#chances of piastri points are slipping

[biropen]

WHY THE FUCK IS PIASTRI P16

AAAAAAAAA

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

to your ex texting you out of nowhere

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

It's an awkward thing to bring up, but you didnt want to hide it. Eventually, you try to casually mention it while Max is making and he just… stops moving.

“What do you mean, he texted you? Why?”

He places the knife down and turns slowly to face you. He doesn’t overreact, but he does ask to see the message... and rereads it probably too many times. He's dead silent as his eyes scan the few words over and over, jaw clenched and eyesbrows furrowed.

“He knows you’re with me, right?”

And you assure him that he does. You're instragram is overrun with Max content and photos of you two together. I would be impossible to miss. Your relationship was anything but a secret.

"Fucking loser," he mutters to himself, voice filled with an almost cartoonish frusteration that makes you laugh lightly. The sound of it makes him crack the tiniest smile.

He doesn’t question you. Doesn’t blame. Doesn't ask why he isn't already blocked. He just hates that your ex would try to get in your head again.

“Want me to block him for you?” You agree. Max does it without a second thought.

He’s extra affectionate after: hand on your thigh, quiet forehead kisses. But it's not out of insecurity, its just to remind you he won't let anyone come into your life to hurt you again.

“He had his chance. He doesn’t get to come back into your life after what he did.”

lando norris

He sees your phone light up and casually leans down to read out the name to you, assuming its one of your friends or family checking in. All colour leaves his face when he realises why he recognises the name.

“Wait. Is that who I think it is??”

Suprised by his text youself, you tell him he's right. Immediate chaotic disbelief fills him, he can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Man really thinks he can slide back in after I showed up? Delusional. Completely delusional!”

He's mostly joking, but at least 25% serious, when he offers to message you ex himself. Even suggests sending back a selfie of you in his hoodie just to drive the point home that your his now.

“Should I post a photo of us kissing? No? Okay. But like… I could. For fun.”

His arms curl around you from behind and his head comes to rest on your shoulder, whispering soft things in your ear to make you laugh and forget all about the text.

“He’s not worth the time, babe.”

oscar piastri

You mention it offhandedly while cuddling up on the couch, sit-com reruns playing quietly i nthe background, and Oscar just blinks.

“He texted you?”

He's quietly offended. More on your behalf than anything. He knows what this guy was like and he hates knowing that he's trying to be in your life again.

Doesn’t say much, instead he just holds you a little closer, a little tighter. He helps you delete or block, if you want to. But he doesn't push. It's 100% your decision. He doesn't feel threatened by this guy, just frustrated by his existence.

“You don’t owe him anything. Not even a reply. You know that.”

But it's impossble to miss how he becomes subtly more clingy for the rest of the day.

It's his way of marking territory without letting any jealous words slip out: holding your hand more often, brushing your hair back, soft kisses to you neck while you speak in hushed tones. More couch cuddles and a movie marathon are a requirement that night.

He's not jealous. Just protective.

“If he texts again, let me know. I’ll handle it.”

carlos sainz

You tell Carlos immedietly. The thought of keeping it a secret doesn't even cross your mind.

“He what?”

He leans back on the couch, crosses his arms, and raises one eyebrow like your ex just insulted his mother, his hair and his driving all at once.

“After all this time? What does he want, cariño?”

Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t joke. Just gets that dangerously calm tone. He's mature about it all but there is a distinct edge to his voice.

“No more replies. He had his chance. He doesn’t get to know you anymore.”

Kisses the inside of your wrist as he whipsers to you, holding you close.

“You don’t need to look back when I’m right here.”

You block him, Carlos doesn't have to even ask.

alex albon

He tries to play it cool when you mention it, its still early morning and he's wiping sleep dust from his eye as he speaks.

“Oh? That’s… random.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He tries to make a statement of 'not caring' and maturity by not asking to see the text. But later, once all the humour of the day has worn off, he sheepishly asks to see.

“Just making sure he doesn’t think he's got another chance with my girl. I wanna know what he thinks is so important to say that he had to text you.”

While his eyes scan the screen, he softly reminds you that you don't owe him anything. Not a reply, not a conversation. Nothing.

Gives you a hug from behind while you delete the message (more for his peace of mind than your own).

While he feels slightly bad for his jealously, he trusts you enough to laugh about it later on. He brings you snacks and cuddles to shift the mood, the safest boy to be loved by.

charles leclerc

When you show him the message, flipping the phone around for him to see while sat across from him at the breakfast table, and Charles’s smile disappears instantly.

“No. No, no, no.”

Suddenly he's up, pacing. Annoyed, but because he’s mad for you.

“If you don’t want to answer, you shouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve a response,” he says confiendly, like a knight trying to defend your honor.

He stops suddenly in his tracks, wide eyes, and looks over at you.

"I mean, you don't want to respond... right? Ma chérie?" A hint of fear colours his words as his eyes search yours for answers.

Once you reassure him that you have no feelings for you ex, and definitiely do not want to be hearing from him, you block his number together.

Charles visibly relaxs once you do.

"He is stupid, non? It took him so long to realise what he lost. It is too late for him now. I have you all to myself." The kiss that comes next is just as sweet as his words.

lewis hamilton

You tell him while you’re out for a walk. He doesn't stop, no, but he... definitely slows. Like his mind is trying to catch up with your words.

“He reached out?”

Voice is low, calm. He's mature about it, even if the thought makes him uncomfortable. He makes sure you know this is about how you feel, not how he feels.

Listens carefully. Lets you speak.

“You okay?” he asks first. “I know he wasn't great to you. Do you want me to handle it?”

You know he won’t act unless you ask him to... but if you do... your ex will never try that again. It's a delisciosuly good thought, but you tell him you can handle it.

"Ok," he smiles and takes your hand, kissing the back of it as he picks up the pace again, "I trust you."

Later that night, he's holding you against his chest in bed, and you catch him looking at you like you hung the moon.

“He’s trying to come back because he knows what he lost. But I’m never letting go of what I found.”

george russell

“He did what?” The words come out sharper than he intends, you're sure of it. And while the anger isn't aimed at you, for a moment it feels like it is.

“Sorry. I just… he shouldn’t be contacting you. That’s so out of line.”

His expression quickly softens when he sees your face. “Hey. No, I’m not upset with you, love. Just at the situation. At him.”

He just stands beside you as you decide what to do, he doesn’t push. Doesn't force. Just supports. His hand rubs comforting circles on your lower back as you talk it all out.

“You want me to help you block him? Or I can just sit here while you do it. Or we can just delete it. Balls in you court, love.”

When he's curled up with you later,it's all warmth and soft affection. Soft kisses to your cheeks and lips, brushing you hair softly behind your ear.

“He doesn’t deserve your energy, or your time. I’ll always protect that.”

requests open <3

[aleskie]

EIGHTEEN | Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Oscar Piastri has loved you since he was eighteen. It just takes him a while to get to that point. Or so he thinks. This is Oscar's journey to realizing that maybe the girl he's always hated isn't so bad at all. In fact, she's actually...pretty loveable.

Warnings: None just Enemies to Lovers?? Or is it more Rivals to Lovers?? Also, the timeline is wonky with the irl events, so just pretend it makes sense. And also i had to look up the british school systems SO THEY MAY BE WRONG BUT PLEASE JUST PRETEND

♫ Listen: 18 by One Direction ♫

2016: Year 10 [15 years old]

He didn’t know why, but from the moment you two met at the headmaster’s office, Oscar Piastri knew he hated you. 

Maybe it was your posture—back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting politely on your lap—or maybe it was your voice, too polished, too proper, like you were reciting lines off a script. Or maybe it was everything else.

The way you barely acknowledged him as you both waited in the stuffy office, but flashed a smile so perfectly pleasant it had to be fake the second the teachers and headmaster walked in. The way your eyes flickered over him when he introduced himself, assessing, calculating, like he was a pawn to be placed, a connection to be measured. Or maybe—definitely—it was when you called motorsport, his life’s mission and passion, a hobby.

He tried not to let it get to him. He really did. But even he had to admit he could be a little petty.

“At least I have a hobby,” he muttered in your direction as soon as the faculty members were out of earshot.

For a split second, he thought you looked hurt—something in the way your lips parted, the slightest flicker of hesitation in your expression. But then it was gone, replaced by a scoff and a perfectly arched brow.

“At least I know my dreams have a higher chance of succeeding than yours do.”

Low blow.

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag. “You’ve got dreams?” He sneered. “Must be hard for a princess like you to have to be here and work for them then.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something sharp in the way you did it, like you were daring him to say more. “Don’t act like you know me, Piastri.”

He huffed out a dry laugh. “I could say the same for you.”

You turn your head away from him at the sound of light footsteps—faculty returning, this time accompanied by older students meant to be your guides. And just like that, the stupidly perfect, fake smile was back on your face, as if the last few minutes of exchanged barbs had never happened.

“I see you two have been conversing,” says the headmaster, smiling warmly. If only she knew about the jabs you’d taken at each other. Would she still be smiling?

“He’s been lovely company, Mrs. Berkshire,” you lie with effortless charm, your voice smooth as silk. “It’s been comforting to know I’m not the only transfer student.”

Then, as if to twist the knife a little deeper, you turn to him with a look so deceptively sweet it could almost pass as genuine—almost. “I’m glad Oscar feels the same.”

There’s a glint in your eyes, something smug and self-satisfied, and he wonders if anyone else in the room can see just how full of it you are. Probably not. Mrs. Berkshire certainly doesn’t. She beams, clearly pleased at the thought of her two new students becoming fast friends.

Oscar clenches his jaw. He could call you out, make it clear that you’re full of it—but what’s the point? Instead, he forces himself to nod, his voice tight as he grits out, “Yeah. She’s been great.”

He sees it then—that flicker of amusement, the way your lips almost twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. Almost. Couldn’t let your facade slip, not even for a second.

And it pissed him off.

You spend most of your first year at boarding school in different circles.

Oscar lays low, slipping easily into a group of laid-back boys who are effortlessly easy to be around. They play video games in dorm rooms until lights out, kick a ball around after class, and never demand much from each other beyond good company. They cheer him on when he leaves to compete and catch him up on everything he’s missed when he comes back. They’re great. Better than he could have ever imagined.

You, on the other hand, carve out your place at the top of the food chain. Academically untouchable, always two steps ahead. First in your class, a key member of the Debate Team and MUN Club, and well on your way to securing a prefect badge. Your uniform is always pristine, your headband perfectly in place, not a single strand of hair out of order. You have a small group of friends who he assumes are just as intelligent, uptight, and snooty as you are.

And yet—when he sees you laughing with them, head thrown back, completely unguarded—something about you seems softer. You don’t look like the girl who calculated every move, who smiled just enough to be polite but never enough to be real. In those moments, with that rare, genuine laugh, he thinks—begrudgingly—that you actually look quite…pretty.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know why he even notices. It’s not like he cares.

But sometimes, in the middle of a dull afternoon or while walking past the library, he catches glimpses of you—not the polished, picture-perfect version of you that you show everyone else, but something different. Unpolished. Real.

Like when you’re sprawled across a bench outside with your friends, books and papers in a chaotic mess around you, groaning about an impossible assignment—right up until someone cracks a joke that sends you into a fit of laughter. The kind of laugh that makes you cover your mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners, completely unguarded.

Or when, on those rare occasions, he catches you slipping up in class, head bobbing forward as you fight off sleep, fingers twitching as you try—and fail—to take notes.

Or when he walks past the debate team’s practice room and sees you in your element, arguing fiercely, hands moving with conviction, voice steady and sure. Confidence radiating off you in a way that has nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with certainty.

And for a second, just a second, he forgets to be annoyed by you.

But then you glance up, catch him staring, and arch a perfectly shaped brow in challenge—like you know something he doesn’t.

Right. He still hates you. Definitely.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking.

2017: Year 11 [16 years old]

Oscar was back at school regularly after the summer holidays and the season ending. He was pretty pleased with himself—2nd place wasn’t anything to scoff at. Sure, first would’ve been better, but it was fairly won. Besides, it had been a fun season, his best yet. More importantly, he hadn’t thought about you for months. Too busy with his Formula 4 campaign, too focused on climbing the motorsport ladder, too—

Well. That’s what he told himself.

He stepped through the iron gates of the academy, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his phone buzzing with check-up texts from his mom. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass and old stone filled his lungs, a quiet signal that summer was officially over. Students crowded the courtyard, reuniting after the break, voices overlapping in a chorus of excitement. His friends spotted him almost immediately, calling his name, pulling him into easy conversation—asking about his races, his wins, his losses, his plans.

And then—there you were.

Standing by the main building, perfect posture as always, chatting with one of your equally polished friends. Your hair was different, slightly shorter, but the headband remained, a signature piece of armor. Your uniform was just as crisp as it had been last year, not a wrinkle in sight, now complete with a new prefect’s badge that you wore with unmistakable pride. And when you laughed at something your friend said, it was that same light, practiced sound he recognized all too well.

It took exactly eight seconds for you to notice him.

Your gaze flicked toward him, assessing, calculating—just like it had in the headmaster’s office when you first met. Then—because you were you—your lips curled into a polite, almost saccharine smile, the kind reserved for faculty members and people you didn’t actually care about.

He scoffed. Typical.

“Piastri,” you greeted, voice smooth, just a little too pleasant.

“Princess,” he shot back, just to see if he could get a reaction.

And for a split second, he did—your brow twitched, barely noticeable, but he caught it. Then, just as quickly, you smoothed your expression, tilting your head ever so slightly in mock amusement.

“We’re in Year 11 now, and you’re still calling me that?”

“You’re still acting like one.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. But then, after a beat, you said, “I saw that you got second in the championship. Congratulations.”

Oscar blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Compliments from you were rare, practically unheard of. He studied your face, searching for sarcasm, but found none. Just a simple, matter-of-fact acknowledgment.

“…Thanks,” he said, accepting it before you could take it back. “Bet it was a little more interesting than your summer,” he added, smirking.

You raised a brow. “What, don’t tell  me you’re…curious about my summer, Piastri.”

His smirk vanished. His brain short-circuited.

And just like that, you had him cornered.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shut it. His brain scrambled for a way to recover, but all it did was replay the way you’d said his name just now—not in the usual clipped, disapproving way. No, this time it had been lighter, teasing. Maybe even…amused.

Suddenly, the two of you were locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to look away first.

Your friend cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. Oscar barely noticed. Because in that moment—standing there, the summer heat giving way to the crispness of early autumn, your eyes locked onto his with that same sharp, knowing look—he realized something.

He hadn’t actually stopped thinking about you at all.

The mere thought made his stomach twist, and before he could process it any further, he turned on his heel, raising a hasty hand in goodbye as he strode back to his friends. Fast. Like putting distance between you would somehow fix whatever the hell had just happened in his head.

“Okay, that was a little weird,” he heard your friend murmur behind him. “Is he alright?”

“Maybe the gasoline finally got to his brain,” you quipped. “A pity. He was a little smart, too.”

Oscar nearly tripped.

He wanted to say the comment about his "off attitude" annoyed him. He wanted to say that the gasoline remark made him dislike you more. He wanted to say that he had a cutting comeback ready to fire back at you.

But all he could think about was how you called him smart.

God, what was happening to him?

He knew something was going to go wrong last week when their teacher announced he’d be the one pairing up students for the project, taking matters into his own hands with a kind of cruel indifference that made Oscar’s stomach twist.

He knew something was going to go wrong when, at the start of class, the teacher gave both you and him a pointed look—sharp, knowing—before moving on like nothing had happened. You had shot him a confused glance then, your brow furrowing ever so slightly in a rare moment of shared uncertainty. He had stared back, just as lost. Neither of you had any idea what was coming, but for once, you were both on the same side of the battlefield.

And then the teacher started listing off partners.

It started harmless enough—his friends were getting paired with each other, easy matches. So were yours. Names fell into place like puzzle pieces, creating perfectly balanced, cooperative duos that wouldn’t cause trouble. And then—

“And finally, Oscar and...Y/N.”

Silence.

For a moment, he swore he misheard. But then he turned, and there you were, staring at the teacher like you were considering staging a full-scale academic rebellion. The slight tightening of your jaw, the way your fingers curled subtly against your sleeves—he could practically hear the calculations running through your head, weighing the pros and cons of outright protesting.

A second ticked by. Then another.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you muttered under your breath, but the teacher either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“I expect full collaboration,” they continued, already moving on. “This project is a significant portion of your grade, so I suggest you all put any personal differences aside and focus on the work.”

Oscar barely heard the rest. He was too busy glaring at his desk, resisting the urge to run a hand down his face. Of course, this just had to happen. Most teachers kept the two of you apart, aware of the silent war you had waged since the day you met. But not this one. No, this one was smarter—or crueler—ready and waiting to watch the fire combust.

Great. Just great. Out of everyone in this class, he was stuck with you.

By the time class ended, he had barely processed anything. He was about to make his escape when he felt a presence beside him.

“You.”

He sighed before even turning around.

You had stopped him just outside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the slight, irritated furrow of your brow. The usual superiority was absent—no smug glint in your eyes, no perfectly poised smirk. Just frustration, quiet but simmering.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” you said flatly.

Oscar let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Trust me, Princess, I’d rather fail.”

And then—you smiled.

Not the polite, school-perfect kind you used on teachers. Not the barely-there one reserved for acquaintances. No, this one was slow, sharp, and just smug enough to make his blood boil.

“Then I guess we have very different priorities.”

He hated that he had no comeback.

God, this was going to be a disaster.

“We should take a break,” Oscar says, hunching over the library table, rubbing his temples like the weight of academia is physically crushing him. “We’ve been at this for hours.”

You barely spare him a glance. “It’s been two hours and seven minutes.”

“See? It’s been so long,” he complains, dragging a hand down his face. “Let’s take a break. You’re done with your part anyway.”

You turn to him, assessing. “Are you finished with your part?”

He hesitates. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he sighs. “Give me like an hour, and I’ll be finished.”

You straighten, your posture sharpening into something unreadable, something that makes him feel like a student being reprimanded. “Piastri, this is due tomorrow. We need to get it done today.”

“And we will,” he argues, matching your intensity. “Just let me nap for a bit.”

You inhale sharply, clenching your jaw, and he already knows what’s coming. That calm facade. That practiced composure. That same tone you use when talking to teachers, the one that makes him want to throw his pen at the wall.

“The library closes in three hours,” you say evenly. “This is just the first draft, so we still need to revise. And not to mention we have to properly format our sources—thirteen of them, by the way. Do you know how long that’s going to take?”

Oscar groans, letting his head fall dramatically onto the open textbook in front of him. “Princess, we can afford not to revise this. It’s literally a first draft for comments. We can just start formatting the citations.”

You don’t budge. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “What page of the document are you working on?”

He blinks, suspicious. “…Why?”

“I’ll finish it.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“We need to finish on time, and I refuse to let my grade be pulled down because we don’t submit a good output.”

“You’re not doing my work.” His voice comes out sharper than he expects, but the idea of you just taking over, of you thinking you have to—he hates it. “It’s literally my work for a reason.”

“And you aren’t getting it done, so let me do it.” You nearly exclaim, only to catch yourself, voice lowering when you remember where you are. The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and distant whispers. You press your lips together like you’re trying to hold the rest of the argument inside.

It’s silent between you for a long moment.

And then—

“…Do you always end up doing the work?”

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your gaze flickers away, shifting toward the window. Anywhere but him.

Oscar watches you carefully, something tightening in his chest. “Y/N, what the hell? People have just been riding on your work?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, voice even. Practiced. “We get it done. And we get it done well.”

His brows furrow. He doesn’t know why he’s so upset. He shouldn’t care. It’s not his problem, right? It was your choice to take on the workload, to let people walk over you.

But still…knowing that people just expect you to pick up the slack, that they let you do it without even thinking—

It pisses him off.

And what pisses him off more is the way you look right now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just resigned.

Like this is just the way things are. Like you’re used to it. And he hates that more than anything.

“Give me like forty-five minutes,” Oscar says after a beat, exhaling through his nose. “We’ll start revising after, and then we can split the citations.”

You blink, eyes flickering with something unreadable—surprise, maybe. He can’t tell. But then, just for a second, he swears he sees the corners of your lips twitch upward, like you’re trying not to smile.

“Just…” You hesitate, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of your notebook. “Tell me if you need help. Or…y’know. If you have questions.”

Your voice is quieter this time, less clipped, lacking the usual sharp edge you use when you’re exasperated with him.

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. The library is quieter now, the golden hues of the sunset stretching across the wooden tables and casting long shadows over your open books. The light catches on your face—soft, warm—and for the first time, he gets a proper look at you up close.

You look tired. Not just from today, but in the way that lingers—faint bags under your eyes, a kind of weariness that no amount of perfect posture or crisp uniforms can fully hide. And yet, right now, there’s something peaceful about you. The way you rest your head against your palm, watching him work—not impatient, not irritated. Just…watching.

You must notice, because your brows furrow slightly. “Do I have something on my face?”

“What?” He blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he had fallen into.

“You were staring.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“It was nothing,” he says quickly, looking back at his laptop. “Just zoning out.”

You hum, unconvinced. But instead of arguing, you simply go back to flipping through your notes, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

“…Okay,” you say.

He exhales, forcing himself to focus. “Okay.”

Somehow, he feels like forty-five minutes is going to take much longer.

