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Summary ā If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?
Content ā angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?
Navigation ā Part 07 | Part 08 | Part 09
IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).
āouhh, this is cute.ā you grab a white, linen midi dress hanging on the clothing rack. staring up and down of the design on the dress. its flowy and stops at your shin. you held the dress on your body, watching how good it would look. āi could wear this to topperās boat party.ā
āput that shit down.ā rafe lazily comments from behind you. eyes not leaving his phone. you turn around, pouting. āyoure not even looking at it!ā
your face scrunched up in a frown. ācāmon, ray, this is pretty. white is my color, it makes me look classy.ā
rafe turns his phone off, sliding it into his pocket. he closed the distance between you until hes completely towering you.
he reaches out, pinching the fabric between his thick fingers, looking at it with disgust. it was boring and completely swallowing your body shape.
āsince when do you get so boring?ā he spoke up. your face falters. looking back at the white dress youre holding. a faint blush covering your face in embarrassment.
ālast summer you wore a bikini top to a bonfire. now youre trying to dress like.. this. if you dont want to show off, fine. but i know your real style.ā he guilt trips was right. you immediately panic. thinking youre losing your 'cool' girl image on his eyes.
āyou think it looks bad?ā you put the white midi dress back into the rack.
āit looks cheap.ā he lies answered smoothly.
āyou wanna be the girl everyone stares at, right? try this one on.ā he grabs a white ribbed mini dress instead. its.. very tight, scoops low on the chest, and the hemline ends on your inner thigh.
you paused. āray, thats.. way too short. if i bend over, everyoneās gonna see everything.ā you look at the dress, not sure. your face flushes hot.
rafe stares at you, gaze slowly getting dark. he smirks possessively. he leans his head down to your ear. dropping his ābestfriendā act. āthen dont bend over unless im standinā right behind you.ā
you gasp, brows furrowing. well, its not unusual for your bestfriend to whisper you weird things. hes just like that! a little perverted but you love him.
āyoure so pervy.ā you roll your eyes and giggling. he steps back, handing you the dress. āgo try it on.ā he orders lazily. you grab the dress and step inside to a massive, private fitting room.
once you put the dress on, you stare at yourself in the mirror. turning around to see how it looks from the back. it looks so short and tight. almost suffocating your body. you cant help but to admit you indeed look sexy in this. glad youre bestfriends with rafe, he always picks out the best for you!
and not long, rafe enters the fitting room with you there. you ask nervously, ādoes this look good?ā you show him the front and then turning around.
rafe doesnt say anything. he physically cannot speak. his eyes goes hungry, tracking from your collarbone, down to the swell of your tits in a cleavage, then to the dip of your waist and hip, finally to how barely it covers your plush thighs and ass. you look innocent in white, yet so disrespectful.
āits fuckinā perfect.ā he compliments. theres something about rafe that makes you feel.. weird. everytime he conpliments you or stares at you, you always feel shy. maybe its because hes just intense like that.
āthanks! but im not sureāā
ākeep it. you look pretty.ā pretty, he said. there it was. mostly, guys and your stupid exes call you āhot, sexy, fineā. never āpretty and beautifulā. its weird ācause.. considering of how pervy you know your bestfriend is. but hes got a kind heart.
you stare up at rafe with a smile, heart fluttering. āaw, rafe. you always find a way to make me feel so entirely seen.ā
rafeās smile didnt reach his eyes, it stayed sharp and hungry as he dropped his gaze back to the short dress. he felt a dark thrill. feeling like he was the only guy who actually gets you and treats you right.
you take a shaky breath, fingers digging at the hem of the dress to pull it over your head, āuhm, okay. ill pick this one. just go wait outside so i can change back into my clothes.ā
rafe doesnt even move towards the door. he reached over to the small hook on the wall and grabs the black micro string bikini. he brought it here before she even enters the fitting room. what the?
