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lightsovermonaco · 3 days ago

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Nine (Oscar Piastri)

wc: 1800

Summary: comforting oscar after his woeful Australia race.

P9.

P fucking 9.

Oscar is a better driver than that. He put in lap after flawless lap today. For once, things were going his way, despite the insistence by his engineer that he not attack Lando when he clearly had the superior pace.

The thing is, during the race Oscar made his peace with taking second place. He knows he isn't McLaren's priority and that's fine for now, because one day they wouldn't be able to ignore his talent anymore. So second place was fine, it was only the season opener. He would have ample opportunities over the rest of the season to out qualify and out perform his teammate.

Forty three near perfect laps in the wet. The rain poured down in buckets, he deviated from the racing line a hair's breadth and then-

Into the fucking grass.

“Osc, it's not that bad. Your recovery drive was amazing! Think of the positives.” Though your voice registers in Oscar's head, the words go in one ear and out the other. Truthfully, it was luck and not skill that had saved him from a DNF. He couldn't take credit for it.

“I have to go to media,” he says, too exhausted to fake a smile to reassure you that he was fine. You wouldn't believe it was real anyway.

“I'll find you after. Our usual spot.”

By the time he reaches the bullpen, Oscar has lost count of how many times people have parroted their condolences. He has said variations of ‘Yeah, could've gone better but we look forward’ so often that the line springs to his lips now, as Charles pats his back in mutual understanding as he passes by. Oscar made light of it as best he could, joking about how learning to reverse a tractor earlier that year had helped. Though no matter how much he pretends, his failure hangs over his head like an executioner's axe.

Thirty two minutes later, Oscar satisfies his contractual duties and is released from the media pen. Once his feet have carried him out of view of the dozens of cameras, his carefully constructed facade of acceptance begins to crumble like a sandcastle.

Someone dressed head to toe in papaya calls his name as he walks past. James, Oscar remembers belatedly. “We're all going out tonight mate, celebrating the win!”

“I'll pass.”

“Oh come on, you must know all the best places to party-”

“Just because I'm from Australia doesn't mean I know about the nightlife in every city.” It comes out snipped, and quite frankly Oscar cannot find it in himself to care. He has absolutely no intention of leaving his hotel room tonight. The place could be on bloody fire and he would stay cuddled up under the covers whilst it burned around him.

Oscar finds you outside the McLaren hospitality center, as you had promised him earlier. It's a damn good thing you don't try and say a word to him, because he isn't sure he can stomach hearing anyone else tell them how sorry they are for how today's race transpired.

When you hold out your hand, it is autopilot that has him accepting it. Oscar shuts off the survival part of his brain and hands you the reins. He is safer with you than with any other person on this earth. You are his protector now, deflecting the questions he is sure the technical team tosses his way as you both pass.

Oscar's spin and subsequent fall down the timing table replays in his mind as he spirals, the day's events becoming an endless horror film that he cannot escape. He floats outside of his body, feet moving of their own accord as you pull on his hand, navigating through the McLaren garage with ease. You know where you're going; you've accompanied him to enough races that the labyrinth of papaya walls are as familiar to you as your own childhood home.

“Wait, I have a debrief,” Oscar says when you turn right instead of left at the next junction, away from the glass-walled conference room. His voice is hoarse, foreign, detached. Unrecognizable to his own ears.

You smile over your shoulder, “No, you don't. I already talked to Andrea. It's pushed to the morning.”

“Oh.” He should thank you for arranging for him to have some time to decompress, but his mouth is gummed up.

Deep down he knows that his recovery drive is something he should be proud of, but Oscar cannot erase the phantom taste of champagne from his mouth. The collar of his team jacket is sticky with it. Oscar was not anyone's intended target; he was simply collateral damage at the hands of the team's Lando-centric celebrations.

Oscar's head swivels involuntarily as Lando's delighted laugh echoes through the halls, like salt in the open wound of Oscar's loss. It does not surprise him that the majority of the team hasn't bothered to check in on his well being. Oscar loves his team, appreciates everything they have done for him, but right now he resents the fact that they cannot seem to put him first, ever.

“Come here Osc.” Your voice is a siren song, luring him out of the torrent in his head. He blinks and he's sucked back into his thoughts again. Time becomes fluid, a thick, waist-high molasses that he struggles to wade through. His thoughts overlap, a cacophony of sound that reverberates in his skull.

Piastri should have been on that second step today. Shame he made that mistake.