Three weeks into the project, Oscar realizes something: you’re actually kind of well-known on campus. 

Or, at the very least, you know a lot of people.

It’s not like he was completely unaware of it before. Your perfect reputation precedes you—your name carries weight in every class. Teachers mention you as an example of excellence, throwing your name around as if it alone should inspire the rest of them to do better. But working with you forces him to see it firsthand.

It seems like every five seconds, someone is coming up to greet you.

It doesn’t matter where you are—library, hallways, common areas. Someone always stops by.

Underclassmen ask for help on assignments—apparently, you tutor them sometimes, though Oscar doesn’t know how you find the time. Classmates ask about group projects. A girl from the debate team once yelled and waved from across the quad while you were in the middle of explaining a research point. Even the Year 13s, the ones Oscar barely interacts with, acknowledge you with nods and casual greetings.

And the weirdest part? You handle it all effortlessly.

He expected you to treat them the way you treat him—polite but cold, maybe even dismissive. But you don’t.

Instead, you smile. The fake one. The one he recognizes now, warm but not inviting. Like a wall disguised as a door, keeping people at a carefully measured distance. You don’t brush them off, but you don’t encourage them either. Your reactions are controlled, calculated. Just like everything else about you.

It’s impressive.

It’s annoying.

And it shouldn’t bother him. Not really.

But after three weeks of constantly being in your presence, after working side by side for hours on end, after getting into at least five arguments over formatting and research sources and the exact tone an introduction should have—he feels a little close to you. Not enough to like you, obviously. But enough that his respect for you has grown, just a little.

And with that, he’s started to notice things.

Like how you always twirl your pen when you’re deep in thought, but you never drop it. How you tap your fingers against your notebook in the exact rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head. How you drink tea instead of coffee and always wince at the first sip, like it’s too hot but you drink it anyway. How you use hair ties instead of your signature headband when you’re frustrated, tying and untying your hair over and over again only to fall back to your tried and tested headband after a while. How you let out a tiny sigh whenever you finish an assignment, as if mentally crossing it off a never-ending list.

He notices these things, and he tells himself it’s just because you’re working together. Because you’re spending time together. Because of course he’s going to pick up on small details when you’re stuck in the same space for hours.

That’s all it is.

Right?

Definitely.

And then, one afternoon, as you sit across from him at the library, books and notes spread between you, someone approaches.

"Y/N, hey."

Oscar looks up. It’s some guy—one of the Year 12s from the student council. He’s polished and confident, wearing the kind of casual smirk Oscar immediately finds irritating.

You blink in mild surprise before offering a smile—thankfully, the fake one. The one that’s polite, effortless, and just distant enough.

"Hello, Eric."

Eric leans against the table, his entire focus on you. He doesn’t even acknowledge Oscar.

"Haven’t seen you at any events lately. You’ve been busy?"

You glance at the open laptop in front of you, gesturing vaguely to your notes. "Yeah, the project’s been taking up a lot of time."

"Oh, right. This is for—" He finally gives Oscar a glance, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s only just realizing he’s there. "This is your partner?"

Oscar doesn’t like the way he says that.

You nod. "Yeah. We’ve been working on it together for a while now."

Eric hums, then—too casually—grins. "Well, don’t work too hard. Wouldn’t want you burning out before the weekend." His voice drops slightly, just enough to sound a little too suggestive for Oscar’s liking. "You should take a break. Come to the council’s seminar on Friday afternoon."

You hesitate, and for some reason, Oscar finds himself gripping his pen just a little tighter.

"It sounds fun," you admit, "But, with my schedule, I’m not sure—"

"You should go," Eric insists, tilting his head. "C’mon. You worked hard to help organize it—Thanks for the great speakers you found, by the way—I’ll even save you a seat next to me."

Something bristles in Oscar’s chest.

He doesn’t know why, but the entire interaction irks him. Maybe it’s the way Eric acts like he already knows you’ll say yes. Maybe it’s the casual confidence, the assumption that you’d drop everything just because he asked. Or maybe it’s the way you’re actually considering it.

Before he can stop himself, Oscar lets out a scoff.

Both you and Eric turn toward him.

"You good, man?" Eric asks, clearly amused.

Oscar leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Didn’t realize we were in the middle of a social hour, Y/N. Thought we were working."

Your eyes narrow slightly, but before you can say anything, Eric just laughs, pushing off the table. "Relax, Piastri. Didn’t mean to interrupt." He turns back to you, giving you an easy grin. "Think about it, yeah? It’d be nice to see you there."

You give a noncommittal nod, and just like that, he walks off.

The moment he’s gone, you exhale, turning to Oscar with a raised brow. "Was that necessary?"

He shrugs. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, muttering, "You’re so weird."

Oscar clenches his jaw, tapping his fingers against the table, suddenly annoyed.

Not at you. Not even at Eric.

Just at the fact that, for some stupid reason, the thought of you actually going to that seminar is really bothering him.

And he has no idea why.

He sneaks out of the dorms on Friday night, hands in his pockets, head low as he moves through the dimly lit pathways of the school. The night air is crisp, the kind that clears his mind if he lets it, but tonight, it does nothing to untangle the thoughts looping through his head.

It’s stupid. The fact that he even cares. That the idea of you and Eric sitting together, side by side, laughing at some dull student council joke, is bothering him.

It doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

Because he doesn’t like you.

He still thinks you’re stuck-up, overly competitive, and have a way of looking at him like you know exactly how to get under his skin. The faces you make, the way you roll your eyes when he so much as breathes the wrong way—it’s all infuriating.

But you’re smart. Intelligent. And your work ethic is something he respects, even if he won’t admit it.

And, yeah, you’re pretty. Even he has to acknowledge that much. But not the obvious kind of pretty. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that feels like a place you recognize, a feeling that lingers in the quiet spaces between conversations. It’s the kind that makes you feel at home.

The kind that—if he were the type to believe in this kind of thing—you’d find when you’re in love.

Not that he is. Obviously.

He shakes the thought away, sighing as he rounds the corner of the old courtyard. And then—

"It’s lights out, Piastri."

Your voice cuts through the silence, and he stops dead in his tracks.

You’re standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the dim glow of the campus lamps casting soft shadows across your face. You look unimpressed but not surprised, like you already expected to catch someone out of bed tonight.

He exhales, shoulders dropping. Of course.

"Then what are you doing here?" he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. "I’m a prefect, remember? Tonight’s my shift to make rounds before security does."

"Oh."

A beat.

"So," you say, tilting your head slightly. "What made you break curfew? You don’t seem like the type."

"Just needed to walk. Clear my head."

You hum in response, your gaze flicking over him, assessing. Then, after a moment:

"Well, the classrooms in the east wing don't get much attention. You can stay there and then sneak back out when the prefects and security switch shifts."

Oscar blinks. Of all the responses he expected from you, that wasn’t one of them.

He raises a brow, smirking. "And you know this…how?"

Your expression doesn’t change, but he catches the way your lips twitch slightly, like you’re holding back a smile. "I can be a little disobedient too. Sometimes."

That surprises him.

"You?" he says, skeptical.

You shrug. "It doesn’t happen often. Just when I need to clear my head." A pause, then, voice quieter, "Those classrooms are my spot, so don’t go there too often. I don’t need to see you when I’m stressed."

Oscar snorts. "Wow. What an honor."

"Exactly."

For a moment, neither of you move. There’s something odd about standing here, talking like this—like you’re two people who aren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Like, in this sliver of time, there’s something unspoken but mutual between you.

It doesn’t last long.

You straighten your posture, clearing your throat. "Now, get going before I change my mind and actually report you."

"Noted, Princess."

You roll your eyes and turn away, disappearing down the corridor.

And for some stupid reason, as Oscar watches you leave, he wonders if you ever feel as restless as he does.

2018: Year 12 [17 years old]

He’s been using the classrooms in the east wing as a secret place to clear his head since the night you told him about it. So far, he’s never run into you.

Maybe you use a different classroom. Maybe you come on different days. Or maybe—like everything else in your life—you have a system, a strict schedule he’s unknowingly managed to avoid.

Either way, he’s always had the classrooms to himself.

Until tonight.

The air is heavier than usual as he makes his way through the dimly lit hallways, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s restless. Frustrated. He tells himself it’s because of the season he’s just had. The Eurocup was brutal and he definitely wasn’t at his best. Every race felt like a battle he couldn’t ever win and every misstep made the weight in his chest grow heavier.

All he wants is to be home. Back in Australia, where everything is familiar—the streets, the skies, the people who don’t expect anything from him except to just be. But instead, he’s here. At fucking boarding school.

He exhales sharply as he pushes the classroom door open, stepping into the quiet. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights—he knows this space well enough now. The desks are still arranged the way they always are, the faint scent of old paper and dry-erase markers lingering in the air. It’s not much, but it’s his for the night.

At least, that’s what he thinks.

Not even five minutes later, the door swings open behind him, and he barely has time to turn his head before—

You.

You freeze in the doorway, hand still on the handle. There’s a flicker of something across your face—surprise, maybe even slight irritation. You definitely thought you were going to be alone.

He should’ve figured this would happen eventually.

Your lips part slightly before you collect yourself. “I’ll use a different—”

“You can stay.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

You hesitate, eyebrows drawing together slightly, like you’re trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. He doesn’t blame you.

But then, after a beat, you nod, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you, switching on one of the lights and dimly lighting up the room. Neither of you say anything as you move to opposite sides of the room, like unspoken rules are being established in real time.

Oscar exhales, rolling his shoulders back as he leans against one of the desks. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That you being here changes nothing.

So why does the room suddenly feel smaller?

He looks over at you. You’re scrolling through your phone, eyes scanning over messages he can’t see—but whatever’s on the screen has your jaw clenched tight. His gaze flickers down to your hands, the way your fingers tremble slightly over the glass. And then, in the dim light, he sees it. Faint but undeniable—tear stains trailing down your flushed cheeks.

His stomach twists.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice careful.

“Fine.” You don’t even look up.

He doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. “You sure?”

“Why do you care, Piastri?” You finally glance at him, but your expression is unreadable. “You don’t even like me.”

He stills. He wasn’t expecting you to be that blunt about your whole dynamic.

“Any decent person would care about someone who looks like they’ve just bawled their eyes out,” he says, crossing his arms.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, I’m fine.” Your posture shifts, back straightening as your expression smooths out into something eerily familiar. And then it’s there—the mask. The same sweet, practiced smile you wear around everyone else, the one he’s hated since the moment he first saw it in the headmaster’s office years ago. The one that hides everything.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say smoothly. “I have everything under control.” You turn to leave. “I’ll be off now—”

“Cut the bullshit, Y/N.”

The sharpness in his voice makes you freeze, hand hovering over the door handle.

“We both know you’re not fine.” His voice is lower now, steadier, but just as firm. “I know that face. I think I’m the only one who knows that face and how it’s not real. It’s never been real.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “For once in your life, just be fucking honest.”

You don’t turn around immediately. When you do, your face is unreadable. Then—so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it—you whisper,

“I’m not at the top of our class anymore.”

His breath catches.

“My grades are dropping—fast,” you continue, voice shaking despite how hard you try to control it. “My A-levels are harder than I expected. I thought I could handle it, but I—” You swallow. “I’m failing. And I’m letting everyone down.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

His chest tightens.

“My parents are pissed. My siblings are pissed because now my parents are pissed at them too. If I were just smarter, if I were better, none of this would be happening. Everything would be fine. Everyone would be happy.” You suck in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t stop the fresh tears from spilling down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away. You just stand there, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

“I’m just tired,” you whisper.

Silence.

It hangs thick between you, pressing against the walls, settling into the space between your feet.

Before he can think twice about it, Oscar moves. Slowly. Carefully. Until he’s standing in front of you. Not too close, but close enough that he can see the way your lashes clump together from the tears, the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still trying to keep yourself from breaking completely.

“I…didn’t think you could cry,” he mutters, before realizing how weird that sounds.

You blink at him, and for once, there’s no condescension in your expression—just something flat, unimpressed.

“You’re weird,” you say, voice hitching slightly from crying, “But you’re pretty good.”

His brows furrow. “Like, as a person?”

“Take it however you want.” You chuckle, a small, tired sound. You wipe your tears away, then, tilting your head, you ask, “So, why’d you come here?”

He hesitates. Looks down at his hands. Then, finally, exhales.

“I got ninth at the Eurocup this season.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightens. “I let everyone down. The team. The sponsors. My family.” His fists clench. “I did everything right. I trained harder than ever, I did my best, I gave everything—and it still wasn’t enough. I failed and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

The room is quiet again. Until—

You move.

Soft footsteps against the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing even closer to him. And then, hesitantly, you lift a hand and rest it on his shoulder. The warmth of your touch is unexpected, but grounding.

“Well,” you say, your voice quieter now, “I guess that makes us both failures.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, half in disbelief at the words that just left your mouth, half at the sheer irony of it all.

The girl he’s spent years hating is somehow the only person who understands exactly how he feels.

And when you laugh along with him—soft and real, no mask in sight—he thinks it might be the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

But just in an objective way. 

Obviously.

Something shifts after that night.

The jabs between you are still there, but they’ve lost their edge—less snark and spite, more playful banter. The kind that lingers just long enough to be amusing but never actually stings.

You smile at him when you pass each other in the hallway now. Not the polite, distant one you give everyone else, but a real one—small, barely-there, but real. You don’t avoid sitting with him anymore when the study hall is packed, and somehow, he swears people have started reserving a seat next to him for you.

He finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

It was weird at first—falling into this easy rhythm with you. He doesn’t quite know when it happened, only that it did.

Now, you help each other out when you can, despite having different A-levels.

You teach him how to organize his notes properly, finally getting him to admit that his system of stuffing everything into his bag “where I can find it later” is inefficient. In return, you steal scratch paper from him when you need to jot things down quickly, muttering a half-hearted “thanks” while he snorts and tells you to bring your own next time.

You ask him to explain things you don’t have the patience to reread, and he—after weeks of resisting—finally accepts your request to have a shared study playlist, since, for some reason, you two find yourselves next to each other so often.

It’s fun. Organic. Comfortable.

And then one day, in the middle of study hall, as he’s flipping through notes and barely paying attention, you look up from your work and—completely unprompted—ask:

“So, tell me about racing.”

He freezes, caught completely off guard.

“…Finally interested in my hobby?” He smirks, leaning back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers just like you’d taught him.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Ugh. Let it go, we were like fifteen.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Yeah, something’s definitely changed.

“So…” He watches you intently, trying to gauge if you actually want to know. “You really wanna hear about it?”

“Well, you won’t shut up about it,” you say, propping your chin on your hand. “Might as well figure out what’s so cool about it.”

He snorts. “Then sure, princess, let’s introduce you to motorsport, yeah?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but he catches the way you shift slightly in your seat, just a little closer, just a little more engaged.

“There’s a few types of it,” he starts, leaning back against the desk. “You’ve got the motorcycles and there’s even stuff where there’s two people in one car. But I’m in single-seater racing, so it’s just me.” His voice gains a certain ease as he speaks, his usual sharp edges softening. “I’m aiming for Formula One, which is like… the top of it all.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He always seemed most alive when he was annoyed at something—eyes sharp, jaw tight, voice lined with exasperation. But this? This is different. His posture is looser, his words flowing without the usual bite. There’s no frustration here, just passion.

You nod, and—true to form—pull out your notebook, flipping to a fresh page. The sharp click of your pen echoes in the room.

He stops. Stares.

“…Are you seriously taking notes?”

"Duh,” you reply, completely serious. “I need to keep up.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you. Then he huffs out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. But he doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Alright then,” he says, smirking slightly. “Most of us start in karting as kids. Like, literally kids. I was ten when I started—a little late, actually—but that’s where you learn the basics. Overtaking, defending, racing lines, racecraft—the whole lot.”

You hum thoughtfully, jotting something down. Then you glance up at him, the corner of your lips lifting. “Were you fast?”

“In karting?” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Obviously.”

You snicker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He shoots you a look, rolling his eyes before continuing. “Well, after that, you move up into junior divisions. It’s harder, more competitive, and way more expensive.” His fingers drum against the desk absently. “Talent alone isn’t enough there. There’s sponsors, funding, getting with a good team—and even with all that, nothing’s guaranteed.”

You watch him carefully, catching the way his jaw clenches at that last part.

It’s subtle, but there. The briefest flicker of frustration—of something deeper—before he forces it back down.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you tap your pen against your notebook, tilting your head. “So, let me get this straight,” you say, holding back a smile, pretending to examine your notes. “You’re telling me that you just drive in circles really fast, and you need rich people to like you?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “It is not just driving in circles.”

"Of course." You grin. “You drive in different squiggles really fast."

“Oh my god—”

You both burst out laughing, your voices filling the mostly quiet study hall, and the tension lifts.

He finds that you've been doing that lately—smoothing out the tightness in his chest until there's nothing but left but peace.

The kind he realizes he only really finds with you.

The annual retreat was supposed to be a break—a chance for students to step away from deadlines and exams, breathe in fresh air, and pretend they weren’t slowly losing their minds under the weight of classes.

Traditionally, it was some wilderness training program, the kind where they’d be forced to build shelters out of sticks and start fires with nothing but sheer willpower. But this year, the school had gone easy on them.

Instead of roughing it in the wild, they were headed to a quiet camping site tucked away in the countryside. Cabins instead of tents, a scenic lake, and just enough planned activities to call it "team-building" without making it actual suffering. Oscar didn't mind. A few days away from campus, where he didn’t have to think about exams or sponsors or whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing with his life? Yeah, he’d take it.

By the time they arrived, the sun was already slipping lower in the sky, casting warm gold over the treetops. The air was crisp, cooler than the city, carrying the distant scent of pine and lake water. As he stepped off the bus, stretching out his limbs, he could hear his friends already making plans—who was bunking with who, what they were sneaking into the cabins, whether or not they could get away with "accidentally" skipping the reflection sessions.

And then, of course, he spotted you.

Standing near the second bus, arms crossed, listening to one of your friends ramble about something—probably the itinerary. Your uniform blazer was gone, replaced by a jacket, and for once, your hair wasn’t held back by your usual headband. Something about it made you seem different. Less put together, less perfect. More like a person, less like the image of one.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Not that it mattered.

Because when you finally noticed him watching, you raised a brow, expression unreadable for all of two seconds before you smirked—just slightly, just enough to mouth: Stop staring, you weirdo.

Oscar exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile as he shouldered his duffel bag.

Just his luck—two days in the outdoors with you.

Or so he thought.

He didn’t see you at all that first night, too caught up in settling into the cabin with his friends, planning out their excursions for the next day. The schedule was packed but perfect: kayaking in the morning, followed by a swim in the lake. Archery in the afternoon, right after lunch. Then they’d spend the evening holed up in their cabin, pretending to nap so they could conveniently "miss" the reflection exercises. After dinner, they'd break out the snacks and board games they’d smuggled in, playing well past curfew.

Between all that, he was sure he’d run into you at some point. The camp wasn’t that big.

And yet, as the new day unfolded, you were nowhere to be found.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did see you. But only in passing—too focused on organizing the next day’s team-building activities, pouring over notes with the other prefects to even notice him.

Which was fine. Totally fine.

You were busy, after all.

Not that it mattered.

Not that it should have mattered.

And yet, for some reason, it did.

If the first day at camp was a relaxed free period with a required meditation session, the second was the complete opposite. Designed as a full-day competition, the campgrounds buzzed with energy as different challenges ran simultaneously—relay races, strategy games, problem-solving tasks. Every student was assigned to a random team and a random event. When they said team-building, they meant it.

Oscar got assigned to the obstacle course.

Which would’ve been fine—great, even—if it weren’t for the immediate complaints from the other teams the second they saw his name on the roster.

“Oh, come on,” someone groaned. “How’s that fair? He’s literally a professional athlete!”

“We’re going against a guy who has an actual training regimen,” another muttered, crossing their arms.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, feeling an unfamiliar prickle of embarrassment as all eyes turned to him. Great. He didn’t even want an unfair advantage, but now he was public enemy number one.

And then, of course, you stepped in.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” you said, somehow managing to corral the complaints into grumbling silence. Then, after a pause, you turned to him, a slow smirk pulling at your lips. “How about we give him a handicap, then?”

Oscar narrowed his eyes immediately. He knew that tone. That was your I’m about to mess with you tone.

“What do you think, Piastri?” you continued, crossing your arms. “Up for the challenge?”

He wasn’t, actually. Not at all. But some part of him—some deeply irrational, definitely stupid part—thought you might be a little impressed if he pulled it off.

“Sure,” he said, tilting his head at you. “What’s the handicap?”

You grinned. Too pleased. “We’re adding some weight on you.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

Another facilitator stepped forward, handing you a backpack that looked harmless enough. That is, until you struggled just a little to lift it, adjusting your stance to keep from stumbling.

Oscar stared. Oh, hell no.

“You…” He sighed heavily, reaching for the bag. The second he strapped it on, he felt the weight drag at his shoulders, and he let out a quiet grunt. Okay. Yeah. That’s ridiculous.

“You,” he muttered, adjusting the straps, “Are so lucky I tolerate you.”

You just flashed him a teasing smile and—because you were the actual worst—blew him a mocking kiss before turning back to the rest of the group.

“Alright!” you clapped your hands together. “Now that we’re all happy with the arrangements, let’s go over the rules!”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, shifting the weight on his back as you explained the mechanics. A team-based obstacle course where every challenge had to be completed by every member. Fastest team wins.