ātry this one first.ā he stares back at her. āfits your style, no?ā
you stared at the bikini he held in his hand, eyes going wide. āi have to take my bra off to put that on. get out, ray.ā you command softly.
rafe lazily looks down at you. tilting his head and brows furrowing in confusion. ājust put it on.ā
āim about to take my clothes off..?ā you hiss, cheeks burning.
rafe sighs in exhaustion, āyāknow, if youre that insecure about your body right now, we can put it back. thought it would look good on you, but if youre going to be weird ābout it.. whatever.ā classic rafe, hes always dramatic!
before he could left, you let out a gasp. āim not insecure!ā you argued gently, a small smile coming out. you take the bikini from his hand. āfine, ill put it on. but i want you to turn around. or, look at your phone, whatever.ā well you know rafeās definitely hooked up with a lot of girls and see them naked but still, hes your bestfriend. your rafe. you feel shy undressing under his gaze.
you take the white dress off over your head. leaving only in the pink lacy panties and bra. obviously youre not taking your panties off whenever youre trying bikinis on.
your fingers moved behind you, unclasping the bra. and just then, you quickly grab the tiny black triangle top to cover your tits.
you dont know the fitting room has three-way mirrors on every single wall. youre too busy putting the bikini on, not realizing rafe wasnt staring at his screen. he stares right at you. eyes taking in your soft skin, curve of your waist, and the way your thighs press against each other. pink undies? how cute. makes him want to ruin you.
he noticed how your fingers fumbled against the bikini string. your face confused.
āray, i cant get the knot.ā you admit, looking back at him.
he shoved his phone back into his pocket, walking closer to you. ādrop your hands, ill do it.ā he closed the distance, tall frame towering over you.
he reached his thick fingers to the nape of her neck. blood rushing violently on his head (and dick) that he actually feels dizzy. he takes the bikini strings and tying it slowly. he could see your tits from up here.
the air felt so thick. dont know maybe from how tense you were or the fact that his dick is throbbing. hes thinking about groping your tits from behind, and bending you over in here. he would cover your mouth to keep your moans quiet and muffled from making the staff suspicious. bet youād get so cockdrunk. he jerked off at the thought of you for a lot of times before.
then, he brings the second set of strings down to her back. he pulls them really tight.
you squirm, ārafe, wait, thats too tigāā a gasp left your mouth, from how warm his broad body is, pressing against yours.
āif its loose, youre gonna spill right outta it. wouldnt want any other guys oglinā at you, hm?ā he tied the knot on your back carefully. his bruised knuckles from whatever fight he gotābrushing softly into your bare back on purpose. once hes done, he pats your right hip. āthere. told you itād fit you.ā
you stare at your reflection in the mirror infront. suddenly realizing how big his frame is swallowing you from behind. your gaze tracks down to your bodyāfrom your pink panties to the micro bikini top, but then directed at rafe.
he stares back from the mirror. making a long eye contact seconds after seconds. he leans down, his chin pressing against your bare shoulder. you dont even realize both of his hands are gripping the sides of your waist, not tightlyābut firm enough.
āyoure wearing this under the white dress tomorrow,ā rafe dictates, tone flat. his eyes bored, but then dropped to your body again. smirking secretly. he lifts his chin off your shoulder.
āand when other guys say you look so good, youre gonna tell āem i picked it out for you. understood?ā his big hand grabbed your chin, making you look and turning up at him.
he loves making you his doll. putting his name on your aesthetic and demanding you to brag about it to the rest of the island.
overwhelmed, flustered, and so obedient.
your lips part slightly. you give a tiny nod as you stare up at him.
āput your clothes back on. im paying for everything weve picked out.ā
ā do not copy/repost my work or use my idea to ai. likes nd reblogs are appreciated! dividers by @/cursed-camine.
plot: *takes place in season 4 of obx* rafe is your ex and you haven't really spoke in a few months and the wound is still fresh. when rafe decides to come along and help the pogues in morroco, your relationship rekindles and you realize your feelings for him never changed.
trying out a new font lol
the heat in morocco is heavy, but the tension between you and rafe is heavier.
itās been months since you guys called it quits, right before everything went completely off the rails and he somehow ended up on the same side as the pogues.
you didnāt expect to see him here, let alone be crammed into the back of a sketchy transit van sharing joint with him while jj and john b argue about a map upfront.
"you look hot," rafe says softly, his voice cutting through the noise of the engine.
you glance over, eyebrow raised. "like-like attractive or like i'm sweating to death?"
a small, familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. the kind that used to make your heart skip. "both. but mostly the second one."