Someone on Sky, he couldn't remember who, but they were right.

Oscar blinks and finds himself in his driver's room, one hand braced on your shoulder as you undo his race boots.

It's alright kid, there's always next week.

A throwaway comment from Zak, meant as a reassurance but delivered on the heels of honeyed praises directed to Lando.

When he blinks again, Oscar’s head is cradled in your lap, your manicured nails gently scratching his damp hair. He nearly sighs, the race a mere footnote in his mind for the space of a heartbeat before its crushing weight bears down on him once more.

Oscar places a hand on your thigh, intending to push himself up, but the fingers of your other hand bunch up in the fabric of his jacket at his shoulder. He pauses, his tired sigh a wordless request for an explanation.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“I should shower,” he points out weakly. “My hair is gross. You'll wreck your nails.” You'd paid a fortune to have them done specially for this weekend, he remembers. You refused to let him see them until Thursday, when you surprised him with a design that perfectly matched his helmet.

“I'll be fine, Oscar. Just stay here.” Your thumb strokes over his forehead, urging him to look up at you. When he does, he nearly breaks.

The look in your eyes hasn't changed. You don't look at him as if he's a failure, relegated forever to the number two seat. As far as you are concerned, he hasn't fallen off the pedestal. Oscar finds nothing but hope for the future in your gaze, and a promise that you'll pick him up whenever he stumbles.

With you, he does not need to pretend to be whole. He doesn't need to be Oscar the driver or Oscar the PR star- he can simply be Oscar. Period.

You don't need words. You never have. Oscar knows you're proud of him simply by the tilt of your head.

“You'll get ‘em next time, bubs.”

That is the final pebble of kindness he needs for his emotional scale to surpass its tipping point. Oscar's vision blurs. He blinks rapidly, trying to hold onto you. He's cried enough, displayed his emotions to the world, doesn't need you to see-

A sob wracks out of his throat, splitting open his chest. Your hand strokes through his hair as his body shakes with the force of his cries. Now that his mask has slipped, the floodgates have opened and his emotions pour out, hot and raw.

“I just wanted a fucking win,” Oscar rasps. “One fucking win at home. And they fucked me over-”

“I know, baby-”

“-and then I spun, I could've at least podiumed but I fucked that up too.” Oscar rubs furiously at his eyes, a vain attempt to cover up his tears.

“You put in fifty six amazing laps,” you remind him, as so many others had done this afternoon. The difference is, Oscar knows that you mean it when you say it. “Did you hear the crowd when you made it back on track?” Oscar shakes his head, sniffles.

“My ears were ringing too much. I didn't even hear the radio.”

You hum, shifting under him until he's laying properly on your chest. It's a tight squeeze on the tiny loveseat, and his skin is sticky with sweat, but you show no signs of caring. His head is simply nestled against your shoulder, his breath hitching now and again as his tears dry up.

“They were roaring for you, Osc. I mean, the stands were shaking from the videos I saw. It was amazing.”

“Were they?” It does lift his spirits to hear how much his country supports him, even when he makes a rookie mistake.

“Yep, they were. And no one online is blaming you. If anything, they're blaming team orders.”

“Fucking team orders,” Oscar mumbles into your shoulder. He wouldn't dare breathe a lick of disagreement publicly, but here in the safety of your arms, he can allow his disapproval to seep out. “It's the first fucking race and they pin that on me again. Just like last year.”

“Mmhmm. But hey, the running theory is that since they used team orders to effectively help Lando win here, maybe they'll do the same for you in Silverstone.”

That, at least, has him laughing. Because as absurd as it is, he can see the logic behind it. “I doubt that, though I'd love to see Lando's face if that happens.”

“It would make a good drive to survive episode if nothing else. I can already see them stitching together bits of interviews and radios to build up the tension.”

Oscar's arms tighten around your waist as it becomes easier for him to breathe. “Remind me to keep you as far away from the Netflix producers as humanly possible.”

“Too late, already spoke to them!”

“Should've seen that coming.”

You laugh, and the final bit of Oscar's hurt melts away. A smile cracks across his lips. His eyes crinkle, and this time it's genuine.

“Thank you,” Oscar says, barely more than a whisper. He doesn't have to specify what for, and you don't acknowledge it. Instead you kiss the crown of his head, allowing him to bask in the comfort of you for as long as he needs.