His team shot him a look, somewhere between amusement and pity.

Oscar just rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Fine. He could do this.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d make sure to throw you in the lake after.

“Are we all ready?” you call out over the crowd.

“Yeah!” they cheer back, voices full of energy.

“On your marks!”

Oscar positions himself at the back of his team, muscles tensed, ready. He could’ve started at the front—probably should have, considering he was technically the athlete—but he stayed behind instead, ready to help if anyone needed it. Team-building and all that.

“Get set!”

You scan the group, making sure everyone is in place. Then, for the briefest moment, your eyes lock with his.

His fingers twitch. Yours drum against your clipboard.

And because he’s him and you’re you, he casually flips you off.

You grin, wide and smug, like you’ve already won.

“Go!”

Oscar takes off.

The weight of the bag is brutal, but he barely registers it. All he knows is that he is not going to let you have the satisfaction of messing with him too much.

He was so going to win this.

Okay, so he was a little disappointed that you weren’t at the awarding ceremony when they handed out medals to his team for winning—even with the practically evil handicap you gave him.

But you were probably just busy cleaning up after the competitions.

No big deal.

And, yes, he did get a little annoyed when he spotted you later—freshened up and back in your usual composed state—smiling and giggling with another prefect.

But you were probably just planning the bonfire for tonight.

Totally valid.

He was fine.

At least, he was. 

And then… 

“So, you wanna sit with me at the bonfire tonight?”

Oscar stops in his tracks.

He doesn’t see your reaction, but he hears it. That soft hum of consideration, the one he’s learned you make when you’re actually thinking about something.

You were actually considering it.

Before he can hear your answer, he turns and walks away, jaw tight, steps a little heavier than necessary.

He doesn’t know what pisses him off more—the fact that you might say yes, or the fact that he cares if you do.

As suspected, you’re nowhere to be seen the entire bonfire.

Not that it mattered.

Oscar spent the night exactly how he should—hanging out with his friends, caught up in the whirlwind of music, laughter, and an excessive, probably unhealthy amount of s’mores. Someone had smuggled in a speaker, blasting everything from classic rock to obnoxious pop songs that made everyone yell along. They danced, they joked, they reveled in the rare freedom of being away from school.

He had a blast.

Seriously. A fucking great time.

So why the hell couldn’t he shake the thought of you?

The question stuck to the back of his mind, clinging like sap, stubborn and impossible to ignore. It wasn’t like you had to be here. Maybe you weren’t a bonfire person. Maybe you were holed up in your cabin, exhausted from running the competitions all day. Maybe you were off somewhere with that prefect—

Oscar scowled, shaking the thought away as he stretched out on the wooden bench outside his cabin. The night air was cool, the distant crackle of the bonfire still audible from the main clearing.

It was supposed to be two days in the outdoors with you.

With you.

Late into the night, long after most of the camp had settled down, the thought hadn’t left him.

Annoyed—at himself, at you, at whatever this was—he exhaled sharply, pushing off the bench and shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. Without thinking, his feet carried him toward the bonfire.

The flames had burned lower, flickering embers casting soft orange glows across the empty clearing. Most of the students had already turned in for the night, only a few stragglers left chatting quietly at the edges of the fire.

And then—finally—he saw you.

Sitting alone on the other side of the fire, half-hidden by the flickering glow, arms wrapped around your knees as you stared into the flames.

His steps faltered.

Where the hell had you been all night?

More importantly—why did you look so…lost?

Oscar takes a deep breath before stepping forward, his footsteps quiet against the dirt. You don’t notice him at first, too lost in whatever thoughts have anchored you to this spot. He sinks down beside you on the makeshift seat—a sturdy log warmed by the fire—resting his arms on his knees.

The bonfire crackles, embers drifting up into the night, casting flickering light across your face. The voices of other students murmur in the background, distant and indistinct. Crickets chirp in the trees.

You don’t look at him.

Oscar watches you instead, studying the way your shoulders curve inward as you sit cross-legged, the way your fingers fidget absently in your lap. You look…small, in a way he isn’t used to seeing. Like you’re carrying something heavy and don’t know where to set it down.

It’s silent, but strangely enough, he doesn’t feel alone.

Then, after a moment, you break the quiet.

“Why do you hate me?”

It’s a sudden question, one that hits sharper than he expects. A question about feelings he decided he had when he was fifteen, feelings he had held onto tightly—until a few months ago, when you had sat in that quiet classroom and shared your struggles with each other.

Feelings he honestly forgot he had.

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t hate you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not anymore, at least. But you did. Once.”

Finally, you turn to him, firelight reflected in your eyes. “Why did you?”

“I…” He pauses, considering his words. “I thought you were kind of stuck-up when we first met. And fake. And…and you called racing a hobby.”

Your lips twitch, amused. “Well, at least one of those things is actually something I did wrong.” Then, softer, “I’m sorry I said that. About racing.”

You lift a hand, smoothing down his hair in a gesture so natural, so easy, that it catches him completely off guard. “It’s your passion, your life. You worked really hard for it.”

A small chuckle escapes you. “I was a little stuck-up though, wasn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.” Oscar smirks. “Though you were great at returning the attitude I gave you,” he admits, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes. “And yet you think I’m the fake one? I was very honest about how much I didn’t appreciate you disliking me.”

“I just think—”

“Not thought?” you interrupt. “Present tense?”

Oscar hesitates, then nods. “You don’t show what’s in your head…What’s in your heart. You have all these smiles and scripts practiced. And you always look put together—even now that we’re literally out in nature. And you’re never seen with bad posture. Your grades are perfect and so is your conduct, and you’re actually kinda nice to be with. By all accounts, you’re…perfect.” He pauses, voice softer now. “But no one’s perfect, Y/N. Not even you. No matter how much distance you put between yourself and everyone else so they can think that you are.”

At that, you finally look away, gaze dropping to the ground.

“You can say that because you’re all set, Oscar,” you murmur. “You don’t need to be perfect because you already know what you want. You have a path, and you work hard for it. You can take your mistakes and turn them into lessons because you have something you want to be great for. You can try again and again when things don’t work out because you actually have a dream.”

Your breath catches slightly, and you swallow hard before continuing.

“I don’t have that.”

The words are quiet but heavy, settling in the space between you.

“So, I need to be perfect, Oscar.” Your fingers tighten over your knee. “Because I don’t know where I’ll end up if I’m not.”

The fire crackles. The night feels impossibly still.

And for the first time since he met you, Oscar doesn’t know what to say.

He just sits next to you for a while, keeping you company as the fire crackles and burns lower. The murmured conversations of the last few stragglers fade one by one, until eventually, it’s just the two of you left.

The night air is cool, carrying the distant sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, the faint chirping of crickets. The firelight flickers, casting shifting shadows across your face, across the way your shoulders remain tense, like you’re still bracing for something unseen.

Oscar exhales, shifting slightly closer. “I don’t think you need to have everything sorted out yet,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “We still have next year. And there’s the year after that. And the year after.”

You don’t respond. Not immediately.

“Y/N,” he calls, softer this time. “We have a lot left to live. You’ll find your place. You’ll figure everything out.”

You finally turn to him, eyes uncertain, on the verge of overflowing.

“Do you mean it?” Your voice is shaky, fragile in a way he’s not used to hearing.

“I do.”

You look away, but before you can retreat entirely, Oscar moves without thinking—cupping your face gently with one hand, tilting your chin just enough to meet his gaze.

It’s foreign. Surprising.

But not…unwelcome.

Your breath catches, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. The air between you shifts, something unspoken stretching thin and taut, the space closing inch by inch.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

His thumb brushes against your cheek, just barely.

“Everything will be fine.”

And then the dam breaks.

A sharp inhale, then a quiet sob. The first tear slips down your cheek, then another, and before you can stop it, you’re crying—really crying, shoulders shaking as you press your face into his chest.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you in without a second thought, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from the weight of whatever’s been crushing you for so long. His hand rests at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair as you let yourself fall apart against him.

And all he can do—all he wants to do—is hold you.

It’s strange.

He doesn’t ever see you like this. Just once before. You’re so composed, always controlled, always held together by perfectly measured smiles.

But right now, you’re none of those things.

You’re just you.

You're real.

You're in his arms and you're real.

And it hits him, in the stillness of the moment, in the way the firelight dances across tear-streaked skin—You’re beautiful.

Not in the way he used to think, not just in the way everyone already knew.

But in the way that matters.

The kind of beautiful that settles in the quiet spaces, that lingers, that takes you home. The kind that isn’t just seen but felt—woven into the way you carry yourself, the way you fight so hard to hold everything together, the way you’re allowing yourself to not be perfect, just for a moment.

Even in your worst state, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.

And suddenly—too fast—he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more there. If there’s a chance he likes you. In that way.

If, deep down, he’s been falling this whole time.

2019: Year 13 [18 years old]

When autumn rolls around and he’s back at school again, Oscar Piastri is a Eurocup champion. Testing for Formula 3 is lined up, doors are opening, and for the first time, the dream that once felt impossibly distant is now right in front of him. He’s buzzing, electric with the thrill of it all.

And you’re the person he most wants to tell everything to.

Not much has changed between you two after the bonfire. You still bicker, still trade sharp remarks, but there’s a warmth underneath it now—something softer, something unspoken. Something that makes his stomach twist in a way he’s beginning to understand.

Because, yes, he’s finally realized it.

He likes you. In that way.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance you feel the same.

He runs into you in the hallway, where your hair is still neatly styled, your uniform still crisp, but there’s something new. The prefect’s badge you once wore with careful pride is gone, replaced by a Head Girl badge gleaming against your blazer.

“You’ve come a long way, princess,” he says, stopping in front of you, hands casually shoved in his pockets. “Congrats on being Head Girl.”

Your smile is wide, genuine—the kind he doesn’t see you give to just anyone. “Congratulations to you too, Piastri—Eurocup champion.”

The way you say it, like you mean it, like you’re proud of him, makes something tighten in his chest.

“Wanna walk to class together?” he asks, like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like the idea of just existing next to you isn’t becoming something he needs.

You tilt your head, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “I have study hall for most of the day, actually.” Then, as if to soften the blow, you brighten. “I’ll send you my schedule, though, so we can coordinate!”

Something about that—coordinating, making time for each other—sits so naturally between you.

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “See you later?”

“See you later, Piastri.”

You turn and walk away, and just the thought of syncing your schedules is enough motivation for him to get through the day.

Except…when he finally gets your message, his stomach drops.

Because there, glaring back at him, is one unavoidable fact:

Nothing aligns.

Oscar had always been good at adjusting. Racing taught him that—how to adapt, how to move forward, how to deal with losing things and making peace with it.

But this? This was different.

He wasn’t used to missing someone. Not like this.

Sure, he missed his mom and dad. He missed his sisters. He missed the Australian heat and slang. He missed his racing friends when he went back to school. He missed the tracks and his car. But never in his life did he think he’d miss you.

And maybe that’s why the switch was so jarring. He’d spent years wishing he was away from you, wishing for different classes, wishing to never see your face.

Now that he has that, he wants nothing more than to bring back the simpler days—when you were always classmates, always orbiting each other, always trying to avoid the other but never quite succeeding at staying away.

Ever since he’d gotten your schedule and realized that nothing aligned, it was like there was an empty space in his day where you were supposed to be.

It wasn’t like you’d disappeared. He still saw you, sometimes—passing glimpses in hallways, quick nods across the library, an occasional “Hey, Piastri” when your paths crossed. But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t like before.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because before, he didn’t think he’d need more.

Now, though? It was all he could think about.

Oscar had wanted a lot of things in his life, but rarely did he ever want something back.

He wants back the way you twirl your pen in between your fingers at a speed he still can’t match, no matter how many times you try to teach him. He wants the ever-changing rearrangement of your hair when you get stressed, never sticking to one style within the hour. He wants your study sessions and your stealing of his scratch papers. He wants your smiles and your quips and your banter. 

He wants you back.

So, like in racing, he strategizes.

He figures out which routes you take so he can walk by at just the right moment, just to get a minute of conversation before you scurry off to class. He starts showing up at the library earlier, knowing you’ll pass by on your way to study hall. He “accidentally” bumps into you at the cafeteria, acting surprised even though he knows exactly when you go.

He even texts you more, something he never used to do before. Just small things at first—jokes, complaints about assignments, links to articles about topics he knows will spark an argument. Anything to keep the conversation going.

And yet, it isn’t the same.

No matter what he does, it’s not enough of you.

At some point, it’s wasn't just missing you anymore—it’s something heavier, something that sits in his chest and refuses to leave. Because no matter how many stolen moments he squeezes into his day, no matter how often he “accidentally” finds himself in your orbit, it never lasts long enough.

And the worst part?

You don’t even notice.

Not in the way he wants you to.

You’re busy—busier than ever. Between Head Girl responsibilities, exams, and whatever future you’re silently trying to carve out for yourself, it feels like you’re slipping further and further away. And Oscar, for the first time in his life, hates the idea of being left behind.

He tries not to let it bother him. You’re just focused, that’s all. It’s not like you’re avoiding him.

Except maybe you are.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a mean way.

But in the way that means he’s no longer a priority.

And that realization hits harder than he expects.

Because before, if he wanted to see you, he could. If he wanted to talk to you, he’d find a way, and you’d let him.

But now?

Now, you’re harder to reach. Harder to catch. Harder to keep.

And the closer graduation gets, the more he starts to wonder—If he doesn’t do something soon, will you slip away completely?

It’s right as the holiday break approaches that he finally gets a moment alone with you again—on a random night, past curfew, when you both somehow end up sneaking into the same empty classroom.

It’s similar, but different.

The lights are still dimmed, casting familiar shadows against the walls. The air is still heavy, thick with exhaustion from exams and the looming uncertainty of the future. But this time, you’re standing closer together. This time, the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s something known, something safe.

Because this time, no matter how much is changing, you both know one thing for sure—You’ve got each other.

How’s life been for you, Oscar?” you ask, leaning against the wall, a warm smile on your face. “It’s been a while, so tell me everything.”

“I don’t think it’s been any different from yours,” he says, mirroring your smile. “Tests, papers…” He hesitates. “Graduation. The future.”

You exhale, the weight of that word hanging between you. “Well, those are definitely in my head.” A small chuckle escapes your lips. “Is it weird that I miss those early days here at the academy?”

“What, the ones where we hated each other?” He smirks.

You roll your eyes. “Yes and no.” Turning toward the window, you watch the campus lights flicker in the distance, the glow casting soft light across your features. Oscar should look away, but he doesn’t.  He can’t.

“I mean, things were simpler then,” you continue. “We had all the time in the world.”

He hums in response, watching the way your fingers trace absent patterns against the windowsill.

“I wish we could go back to then,” you say softly. “I’d be nicer to you. We could have been friends faster.”

You both giggle at this, the sound light and easy, but something in his chest pulls.

“What about you, Oscar? Would you change anything?”

He thinks for a moment. He thinks about the previous year—the late-night study sessions, the bickering that turned into something softer, the night by the bonfire when you let your walls down. He thinks about being paired with you for that stupid project in your second year, about meeting you in this exact room right around this time last year. He thinks about the very first time he saw you, sitting so perfectly poised in the headmaster’s office, completely unaware of the way you’d wedge yourself into his life, piece by stubborn piece.

He thinks.

Then—

“Nothing.”

You blink, turning back to face him. “Nothing?”

“I think…” He exhales, searching for the right words. “I think we’re where we’re at because it took a while to get to know each other. If we had been friends from the start, maybe things would’ve been easier—but I don’t think they would’ve been right.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting his weight slightly. “If we had been friends back then, I think I would’ve liked you the way everyone else does. The way people admire you from a distance.” His voice is quieter now. “But…I got to see you. Not just the perfect grades or the Head Girl badge. I got to see the way you actually think, the way you talk when you’re not putting on a front. The way you try so hard even when you don’t have to.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And then, finally, you smile. Not the polite kind. Not the practiced one.

The real one.

“Well,” you say, voice softer than before. “I’m glad you got to know me.”

He’s glad too. More than you’ll ever know.

You just bask in the silence for a while, letting the quiet settle between you like something warm, something known. The window glass is cool beneath your fingertips as you both watch the lights flicker outside, the campus stretched out before you, vast and unchanging.

Your fingers brush against each other.

It’s light—barely even there, just a whisper of a touch. But it burns.

Something inside him ignites, sharp and immediate, like the flick of a match against dry kindling.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

He doesn’t move his hand away. Neither do you.

“You should call me by my name more.”

You tilt your head slightly, raising a brow. “Tired of hearing your last name?” The corner of your lips lilts in amusement.

Well, you might have it one day, he thinks.

But instead, he just shrugs. “I like hearing you say it.”

The teasing look in your eyes falters for just a second—your lips parting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before your cheeks flush.

You blink at him, the weight of his words lingering between you.

And then—

“Okay, then,” you say softly, watching him just as intently.

“…Oscar.”

You still don’t see much of each other throughout the rest of the year.

Between exams, responsibilities, and the looming pressure of the future, time slips through your fingers faster than either of you can catch it. Even texting becomes rare—just the occasional Good luck on your exam or a late-night complaint about an assignment. Nothing deep. Nothing real.

But Oscar takes what he can get.

His comfort comes in brief meetings in the hallways—your rushed conversations between classes, cramming a day’s worth of thoughts into a handful of stolen seconds.

“Got a physics test after lunch,” you’d say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “If I fail, I’m blaming you.”

He’d smirk. “What did I do?”

“The playlist you gave me last time distracted me.”

“Hey, I have great taste.”

“You can keep telling yourself that.”

And then the bell would ring, and just like that, you’d be gone—your presence slipping through his fingers before he could even think about holding on.

Hearing you call out his name in the busy hallway became the highlight of his day. A moment of certainty in a year that felt anything but steady.

But the times your knuckles brushed, the moments your shoulders bumped in passing, those felt like something more. Like maybe, if things had been different, there would’ve been time for more.

Except there wasn’t.

And maybe that’s why the thought of you leaving hits harder than it should.

He isn’t expecting to hear it—not like this, not by accident. But as he’s passing the debate room on his way to class, your voice stops him in his tracks.

“The university there offered me a great scholarship,” you tell a friend, your tone measured, practical. “It would be stupid not to take it.”

There’s a beat of silence before your friend speaks, quieter, hesitant. “So, that’s it then? You’re just…leaving?”

Oscar freezes mid-step.

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

And then—

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s so final. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that settles deep in his chest, heavier than it should be. “I’m leaving.”

And suddenly, the ground beneath him doesn’t feel so steady anymore.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” The words slip out before he can stop them, raw and too loud, cutting through the quiet corridor.

You blink, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone, by the urgency in his voice.

“Y/N, what are you even talking about?”

The hurt is there, unmistakable, woven between the syllables. And maybe if he hadn’t spent so long trying to deny it, he’d understand it better.

No. He does understand.

Because there was so much he wanted to tell you.

Because you were supposed to have time.

You were supposed to figure this out together.

“Oscar,” you say cautiously, as if approaching something fragile, something breakable. You glance at your friend, giving them a small nod, a silent request for space. They hesitate before excusing themselves, leaving just the two of you.

You inhale deeply, as if preparing yourself.

“I got an offer from a university outside the country,” you say, voice steady, like you’ve rehearsed this before, like you’ve already convinced yourself that this is good. That this is right. “Full-ride scholarship with room and board and a possible slot in a master’s program after I get my undergraduate.”

It’s a perfect opportunity.

It’s everything you’ve worked for.

You should be thrilled. You are thrilled.

So why does your heart ache at the way he’s looking at you?

Oscar doesn’t speak right away, just stares, his lips parting slightly like he’s still trying to process what you just said.

And then, finally, he breathes, “It’s a great opportunity.”

You nod, stepping closer, reaching for his hand before you can stop yourself. You don’t know why you do it—maybe to reassure him, maybe to reassure yourself. His palm is warm, his fingers rough but familiar, grounding.

“I’m going to take it,” you say. And you mean it.

But when his grip tightens around yours, when his thumb brushes absently against your skin like he’s memorizing the feeling, something inside you wavers.

Oscar swallows, staring at your joined hands like they hold all the answers he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what he expected—that you’d stay? That you’d change your mind? That he’d still have more time to figure out what you mean to him before you slip away completely?

He thought he had more time.

He thought—

“I love you.”

It comes out before he can second-guess it, before he can tell himself that this isn’t the right time, that this isn’t how he was supposed to say it. But none of that matters now.

His grip on your hand tightens. His voice is softer the second time, but truer, like the words are settling into something real.

“I love you.”

The world tilts slightly.

Your breath catches.

Because of course he does. Of course this is what it’s been building up to—every argument, every stolen glance, every almost-moment that neither of you dared to name.

But now that it’s here, now that he’s standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, you don’t know what to do with it.

Because you’re leaving.

Because you’ve already decided.

And because some part of you wonders if maybe, maybe, you were waiting for him to say it sooner.

You look down, your eyes fixed on the floor because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than facing the way his voice cracks, the way his words hang heavy between you.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you whisper, and even that feels like too much.

“Do you feel the same?” he asks, his voice quiet but firm.

You close your eyes. “I’m leaving, Oscar.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice softens, but the urgency stays. “Do you feel the same?”