"hilarious, cameron," you mutter, but you can't help the tiny smile that tugs at your own mouth.
itās supposed to be fine. you both agreed before the flight that whatever happened back in the cut and figure eight stayed there. youāre here for the treasure, he's here for whatever redemption arc heās trying to pull off, and you're supposed to be just friends. or at least, civil exes.
but then the van takes a sharp turn down a dirt road, throwing you sideways. rafeās arm shoots out instinctively, catching your shoulder to steady you before you hit the door. his hand lingers for a second too long, his thumb brushing against your collarbone. his skin is warm, and the sudden contact sends a jolt straight down your spine.
you look up, meeting his blue eyes. the easygoing smirk is gone, replaced by that intense, heavy stare that always used to make you forget what you were saying.
"you good?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave.
"yeah," you breath out, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is. "i'm good. thanks."
he doesn't move his hand right away. his eyes dip to your lips for a fraction of a second before he pulls back, clearing his throat and looking out the dusty window.
"just don't need you breaking an arm," he mutters, though his tone lacks any real bite. "your brother would blame me.
the mention of jj sours the air instantly. itās the reminder of the massive, jagged line drawn between your past and your present. jj's hatred for rafe isn't just pogues versus kooks anymore.
itās deeply personal, a volatile mix of old figure eight grudges and the fact that rafe represents everything that's ever hurt your family. jj looks at rafe and sees the guy who nearly drowned his best friend, the guy who walked around with unearned immunity while the rest of you bled for every inch of survival.
"he's right to blame you," you say softly, the words hanging between you in the stifling heat of the van. you don't pull away, though. instead, you let your gaze drop to his hand, which is still resting just an inch from your knee on the worn vinyl seat.
"he's trying to protect me, rafe. you can't exactly blame him for not trusting you after everything."
the weight of 'everything' sits heavy in the small space between you. itās the history jj can't look past, but for you, the pain is entirely different. you had loved him so deeply, more than you had ever loved anyone, and when you were alone, he treated you like you were his entire world, doing absolutely everything for you.
however, you couldn't block out the reality of what happened whenever he stepped outside your door. even while he was holding you close, he was turning around and hurting the people you considered family, constantly putting your friends in danger.
you were trapped in a brutal cycle of loving a guy who would give you the world, but would ruthlessly destroy theirs. in the end, you couldn't live with the guilt of choosing your happiness over your friends' survival, and you had to walk away from the only boy you ever truly wanted, breaking both of your hearts in the process.
"i know what i did," he says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that barely carries over the rattling engine. "but i'm here now. i'm helping you guys. i'm helping you."
"are you?" your breath catches as his eyes lock onto yours, heavy and searching. the space between you feels microscopic, charged with months of unspoken texts, angry breakups, and the lingering heat of how things used to be before the world fell apart. "or are you just running away from the obx?"
"i'm not running," rafe says, his gaze dropping down to your mouth, holding it there long enough to make your pulse hammer against your ribs. the tension is thick, suffocating, a dangerous reminder of how easily you two always collided.
his hand moves, his fingers brushing the fabric of your shorts as he shifts even closer. "if i wanted to run, i wouldn't have come to the one place where everyone hates my guts. think about it." up front, jj barks out a laugh at something john b says, the sound loud and abrasive, shattering the quiet bubble you and rafe are trapped in.
you blinks, the spell breaking just enough for him to pull back a fraction, though his eyes remain dark and fixed on you. "just-don't do anything stupid out there," you mutters, your voice strained as he looks out the window.
he swallows hard, his jaw tight as he processes your words. for a second, it looks like he wants to argue, to give you one of those defensive, reckless excuses he used to use back in the outer banks. but instead, he just lets out a slow, heavy breath, looking away from you and staring out at the blurred horizon of the moroccan desert.
"i'm not trying to make things harder for you," he says quietly, his voice completely stripped of the usual cameron bravado. "i know i messed up with your friends, with you. but iām trying to fix it. for you"
you look down at your hands, your fingers tightly laced together in your lap to keep them from shaking. the proximity of him, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the dusty heat of the van, is making it impossible to think straight.
"you can't fix everything in one trip, rafe," you murmur, your voice barely audible over the hum of the tires on the dirt road. "and you can't expect me to just forget."
