messy with sweat already on his suit.

And then you were moving.

He spotted you before anyone else did. Didn't wait, didn't ask, just walked toward you with that exhausted, elated kind of grin.

"I won," he said breathlessly.

"I saw."

"You wore orange."

"I know."

Oscar stepped closer. Close enough that the noise fell away. Close enough that his team was watching with barely-disguised grins and held breath.

You looked up at him. "Still want to pretend it's not a thing?"

He shook his head once. Firm. "No. I’m done pretending."

You smiled. "Good. Because I don't feel like hiding anymore."

He didn't say anything else. He just kissed you.

Soft at first. Gentle, almost unsure— like even now, he couldn't believe it was happening. But you kissed him back like you'd been waiting your whole damn life for it, and the paddock lost its mind.

Applause, camera flashes, mechanics howling, drivers wolf-whistling as they passed.

But none of it mattered. Because it was just you and Oscar. Two champions. One race at a time. Exactly the same. And finally, together.

[oscpstri]

i NEED more motogp!reader with oscar piastri!!! maybe some smau or a fic?? it was so good and i was smiling the whole time while reading it

ON IT !! full-fleshed oneshot of motogp!reader and osco will be published later 🤭🤭 the blurb will act as a sort of prologue for the oneshot. IT'LL BE CUTE IT'LL BE GOOD

[oscpstri]

everything but you | bearman

bearman x fem!reader, 768

ollie bearman had everything— the car, the dream, the career. but the one thing he wished for but never had, was you. and he hated it.

INCLUDES: reader is arthur leclerc's girlfriend, sorry we compare careers here but i love the both of them ok pls dont kill me, slight angst

NOTE: inspired by jessie's girl (the glee version again) !! this was originally supposed to be another set of drivers but i switched to ollie bcs the damn lacy edits have gotten to me again man. also im kinda wasted writing this so pls bare w me

( masterlist | more OB87 )

Ollie Bearman was in Formula 1. Arthur Leclerc was not. And that should have been enough.

He had the seat, the career, the fame, the experience. He was in every media day panel and in every post-race interview. He had casual conversations with world champions and raced wheel-to-wheel with the greats. He lived the life he always dreamed of, high at the top, only getting better.

Arthur never made it to Formula 1. He could have if time allowed him. He didn't have Lewis Hamilton's phone number saved in his phone, nor did he talk to Fernando Alonso every weekend before a race. He wasn't the one who flew private planes with the other rookies, nor laughed beside a four-time world champion during a driver's parade.

Ollie had everything Arthur wanted. Everything but the girl.

"Fuck, I'm so stupid. What if I never walk again." You sit up from the hospital bed, grimacing at the pain in your ankle.

Ollie sat in front of you on a small stool, looking at the bandages wrapped around your foot. "Ok first of all, you're being dramatic. It's a sprain."

You look up at Ollie with pursed lips, he meets your eyes with a certain tenderness that you always found comforting. "Second of all, you're not stupid. You got excited, it happens."

You groan in embarrassment, covering your face with your hands. "I can't believe I'm sitting in a hospital room because of my boyfriend."

Ollie's eye twitches at this, "Who didn't pick up, by the way."

You place your hands on your lap, slumping in the bed as you look at the Brit. "Hey, he's probably busy on the sim."

So? Ollie wanted to say out loud, but refused.

You were at home when you got the news that Arthur would be competing in more endurance racing for the rest of year. Happy for him, you started jumping up and down and landed on your foot wrong, resulting in you spraining your ankle and calling your best friend at 8 in the morning.

You insisted that you were fine but by the time Ollie got there, your ankle was swollen and he knew better than to leave you in pain. So he drove you to the hospital to get properly treated.

"Thanks, Ollie." You turn towards him, a smile on your face as he leaves the apartment keys on the table. "You didn't have to do all that, you know."

He smiles back. "Anything for you."

You see his reply as friendly, Ollie's heart skips a beat.

"You wanna go to Qualifying later? I could scrounge up a spare pass."

You shake your head politely, "No, thanks. I'm waiting for Arthur to get here for tomorrow."

Just as fast as it sped up, Ollie's heart shattered once more. Arthur, right.

It wasn’t supposed to bother him this much. You and Ollie were childhood best friends and always in the same circles. You'd been at every single one of Ollie's races in the lower Formulas and tried your absolute best to watch as many as you could now that he was in Formula 1. You were his friend first. You’d been there the whole time— before the call-ups, before the pressure, before Arthur ever made a move.