“It’s not going to work,” you say, your breath hitching. You hate how your voice shakes, hate the way your heart is pounding so fast it hurts. “We’re going in very different directions and—”

“Do you feel the same, Y/N?” he asks again, his voice breaking just slightly.

And that—that’s what makes you falter. Because you can hear it. The way he’s holding on so tight, the way he’s afraid of your answer.

“Just let me go,” you whisper, even though it’s the last thing you want.

“I can’t,” he says after a beat, and his voice is so soft when he says it, but there’s no mistaking the weight of those words. “I can’t because I know you. Because I know I’m not the only one who feels this.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m trying to be practical—”

“I’m trying to tell you I love you!” His voice rises, frustration and desperation bleeding into every word.

And then—

“So do I!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them, loud and broken and everything you’ve been trying to bury.

The silence after is deafening.

You look up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. “I love you too,” you whisper, like it’s a secret you’re only brave enough to say now. And when you step forward and press your forehead to his chest, his arms come around you without hesitation, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “But it’s too late, Oscar. I’m leaving.”

“It’s not too late.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks—wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling. His touch is so gentle it breaks you a little more.

“We’re right here,” he says, his voice quiet and steady. “So, it’s not too late.”

And then—slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—he leans in.

Your breath catches.

And when his lips finally meet yours, the world falls away.

It’s soft at first—tentative and slow, like both of you are afraid of pushing too far, afraid of what this means. But then your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and his hand slips into your hair, and the kiss deepens. It becomes something warmer, desperate—like making up for every second you wasted, every word you never said.

And for a while, there’s no leaving. No future pulling you in different directions. No goodbye waiting on the horizon.

It’s just you.

It’s just him.

The warmth of his hands on your skin, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. The way your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. The quiet, shared ache in every kiss—like you’re both trying to memorize this, to keep this, even when you know you can’t.

And maybe this is all you get—this moment, this kiss, this fragile space where neither of you has to think about what comes next.

But maybe…maybe it’s just the beginning.

Because when you finally pull apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads still pressed together, his breath still tangled with yours—you both know the truth.

This moment? It’s fleeting.

But his eyes—warm and steady—hold you there.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, and somehow, you believe him.

You nod, your voice barely more than a breath. “Yeah. We will.”

And even if the future is uncertain, even if the next steps take you miles apart—right now, this?

This is yours.

And for the first time, even with your heart breaking in the most beautiful way, it feels like enough.

2022: Epilogue 1

“I can’t believe you just did that!” you exclaim over the phone, your voice half-outraged, half-incredulous. “Oscar, you’re giving me a heart attack from like fifty thousand miles away!”

“Everything’s under control,” he says, grinning as he leans back against the wall of his hotel room, the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. “Trust me. It’s all in motion—you’ll see.”

“Honey,” you huff, and he can hear the dramatic eye roll in your voice, “I’ll believe you when you’re in that fucking Formula One seat, driving around squiggles for two hours.”

He chuckles, the sound low and easy, and God, he misses you. “You worry too much.”

“I have to worry,” you snap, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Because my idiot boyfriend decided to end his partnership with the team that made him their reserve driver by tweeting about it!” You huff. “I mean, listen to this: I understand that without my consent—”

“Okay, yeah, I typed that out,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t need to relive it, thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” you tease, your voice softening just enough to make him smile.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of your keyboard clacking in the background. “Anyway, experts are absolutely shitting on you online,” you inform him. “But don’t worry—I’m your biggest defender.”

“Please don’t fight with analysts on the internet,” he laughs, though the image of you going to battle for him is both hilarious and weirdly endearing. “They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Oscar, I had to deal with your attitude for years before we got together,” you shoot back, your tone sweet as sugar. “Trust me— some slimy little reporters are nothing to me.”

He laughs, the sound full and warm—the kind of laugh only you ever seem to pull out of him.

And as the miles stretch between you, the distance feels just a little smaller.

2023: Epilogue 2

The roar of the crowd was deafening — a steady pulse of noise that vibrated through the air, through the track, through Oscar’s bones. He could feel it, even from the garage, where the final checks were being made on his car. The smell of fuel and rubber mixed with the electric tension of the starting grid, and the weight of what was about to happen settled heavily on his chest.

Bahrain 2023. 

His first Formula One race.

Everything he had worked for, fought for—the years of training, the endless sacrifices, the victories and the failures—had led him here. To this moment. To this seat. To this dream.

And still, when his eyes flicked to the edge of the garage, searching through the sea of engineers and team personnel, it wasn’t the car or the track or even the starting lights that grounded him.

It was her.

Y/N stood just beyond the bustle of the team, arms crossed and wearing his team’s colors, her ever-pristine hair now tucked beneath a cap. But the calm, poised version of her he’d fallen for wasn’t here today. Today, her excitement cracked through the surface—eyes bright, smile wide, nerves barely contained.

Three years, and she were still his greatest victory.

As if sensing his gaze, she turned—and when she smiled at him, everything else faded away. The crowd, the noise, the pressure.

It was just her. It was always her.

He lifted his hand in a small wave, and she grinned, mouthing words he didn’t need to hear to understand.

You’ve got this.

And just like that, the weight in his chest eased.

Because no matter what happened on the track today—win or lose, first place or last—she’d still be there.

And that? That was enough to make him feel unstoppable.

[scuderiahoney]

(Not So) Invisible String

Oscar Piastri x Reader, soulmate!au

masterlist

the one where some people can see the red string of fate and follow it to their soulmates. from this prompt list. 2k words

warnings: vague mentions of death (non main character)

Oscar’s never been in a rush to follow his fate, no matter how much everyone else seems to worry about it. He’s known about soulmates since he was in kindergarten, has been able to see his red string since he was a little older than that. He has a vivid memory of standing on the edge of the ocean and staring off into the great blue expanse, staring at the way the string seemed to stretch on for miles and miles until it hit the horizon. So. His soulmate wasn’t in Australia, which means. Well. He’s not sure what it means.

Some people never find their soulmates, even though they can see the string. Some distances are far too great, some lives too short. He doesn’t want that to happen to him, either, but really, he’s not in a rush. It’s the sort of thing he figures will happen if it’s meant to happen. One day he’ll look up and instead of the string disappearing into the great unknown, it’ll be tied to a person, around their pinky, just like his is, and he’ll know.

He’s not in a rush, but he’s already planning what he’ll say to them. When the time comes.

…..

You can’t see your string, which means you’re left a bit in the dark about the whole thing. You can sometimes feel the tug of the phantom string on your pinky, like someone’s testing the strength of it, checking to see if there really is someone on the other end. You always tug back and hope they feel it. You wonder if they’re close, or far away, if they’re desperately chasing after the line or waiting for you to come to them.

You feel jealous, sometimes, listening to your friends talk about following their strings to bars and restaurants and libraries, finding their perfect match at the end. Or your other friends, looking up to find someone moving their pinky and feeling the resulting tug and just knowing. Then you think of your friend Eli, who could see his string, and the way he sobbed when it was cut, the end falling to the ground at his feet, meaning he’d never get the chance to meet his soulmate. Gone too soon, his parents had said. He’d never even know who they were.

You think that maybe it’s better not knowing.

…..

When Oscar’s 15, he moves to England to chase his dreams. When he’s 15 and a half, he stands on the beach and feels his chest grow tight. He’s done this before, been to the beach and stared out a billion times at the endless blue and thought about his soulmate, about where they might possibly be. But here, staring out over the water towards Ireland, and North America far, far beyond it, the string isn’t pulled out over the water. It’s behind him, facing inland. As if whoever has the other end is behind him somewhere. He has the strangest feeling. He’s closer than he’s ever been, probably. Or, he supposes, maybe farther away. But it’s different.

He almost panics, for some reason, but he feels a gentle tug on the string and takes a deep breath. His person is out there somewhere. He’ll find them eventually.

He’s heard of people who give up. Who grow tired of searching. They spend ages and tons of money following the string wherever it points, and when they think it’s a lost cause, they slip the knot off their pinky and let the link go. It’s why he’s not keen on rushing. He’s not going to drive himself mad over this. He wants to find his soulmate, sure, but he wants to have his brain intact when he gets there. So he can, like, love them, he guesses.

He wonders if it’s a love at first sight thing. If your body just sort of knows, or if it’s more of an indicator, if you still have to build the relationship to the point of calling it love. His parents say it’s different for everyone. Which is a great answer. He thinks he’ll find out when he finds them, and it’ll all work out. Probably.

…..

Sometimes you hear funny stories about soulmates who have found each other, and the way it happens. Like one of them not noticing the string getting shorter until they’re standing in a grocery store, feeling it grow hot around their pinky, looking up to see it glowing. Or the people you’d heard about who’d been chasing each other around the world for years- one of them traveling for work, the other trying desperately to track them down, until the first got sick and had to stay stationary for a few weeks and they were able to catch up.

You hear of soulmates who met in Vegas and got married the same day, of soulmates who never got married because they’re the platonic type, of soulmates who find each other and then find they have another string, a third person who belongs with them. It’s strange, that in all the years it’s been happening, so little is known.

You often wonder what your soulmate will be like. If you’ll have common interests, if you'll like the same things. Or maybe you’ll be opposites, but just different enough to compliment each other.

You sit at your desk in your college apartment, studying, drumming your pinky on the textbook absentmindedly. When you feel the sharp tug on the string, you laugh. You wonder if your soulmate is in the same time zone- it’s nearly 2am, they’re likely telling you to go to bed. Or maybe they’re a few hours ahead of you and wondering why you’re up so early.

It’s strange, to think that someone you’ve never met wonders about you, worries about you. Stranger to think of meeting someone for the first time and knowing you’re meant to spend the rest of your lives together. Strange in a nice way. Like the universe has laid it all out for you.

…..

Oscar starts traveling when he gets into F3 and F2, and he’s happy to realize that the string always sort of circles back to the general area of Europe. It makes his life a little easier. It still stretches off into the distance, but he can work with this. He won’t have to go off to Alaska or something, though he’d do it if he had to.

He has dreams, sometimes, that he thinks are someone else’s. People have mentioned that to him before, that sometimes, if you’re both sleeping at the same time and the connection is strong enough, you’ll catch a glimpse into the other person’s head. It’s sort of comforting- a hand brushing through bouquets of flowers, a cup of coffee he’d have never ordered for himself, a mess of papers on a desk in a dorm he’ll never study in. He thinks about getting to do those things with his soulmate, and his chest grows warm.

He tugs on the string, just to let them know he’s there. They tug back, a pattern of two short pulls. He’s standing in the paddock before a race, and he can’t fight the smile, or the blush on his cheeks. They’re out there, somewhere.

…..

You graduate college and manage to land a job in your chosen field, which is a big relief. It’s an entry level one, but it pays well enough, and you’ll get to travel for work which is sort of the dream. You’ve noticed that while you’ve been stationary for years, the tugs on your invisible string have been coming from different directions. Sometimes the east, sometimes the west, sometimes somewhere in between. They must move around a lot. Maybe you’ll have a better chance of meeting them if you do the same.

…..

It’s the weekend of Oscar’s second ever race as an F1 driver that he notices it. He’s in the post race media area, listening to questions and his competitors droning on and on about their cars. He itches his pinky, looks up, and nearly chokes on air.

Normally, the string sort of just stretches off in one direction, disappears into the distance, when your soulmate is far away enough. But the red string that’s tied to him is now twisted around a mic stand, out an open door, and down a hallway.

That starts to happen when you’re close to your soulmate, within a couple miles. And his pinky isn’t itchy, it’s warm- the string is starting to glow. He bounces on the balls of his feet, answers questions quickly, tries to make a quicker escape, but by the time he’s fulfilled all his duties, the line is straightening back out, pulling farther and farther away, stretching into nothingness again. His heart sinks. His soulmate had been here, so close, and now they’re gone. From the rapid change in distance, he’d guess they’re on a plane or a train. Moving too fast for him to catch up.

For the first time, Oscar wonders if maybe he should’ve been in more of a hurry about this. If he’s just missed his one chance.

Then he gets up the morning he has to leave for Miami and finds the string pulling him in a different direction than normal, towards the US, and he starts to get his hopes up again.

…..

You’re standing in the paddock in Miami, rubbing your pinky absentmindedly. It feels warm. It’s an odd feeling, like a little line of sunshine wrapped around your skin. You mention it to a coworker named Ben, who says that’s how he felt when his soulmate got close. You feel your heart start to race.

“But it happened 10 times before he actually found me,” he says. “He’s got horrible eyesight, and even the glowing string was difficult to follow. He got completely lost in New York while I wandered around aimlessly.”

You laugh and try not to get your hopes up. But through the day, it gets warmer and warmer, nearly uncomfortably so. And then you look down and gasp.

There’s a glowing string wrapped around your pinky. It’s pulling off into the distance. Ben gives you a wide eyed look.

“You can see it,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say, awestruck.

Before you can get your feet to move, before you can even try to follow it, there’s a commotion down the paddock. It’s McLaren’s rookie driver, Oscar Piastri, stumbling his way through the crowds. He has golden string looped around his arms and hands. You start to laugh as he spools it up as he moves along. He must look crazy to anyone who can’t see it, but they also probably know what’s happening.

“Sorry, sorry, ‘scuse me,” he says, as he stumbles your way.

He gets closer and closer, and then he seems to realize he’s almost reached the end, because he looks up, eyes wide. Everyone is watching him. You’re watching him. There’s a hush over the crowd. No matter how many times you see soulmates meet, it never gets old.

“Hi,” he says, sheepishly, tugging on the string. You tug back, and he grins. He takes a couple steps forwards. “I, uh. I think we’re soulmates.”

You laugh. He grins wider. “You think so?” You say, taking a step in his direction.

He blushes, nods. “Um. I’m Oscar,” he says.

You laugh. “Yeah, I know.” Then you tell him your name, watch the sound of it wash over him, watch him form the syllables with his lips. How strange it is, to meet someone and know you’ll be saying their name for the rest of your life.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

You nod. “Is it weird of me to say it feels like I already know you?”

He shakes his head, gaze going soft. He reaches out and hooks his pinky against yours. The string glows so bright you think everyone must be able to see it, and then it disappears. It leaves behind two tiny line tattoos on your finger and his, complete with a little bow.

“Nah, it’s not weird,” he says. “I think that’s kind of the point.”

When you lean up to kiss him, it feels like coming home. You think he might just be right.

a/n: hi I wrote this in like an hour tops and have barely proofread it pls let me know if you find typos. and what you thought in general. just saw the prompt and had to write it. as always, thanks for reading!!

taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5 @c-losur3 @casperlikej @the-navistar-carol @everyonesluvah @jsjcue @si1ver06 @nicole01-23 @ggaslyp1 (if your blog is crossed out I was unable to tag!)

[lovemomhatepolice]

what brought back that smile? - lando norris

navigation taglist requests

pairing: lando norris x fem! reader

warnings: kinda established relationship, fresh relationship, curious muppets!, English is my second language!

type: fluff, pure fluff

word count: 3,5k

summary: 5 times when someone asked the reason for Lando's sudden surge of happiness, but he preferred to keep his sweet secrets to himself

more content: f1 masterlist, lando norris masterlist, birthday one-shot

Since Lando Norris broke up with his then-girlfriend Luishina in 2022, no one has seen him this happy since. Of course, there have been moments where Lando walked around smiling - for example, when he won his first race in Miami or partying with friends in Ibiza. On more than one occasion, fans saw him joking and laughing until his stomach hurt with other drivers, but further down the line, everyone knew that the old Lando was gone. The one who laughed through love. The one foolishly in love, who proved it at every turn. Since his former relationship, Lando hasn't bonded with anyone - there were only rumors of fleeting romances or PR relationships. Until recently. In fact, no one knows when it took place. And since when Lando felt like a foolishly infatuated boy again.

THE FIRST TIME: Oscar Piastri When Oscar noticed changes in Lando's behavior, it was not much before the Japanese race. Or at least it wasn't so visible before. Norris was walking around smiling from ear to ear, constantly forgetting what he should do or who he should talk to about the changes in the car. No one paid much attention to it, and Oscar initially tried to ignore it as well, and winning in Miami a month later further eclipsed the spy's thoughts. After all, Lando had won his first race after so long in Formula One and so many times standing on the podium. The Mclaren drivers weren't the best of friends on the grid, but Oscar knew it wasn't because of winning the race. Or at least not just because of that.

Oscar was curious, even if he said very little about his life, the Lando case drilled him from the bottom up. And it started off small.

One morning 2 weeks after the Miami race, Lando showed up for a meeting with a goofy smile on his face. His attention was focused on everything during the strategy discussion, his mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Are you okay?” asked Oscar, poking his teammate under the table. As if awakened from his trance, Lando stopped tapping his fingers against his thigh and turned his head toward the Australian, smiling that silly grin again. “Yeah, all good, mate. “ he asked, tilting his head to the side. Oh, how foolishly charmed he was. “Why do you ask?”

Oscar shrugged. “I dunno. You just seem... happier these days. What brought back that smile?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment. Lando hung his head and laughed quietly under his breath, as if he was thinking whether he wanted to say it or rather not. And that was the option he chose, keeping his new infatuation to himself.

“Well, you know, buddy, I won a race recently. A chance to celebrate, huh?”

Oscar laughed, but couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else behind that smile, and that Lando was lying right in his eyes. Something - or someone - had brought back that trademark Lando smile. But Oscar decided to let it go for now.

Meanwhile, Lando was smiling to himself. Was it really that noticeable? Could everyone now know his sweet secret?

Such questions were cluttering his mind, but he tried not to worry about them. They were quickly superseded by thoughts of [Y.N]. It was wild how fast she had slipped into his life. What had started as a chance meeting turned into hours of effortless conversation, late-night phone calls, and a connection that had somehow brought him back to life. He hadn't felt this way since…. well, he couldn't remember the last time. And that was the point of it all.

MUPPETS: Carlos Sainz Jr Carlos had known Lando since 2019, so this year was their 5th anniversary of knowing each other. From the very beginning, the men, despite the age difference, got along great. And they soon became friends, too, supporting each other in worse and better moments. You could say they knew each other like the back of their hand, so while Lando was drifting away more and more each possible time during their conversations, the Spaniard had no more questions or thoughts. He was well aware that his younger friend's head was occupied by not something, but someone.

The sun beat down on the lush green of the golf course, the Spanish heat was unrelenting even in the early hours of the day. Carlos set up for his shot, squinting against the blinding glare, while Lando stood to the side, waiting his turn. It was a rare moment of calm before the chaos of the Spanish Grand Prix weekend, and Carlos was glad to be spending it with his best friend.

Until he saw Lando miss every time, which hadn't happened all that often before. Well, okay, Lando was worse than Carlos at golf, but to that extent?

And those constant glances at the phone, which he was so reluctant to leave in the golf cart.

“Ay, muppet. What the hell is wrong with you?” rang out Carlos' voice as he hit the ball.

Of course it flew cleanly where it was supposed to fly. But what's the pleasure of playing as your friend drills a hole in the grass with his club, his other hand constantly checking his phone screen?

"Huh?" Lando snapped out of his trance. This had been happening to him more and more often lately, nay, it had been happening to him for more than three months now.

“You’ve been smiling like an idiot all day,” Carlos teased, though his tone was softer, more curious than mocking. “Actually, you’ve been like this for weeks like not months now. So, tell me—who is she?”

Lando’s cheeks flushed pink, and he quickly turned his attention to the golf ball at his feet, fiddling with his club. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, but there was a grin he couldn’t quite suppress. And in fact, I don't think he wanted to get rid of it.

Carlos laughed, poking Lando playfully on the shoulder. “Come on, cabrón. I know you too well and it's been a long time since you've been this happy. So who's the lucky girl? Who brought back that smile?”

Lando sighed under his breath - he knew he could trust Carlos, he was his best friend. He just liked the fact that he and [Y.N] were in a closed bubble of happiness that they had made for themselves in three months. Of course it was still fresh and nothing was certain yet, but Lando gave in. To whom as to whom, but to Carlos he already had to tell. It was drilling him from the inside.

“It's … nothing serious,” Lando finally said, shrugging his shoulders as if it was no big deal. “It's just… I'm meeting someone. I'm trying to keep it discreet.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Dude, I've known you long enough to know when you're serious about someone,” he said, and his voice became softer. “And if she makes you smile like that, I'd say it's more than a casual.”

Lando bit his lip, trying to hide the smile that threatened to break through. The truth was that [Y.N] had quickly become the best part of his days.

“Maybe,” he admitted, finally meeting Carlos' gaze. “But for now it's just … between us, sure?

Carlos clapped Lando on the back, a broad grin on his face. “I’m happy for you, hermano. And don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone. But I have to say, it’s good to see you like this again.”

They both laughed and Lando already knew he was lost. Together, with Carlos, were like the biggest gossips, so he quickly unlocked his phone, even jumping up and down with happiness, wanting to show Carlos some pictures of them together. What luck befell him when he found out that [Y.N] also loves to take pictures.

Carlos leaned closer, curious. Lando pulled out a photo from a few weeks ago - from his once-in-a-lifetime date with [Y.N]. They were sitting on a blanket in a meadow somewhere by the water, the golden sunset casting a warm glow over them. The girl's head was tilted toward him and resting on his shoulder, her eyes were crinkling with laughter, and Lando looked happier than Carlos had seen him in a long time. His hand was on the girl's shoulders, visibly embracing her closer to him.

“I want her to be the one, you know?” muttered Lando, smiling even wider when he saw the notification from her.