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri fanfiction #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri oneshot #formula 1 #formula one #f1 #f1 rpf #oscar piastri fic #jac writes #pastry #formula1 #formula1 imagine #f1 imagine #fluff

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astonmartinii · 2 months ago

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other side of the moon: interlude - a tango in barcelona | formula one imagine

interlude: a tango in barcelona

pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli

dancing around her teammate on and off track, y/n looks to boogie her troubles away.

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

may 2020, spain.

life at mclaren hadn’t started the way y/n had hoped. the days were long and surprisingly quiet, the latter mostly due to her teammate and his aversion to acknowledging her existence. she was tired already this weekend and they hadn’t even raced yet.

the barcelona heat was making her race suit stick to her already just walking to the grid for the national anthem. “it’s hot as balls” y/n whined as she slipped between max and george while the choir set up ahead of them.

“oh my sweet summer child, we haven’t even gotten to singapore yet,” max said taking off his ice vest and fastening it to y/n.

“ugh don’t remind me,” y/n wiped more sweat off of her brow, “i think singapore might kill me.”

george laughed, moving his umbrella to the left so it covered y/n as well, “singapore is a baptism by fire, but you’ve done well so far this season so i don’t think you’ll have too hard a time.”

y/n smiled up at the taller brit, “thanks georgie, maybe if you’re such an expert in singapore you’ll be able to catch me.” she punctuated it with a wink, george nearly dropping the umbrella in response.

“do you mind? you nearly took my eye out with this thing!” max hissed at george, flicking the umbrella. george lifted the umbrella to get it out of eye range of the dutchman, who in turn saw it as an invitation to seek refuge in the shade.

“no way verstappen, this umbrella is for pretty people only,” george grabbed y/n’s hand and moved them a couple steps away.

“if that was so, only y/n would be allowed under it beanstalk.”

“if my height is the only thing you can think to insult me about, i can live.”

“oh believe me there’s a lot more stored up, i just wouldn’t want to give you any inspiration for when you take out a backmarker and blame everyone but yourself.”

y/n sighed dramatically, “already? i thought you two were going to cool it down this season. i don’t even understand how you have a rivalry, you’re nowhere near him on track george…” george let out a scandalised squeal, “oh my bad george, you know what i meant.”

“i think what y/n means is that she doesn’t rate you ‘mr saturday’”.

as george went to bite back but the loud horns of the national anthem cut their quarrel off early. y/n fought to keep her laugh in throughout the national anthem, seeing george seething in her peripheral vision. he was so easy to rattle it was practically a pastime of half the grid at this point.

before george could get a dig back in, y/n and max were back in deep conversation, discussing their approach to turn two with just minutes until the formation lap. he yearned to be the one that y/n spilled her tips, tricks and secrets to but like most of his life, the dutchman had beaten him to that honour. now he knew how lando felt.

lando, george and alex had bonded long before 2018, but their three-way title fight in formula two brought them closer rather than forcing them apart. george cherished that friendship, he found it invaluable to have two of his closest friends with him as they entered the cutthroat world of formula one - he just wished he could’ve been that person for y/n.

lando didn’t often articulate it well, but george understood his curly-haired friend’s struggles. lando had gushed all off season about having y/n as his teammate, chatting animatedly about potential roadtrips, shared flights and sleepovers before it was all snuffed out in a moment. george always suspected that lando felt more about their friend than he let on (or thought he let on). once he had thought it was a victim of circumstance, teenage boys discovering what these new hormones were doing to their body did tend to fixate on the one girl in their midst. but as they grew up, that puppy love crush didn’t seem to wain, not that anyone else around them seemed to notice.

a single comment from one max verstappen crushed that. a late night discord call between the rookie trio and max had naturally seen the topic of y/n arise. lando, as usual, started to wax lyrical about the season ahead, with his vision for their teammate relationship constructed in his head.

“mate, we’ve already started.”

“huh?” lando’s voice stuttered over the call, he cleared his throat, “what do you mean?”

“y/n and i,” max continued, “we’ve already started doing sim runs together, watching onboards and all that jazz.” the dutchman said it so casually, unaware of lando’s imminent heartbreak - george’s too, he just hid it better.

“but why? i’m going to be her teammate, not you? why would she even use your sim, she’s racing for mclaren next year not red bull.”

not noticing the path they were hurtling down, max dug his foot in, “no offence lando, but if y/n wants my tips, i’m going to give it to her. it’s noble for you to want to look out for her, but realistically what tips could you give her that are better than mine… i am the only one here who has actually won a race.”

alex loudly coughed, stopping max before he could continue. “it’s getting late, maybe we should call it a night?”