Ollie had every chance. Every moment. Every excuse to say something. But he didn’t. Too focused. Too careful. Too convinced he had time. After all, Ollie was the reason you were in the Prema garage all the time in the first place.

But Arthur? Arthur didn’t wait. He just said what he felt and you picked him.

Now Ollie was racing in front of the world while silently choking on the fact that the guy still stuck in his shadow had the one thing he didn’t.

He saw you at the race the next day. You were wearing his team colors, in his garage, with his hat on, and shouting his name from the pit lane. But no matter how loud you screamed for Ollie Bearman, the sound of your laugh resonated louder when you talked to Arthur Leclerc.

Ollie won, he had podium, he had the champagne, but he didn't have the look of love in your eyes whenever you looked at him. He didn't have his hands on your waist as the crowd screamed when he popped the champagne.

He had the seat, the headlines, the future every young driver dreamed of.

But none of it mattered when you were in the garage with someone else— someone he’d beaten a hundred times— and still lost to in the only way that mattered.

[oscpstri]

DRIVER OLLIE BEARMAN ## 087

⸻ ONESHOTS !

⸻ BLURBS !

EVERYTHING BUT YOU ★ fem!reader, 768

ollie bearman had everything— the car, the dream, the career. but the one thing he wished for but never had, was you. and he hated it.

[oscpstri]

don't you make me | leclerc

leclerc x fem ex!reader, 547

you didn't think it would end this way, but when charles decided to downplay the breakup about a relationship he never even cared to tell people about, you show your ex exactly who he was dealing with.

INCLUDES: charles is a red flag but we all knew that !!, PETTY ENERGY

NOTE: got this idea bcs ive been IN LOVE with the bridge of 15 minutes ever since it came out. also inspired by my own breakup bcs i need to release this hot girl anger somewhere. love sabrina she's my queen

( masterlist | more CL16 )

Charles should have known better.

You weren't the type of girl who could be erased so quickly, not when the entire relationship was built by you brick by brick.

That's why when an exclusive interview with the grid's Monaco prince came out with Charles saying he 'gave you what he could', you were fuming. Gone were the nights of you bawling your eyes out because everything reminded you of him, now you were just looking for a way to get back under his skin.

Because you were not about to let a man who couldn't even give you handwritten letters ruin your life.

So you closed the curtain, took a week to better your headspace, and opened it like nothing had happened.

The breakup wasn't big— just enough. You were a nobody because Charles refused to hard-launch you but now you were about to turn into the hottest woman the paddock has ever seen. No one would forget you. Definitely not Charles.

Talk about a glow-up? You had a whole F1 car sized weight lifted off your chest.

You posted on Instagram. A simple three-slide post that encapsulated everything you had been up to since the week Charles had tragically let you go.

The first slide was a faceless photo, tan lines out, sunglasses on, posing like you owned that damn beach.

The second slide was a picture of the ocean. Calm, serene— much opposite to the reactions you garnered from the last slide.

The third was a selfie taken from the top, your eyes covered by the brim of a hat. A hat everyone instantly recognized— even the drivers themselves. This then probed the question to the public: Who are you and why is you wearing a Carlos Sainz hat provoking the drivers reactions?

Pierre liked your post immediately, Lando hyped you up in the comments, Alex reposted on his story with the caption 'complete Williams WAG roster', and Charles? He saw everything. And you know he did.

Because the second the paddock starts whispering your name when they find you, Charles turns to see the talk of the town. He wouldn't have had a hard time, though. Because you weren't even trying to blend in. A black mini dress, sunglasses, and a cute gold chain with a little "C" pendant dangling from it.

You let people wonder which C, but Charles knew exactly who it wasn't.

He glances at you, tight-lipped, regret simmering in his eyes.

You mustered up the sweetest PR-approved smile you could give, "Hi!"

Charles blinked. "Hey."

You leaned in, voice sweet and innocent. "Hope your season's going well. Big fan! All things considered."

You mutter the last part under your breath, walking away with a wide smile. Charles didn't respond, he couldn't, and he knew that.

His eyes follow your retreating figure all the wsy to the Williams hospitality where you find yourself beside Carlos.

"You're dangerous." He leans towards your ear, voice low and husky.

You turn to him, another wide smile on your face. "Only when I'm provoked."

He grinned. "And if I don't provoke you?"

Your smile simmers, a smirk replacing it as you take a sip of your drink. "Then you get to be the hard launch instead of the big caution sign for the next guy."