LUCKY CHARM: Lando's parents Lando was able to hide his fresh relationship from his friends, from his fans and from the rest of the world. But he definitely couldn't hide it from his parents and siblings. Not even a month of knowing [Y.N] had passed when he vividly talked about how much he had fallen in love and how he hoped she was the one and last woman in his life. His loved ones were damn happy to finally see the most sincere smile of his entire life on the face of this little Lando Norris.

The air around Silverstone was charged with electricity, and the energy of the home crowd gave Lando joy like no other race on the calendar. Walking through the bustling paddock, he felt lighter than he had in years. It wasn't just the thrill of racing on his own track - it was the realization that somewhere among the sea of faces there was [Y.N], watching him.

Fortunately, he managed to smuggle her into a private hospitality suite, away from prying cameras, journalists and fans. They had been seeing each other for almost four months, in truth they were not a couple, but everything was going for it. Lando wasn't the only one who was foolishly infatuated with the relationship; the girl, like him, walked around with her head in the clouds, as her university colleagues or friends seemed to notice more than once. But in her case it was easier to hide, after all, she didn't have a million eyes on her like Lando did.

When Lando entered his private area in the Mclaren garage, he immediately noticed his parents, sisters and brother, who were smiling at him from ear to ear. The entire Norris family had a close relationship with each other, so of course everyone knew about Lando's new sweetheart, whom he had been dating with for four months.

“And there's our smiling boy!” laughed Lando's mother, hugging her son tightly. The driver laughed under his breath, hugging his family one by one, fortunately in a place where the eyes of others did not reach and they could have a moment of peace. “I'm glad you're all here,” Lando said, stroking his younger sister Flo's hair.

“How could we not be here?” asked Oliver, Lando's brother, laughing under his breath.

The atmosphere was great, however, everyone knew this question would come sooner than perhaps it should?

“Well, you know what, tell us where she is,” said Lando's dad, poking him lightly on the shoulder. “You're laughing so hard, I won't believe she's not here.”

“Yes! Show us finally what brought back that smile,” said his mom, echoing her husband.

Lando felt his face heat up, but he couldn’t keep the grin from spreading. “You two don’t miss a thing, do you?” he said, shaking his head.

“We just want to meet her,” his mum said softly, eyes twinkling with warmth. “We’ve heard so much about her, and if she’s the reason our son’s been so happy lately, we’d love to say hello.”

After a moment's thought, Lando nodded. “All right. I'll bring her - but behave,” he said with nervous but excited energy.

Lando slipped stealthily out of the garage and headed for his room, which only he and a few Mclaren people had access to. Although it was a rather hidden place, [Y.N] did not complain. She could wait out the time until the race in peace, just as she could go out to Mclaren's garage and watch it there. Lando made her as comfortable as possible.

When the girl saw him, she raised her eyes and smiled warmly in his direction. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes, everything is fine,” he assured her, taking her hand in his. At the same time, he forced her to get up from the soft couch. “But… there is someone who wants to meet you. My family is even dying to meet the woman of my heart.”

The girl took a deep breath and smiled. “I'd love to meet them.”

Holding hands, they returned to the hospitality. When they went inside, Lando's mother sighed quietly and immediately crossed the room to hug [Y.N]. “Oh, how nice to finally meet you,” she said, and her voice was filled with sincere warmth.

“She's beautiful,” Cisca whispered, looking at Lando. The boy only whispered a quiet “I know” and laughed under his breath.

Immediately the whole family greeted the girl, hugging her tightly and bestowing kind words on her, including telling her how happy they were that she was making Lando so happy again. And everything was somehow better. His parents and siblings were talking to the girl he'd had in his heart for several months, and everything was going smoothly. Lando was just standing off to the side, keeping his hand on her back and giving her a little kiss to make her feel better. But he was probably the most stressed one there.

Lando checked his watch, feeling the familiar pre-start jitters begin to overwhelm him. But today he felt a little better than usual.

“I have to go now,” he said reluctantly, turning to face the girl. His parents moved away to give them a moment of privacy.

“You can do it, you're amazing on the track,” she purred, placing her hands on his shoulders and gently correcting his suit.

Lando merely smiled in her direction and without hesitation placed his hand on her cheek and leaned in, pressing their lips together in a quick but tender kiss. This was not how they had imagined their first kiss, but in that moment it was their best memory and the time this kiss could have happened. Lando pulled away from [Y.N], their eyes met and they both smiled at each other, giggling under their breath.

Lando checked his watch, feeling the familiar pre-race jitters starting to creep in.

“I’ve got to go,” he said reluctantly, turning to her. His parents stepped back to give them a moment of privacy.

“Good luck out there,” she whispered, her eyes shining with pride. “You’re going to do amazing.”

Lando smiled, but there was a flicker of nerves in his eyes. “I hope so. This one’s important,” he said softly.

[Y.N] reached up, cupping his cheek with her hand. “You’ve got this, Lando. I believe in you.”

Without thinking, Lando leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a swift, impulsive kiss. It wasn’t planned, but in that moment, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. He pulled back, their eyes locking, and they both smiled.

“For good luck,” he whispered, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

And even if he came in third place after the race, it didn't bother him much. He won something better and it was an amazing woman.

HI IBIZA: Max Fewtrell stream Max knew Lando since they were kids. Both could not imagine life without the other person, they were inseparable. Even if it didn't work out for them to be Formula One drivers by their side, it didn't change anything. They were always side by side, and as soon as Max heard about Lando's new crush, he knew this was the one. Norris had never talked so seriously and eagerly about any girl before. And Max liked to tease him about it. But at the same time, he was damn happy.

The warm glow of sunset in Ibiza paints everything with a golden sheen. Lando Norris, Max Fewtrell and their group of friends held a casual live stream at their bungalow, which they rented for the whole group of friends. This stream was definitely different from their typical ones, where they played games on two different sides of the screen, but that was good too.

Everyone was more muted than at times when they were playing and shouting at each other. However, the biggest difference could be felt in Lando. He was more subdued, gently but sincerely smiling, and his eyes shone with such happiness that you could envy him.

The stream had been going on for about an hour, and the fans didn't run out of questions. They were inundated with the same questions as always, but today they had more opportunity to answer them because they weren't stressed by the background game. Lando kept getting questions about the Championship, the races, the competition and some side silliness. Until Max caught one significant comment among thousands of others. And of course he had to ask them.

Fan comment: "Lando, what brought back that smile? It's been a long time since we've seen you so happy, and of course that's great, but what's your secret?"

Max looks at Lando with a smile and winks. "Good question," he says, leaning back in his chair. "So, man, what's been making you so happy lately?"

"Oh, you know. Life has been better lately. Beautiful weather, sunshine, we have a beach house. The break from racing is good for me too, my head isn't as busy," Lando replied, playing with his hair and smiling under his breath.

Oh how he lied, how he lied to keep his bubble of happiness calm even longer.

"Really? Gee, I guess I agree with that comment, you're somehow happier lately," said Max, glancing at Lando with a teasing look. He remembered well how Lando had talked down his relationship on the stream, but he wasn't going to do the same to him. "Or maybe you've found a hobby other than Formula One?"

"Maybe," he laughed lightly under his breath, feeling the warmth inside his body. "I guess I just got old and I'm not that rebellious 20-year-old anymore "

"Oh, it's definitely old age, you name it" Max laughed and went back to looking for interesting comments, leaving the matter of Lando's happiness. He wanted his friend to still have peace from prying eyes.

After the stream was over, everyone went their separate ways. Some decided to have a bonfire, but Lando felt he needed the solitude. He walked out to the beach, which they had right outside the gate of their cottage, and felt the cooler evening wind brush his face. He smiled under his breath when he saw [Y.N] by the shore. It wasn't a smile that the cameras could see; he reserved this one for her alone.

The girl was wearing a white loose dress that swayed gently in the wind, and her hair was tousled by the wind. It wasn't a moment before she heard him and gently turned toward him, giving him a beautiful smile. "Have you finished the stream yet?"

"It's been a while now," Lando stepped closer, feeling the sand under his feet surround him pleasantly. "I had to get away from the chaos. And the fans are getting curious, they asked what secret I have"

Girl raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Secret? What secret?"

Lando smiles mischievously and walks closer. "That I'm the happiest I've been in years." - he says in a quiet but sincere voice.

[Y.N] smiles, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. Without another word, she steps into his arms, and Lando doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close. They stand there for a moment, just the two of them, the sound of the waves crashing in the background. Lando takes a deep breath and places a kiss on her hair, pulling her even closer to him. It was the peace he had needed for a long time

FIRST CHRISMTAS: [Y.N] Lando and [Y.N] had been together for almost half a year. Their lives were filled with happiness that neither of them had ever experienced before. From the first day, they understood each other like two peas in a pod, and that's how it stayed. That's why she was surprised by how happy Lando was.

The couple in love are together in the kitchen, with the countertop in front of them strewn with flour and other ingredients for making gingerbread cookies. [Y.N] is wearing one of Lando's voluminous sweaters and humming a Christmas carol, pacing next to the countertop. Lando, on the other hand, dressed in his loose Mclaren T-shirt and Christmas pajama pants, is trying to roll out the dough, but it's not going well. His hands are covered in flour and the dough keeps sticking to the rolling pin. Well, it's easier to say that his whole body is covered in flour.

"Do you need help, chef?" - asks [Y.N], leaning against the countertop and looking at him with an amused smile.

Lando raises his gaze, feigning impatience. "It's harder than it looks, sure?" - He laughs, combing his flour-dusted hair with his hand. "I thought baking was supposed to be easy."

"It's easy, you just have some manual problems," the girl laughs and moves to his side, gently taking the rolling pin from his hands. "Here, let me," she says, guiding him to the side. Their fingers brush as she takes over, a soft, tender moment.

"Sure, my baking queen," the boy laughs, looking at her with adoration.

"You could do the icing." the girl says, pointing to the already made gingerbread cookies.

Lando's eyes brighten, his smile widening. "Icing, huh? That's sounds better." He grabs a piping bag and starts filling it, but as he attempts to pipe a simple design, it all goes horribly wrong.

“Lando!” she laughs, her eyes crinkling with amusement. The icing has spilled everywhere.

He looks down at his hands, dripping with icing. “Well, that’s not what I had in mind…” He shrugs sheepishly.

“You’re adorable when you try, you know that?” She leans in and wipes a bit of icing from his cheek, her thumb brushing against his skin.

“And you’re just adorable,” he says, moving closer to her.

Lando’s hands quickly find their place on her waist, and his face is twisted into a genuine big smile. They both giggle, putting the matter of the cookies aside.

“What brought that smile again, huh?” the girl asks, touching his lips, which is also dirty with icing.

“You,” he says simply, and his voice carries a quiet sincerity that makes her heart skip a beat. "It was always you"

For a moment, they both stand in silence, the hum of the Christmas music in the background, the quiet crackling of the small fire in the corner of the livingroom adding to the coziness of the apartment. It’s a peaceful stillness, the kind that only exists between two people who’ve found something real.

A/N: i know it's no nut november and this should be smut but i swear when i had a vision i had to write this. i hope you like it because i won't lie, i fucking love it!

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

[lcvecove]

hiya, i have no idea if you do requests but i have a very brief and simple idea, which you can do your own take on - overly sensitive reader is dating oscar piastri & people are bothering her online but she doesn't tell oscar, instead she hides it and acts like she's fine but one night, she's in bed with him but then moves out to the living room & she's reading people's posts and messages about her not deserving him and she just sobs her eyes out, very quietly, thinking he's asleep - but he's not and he hears her, he walks out to the sight of her crying,,, then you can do whatever you want! just basically a hurt/comfort fic idea :) thank you!

𝒏ote , hi nonnie! thank you so much for requesting this. im convinced he is the sweetest sweetest bf and this thought goes so well with him . . .

fem!reader x oscar piastri. established relationship. hurt -> comfort. fluff. insecure!reader. mean online comments.

you knew better.

you knew better than to look. you knew better than to click on the notifications, the comments, the threads where strangers, bold and faceless, tore you apart like it cost them nothing.

you know it’s not true. these people don’t you. they don’t really know oscar. they don’t know anything about your relationship. and you knew better than to give them so much power over you, but you did it anyway.

it felt like a constant in your night routine at this point. after the steady rise and fall of oscar’s chest tells you he’s surrendered to sleep, you slip quietly from the bed.

you try to convince yourself you’re just stretching your legs, grabbing some water, anything to justify the gnawing pull toward your phone, toward the weight you tuck away during the day but can’t seem to ignore when it’s dark and that inner voice manages to convince you to look.

you curl up on the couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells faintly like him, like the smell of your safe space can wrap around you and stop the words from piercing as deep as they always do.

“he could have anyone and he settles for that?”

“you can’t convince me she’s there for anything but the money”

“he could do way better”

“why do the best guys always tend to settle for the most basic, gold digging girls”

one after another they appear on the screen. picking apart your body, your intelligence, your motives.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the drops fall on the screen. little blots of water smearing and obstructing the words that had already twisted like knives in your chest.

you know you should turn it off. climb into bed and let oscar cuddle away all the insecurities gnawing at your chest. but it feels like you’re stuck. like if you just read one more comment, maybe you’ll find one that makes it all make sense, one that explains why you feel like you’ll never be enough for him.

you flinch when a familiar hand gently closes over yours, steady and warm, taking the phone from you. you hadn’t even heard him come in.

you don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe as he scrolls through the comments himself, brow furrowing more and more the further he goes.

after a few minutes he locks the phone and discards it on the table, settling next to you and pulling you onto his lap.

“you know none of it is true right?” he mumbles against your head, pressing a kiss to your temple and you sniffle

“osc—” you go to argue but he interrupts

“no” he says, the word so blunt and direct it catches you so off guard for a second that you pull your head away from his chest to look at him

“i’m not gonna sit here and listen to you justify what they’re saying. they don’t know you. they don’t know me. and they sure as shit don’t know anything about our relationship” he says, shaking his head slightly at the utter ridiculousness of what he just read.

“but it’s true. i’m not perfect and you could do so much bet—“ you mumble but he interrupts you again before you get the chance to finish, this time with his lips on yours, kissing you until those thoughts float away and the only thing you can focus on is the way his hand is running through your hair

“you’re perfect with me, to me, and for me. hell perfect doesn’t even begin to describe you baby. you’re everything. you’re all I want. the only way these people have any power over you is if you actually believe there’s some truth to what they’re saying. do you?” oscar asks, holding your jaw so you can’t look away from him.

“are you only with me for the money? the attention?” oscar asks, raising his eyebrows dramatically in a way that makes you wanna laugh and by the slight tilt in his lips, he knows.

“no” you say softly and he gasps in mock surprise

“really? I for sure thought you were” he teases and laughs when you hit him playfully.

“i’m just kidding baby. you hate attention even more than I do and you practically tackle me every time I try to pay for anything. and if you think for even one second that I don’t believe you’re the sexiest woman in the world, you come tell me and I’ll prove you wrong, yeah?” he says, pressing kiss after kiss against your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw, your lips. every inch he can reach.

“I love you” you say softly, hoping your gratitude for him shines through in your tone.

“I love you the most,” he murmurs back, no hesitation, no doubt. just the pure, simple truth.

his hands gently frame your face, thumbs brushing away the last of your tears with a tenderness that makes your chest ache all over again, but in a different way this time. a softer way.

“let’s go to bed,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion and affection as he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, leaving your phone and all the negativity on it right there on the table.

[piastappies]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 PUPPY LOVER GIRL! ᡣ𐭩ᯓ

summary. upon coming to the race with your little girl, oscar and you are facing a challenging situation as your daughter gets completely enamoured with every dog she sees.

notes. oscar piastri x leclerc!wife!reader. first osc fic!!! (the obsession is getting out of hand). also pls let me know if you’d like to read something else with dad!oscar. also got inspired by @eccentricwritingbaby’s series with dad!lando!!!! didn’t proofread (idc)

dressed in an orange shirt with her dad’s number on the back, little chloe was an absolute ray of sunshine, whenever you took her to the race, which, honestly, wasn’t such a common occurrence as some people expected. your little girl loved coming to the race, mostly because it was a chance for her to meet all her favorite uncles in one place, while watching the cars drive really fast, which always made her giggle a little, especially once she started to recognize oscar’s car amongst others. despite her obvious love for the event, she was still a toddler and dragging her every other week to the airport to go to another country was something you and oscar decided to push further in time.

nevertheless, you could deny your husband the happiness of his little girl’s presence at his home race. as much as you hated the thought of such a long flight with a toddler, because the nice to melbourne flight was never a short one without any layovers, and you really tried to stick to at least some of chloe’s day schedule. but in the end it was the pure happiness in your husband’s eyes, when you spent two weeks in his home country before a race.

with said mclaren shirt with piastri written on her back, chloe was happily skipping, holding oscar’s hand as she looked around her, until a small gasp slipped her lips, freezing in her tracks, causing you to stop as well, your forehead creasing with confusion until your eyes followed hers. a puppy — simba, to be precise.

at first you thought she was scared, when her eyes widened in shock and, as you wrongfully assumed, fear, but she was quick to reveal her true feelings. a shy smile crept onto her face as she looked at oscar, who crouched to be on the same level as her. “daddy. i pet puppy, please?” her baby voice often made you and oscar’s mom jokingly call her oscar whisperer, because if you weren’t there to keep him in check, baby piastri would get every single thing she looked at. “let’s ask auntie kika first, okay?” oscar’s face lit up with a warm smile as he gently fixed his daughter’s piggytails.

back in monaco, you had a few situations, where you could learn your daughter how to behave around animals and she was picking it up pretty quickly. as horribly as it sounds, leo, your brother’s dog, was… a bit of a guinea pig, but since chloe was a literal little angel, who was afraid of making anyone sad (hence you had to put a ban on buying plushies as gifts, because she wanted every single one to sleep with her to the point where there was no more room on the bed for her), so there were never any fur or tail pulling, screaming into poor dog’s ear or anything that could cause any harm to leo and in consequence, to chloe.

a happy grin was plastered on her face, when kika and pierre walked up to them first, the girl quickly started gushing about the adorableness of her favorite papaya girl. “i pet puppy, please? ‘tie kika?” the three years old asked, holding her hands behind her back. “i gentle.” she adds, pointing at herself as if kika wasn’t completely drowning in the cuteness of the situation.

“of course, pumpkin. simba really missed you.” she chuckles softly, the two of you watching as chloe starts petting the small dog with delicacy, babbling something slightly incoherent to simba, who tried licking her fingers as she giggled. “you should get her a dog.” your friend laughed softly, nudging you with her elbow.

“we’re thinking about it, but i don’t think it’s gonna happen in near future.” you replied, a small smile tugging on your lips as chloe was completely infatuated with simba. “she’s still a lot of work, and you know how it is during the season, it’d be even more exhausting than it is now.”

few minutes later, after a quick chat with kika as you were walking down the paddock, catching up with oscar, who had to take a quick call. before you know it, your daughter squeales happily as she lets go of your hand, starting to run away, before oscar scoops her up in his arms. “hey, you can’t do that, squish.” oscar said gently. “you almost gave us a heart attack. if you wanna go somewhere, you have to tell us, okay?”

“suis désolée, daddy.” chloe replied a bit sadly as she pulled out her bottom lip. “but…” she scrunched her nose, unable to form a proper sentence in one language. “c’est uncle charles.” i’m sorry/it is.

“you still gotta tell me or mommy first.” oscar reminded her firmly, her sad pout breaking his heart a little, so… to change that, he smothered her face in small, quick kisses, making the toddler squirm in his arms, giggling cutely. “okay, c’mon, let’s say hi to uncle charles.”

as soon as baby piastri’s feet touched the ground, she ran for her life towards charles, the red pins in her hair being a small symbol of support for one of her favorite uncles. she was about to take a leap and jump into the driver’s arms, when she abruptly stopped mid-way, her mouth forming into a big ‘O’, girl’s attention has shifted from one beloved uncle to another as the youngest leclerc brother appeared in the line of her vision.

“uncle a’tty!” chloe squeaked even louder than before, happiness overflowing her adorable expression. arthur chuckled, taking a few long strides towards the three years old, before picking her up and doing a small spin, his niece erupting into a fit of giggles.

“my uncle a’tty.” she beamed, her arms wrapped around his neck, nuzzling her cheek against his. you could tell that your older brother’s heart just melted upon hearing chloe’s words, while your other older brother felt like he got stabbed with a knife.

“not a hi to your other best uncle?” charles asked in almost a desperate tone to get some attention from his favorite (and only) niece. oscar, you and alex just rolled your eyes playfully at his antics. a flicker of hope spread on his face as your daughter perked up slightly and let out a gasp.

“uncle lan?”

“oh, c’mon, squish.” your brother sighed, running a hand through his hair. a silly smile appeared on chloe’s face as she made grabby hands towards charles, who got over his exasperation pretty quickly. “play with leo, please?” she asks with big eyes and before you knew it, chloe was happily babbling to the mini dachshund.

although, the biggest fun she always had was with roscoe. mostly, because whenever she was around him, he was the chillest dog on the planet earth. she loved leo and simba, but they were still puppies with lots of energy and as much it would seem like chloe would love that, but when it came to doggies, she loved to just sit next to them and pet them endlessly.

that’s what she loved, whenever oscar and you took her to a race, that sometimes, beside being a bubbly little girl, cheering for her favorite person in the world along her second favorite person in the world, she could spend the time cheering and spending time with her favorite animals, while also being blissfully unaware of the tormenting of her mom’s brother.