“it’s nine o’clock?” max questioned.

“no, i’m tired,” lando let out an undoubtedly fake yawn, “i think it’s time for bed.”

“okay suit yourselves,” max said, going back to his iracing, “lando, don’t take it too personally that she chose me. we’ve been friends for so long, we don’t know anything but each other.”

“i’ve known her just as long as you!”

it was starting to get a little heated and despite alex and george trying to interject, the two kept going.

“you may have known her just as long, but you don’t know her. we’ve been there for each other at our lowest and our highest. it’s not a competition. i honestly hope she comes to you next season, i don’t trust your team as far i can throw them. it will be good to have someone in her corner.”

“oh well if you’re that magnificent then why can’t you be her white knight all the way from red bull, huh?”

“you know what lando, we’ll talk about this again once you’ve shaken off this weird primal urge you have to ‘claim’ her. a piece of advice, she won’t like that.”

“oh you insufferable little shit-”

“goodbye everyone!” alex interjected, kicking max out of the call.

“what the fuck was that lando?”

“you heard him, posterising, peacocking and then having the gall to say that i’m being territorial over y/n.”

george sighed, his affection for the same girl was going to have to be buried even deeper after this. “max wasn’t peacocking about y/n, lando. if anything he was showing off his wins rather than her,” alex tried to reason.

“no! he can’t let us - can’t let me have anything. it’s always been this way and with y/n it’s like he knows deep down that i want her so he has to have her instead. he’s clinging on to her and shoving it in my face - it’s not my fault he has a shit dad and he attached himself to her because she was the only one not afraid of him - so why am i being punished for it?”

lando’s outburst rendered alex and george silent. the older one was horrified to say the least, the season hadn’t even started and lando’s jealousy was already out of hand.

“lando, that was too far…” alex said softly.

“no! he thinks that because he has a shitty sob story that he can just claim her? she’s her own person!”

“right. i’m going to stop you there before you say something that’ll make me hate you for real. you need to get over what ever the fuck this is so you can be a normal fucking human being next season,” alex tried to reason with lando.

“i am in love with her!”

“are you? or are you in love with the thought of what could happen? have you actually stopped and wondered whether y/n likes you or even likes men? for someone so protective over her, you haven’t considered her feelings too much.”

lando has the foresight to look a little guilty. george stayed silent, he knows alex is suspicious of him too, but that can of worms can wait until another day.

“you need to get a life and calm down. max is one of your best friends and i know deep down you didn’t mean a word you said tonight but you need to get a grip before you say any of that in front of him or y/n because i’m sorry but i won’t be stopping them if they try to hit you.”

lando doesn’t say anything, but the guilty look on his face says enough.

“goodnight.”

the call ended there and was never brought up again. george watched y/n waltz back towards the mclaren garage, a big gap between her and lando. there had been no more outbursts since that night but if what george overheard from daniel, lando had still managed to completely screw himself. was george that angry at that news? not really.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

the race was pretty uneventful, barcelona usually was. y/n started in sixth and managed to pip charles to fifth after ferrari screwed up his pitstop once again. despite her deep love for sangria, y/n didn’t really feel like leaving her hotel room after she had scrubbed all of the sweat and grime off in the shower.

she was pleased with her points haul, smiling to herself in debrief as they analysed lando’s first lap incident with pierre gasly that lando just insisted was no fault of his own…

her ring tone invaded her peaceful evening, the name ‘albono’ flashing up on her phone. pressing accept,

“how can i help you on this fine evening, mr albon?”

“well i find myself in this fine dancing establishment, looked around and thought it was crying out for a little y/n y/ln action.”

“dancing you say?”

“i’m 100% serious, sebastian of all people has dragged also to a bar where they’re attempting to teach us the tango…”

“oh i love the tango! it’s my favourite dance on strictly…”

“so what i’m hearing is that i should get a tequila sunrise in preparation for your arrival?”

y/n sighed, “yes you may.”

“score! i’ll send you the address and an uber. see you soon.”

so there goes her quiet night in, but who wouldn’t love the chance to tango with your close friends in under the stars? and she had packed her little red number… maybe the y/n who packed that suitcase all those days knew something current y/n didn’t.

y/n elected to skip most of her makeup routine, her skin sensitive from all the sweat in her balaclava, swiping on some mascara, lip gloss and a healthy dose of blush. like alex said, the uber was waiting for her outside the lobby.

the outside of the bar looked closer to a college dive bar than somewhere you’d expect to find a group of formula one drivers, but she suspects that’s why sebastian chose it.