"i don't expect you to forget. i just- i need you to know that losing you was the worst thing that ever happened to me. and being near you right now, pretending like we're just strangers sharing a ride, is tearing me apart."
the honesty in his voice hits you like a physical wave. itās the exact tone he used when it was just the two of you, away from the chaos of his family and the loyalty to your friends. it's the rafe you fell in love with, the one you had to leave behind.
you swallow hard, trying to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. "rafe, don't. don't do this here."
"i'm serious," he presses on, leaning a fraction closer, his warmth radiating across the small gap between you. "every time i see you look at me with that look in your eyes, like you're waiting for me to screw up again, it kills me. i did everything for you. you know that."
"but you also hurt the people i love," you whisper back, the reminder sharp and painful. "you can't separate the two, rafe. you can't be everything to me and a nightmare to them. i couldn't keep carrying that guilt."
his gaze drops to your lips for the third time, the silence between you suddenly loud and suffocating. the air in the van is hot, but the pull between you is an electric current, dragging you both backward into memories of late nights, quiet promises, and a love that was too heavy to survive.
"alright, we're here!" john bās voice suddenly booms from the front, the abrupt sound shattering the heavy quiet in the back.
the van brakes hard, sending you forward slightly, but this time rafe doesn't reach out. he just holds your gaze for one last, agonizing second before the side door is thrown open by jj, letting the harsh moroccan sunlight pour into the cramped space.
jjās eyes immediately dart between the two of you, his brow furrowing as he takes in the lingering tension. he holds out a hand to help you down, his posture rigid. "come on," he mutters, shooting a brief, cold look at rafe before guiding you away from the van.
the moroccan heat hits you the second your boots touch the dusty ground. the group clusters near the back of the vehicle, huddled around a worn map spread out on the hood. john b, jj, pope, and kiara are in deep conversation of how to follow the clues to find the blue crown.
the group moves further into the market, the crowded streets forcing everyone to walk in pairs. john b and jj lead the way, while sarah deliberately slows her pace to walk side-by-side with rafe.
"you're staring," sarah says quietly, her eyes scanning the colorful stalls but her attention completely on her brother.
rafe tears his gaze away from your back, looking down at his sister. "i'm not staring."
"rafe, you're practically burning a hole through her," sarah replies, a soft, teasing smile on her face. it's a massive change from how things used to be between them; the sharp edges of their past have finally started to blur into real, mutual support. she shifts her map to her other hand. "she still loves you, you know. she just-she carries a lot of jj's weight."
rafe sighs, running a hand through his hair. "i know. she's his sister, sarah. every time he looks at me like he wants to kill me, i can see it tearing her apart. i hate that i put her in the middle of that."
"so show her you're different now," sarah says gently, bumping her shoulder against his. "you're doing it with me. you can do it with her too."
rafe looks ahead at you again. the crowd suddenly surges as a vendor moves a large display, and you're pushed slightly off balance. before jj can even turn around, rafe steps forward instinctively, his hand catching your elbow to steady you.
"i got you," he murmurs, his grip warm and solid.
you look up, your eyes meeting his blue ones, and the familiar spark between you two flares up instantly. his hands instantly find your waist to steady you, his touch firm and certain amidst the chaos. you don't pull away. instead, you let your hand rest against his forearm for a lingering moment. "thanks, rafe."
jj turns around then, his eyes immediately dropping to rafe's hand on your arm. his jaw clenches, but before he can snap, sarah steps in smoothly, grabbing jj's attention with a question about the map.
"you okay?" he asks, his voice low, his head tilting down so his breath brushes your forehead.
"yeah," you whisper, looking up into his eyes. the harsh moroccan sun catches the blue in them, but the look he's giving you is soft, entirely stripped of the anger that used to define him. "i'm okay."
up ahead, sarah notices the shift. she catches your eye over jjās shoulder and gives you a small, encouraging nod before deliberately asking jj another loud question about the map, keeping his back turned to give you both space.
rafe doesn't let go of your waist, and you don't move your hands from his chest. the noise of the market seems to dull into background hum, the heavy guilt and the painful memories of the outer banks finally starting to give way to the simple, undeniable pull that has always existed between you.
the crowd swells again, a sudden rush of people separating the two of you from the rest of the group. rafe takes your hand, his grip firm and reassuring, and gently guides you down a quieter, shaded alleyway to get out of the main path. the noise of the market fades, replaced by the quiet rustle of tapestries hanging from stone walls.
you stop against the cool stone, catching your breath. rafe stands close, blocking out the rest of the world, his eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes your heart race.