[jeonstellate]

the ghost of silence

oscar’s response disappears with the wind amidst the paddock’s new haunting silence.

ᯓ★ oscar piastri x fem!(räikkönen!)reader

ᯓ★ brief mentions of world caving in/collapsing

ᯓ★ paragraph format — 1K words

masterlist | the ghost of you masterlist

[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

ᯓ★ technically the fourth part of a mini-series (masterlist linked above), but written like a standalone. the most relevant info needed: yn’s a williams intern.

ᯓ★ listen. i was really convinced the ghost of aegis is the last written part. for a long while, at least. it might not be the official ending in my head, but it seemed like a good place to stop. to avoid spreading your interest thin in this particular oscar-yn, or whatever. but then— i craved angst (⊙︿⊙ ✿)

In another life, Oscar Piastri would’ve heard about [first name]’s last day from her own lips.

Maybe the conversation wouldn’t go well and maybe it’d affect his race, but the news would’ve at least come from her. At least he would’ve had the chance to say his thoughts — however unorganized and unfiltered they might turn out to be. At least he would’ve had the chance to somehow convince her to stay.

"You’re leaving?" He would’ve echoed her admission in stunned disbelief. It would’ve been softer than his usual voice, almost as if saying it any louder would break the fabric of reality — and force him to comprehend the fact.

[First name] would’ve shrugged, oblivious to the storm brewing within him. "Zandvoort was technically my last race." Her nonchalance would’ve been there still, even and unyielding as it had always been. "I just asked Williams to extend it a week because I would’ve been here regardless."

He would’ve stayed silent after that, more concerned with looking for something — anything — from her eyes. Her expression never gave anything away, but he knew her eyes— her eyes slipped at times. He just needed to look carefully. "You confessed because you’re leaving?"

"I had quite the crush on you."

"Had?"

"I’ve moved beyond it, unfortunately."

She would’ve ignored the slight crack in his voice. She would’ve been unbothered while he frustrate himself over trying to decipher what was running in her head. "I figured it’d save everyone from the awkwardness."

Oscar would’ve operated on pure emotions from that point. His mind would’ve been too clouded to think of anything rational. "You talk as if you know what I feel." He would’ve abandoned all composure right there and then — too frustrated to hold himself and stop the unbecoming. "I don’t even know what I feel."

It would’ve been [first name]’s turn to stay silent. After all, the [first name] he knew encouraged him to work through his emotions. Not suppress and ignore until they fade into the background, but express in ways he found comfortable and in times he felt ready.

His voice would’ve been merely above a whisper when he ultimately broke the silence. Frightened once more, but for something else equally breaking. "I just know that I want you to stay."

Alas, in this life, Oscar Piastri hears about [first name]’s last day from Alex’s woes — almost two weeks after her nonchalant confession.

"I miss [first name] already," the Williams driver sighs loud enough for everyone in the room to overhear. He lies his head on the table in front of him soon after, effectively magnifying the effect.

Ollie, one of the rookies that took a liking to her, is the first one to react. He speaks for everyone curious enough about Alex’s dramatics. "Is she not coming today?"

"Her internship’s over."

Oscar stiffens the words wash over him. His world caves in a little. [First name]’s gone?

Alex’s slightly muffled response prompts instant chaos. Everyone is aghast at her decision to not tell them the weekend at Monza is her last. "She didn’t let me say goodbye!"

"Don’t take it personally, Kimi," Carlos comforts the Italian rookie. He sounds as solemn as his teammate. "She barely agreed to the farewell dinner Williams held for her last week."

"Where was our invite?" It’s Max’s turn to speak for everyone this time.

Pierre backs him up with a supportive echo. "Yeah! Where was our invite?"

"It was a Williams exclusive." The older Williams driver doesn’t sound apologetic. If anything, he seems a little smug about actually being able to bid her farewell.

Charles, as an effective display of his quick thinking, immediately finds an underutilized loophole. "You could’ve invited me as a plus-one!"

To which Alex shakes his head, "We were the plus-ones."

Oscar begins to tune them out as he slowly retreats into his head. He already knows that their protests and loopholes will get them nowhere. After all, what’s done is done. [First name]’s gone — and there’s that. It might not sit well in his stomach, but that’s the truth.

He vaguely hears Lando jump in, offering some hope by the sound of it. "Do you know if [first name] got a return offer?"

"I don’t—" Carlos’ voice halts as he presumably thinks better about his next words. "I don’t see why not. She was great."

"That’s good, then," Isack nods supportively. "She can come back."

"That’s if she wants to come back," Lance points out almost immediately.

Gabriel boos him for not even letting the hope marinate in the air. "Don’t say that!"

The Aston Martin driver merely shrugs, taking no offense at their negative reactions to the truth. It isn’t like their denial will change anything, anyway.

"Why wouldn’t she, though?" Jack wonders out loud. "She seems to thrive here, from what I noticed."

Oscar doesn’t hear anything else. This has been his chaos way before it became hers. He’s used to it by now. Only he has also gotten used to thinking about it as theirs — and now he needs to readjust.

He wants to not believe she really left without saying goodbye. But, in hindsight, reality tracks with the [first name] he knows. Her last words before vanishing like a ghost never resemble farewells. More often than not, they’re ‘thank you’s, like—

"Thank you for accompanying me."

Exactly like what she told him before he headed back to McLaren after frightfully meeting her dad.

Still, a part of him wishes she made an exception just this once.

The chaos Oscar left his fellow drivers in quiets into a weighted silence. He doesn’t know what prompted the change, but he does know it almost feels like it’s pushing down on his chest; like the world just collapsed on top of him.

And perhaps, in some ways, it really did.

Especially since [first name] had the last word, without a second to spare for his own.

Especially since she confessed with a strong assumption that he couldn’t possibly reciprocate her feelings.

Most especially since he was too late to convince her otherwise this time.

The irony becomes him: Oscar Piastri, who regularly dances with death at 320 kilometers per hour, is irrevocably late for his most vital truth.

[theemporium]

[4.1k] when a last minute team meeting takes them to amsterdam, lando decides to take the opportunity to see what his teammate is like under the influence. (smut)

part two to this blurb that spiralled into landoscar smut somehow

.

It happened in Amsterdam. 

With a new sponsor on the rise and the team desperate to lock down the deal before the new season started, Lando and Oscar were asked to fly out to the Netherlands a few weeks before the car launch. It put a small damper on both men’s winter break plans, the last few days of freedom they had before they dived into work mode for the new season—but ultimately, neither boy complained. 

Oscar had felt bad for having to cancel your plans, knowing how excited you were about planning a few days for the two of you to spend some time alone together—away from the world, away from everyone. In all honesty, it was what he was looking forward to the most. He knew Formula One was different, that he would be busier than he ever had been in his life, but it never prepared him to be away from you for so long. 

So yeah, he was pretty fucking bummed about having to cut the trip out of his plans but he invited you with him to Amsterdam in hopes the two of you could make the best out of a bad situation. 

After all, Zak had only wanted them for a day or two, to just sit in meetings and play up some charm and confidence to give the sponsor the last push they needed to sign the deal with McLaren.

And, by some luck you swore was from a higher power, the deal had been negotiated and signed after a very long, tedious meeting. 

But Oscar didn’t complain, he couldn’t complain when it meant that he would have more time alone with you in a country he never really had the chance to explore beyond the race tracks and most famous sites.

It just seemed like Lando had a similar idea.

“I got the perfect place to check out,” Lando insisted as they walked out of the busy office building they had been stuck in for the last few hours. “Martin recommended it, said it was insane and a necessity to check out when we were in the city.”

Oscar tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt, but the boy’s words had him intrigued. “And he’s never taken you before?” 

“Said it was best to visit in the off-season,” Lando replied, and the smile spread across his face did little to reassure Oscar’s suspicions about the mysterious place. “Bring your girl too! She will love it, Oscar. You both will.”

He raised his brows. “And you’re not going to tell me?”

“Be a little adventurous, Piastri,” his teammate teased, lightly nudging his shoulder as they headed towards their team-appointed cars. “Dress nice. We leave at eight.”

“I haven’t even agreed to anything,” Oscar pointed out, but the Brit didn’t seem all too bothered as he waved his teammate off before climbing into his car. 

Truthfully, it shouldn’t have surprised Oscar that you were up for the night out. Lando’s mysterious words intrigued you as much as they intrigued him, and you both trusted Lando enough that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to drag you somewhere dodgy. Hopefully. 

So, Oscar tried to push away the voice in the back of his head that said he should have asked more questions. He was a Formula One driver, he was used to control, he was used to always being the one in charge of his own fate. It felt weird to leave everything in the hands of Lando, even if he trusted his teammate more than he did with most people in his life. 

“Relax,” you murmured to him as you stepped between his legs, your hands resting on his shoulders as he waited for Lando to message he was waiting downstairs. “It’s one night.”

“I know, I’m excited,” Oscar answered honestly as his hands rested on the back of your thighs, trying not to think about the pretty, little dress you had slipped on for the night. He could have sworn he had never seen it before. A part of him was tempted to cancel the whole night and stay in to truly appreciate the dress. “It’s just the idea of Lando being in charge of everything…”

“Hm, you say that as though you don’t worship the ground he walks on,” you teased, smiling in amusement at the way his cheeks burned pink.

“I do not!” Oscar grumbled, but he was smiling back. “Okay, I do a little. But it’s Lando…he’s my first teammate in Formula One. He is just—”

“I know,” you murmured with a smile, leaning down to peck his lips. “And he cares about you. So relax and trust the fact that he was excited to check this place out with you.” 

The place in question—the one that Martin insisted Lando needed to check out—turned out to be something straight out of a Bond movie. 

Oscar hadn’t even managed to catch the name when Lando had muttered it to their driver, a giddy smile on his face as he turned back to look at you and Osacr in the back seat. He was excited, buzzing in his seat as he rambled off about random topics could barely even keep up with as he watched the city pass by in a blink through the window. 

It was an exclusive club, not very well-known but a local treasure to those who knew of it. One of those places in movies where you knocked on a steel door and grumbled out a password. The kind of places that you expected to feel dodgy and cautious and like you were making the biggest mistake for stepping into the establishment. One of those places that two high-profile athletes should definitely never be caught in. 

But Lando just turned to him, that stupidly huge grin on his face as he threw an arm over his shoulder and dragged him inside. 

“Relax, Piastri, nobody is gonna care who you are in here!”

And honestly, the thought shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was to him.

But despite the many warnings he received about stepping up as a Formula One driver, Oscar never really wrapped his head around how famous he was. He had his fair share of internet spotlight on him throughout his career, he was used to being recognised every once in a while. But being a Formula One driver—a McLaren one, nonetheless—was a whole new level.

People stopped him in the streets and asked for photos. His face was blasted on huge posters in airports and cities he hadn’t visited before. Every aspect of his life was constantly under a microscope now. He had fans and followers all around the world, not just from his home country. He had a level of fame he couldn’t even conceptualise. 

He had a level of fame he wasn’t even sure he wanted. 

His whole life he just wanted to drive. He just wanted to get behind the wheel and achieve the dream he had been chasing after since he was a young boy. He just wanted to do what he loved, what he had been passionate about since before he could even remember. 

It just came in a package deal with having more attention that he preferred, so the very idea of stepping foot into this exclusive club and nobody caring he was Oscar Piastri? Yeah, that sounded really fucking good.

Your arm wrapped around his biceps as you followed the Brit deeper into the club. It was dark—darker than a usual club—with red-tinted lights surrounding the place, adding a soft hue that was just enough to see a few steps ahead of you. The music thumped through the building, like the bass lived in the walls as it sounded throughout the place. 

There was no bar. And the dance floor wasn’t really a dance floor. It felt like a stage, placed right in the middle of the room for people to ogle and observe. The whole place was surrounded in these dimly lit booths, large enough that they almost felt like a room. 

The whole place was fucking weird and nothing like he expected. 

And maybe that was what thrilled Oscar about the whole situation. 

“Where do we order our drinks?” He had asked as they made their way to the far left corner, the furthest place from the door. The surrounding booths were empty but Lando still chose the one right in the corner as he flopped down onto the large cushioned sofas. 

He watched as you and Oscar took the seat across from him as he grinned. 

Oscar raised his brows. 

“We are in fucking Amsterdam,” Lando snorted, something glinting in his eyes that even the dim, red lights seemed to pick up. “You don’t come here to get shit-faced drunk, Oscar.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You brought us to your dodgy club to get stoned?”

“Best in the city, baby,” Lando said, the smile on his face widening as he leaned back against the cushions, comfortable and settled with his legs spread a little wider than he usually would. “A little birdie told me Oscar was the kind of man you wanted to smoke with.”

Oscar raised his brows. “You sound surprised by that.”

“Let’s just say there aren’t many sides to you that I don’t think I’ve already seen,” Lando answered with a simple shrug before he raised his hand, catching the attention of a waitress Oscar didn’t even notice was walking by.

And maybe it was immoral. Or sneaky. Or whatever you wanted to call it. 

Maybe it wasn’t the most truthful way to experience it but Lando Norris was a fucking curious man and the opportunity fell right into the palm of his hand. Because Logan Sargeant’s words had been ringing in his head like a loop since that night in the club, his eyes being opened to a whole new side of his younger teammate and he wanted to see more. 

He wanted to know who Oscar Piastri was under all the layers he seemed to put up when he was sober.

And with the team dragging them to Amsterdam and Martin having told him about this club with the assurance that it suddenly wouldn’t be plastered over the front page in the morning that they were indulging in recreational drugs before the season started…well, Lando couldn’t just ignore it, could he?

It wasn’t noticeable at first and, for a brief moment, Lando wondered if the American was just pulling his leg about the whole situation. He wondered if Logan had just seen his shock to clingy, touchy Oscar when he was drunk and needy and thought it would be hilarious to just add fuel to the fire that night for his own amusement. 

Because one joint in and Oscar seemed like he had hours ago in the meeting room, dressed in a fancy suit and looking slightly out of his comfort zone. 

But time passed and the edges of his own brain began to feel fuzzy, and Lando started noticing it. He noticed the way Oscar seemed to squirm in his seat, the way his eyes lingered on your mouth as you took a drag from the joint. He noticed the way Oscar’s arm had dropped from around your shoulder to his hand firmly being placed on the bare skin of your thigh instead. He watched as Oscar pressed his body close to yours until there wasn’t an inch of your side that wasn’t touching his.

And then, Oscar was leaning in, his lips skimming past your ear and instantly dropping to your neck like he didn’t even care Lando was there.

Lando couldn’t even bring himself to feel all that guilty as he watched the display, something deep in his gut twisting in desire.

Your eyes fluttered shut as the boy’s lips latched onto your neck, a small sigh leaving your lips as he began to press soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His hand squeezed your thigh, gripping onto it like it was a lifeline as he continued to kiss lower and lower until his lips were brushing against the fabric of your dress. 

“Oscar,” you murmured as you raised your hand, fingers threaded through his hair but the boy didn’t stop as he nosed the edge of your dress, his lips dangerously close to your cleavage. 

“Want you,” the Aussie murmured, something like a whine sounding from the back of his throat as he nipped the fabric with his teeth. “Please.” 

“Baby,” you choked out a noise, your eyes snapping open like you finally seemed to remember Lando was there. You felt breathless as your eyes met his, the dim light making it difficult to read the expression on his face but you could have sworn you saw something quite like desire in his gaze. “Lando is—”

“Not complaining,” the Brit finished for you, his voice a little rougher and even he wasn’t sure if it was from the smoking or the sight in front of him. 

Oscar blinked as he lifted his head, his cheeks flushed and his eyes a little red. He looked at you before he shifted his eyes to Lando, his gaze dragging over his teammate. He should have removed himself from you, should have pulled his hand away and slid away—but he remained exactly where he was. 

“Don’t be shy, Oscar,” Lando murmured, and something in the Aussie’s chest sparked. “You wanna touch your girl, then who am I to stop you from making her feel good.”

“You gonna watch?” Oscar asked. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Lando retorted. 

“No.”

Lando’s smirk slowly widened. “Yeah? You two gonna put on a little show for me?”

Oscar blinked before he turned to look at you. His whole body felt like it was on fire, like there were flames coursing through his veins and burning him alight and he never wanted to stop. But as he looked at you, eyes glossy or not, one word from you and he would stop this whole thing, regardless of his own feelings on the matter.

You were his first priority. You were always his first priority.

“You wanna, baby?” He murmured, just low enough for it to only be heard by the two of you. 

“I think,” you swallowed thickly as your eyes traced over your boyfriend’s face, as the bubbling desire and strong urge to clench your legs together washed over you with the heat of Lando’s gaze on you. “It would be the polite thing to do.” 

Oscar tucked his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Show him how good you make me feel,” you murmured as his grip on your thigh tightened in response. 

And when you couldn’t resist anymore, your eyes snapped over to where Lando was sitting. There was something thrilling about the sight, something your fuzzy brain couldn’t begin to comprehend but your body sure as hell did. There was something about him sitting across from you both, legs spread and eyes focused on the two of you as he watched in silent appreciation. 

It felt dirty. It felt wrong. It felt like the last thing the three of you should be doing in a random club in Amsterdam. And yet, none of you wanted to stop. 

Lando watched in delight the way a choked gasp left your lips as Oscar tugged the neckline of your dress down, as his lips attached to the newly exposed skin. Your hand moved back to thread through his hair, tugging softly as he pulled your dress down until your tits were exposed. 

He watched as Oscar let out a groan at the sight, as his lips wrapped around your nipple. He watched as your head fell back, your boyfriend’s name a breathy moan past your lips as he continued to nuzzle himself between your tits. 

“Would’ve never taken you as a tits man, Oscar.” Lando’s voice was rough and low, something that shouldn’t have made the whole situation hotter but it did. “Can’t blame you though, can I? Your girl has such pretty tits, would be a crime to ignore them.”

A whine sounded from the back of Oscar’s throat. 

Lando’s eyes fell from your flushed face to the hand on your thigh. He watched as Oscar continued to push the hem of your dress further up until he got impatient and allowed his hand to slip beneath the skirt. He watched as Oscar groaned something incoherent against your skin, as you shifted your hips enough for him to pull your panties down your legs with a speed that was almost impressive. 

He hardly had time to blink before he felt the soft thump against his leg, as he looked down to see your panties balled up and now resting on his lap after Oscar had thrown them. 

Lando let out a dark chuckle, his head falling back. “You little shit.” 

But Oscar didn’t pay him any attention. Oscar didn’t pay attention to anything but you and the feeling of you beneath his lips and touch. His brain was fuzzy, his thoughts were muddled and all he knew was that he really, really fucking wanted to taste you. 

Yet, you didn’t seem to share Oscar’s one-track mind.

“Not fair that we’re the only ones who get to have fun,” you murmured, your eyes watching him closely as Lando eyed the pair of panties, seeming to contemplate so many racing thoughts in his head before he reached for them. “Maybe I want a show too.”

Lando’s eyes found yours in the dark. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” it was a little high-pitched as Oscar’s thumb pressed against your clit. “Yeah. Please.”

He let out a groan. “Still so fucking polite when he is all over you.”

You weren’t even sure where the spark of confidence came from—maybe from the way he was watching you and Oscar so eagerly—but your mouth opened before you could stop yourself. “Jealous?” 

“Maybe.”

You swallowed thickly, your fingers tugging on Oscar’s hair as you watched Lando’s hand drop to the obvious bulge in his pants. “Of who?”

His smirk widened. “Both.” 

“Shit,” you whispered, an embarrassingly high-pitched noise leaving your lips as you tore your eyes away from the older driver before your whole body burned up.

“Look what a good boy he is,” Lando commented, watching as Oscar littered soft kisses all over your chest and collarbone as his fingers pressed small circles against your clit. “Barely even touched you and he’s humping the sofa.”

Oscar’s cheeks burned hot.

“Bet he’s obedient,” Lando continued as the sound of a zipper echoed through the booth, as the rustling made it clear to both of you what he was doing. “Such a good listener, aren’t you, Oscar? Just wanna make everyone happy, hm? A team player.” 

Oscar finally lifted his head, his eyes glossed over like he was drunk off lust and desire alone.

“You gonna listen to me, baby?”

He nodded.

“Gonna do what I say?”

He nodded again, his eyes locked on the way Lando palmed himself over his boxers with one hand as he held your panties in the other.

A slow smirk spread across his face. “Get between her legs, baby, I know you’ve been dying for a taste of her probably since she put on that lil’ number.”

And Lando was right. He was obedient. It was almost like his body was moving under a spell as he shifted, as he slid off the couch and settled on his knees on the carpeted floor instead. It should have felt wrong to have his back to Lando, but instead the idea that the boy’s eyes were locked on him whilst he touched himself (even if Oscar couldn’t see) thrilled him more than it should have.

His hands palmed your thighs before he slowly spread your legs, as he pushed the fabric of your dress until it pooled at your hips and exposed you. A whimper left Oscar’s lips as he tugged you closer to the edge, as one hand pushed your thigh back whilst the other guided your leg over his shoulder. 

He looked up at you, his cock twitching in his pants at the silent plea in your eyes for him to do something, to give you what you wanted just as bad as him. And his eyes never left your as he leaned down, tongue pressed against your soaked cunt as he licked upwards in one thick, broad stroke. 