“buenes noches senorita,” fernando alonso gave her a spin on entry.

“gracias nando,” she curtsied in front of the spaniard, drawing a laugh out of the elder driver, “i am sorry to cut this short, but i am tired and i fear i have already promised my one dance to another.”

“how will i ever recover?”

“i think you’ll find a way old man.”

“you wound me, but alex is waiting for you by the bar.”

y/n made her way through the bar, spotting several drivers caught up in their dancing lessons from the locals. she tapped alex on the shoulder, with the tall driver turning, wielding her tequila sunrise.

“nice of you to turn up at last,” alex teased, handing her the drink.

“i’ll have you know i was snuggled up ready for some netflix action before you called.”

“you came all this way for a dance with little ol’ me?”

“of course, alex. i have missed you.”

“i have missed you too, the red bull stuff is piling up and i have been neglecting my big brother duties, i’m sorry. not that it seems to be effecting your rookie season too much.”

“don’t worry about me alex, i’m proud of you and what you’re doing at red bull, even if they’re being unreasonably hard on you.”

alex led her to the middle of the dance floor and put one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder. they started to move to the music,

“i just miss when it was more laidback. i barely have time to stop between sim sessions and media duties and performance meetings. i miss sitting in your driver room laughing at your instagram private messages and watching stupid adam sandler movies.”

alex spun her and as she came back to him she said, “we can still do that alex! you don’t have to be alone, we can still watch adam sandler movies and ignore calls from helmut.”

alex smiled at her as the music slowed down.

“i wish i was here for you more in your rookie season,” alex laments but y/n interjects, “it’s only the fourth race. you’re focused on you and i wouldn’t want anything else. there’s time for us to find our way back to each other. you're a brother to me, like blood, there’s nothing that can destroy that bond.”

“i’m sorry lando is being a prick.”

“it is what it is.”

“no it’s not. we had each other last year, he should be there for you.”

“it’s whatever, i have max, i have you, i’ll survive.”

the music came to an end. the two embraced but when they broke apart y/n started heading for the exit, picking up max on the way through, the dutchman having already booked them an uber. y/n turned and waved to alex, she meant it when she said it was just one dance. she made a ‘call me sign’ and mouthed ‘adam sandler’ before rushing out of the bar with max.

alex turned and made his way to george who was still nursing his first drink at the bar. george didn’t respond when alex prompted him. the thai man nudged george laughing about how ‘y/n knows how to make a short and sweet appearance’ but still got nothing.

“you’re not seriously angry about a tango are you george?”

“no.”

“you’re a terrible liar,” alex whispered, “not as bad as lando but terrible nonetheless.”

“at least i’m not taking it out on her like lando.”

“no, you just use max as target pratice on your dart board for shits and giggles.”

“whatever.”

“fine, deal with it how you wanna big boy, but if you turn out like lando right now, i’ll be down two best friends and up two murder charges.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

fin.

note: my first interlude! @deviltsunoda and i came up with these ideas so i could write shorter things while i have work and you guys still get fed! so enjoy this lil exploration into y/n and alex's friendship (they are so precious to me!) and why lando is being such an asshole... enjoy! the weekend should bring chapter four.

taglist: @folkloresreputation @hc-dutch @shimmermotorsport @96mcobo @eclipsedcherry @formulaal @czennieszn @gothicwidowsworld @emily-b @suns3treading @henna006 @kazgirl20 @anotherapollokid @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @annimausi @yawn-zi @lulu-1998 @xsilkesworld @justaf1girl @daddyslittlevillain @evans-dejong @abq654 @elizamoe133 @wierdflowerpower @t1nkerbel1 @okcurran @raizelchrysanderoctavius @skepvids @multilovebot @fernandoalonso14 @jules-kup-172 @m4xgirlie @rorabelle15 @minkyungseokie @formula1-motogpfan @peterholland04 @miureiz @freyathehuntress @lighttsoutlewis @aleatorio1234 @chaosandevelyn @blueberry648579 @dog-and-cat-person230 @fastandcurious16 @obxstiles @cosmicwintr @becca388510 @savagittariuspy

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula1 #formula one #astonmartinii

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