“Fuck!” 

Lando couldn’t help himself as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, as he squeezed the length of himself before pulling his cock free of any restraints. 

Lando couldn’t help himself as the hand fisting your panties wrapped around his cock, as he let the lacy fabric run against his sensitive tip and resisted the urge to buck his hips. 

Lando couldn’t fucking help himself as he stroked his cock, his eyes locked on the way you panted and moaned and grasped the cushions around you as Oscar worked between your legs. 

A part of him wanted to get up, to close the distance between him and you both. He wanted to walk over, he wanted to thread his fingers through Oscar’s hair like you had done before and guide him. He wanted to watch the boy lick and kiss and suck your needy cunt until his face was dripping. He wanted to whisper just what a good fucking boy Oscar really was as he made you come, as Lando watched you come. 

But the other part of him liked this—this twisted sense of power. He liked the fact he could sit back and watch, like it really was a show you two were putting on for him. He liked the idea that this went beyond something any of you understood, the way the two of you were so eager and pliant and obedient for him. 

He liked that he could sit back, your wet panties fisted around his cock as he watched the two of you moan and squirm and desperately try and look pretty for him. 

And you did. You both looked so, so pretty for him. 

And you sounded so pretty too when you moaned out his name instead of your boyfriend’s. The way your back arched off the couch, your face scrunched up in pleasure as Oscar held your hips down. The way Lando could hear the way his teammate was groaning against your pussy, see the way his hips shifted like he desperately needed some friction against his aching cock. 

It was the prettiest fucking sight Lando had ever seen. 

“That’s it, baby,” Lando groaned. “Come for Oscar, let him taste you, yeah?” 

You nodded dumbly, far too lost in your own pleasure to even understand what he was saying. 

“Bet you’re so fucking hard,” Lando continued, his eyes locked on the way the muscles in his back shifted through his shirt. “Bet you could come just from hearing her moan, huh?” 

The whine Oscar let out told Lando everything he needed to know. 

“That’s it,” Lando groaned, his fist tightening around his cock as he felt his stomach clench as he neared the edge, as he neared his own orgasm. “Gotta finish the show f’me, hm? Gonna be good for me, yeah?” 

You chanted out Oscar’s name as you finally came, shaking and squirming as he held your body against the cushions and continued to suck on your sensitive clit. And when you couldn’t take any more, you lightly pushed his head away to see his expression: flushed cheeks, hooded eyes and glossy lips that you wanted to kiss so bad. But a shifting movement caught your eyes, your gaze moving down to look at the dark patch spread across the front of his boxers. 

“Just tasted so good,” Oscar murmured, not even ashamed or embarrassed at the mess he made. 

And then your eyes shifted to look at the boy across the room. 

He leaned back against the cushions, his chest moving up and down with soft pants. His trousers were pushed down to pool mid-thigh, his boxers just above them and his cock was still fisted in his hand, covered by your panties and his own come. It shouldn’t have been so attractive. 

“I think I prefer this Oscar much better than drunk Oscar,” Lando eventually commented, something quite like a smug grin on his face as he looked between you both. 

There was a tension in the room, one that none of your fuzzy brains could really grasp onto just yet. But it was there and it was overwhelming and suffocating and you each had half the mind to hope this night never ended. 

You didn’t know what would happen after tonight, but you knew until then, the hidden club in the depths of Amsterdam would keep your secret—the secret that maybe all three of you wanted something more than a night fuelled by lust and weed. 

.

[separatetheyolk]

could you do a poly!landoscar x male!reader of aftercare with doms!oscar and lando? i read the lewis one and it was so good

This Side Of Paradise Poly!Landoscar X M!Reader

featuring: Lando norris & Oscar Piastri

Landoscar aftercare

warnings: 18+, mentions of smut but nothing too explicit mainly just in passing

note: Just a small one to get me back into writing. Sorry this took a while, I had cold after cold then spontaneous moved house lol. Still working on Charles and Carlos aftercares but this ask came through and I just had to finish this one. I haven't proof read this very well past the point of making sure it all makes sense so there will probably be quite a few spelling mistakes that I've missed. As with all my M!Reader posts this can be read as a trans!reader too, trans masc too but there is he/him pronouns and shit like 'boyfriend' used to refer to reader.

word count: 1077

requests are open!

Your head was pulled back from a cock before you had a chance to realise your breathing was growing increasingly difficult. “Okay, okay baby hey-” You heard, sounding somewhat distant. Far off despite feeling the breath run behind your ear and down your neck. It was quite disorientating in all honestly. “Okay.. baby, I need you to breathe.” You whimpered quietly as you were flipped round from your front to your back. Rearranged so you were set onto the middle of the bed and your head resting in someone's lap as they worked to undo the blindfold. “Come on.. That's it deep breaths.”

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust but once they had, you were met with an extremely concerned Lando. “Hey gorgeous..” You heard as Lando brushed hair from your eyes, but his lips weren't moving. Leading you to believe it was Oscar that was doing the talking. “Bit too much or you, hmm?” He spoke, watching you lift your head to look to him. His gaze meeting your own.

“I can take it..” You insisted. Wincing from just how harsh your voice sounded, moving to sit up but a tanned hand on your chest prevented you from moving any further. You couldn't help but let a frustrated whine slip past your lips.

“Baby, you don't have to.. This isn't some game where you have to prove yourself.. You've done more than enough for us. Just lie back and relax. We’ll take care of the rest.” Lando insisted, giving you a stern look that held no room for retaliation. You decided it didn't suit him at all. 

“Just relax, hmm?” This time Oscar spoke, hand resting on your shoulder and directing you to a free spot on the bed beside the driver. You couldn't argue.. The bed did look pretty inviting. So, albeit reluctantly, you moved to the spot and allowed Oscar to pull the blankets over your body. Closing your eyes, you felt the weight on the mattress shift as both men stood. Followed by the sound of a dresser drawer opening, then the rustling of clothes. A few minutes later and the weight of one of them was back beside you. “C’mere, gorgeous..”

You opened your eyes to find Oscar back beside you. Now dressed in some clean boxers. You moved over to him, allowing him to guide you so you were set between his legs, arms wrapping around one of his thighs like it was a pillow or large teddy bear and set your head in the crook where said thigh joined his hip. “There we go.. comfy?” He asked. And all you could manage was a nod as eyes closed again.

You didn't notice Lando watching the two of you from the other side of the room until you heard the others footsteps as he made his way over. You heard the two men share a gentle kiss, hand running through your hair to show you some affection too. “I take it you're too tired for a bath, hmm?” Lando asked you, looking down to you as you nodded your head. Your eyes remaining closed. “Alright.. You just stay here. I'll be right back.”

And, like before, the other left your side. A sinking feeling began to set in with guilt accompiening it. “M’ sorry..” You whispered after a beat of silence.

“What for, baby?” Oscar asked, accent thick and a strong difference compared to Lando’s. “You’ve done nothing wrong..”

“Ending the session early.. I wanted to do more for you..” You whispered, feeling like you'd left the two neglected. All this moving from track to track, it made it hard for the three of you to find time in Oscar and Lando’s busy schedules. When Winter break came around it often felt like a whole new paradise. And you wanted to make up for lost time.

Oscar chuckled slightly, moving so you were no longer in between his legs and shuffled to join you lying down. “You were perfect.. In every way. It's a lot to take two at once. Not to mention you haven’t done it in a while. But you still took us both perfectly. Besides, we were at it for hours baby.”

“But I-”

“But nothing, pretty boy.. You were perfect. Done so good for us..”

You couldn’t help but turn your face into the palm that was running through your hair. You didn’t nod in agreement but you also didn’t shake your head. So Oscar took that as a very small win. A few moments later, you felt Lando’s presence enter the room again, confirmed as a hand ran up and down your arm, small kisses soon being pressed to the back of your neck. “Can you sit up for a minute, baby?” Lando mumbled, feeling you nod slowly.

With help from both men, you were moved to an upright position, looking down to see baby wipes and a damp cloth set on the bed. Embarrassment washed over you as the two of them began wiping you down, baby wipes to get rid of most of the grime, cloth following closely behind. They almost seemed to sense the embarrassment. How you wanted to curl up into yourself, feeling as hands ran over your skin, massaging muscles and kisses pressed wherever the two of them could reach. Trying to get you to relax. A bath or preferably a shower if you could stand would be a must in the morning, but right now this would do.

Once you were wiped down, Lando helped to get you into one of his shirts while Oscar stripped the bed and took the sheets downstairs and to the wash room. While down there, he decided to make a quick detour to grab the trio a bottle of water each. By the time he’d came back to the bedroom, Lando had threw away used condoms, had set on some clean bedding and gotten you settled into bed.

He handed Lando two bottles of water once he’d gotten under the covers. The British man uncapping yours and carefully handing it over. Oscar slipped into bed on your right, letting you get comfy again as you lent into Lando’s side. Oscar then leaning into yours. “You get some sleep, baby..” you heard from Lando, though your eyes already half shut and the hold on the bottle loosening. You felt as the bottle was removed from your hand, the bedside lamp turned off.

[seasidefae]

hellooo. i wanted to celebrate 100 followers somehow (thank you for following this yapper who can't drive!) i've been thinking about the carcar wag!oscar au A LOT. but since i don't have enough time and the creative energy to sort all these thoughts out into one 3k word one-shot right now, here are some more headcanons

welcome to the full throttle universe

edit 2.1.2025: now a (major motion picture!) one-shot series

i aged up oscar a little bit so they have a 4-year age difference. 26-year old oscar piastri, architect extraordinaire, with his passion projects that are mainly education and sports related. he also jumps at any chance to participate in pro bono projects for local charities in australia.

that’s how he met carlos, at a gala in madrid oscar wasn’t even supposed to attend but the company needed someone to proxy, kiss ass and what not, and everyone else was busy. oscar thought carlos was an obnoxious 1-percenter trust fund baby asshole who spilled wine all over him (accidentally), meanwhile carlos is the epitome of that one viral tiktok audio going “blah blah blah proper name place name back story stuff” while oscar is angrily whisper-yelling at him. the cherry on top of it all is when oscar complained about his expensive suit being ruined and carlos went, “i will just buy you a new one.” oscar almost punched him. almost.

oscar hasn’t forgotten about the whole ordeal even a year later when he and carlos met again at wimbledon. again, oscar got tickets from a friend and he was alone. carlos was also alone. unsurprisingly, he doesn’t recognize oscar at first. at that point oscar knows this is the rude guy at the gala but he’s aware that this is carlos sainz jr aka formula 1 driver carlos sainz jr. carlos is friendly and enthusiastic, talking in the general direction of oscar about tactics and carlos alcaraz. oscar blurts out, “i thought you were a golf guy.” that’s when carlos finally turns to him and recognition hits. (the attraction hasn’t changed either) he brought oscar to meet carlos alcaraz after, got his number, and the rest is history.

oscar first started appearing in carlos’ ig stories in the 2024 season. they had a year to really think about whether or not they want to commit. turns out they do. whenever carlos is asked about it, he just says, “oh that’s oscar” and redirects the question when he’s asked for details.

ig stories from carlos:

oscar’s ig is private, as well as all his other socials. he has like 50 followers, just friends and family that have been warned about leaks, so he has no trouble posting carlos.

ig stories from oscar:

has carlos ever slipped? the guy is tight lipped when he wants to. but mention oscar within his vicinity and he’ll have that smile that can’t be helped. people can speculate all they want.

oscar first started showing up to races in australia ‘24 aka 2 weeks after carlos’ surgery aka the race he won. oscar tried to talk him out of racing post-surgery but carlos insisted.

that’s also when the rumors started to really hit. like at first it’s a cute little thing that only 5 people have talked about, and the rest accepted the faceless guy in carlos’ ig stories and post as some rando friend named oscar. probably a childhood friend? his sister’s boyfriend? he’s not even tagged. but after australia, seeing oscar in the garage wearing the red headset, having his lower third be just “Oscar Piastri” when he appears on screen, and greeting Carlos at parc ferme when he won definitely raised some suspicion a lot more. it’s not like they weren’t ready for that. it took countless of meetings with pr people that oscar hated, a decision left fully in oscar’s hands and not carlos’ because carlos understands oscar’s need for privacy. “piñon and him have a lot in common.” going to the australian gp was more out of necessity. (for himself, considering he'll be sick with worry staying at home and wondering if carlos, who was 3-weeks post surgery, would fare okay. he just wants to make sure he's FINE.)

[charlesslut16]

-losing means letting go-

summary : you and oscar realise, that it is over for you...

PAIRINGS : oscar piastri x reader(y/n)

WARNINGS : break up?

note : it took me so so long to finally write something,as i have run out of ideas...

masterlist

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oscar Piastri sat in his apartment in Monaco, staring at the lights reflecting off the Mediterranean Sea. It was a breathtaking view, one that had once filled him with inspiration and excitement.

Now, it seemed to mock him with its relentless beauty, highlighting the growing darkness within his relationship with YN, his girlfriend, whom always was there for him and always would be

They had been together for four years, a Fary tail romance that had seemed perfect from the outside. But behind closed doors, the cracks were growing wider with each passing day. Oscar was a rising star in the world of Formula 1, and YN was his steadfast supporter, at least at the beginning. The endless travel, the high stakes, and the intense pressure of his career had begun to wear on both of them.

Their once passionate love was now marred by frequent arguments and silent treatments. They still loved each other dearly, but maybe that wasn't enough anymore.

Tonight, Oscar had left the apartment after another heated exchange, and you were left alone with your thoughts. You replayed the argument in your mind. It had started over something trivial, as it often did.

Oscar had returned from another race weekend, exhausted and frustrated after finishing outside the points. He had wanted nothing more than to collapse on the couch, but you had been waiting for him with a list of grievances.

You were tired of feeling like a secondary character in his life, of being ignored and taken for granted. The argument had escalated quickly, voices raised, accusations hurled, until Oscar had stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

You sighed, hugging yourself to make you feel better. Oscar knew you had a point. He had been so consumed by his career that he had neglected your relationship.

But what could he do? Racing was his life, his dream, and it demanded everything from him.

Still, the thought of losing you was unbearable. He loved you more than he could express, but love alone didn't seem to be enough anymore.

Hours passed, and you remained in the same spot, lost in thought. Finally, you heard the door creak open, and Oscar stepped inside. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked as tired as you felt.

Oscar walked over to the couch and sat down, keeping a distance between you both. For a moment, you sat in silence, the weight of your unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

"Oscar," you began, voice trembling slightly, "we can't keep doing this." He looked at you, his heart aching at the sight of her pain. "I know," he admitted. "But I don't know how to fix it."

Tears welled up in your eyes. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. Maybe we're just not meant to be together right now. Maybe we need to let each other go."

Oscar's chest tightened. "No, YN. We can work through this. I promise I'll do better." You shook your head, a tear slipping down your flushed cheek.

"We've tried, Oscar. We've tried so hard, but it's not working. We're hurting each other more than we're loving each other. I think we need to break up."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Break up? He couldn't imagine his life without you. But looking into your eyes, he saw the truth. You were both miserable, and clinging to each other was only making it worse.

He didn't want to admit tit, but he knew for a while that the two of you were doing more bad than good. He never wanted you two to end, but the moment his priorities shifted, it was over between them.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. You nodded, tears falling freely now. "I am. I think it's the only chance we have for happiness, even if it destroys us right now."

Oscar reached out and took your hand, holding it tightly. "I don't want to lose you." "You won't, not ever," you replied softly. "We'll always have the memories, the good times. But we need to find ourselves again, separately."

He nodded, tears streaming down his own face. "I love you, YN. I always will." "I love you too, Oscar," you said, your voice breaking. "And that's why we need to do this. For both of us."

They sat together for a while, mourning the end of their relationship. Eventually, You stood up, and Oscar knew it was time to let you go. Forever.

He walked you to the door, feeling like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. "Goodbye, Oscar," you said, giving him one last, lingering look.

"Goodbye, YN," he replied, his voice choked with emotion. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She walked out the door, and Oscar closed it behind her, leaning against it as he sobbed. The apartment felt emptier than ever, but he knew deep down that they had made the right decision.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, but sometimes, love meant knowing when to let go. The months that followed were a big blur for Oscar. He threw himself into his racing career with a newfound intensity, using the pain of the breakup as his fuel.

He climbed the ranks, securing podium finishes and earning the respect of his peers. But no matter how successful he became, there was always a part of him that missed YN, that longed for the days when they were happy and in love.

YN, too, found her own path. She pursued her own dreams, rediscovering passions she had set aside during their relationship. She traveled, met new people, and slowly began to heal. There were days when the loneliness was overwhelming, but she reminded herself that they had made the right choice.

And though they were no longer together, their love had left an indelible mark on their hearts, a testament to the strength and beauty of their time together.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Unspoken Melody p.16

Hi guys, here's a new part of the story, if you've missed part 15 here it is, I hope you guys like the song selection I was going for something funny but cute :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

As the car finally comes to a stop in the pit lane, you let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. Your hands are still gripping the edges of your seat, your heartbeat racing, but instead of fear, there’s something else coursing through your veins—adrenaline, excitement. That had actually been fun.

Oscar pulls off his helmet first, shaking his slightly tousled hair back into place before turning to you with a grin. “So?” he asks, eyes shining with amusement. “Still freaking out?”

You let out a breathless laugh and remove your helmet, your hair a bit of a mess underneath. “I think I screamed more than I expected to,” you admit, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.

He chuckles. “Oh, you definitely did.”

You nudge him playfully. “Rude.”

Oscar shrugs, his grin widening. “I’m just saying, if we ever make a bet, I’m keeping that recording as blackmail.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest lingers as you climb out of the car. Your legs feel a little wobbly from the rush of it all, but Oscar is right beside you, subtly hovering just in case you stumble. It’s sweet, really.

Once you’re back on solid ground, he looks over at you, a bit more serious now. “You did great, though. I knew you’d end up liking it.”

You smirk. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Piastri.”

He places a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. I take you on an incredible hot lap, and this is the thanks I get?”

You giggle, shaking your head. “Fine, fine. Thank you, Oscar. It was… fun.”

His eyes flicker with something soft before he clears his throat and shifts on his feet. “Hey, uh—are you hungry?” he asks, a little hesitantly. “I’ve got my lunch break now, and I was wondering if you wanted to eat together.”

The way he asks, like he’s unsure if you’d want to, makes you smile. “That sounds nice.”

His lips twitch into a small, pleased smile, and he nods. “Great. Let’s go.”

You both walk back to the McLaren motorhome, slipping past the bustling engineers and staff. The paddock is always busy, filled with media, team members, and fans trying to catch glimpses of the drivers, but somehow, when you’re with Oscar, it feels more relaxed.

Once inside, he scans the room and spots a quieter area on the outdoor terrace. “Let’s sit there,” he suggests, pointing to a small table bathed in the warm afternoon sun, slightly secluded from the rest of the team.

You both grab your lunch—simple but good, some grilled chicken, rice, and veggies for Oscar, and a fresh salad with some pasta for you. As you reach the table, Oscar surprises you by pulling your chair out for you.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Such a gentleman.”

He shrugs, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Mum raised me right.”

You chuckle and take your seat while he does the same. The quiet hum of the paddock surrounds you as you both start eating, the sun warm against your skin.

After a few bites, you glance at Oscar, watching as he carefully cuts into his grilled chicken. “So, are you feeling good about the race tomorrow?”

He looks up, chewing thoughtfully before nodding. “Yeah, I think so. The car’s been feeling good so far, and if we get the setup right, we should have a decent shot at some points.”

You tilt your head. “No ambitions for a win?”

His lips twitch into a small smile as he rests his fork on the edge of his plate. “Well, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?” He glances at you briefly before adding, “Especially since you’re here.”

Your fork pauses midway to your mouth. “Wait, what?”

He shifts slightly in his chair, suddenly looking a little bashful. “I just mean, you insisted on coming all this way, so what better way to make it worth it than to give you a good race to watch?”

A soft laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head. “You don’t have to impress me, Oscar.”

His eyes meet yours, and for a second, there’s something unreadable in them—something warm. “I know,” he says quietly, before picking up his fork again. “But still.”

The way he says it makes your heart do an unfamiliar little flip. You take a sip of your drink to distract yourself, then decide to switch topics. “So, do you always eat this healthy? Or is this just for race weekend?”

Oscar chuckles, glancing down at his plate of grilled chicken, rice, and steamed vegetables. “I’d love to say I eat like this all the time, but I do enjoy a good burger when I’m not racing.”

You smile. “I knew there had to be some balance.”

He nods toward your plate. “And you? What’s your go-to meal?”

“Hm,” you hum, thinking. “Honestly? I love pasta. Anything with a good sauce, really.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “That’s solid. I approve.”

You laugh. “Glad to have your approval, Piastri.”

The conversation flows easily, with little moments of laughter and teasing. At one point, he tells you a story about his early karting days, about how he once spun out on the formation lap because he was too excited.

“You spun out before the race even started?” you ask, giggling.

Oscar groans, shaking his head. “Yep. I was maybe nine? I was on pole and everything, then I got too eager warming up my tires and ended up facing the wrong way before we even lined up.”

You press a hand to your mouth, stifling your laughter. “That’s incredible. Did you win?”

“Nope.” He sighs dramatically. “Had to start from the back. But I did manage to climb up to third, so it wasn’t a total disaster.”

You grin. “See? That’s impressive. A true comeback story.”

He shakes his head with a small smile. “Or just an embarrassing one.”

Before you can respond, a new voice cuts in.

“Hey! There you are.”

You both turn to see Lando approaching with his usual energy, a tray of food in his hands. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulls out the chair next to Oscar and plops down with a satisfied sigh.

“I swear, finding a seat here is impossible,” he mutters, digging into his food.

Oscar exchanges a glance with you, clearly amused.

Lando, completely unaware that he had interrupted anything, continues talking. “You wouldn’t believe the queue in the catering area. Absolute madness. Took me forever to get my food.” He gestures to his plate. “I was about to give up, but then I saw they had lasagna, and I wasn’t about to pass that up.”

You smile, shaking your head. “Lasagna is a strong motivator.”

“Exactly!” Lando exclaims, pointing his fork at you. “Finally, someone who gets it.”

Oscar sighs, resting his chin on his hand. “You’re so dramatic.”

Lando shrugs. “I prefer ‘passionate.’”

You chuckle as the conversation shifts to something else, Lando chatting away about the chaos of the paddock while Oscar occasionally rolls his eyes at his teammate’s antics.

And even though your peaceful lunch had been interrupted, you still find yourself sneaking glances at Oscar—because for a little while, it had been just the two of you, and somehow, that had felt… nice.

@justaf1girl, @bm571158

[cheriladycl01]

Better than me - Charles Leclerc x Reader P5

Plot: You are a rookie in your first f1 season, adding to the ever-growing amount of Brits performing in the grid.

You were nervous for the race today, you wanted to hold P5 from qualifying however you had many more experienced drivers behind you.

The line up was:

P1: Lewis Hamilton - Mercedes

P2: Charles Leclerc - Ferrari

P3: Alexander Albon - Audi

P4: Max Verstappen - Red Bull

P5: Y/N Y/L/N - Audi

P6: Lando Norris - Mclaren

P7: Lance Stroll - Aston Martin

P8: Oscar Piastri - Mclaren

P9: Logan Sargeant - Williams

P10: Zhou Guanyu - Williams

P11: Yuki Tsunoda - AlphaTauri

P12: Pierre Gasly - Alpine

P13: Daniel Ricciardo - AlphaTauri

P14: George Russell - Mercedes

P15: Liam Lawson - Alpine

P16: Valtteri Bottas - Haas

P17: Sergio Perez - Red Bull

P18: Kevin Magnussen - Haas

P19: Fernando Alonso - Aston Martin

P20: Carlos Sainz - Ferrari

So not only would you be attempting to overtake 3 time world champion Max Verstappen. But also your own teammate in P3, the Current World Champion from 2025 in P2 and a 8 time world Champ in P1 having his last win in 2024. Whilst defending from Lando Norris who was next to you on the grid lineup and then Lance and Oscar who were behind both of you.

It would be a hard race, but you were always willing to push yourself and the car to the max.

You stood by your car, headphones in and up to the max bopping your head so you couldn't hear any other the other noises that were going on right now. Dua Lipa was playing and you were chewing at one of your nails.

A tap of your shoulder wakes you up from your musical trance, you take one air-pod out, the song pausing.

"Race time, in the car" your manager directs you making you nod. You jump into the car over the halo, sliding down into the low seat. Your handed your helmet and balaclava which you put on making sure to tuck away your loose fly away pieces of hair so they are out if your face for the race.

After you are ready, they hand you the wheel which you push in and make sure your radio is getting back to the garage okay.

Your in your position on the track, your hands on the wheel as the fourth light comes on, and your put lightly resting on the pedals ready to launch the car into a start the minute those lights went out.

Max had an awful start, meaning you slipped around on his inside, leaving him behind you to defend Norris who had a good start as well.

The rest of the race went well however, you ended behind Lando and finished P6, Alex had moved too P2 so your team did amazing for a double points finish with a P2 podium finish.

You really couldn't wait for the day that it was you and Alex up there together and you just hoped he would stick around for a few more seasons as your team-mate.

You watched on as Lewis, Alex and Charles took their podium. They sprayed the champagne while you and Lily hugged and cheered Alex on. As a joke you'd placed your Audi cap on Lily, and SkySports had of course captured the adorable moment between you guys saying how you and Lily had one of the best friendships in the paddock between a driver and a wag.

As you were wondering around the paddock, greeting fans and taking pictures you spot Charles who you hadn't had a chance to congratulate on his win today.

"Charlie!" you exclaim running over to the tousled haired male.

"Y/N!" he smiles, stepping away from the person he was talking too.

"Well done on your win today! Ferrari have an incredible car this year!" you compliment, some mechanics whistling to you as they pass in appreciation making you giggle.

"Well, its not just the car now is it ma cherie" he jokes jabbing his elbow at you.

"No of course the almighty Leclerc who drove today was the reason" you nod in agreement with sarcastic undertones that has him gasping in mock horror a hand rosining up to his chest dramatically.

"How dare you!" he exclaims.

"Are you mocking my driving?" he laughs again as you remained quiet.

"No, definitely not. You were incredible today. Really, i hope to be able to share a podium with you some day" you smiled at him, and a huge grin comes onto his face as well.

"Well, you never know what might happen in Suzuka" he grins rubbing up and down your arms before pulling you into a tight hug.

"I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come with me for dinner tonight. I've never been here and don't want to leave it down Silvia to find me and Carlos a place to eat!" he asks and your eyes travel from your shoes on the floor up to meet his eyes in shock.

"I mean, I've never been here either so I don't know how much better I'd be than Silvia" you joke, you didn't realize it now but this was actually Charles trying to ask you out on a date. Not only were you an amazing driver, but you'd seen and helped him in such a vulnerable moment and hadn't said anything bad about it, he liked you more than he would care to admit.

"Okay so its set then? Me you Carlos, Becca, Lily and Alex will all go for food. Oooo we should probably invite Lando and Oscar as well, god knows they'll end up in a McDonalds against the orders from Kim and Jon" you sigh shaking your head.

"Oh yeah, with Carlos and the others yeah sure. Erm can i trust you to find a place?" he asks and you nodded, your PR manager came over a hand on your shoulder explaining you were needed for media duties.

You were walked off to go interview individually with SkySports where Jenson, Natalie and Nico were all waiting for you.

"Ahhh my favorite driver has arrived" Nat says pulling you into a hug that you return and kiss her cheek before taking the mic from her hand that she extended out to you before shaking hands with Jenson and Nico.

You knew Natalie better, Jenson and Nico as Ex-Drivers intimidated you as they were drivers that you looked up too when you were a little kid.

"So, your pretty consistent with P6 so far. First two races of the season in Bahrain and here in South Korea! How are you feeling?" Nico asks and you smile shyly.

"Yeah, i guess everyone says consistency is key. Obviously having now 36 points between myself and Alex is amazing for the team and yeah I cant wait for Japan. I'm feeling confident with the car, my team have done an amazing job with the car and I'm excited to see what we can bring to the tables in the years to come" you answer.

"Yeah I agree with Nico completely, its been incredible for you and hopefully a podium in sight soon?" Jenson teases making you laugh a little attempting to stifle the sound.

"I'd like to think that. However there are so many great and amazing drivers out there on the grid right now who deserve the wins in comparison to me" you smile nodding.

"And what's it like to have Alex as a team-mate" Natalie asks.

"Alex is the best, and I'm not sure i could have had a better person as my team mate in my rookie season"

After a few more questions about the car and your driving smile, you are thanked and told goodbye. Alex finds you, confirming that he and Lily were excited about dinner. Which sent you into a small panic, and he could tell by the look on your face.

Lily and Alex helped you research Yeongam and the surrounding areas, you found a golf course that you Lily, Alex, Carlos and Lando would all visit tomorrow.

"Hmmm how about here? I cant say the name though" Alex says looking at the restaurant he just found. You take the name punching it into google.

"Nope, definitely not" you say sighing befroe going back to looking at the map.

"What, i thought this was a good one, you judged that so quick!" Alex frowns trying too see what you'd seen that was so bad.

"It's literally a fish bar Alex, poor Lando wont eat there!" you say knowing the boys immense hate for fish.

"Okay here we go this is perfect for everyone, its an Italian/Korean restaurant. Everyone will be happy here, me you and Lily can try some new foods while the princesses have their safety foods" you grin showing them the picture of the warm and glowy restaurant on the screen.

"Yeah that seems good!" Lily smiles, checking it out on her own phone. Okay, now let me go find Lia and see if she'll book us a table. I don't think my Korean will translate too amazing over the phone.

Booking the table with Lia was easy enough when they found out that it was a group of F1 drivers looking for a table, they got you into a nice private room according to Lia. You'd sent out texts to everyone who was coming making sure they'd be ready to leave at 6.

Y/N: Got a place for food tonight, don't worry I saved you from Alex's choice of a fish bar! Be ready at the lobby for 6 :)

Lando: Have i ever told you I love you and you are my bestest friend?

Y/N: You have now!

Y/N: Hey! Make sure you and Becca are down in the lobby by 6pm for dinner, found a nice place and have a table.

Chilli: Thank you for booking it, glad I don't have Silvia Trivagoing where Charles and I would have eaten!

Y/N: Most welcome!

Y/N: Yo be there or be square for dinner @ six! Lobby stat.

KoalaB: Where is there?

Y/N: Oscar, READ! THE LOBBY DUH!

Lord Perc: Did you find somewhere for dinner?

Lord Perc: If not the hotel food was alright, I just thought it would be nice to get out

Y/N: DW dinner sorted, just meet us in the lobby at 6 :)

Lord Perc: of course <3

Dinner flew by, between the waiter playing with you guys and doing bottle tricks for the table when Soju was ordered, or Lando choking on an olive, or water spilling onto Charles lap making it looked like he wet himself and you attempting to dry it without thinking where you were rubbing the napkin and looking up seeing a bright red faced Charles.

You couldn't help but think how embarrassed he must have been, so you patted his red cheek explaining it was an accident and actually your fault for him spilling it. He sat there quiet and looking down for the next few minutes while you all waited for the mains to be served.

You were staying in Korea until Wednesday, you had massive plans for the rest of the week. You were to play gold tomorrow with Lando, Carlos, Lily and Alex. Then on Tuesday you'd get the train to Seoul and were sight seeing with Charles who you asked to come with you as Alex and Lily were leaving for Japan early and Carlos and Lando had plans already. Wednesday you'd fly straight to Japan ready for the media duties on Thursday.

Life on the road as an f1 driver was stacked but the memories you were making here with you friends severely made up for the exhaustion you felt until the gaps in between races came about.

Golfing with everyone was fun, you sucked and Lily tried to help you as much as possible. You'd think as a professional f1 driver you'd be a natural athlete and be able to pick up other sports relatively easily. But lets just say that you would be pretty jobless without Formula One.

After a long day, you checked out of the hotel in Yeongam and met Charles, you guys had an eventful evening where you got lost in the train station in the middle of South Korea. You attempted with your small knowledge of the language to communicate that you were lost.

Now at this point, your probably thinking, omg so silly just use google translate but you really really didn't want to look like one of those pretentious tourists who shove phone's in locals faces without even attempting a lick of their language.

Luckily your Korean was enough to get the man to understand you were lost and looking for the train to Seoul. He was kind enough to take you and Charles all the way to Seoul with him. He turned out to be a mechanic for the Kia racing team. You explained that Charles and you were racing drivers and he nodded before laughing explaining he knew who you were.

You and Charles felt so bad, that you ended up offering a drink to this man which turned into him showing you all his favorite drinking spots in Seoul and introducing you to people he worked with.

You both went to the new hotel rather drunk on a bus.

"Charlie" you complied as you flopped onto one of the beds in the room, the one you just had claimed.

"Yes" he asks looking through his suitcase that management kindly had transported earlier over in the day for him.

"I'm hungry and you know what I've always wanted to do" you ask looking over him.

"What?" he asks, trying to make himself less spacey and more focused on you.

"I want to go to one of those convenience stores that sell those cups of ice and then the really cool drinks and then they have all the really cool premade food and the noodles and I wanna go can we go before i go to my room" you beg kneeling on the bed and placing you hands together.

"It's like 2am, Y/N they wont be open. Let's call it a night and we'll go tomorrow" he smiles patting your shoulder.

"No no, its Korea bro, they are like 24 hours. It'll be open i swear" you say making a cross over you heart. That doesn't seem to fill him with confidence so you move to the puppy dog eyes which he cant seem to say no too.

"Fine, but if your wrong and you've dragged me out for no reasons, I'll make you DNF this weekend" he hiccups pointing an accusing finger at you.

"Hahahaha I told you!" you say seeing the brightly light shop.

"Fine you were right" he says holding the door open for you, you walk in first greeting the teenager behind the till with a small hello in Korean.

He gasps in shock before running up to you both with a paper and pen and pointing at his phone. You ask if he's like a picture and he nods enthusiastically thanking you furiously as you take the phone. You all basically have a mini photoshoot in the store before he helps you make the food, saying he didn't want you to burn you hands on the hot water tap which you thought was extremely kind.

You and Charles eat, before tipping the young man and leaving the store where you both go to your joint hotel rooms passing out with the door connecting the rooms unlocked and open.

TAGLIST:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhh @georgeparisole @dakotatankbig @youcannotcancelquidditch @zzonsbeek @tallbrownhairsarcastic @mellowarcadefun @ourteenagetragedy @otako5811 @countingstacksandpanicattacks @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @hopexcroc @mirrorball-6 @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @the-fem1n1ne-urge @21stcenturytaegi @dark-night-sky-99 @spideybv28 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life

[alearicci]

"just a little scratch...” – DR3

pairings: daniel ricciardo x girlfriend!reader; daniel ricciardo x girlfriend!you

summary: you, your Daniel Ricciardo and the second practice.

note: I cry like hell. god, why him...

I think you will not like it very much, because I wrote this little one shot on terrible emotions. sorry for the mistakes and OMG, I HAVE 56 READERS TYSM.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ♡⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The second practice in Zandvoort.

In the first practice, Dan was the 13th, there is something to strive for and what to fix. In any case, this is not a qualification or even a race, but only a training race where they will be able to practice on the track, assess their capabilities, finalize some points and be fully ready to step into the weekend of the Dutch Grand Prix. He kept smiling no matter what.

He is obliged to show himself well in AlphaTauri in order to return to the RBR.

He dreams about it every time before going to bed and wakes up with the same thought.

He dreams of becoming a world champion. And the Red Bull car is considered the strongest among all those who are on the starting grid. Daniel is not a weakling either.

But it's hard to even think about it when you're on the starting grid with Max Verstappen. Daniel had a good and friendly relationship with Max. But how the Australian wanted to wipe his nose and get around him.

You were standing in the paddock and before the practice started, you decided to approach your boyfriend to wish him good practice and kiss him for good luck. But they stopped you and told you that Dan was ready to leave. You blew him a kiss.

Daniel saw it and did the same. But there was one problem. He was already in his helmet and his visor was closed, which is why he kissed you back, but you didn't notice it.

When the sun broke through the clouds a little, illuminating the picturesque race track, Daniel Ricciardo was determined to succeed. The second training session was about to begin - this is a chance for an Australian racer to hone his skills and get an adrenaline rush, which always occurs when his car was working at the limit of its capabilities. However, he didn't know that this day would test his resilience like never before.

The training started and nothing foreshadowed trouble, although Dan had already noticed the strange behavior of his car during the first training session, but ignored it, considering that it was just a minor problem that could be easily fixed. He did not even suspect that a much more serious storm was brewing, which would destroy his hopes and dreams in a matter of seconds.

Grabbing the steering wheel of his car, Daniel felt a wave of electricity run through his veins. The noise of the crowd, the smell of burning rubber, and the realization that he was about to embark on a dance of speed and precision filled him completely. The pit lane was cleared, and he took off on the track, striving to leave his mark and show a good time even in training.

Working harder and harder with each lap, Daniel was focused, his heart pounding almost to the rhythm of the engine. But just at the moment when he was preparing to masterfully maneuver in a sharp turn, disaster struck.

Ahead of him, Oscar Piastri, a McLaren driver, lost control of his car and crashed into the guardrail.

In the blink of an eye, his entire positive attitude turned into a nightmare. The smile quickly faded from his face.

Daniel tried to let go of the steering wheel, his right hand let go of the steering wheel, and then he grabbed it back when Oscar's car was potentially in his way, which led to terrible consequences.

The blow was sudden and strong, causing Daniel's left arm to even throb with pain. The realization hit him like a dagger–the metacarpal bone was broken. An unpleasant feeling gripped him as he headed back to the pits, his dreams of success in racing slipping away with every agonizing second.

Despite the overwhelming pain, a sense of determination and defiance blossomed in Ricciardo's heart. He knew that he would have to deal with the pain both for himself and for his loyal fans who supported him throughout the journey.

When you saw everything that was happening, you immediately felt your legs give way and your vision blurred. You were about to faint if it weren't for the firm grip of one of the engineers who happened to be near you.

You felt like your heart was about to jump out of your chest. It could have ended much worse.

Dan was immediately taken to the medical center and you didn't even have time to tell him anything. I could have run and gone with him, but your well-being was seriously shaken. Your heart was pounding, and your face showed concern. The thought of the pain of a loved one tormented you from the inside, but you knew that you had to remain calm for the sake of both of you. You have already seen Daniel overcome countless difficulties, and it was at these moments that you most admired his resilience.

While he was being X-rayed, Ricciardo's mind sank into the depths of his emotions. He couldn't deny the disappointment that threatened to engulf him. The opportunity to demonstrate his talent and compete at the highest level was cruelly taken away from him. And he couldn't realize: whose mistake was it? If he hadn't turned into the wall, would he have crashed into Oscar? What would happen in this case?

He struggled with a mixture of anger, sadness, and a tinge of guilt.

Why him? Why now? Will he be able to regain the level of performance he fought so hard for? How will this affect his further races? Doubt and uncertainty began to creep into his mind, fast and lightning-fast, like a shadow, but Ricciardo did not let him linger. He knew that he needed to channel his energy into the difficult task of recovery.

As soon as he returned to the paddock, with a bandage on his left arm, you couldn't stand it and burst into tears, covering your face with your hands.

Dan came up to you and gently hugged you with his right hand, kissing your forehead.

"I'm fine. Just a little scratch. Just a little scratch..."

His light–hearted response did little to ease your anxiety, or rather, did not ease it with everything, but reminded you of the qualities that you valued in Daniel - his unwavering optimism, his ability to find humor even in the most difficult situations. You knew he was determined to overcome this setback, no matter how serious it was.

And you will always be there to support him.

[24worldnewsnet]

y ImagesFerrari are also giving a rookie a chance in Austria, so we say hello again to 21-year-old Dino Beganovic, who takes the wheel of Charles Leclerc's car for the second time this season. Swede Beganovic made his F1 weekend debut in Bahrain in April and is competing in his maiden Formula 2 campaign with Hitech TGR. Andy GrayBBC Sport NI Getty ImagesAlex Dunne will become the first Irish driver in 22 years to participate on a Formula 1 weekend. The last was Ralph Firman, who was born in England but raced under an Irish licence for Jordan in 2003.Eddie Irvine was the last driver born on the island of Ireland to race in F1. Irvine, who was from Northern Ireland, competed with a UK racing licence for Jordan, Ferrari and Jaguar from 1993 until 2002.The last drivers born in the Republic of Ireland were Derek Daly and Tommy Byrne, who both raced way back in 1982. Getty ImagesThis is a big day for Alex Dunne. The 19-year-old has already been on Formula 2 duties this morning (he was quickest in practice) and now he's about to make his Formula 1 weekend debut when he takes the place of McLaren's Lando Norris for the opening hour in Austria. Rookie Dunne is leading the F2 championship in his first year after wins in Bahrain and Imola for Rodin Motorsport. Mercedes slipped to third place after the Spanish Grand Prix earlier this month but a double podium in Montreal has lifted them back up to second and above Ferrari, with 16 points separating the two teams. McLaren are still leading the way in the constructors' championship by 175 points. Aston Martin have also gained a place following a drop off in Barcelona. Fernando Alonso's six points in Canada means Aston are now eighth, just two points clear of Sauber in ninth. Getty Images Oscar Piastri didn't make the podium in Canada ( he came fourth) but with his team-mate Lando Norris walking away empty handed from round 10, the Australian's lead over the Briton at the top of the drivers' championship is now 22 points. Max Verstappen was runner-up to George Russell in Montreal and while he stays in third place in the standings, the gap between himself and Norris is only 21 points. Esteban Ocon collected two points for his tally in Montreal, lifting him above Racing Bulls Isack Hadjar by one point and into ninth place. Getty Images Lorraine McKennaBBC Sport Journalist Getty ImagesHello, folks. We're camped in Europe now until the summer break (and for a couple races after), with the opening stop on the jam-packed tour being the Austrian Grand Prix. First practice gets under way at 12:30 BST. Second practice goes green at 16:00 BST. Canada last time out was a Mercedes weekend, with George Russell taking victory from pole position while third-placed Kimi Antonelli, at 18 years and 294 days, became the third-youngest driver to achieve an F1 podium, behind Max Verstappen and Lance Stroll.Getty ImagesBut the main talking point was the collision between team-mates Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris as the pair fought for fourth place. This wasn't a fiery coming together: Norris held his hands up straight away and acknowledged he misjudged the late overtake.What will Austria bring the McLaren pair, and the rest of the grid, this weekend? Let's find out...