"we lost them," you breathe out, looking back toward the busy street.
"sarah knows what she's doing. she'll keep jj busy," rafe says, stepping a fraction closer. the shade of the alley does nothing to cool the sudden heat flare between you. "i'm glad we're alone. i feel like i haven't been able to actually talk to you without feeling like a target."
"it's hard, rafe," you say, looking down at his shirt before meeting his gaze again. "being near you... it brings back everything. the good things, but also how much it hurt to leave."
"i know i put you through hell," he murmurs, his voice cracking slightly. he reaches up, his fingers gently brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his touch so tender it makes your eyes sting. "but i swear to you, i'm trying to be the guy you always deserved. i haven't stopped thinking about you. not for one second."
the honesty in his voice cracks the last of your restraint. the tension that has been building since you first sat next to him in the van completely takes over, thick and heavy with months of unspent longing.
"i never stopped thinking about you either," you admit softly.
rafeās breath hitches. his gaze drops down to your lips, and this time, he doesn't pull back. he leans down, closing the remaining distance between you, and presses his lips to yours.
the kiss is slow at first, full of all the unspoken words and built-up ache of your time apart, but it quickly deepens as his hands move to cup your face. it feels exactly like coming home, the chaos of the treasure hunt and the complicated family ties melting away into the quiet alleyway, leaving just the two of you finally finding your way back.
the kiss shifts, the slow hesitation completely melting away as rafe pulls you flush against him. his hands slide from your face down to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold you close, while your hands grip the fabric of his shirt. the sheer weight of the months you spent apart pours into the space between you, making the moment feel desperate and electric.
he presses you slightly back against the cool stone wall of the alley, his lips moving against yours with a fierce, possessive intensity that completely blocks out the rest of the world. itās heavy, breathless, and packed with all the tension that had been building since you first looked at him in the back of the van. you can feel the slight tremble in his touch, a silent admission of how much heās missed you, and you pull him even closer, letting go of the past entirely.
when he finally pulls back a fraction, his forehead rests against yours, both of your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps. his thumb gently traces your lower lip, his blue eyes dark and completely blown out as he looks down at you.
"i'm not letting you go this time," he whispers, his voice rough and certain in the quiet shade. "i don't care what it takes."
the sound of rapid footsteps echoing down the stone alleyway shatters the quiet, and you both jump apart just as the pogues round the corner.
within seconds, you're completely surrounded. jj steps out in front, his face flushed from the heat and his jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle ticking. john b, pope, and kiara form a tense semi-circle behind him, while sarah lingers slightly to the side, looking between you and rafe with wide, knowing eyes.
jj ignores rafe entirely at first, stepping directly into your space. his blue eyes scan your face, searching for any sign that you're hurt or in trouble. "where the hell did you go?" he asks, his voice low but vibrating with protective anger. "we turned around and you were just gone. i told you to stay right behind me."
you try to focus on your brother, to listen to his voice, but your gaze instinctively drifts past his shoulder.
standing just a few feet away, rafe is leaning casually against the stone wall, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. he isn't even trying to look innocent. instead, his eyes are fixed entirely on you, and a slow, smug grin is spreading across his face.
"i'm fine, jj," you say softly, your voice still a little breathless, though your eyes never leave rafe's. "the crowd just pushed us back."
jj glances between you and rafe, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the flushed, happy look on your face and the unmistakable grin on rafe's. he lets out a sharp breath, clearly not buying the story, but the urgent shouting of merchants down the main street cuts off whatever he's about to say.
"we need to move," john b says, stepping between jj and rafe, his hand on jj's shoulder to pull him back. "the guys we're looking for are heading toward the square. we don't have time for this right now."
as you're led out of the alley, you look back over your shoulder one last time. rafe is falling into step right behind you, his hands in his pockets, his grin softening into something more genuine as his eyes lock onto yours. the secrets, the danger, and your brother's anger are still waiting, but as you walk out into the crowded heat, the heavy weight in your chest is finally gone.
Summary ā If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?
Content ā angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?
Navigation ā Part 06 | Part 07 | Part 08
IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Qualityā Free Actions
Free to watch ā¢ No registration required ā¢ HD streaming
ex! oscar piastri x yn! singer x jude bellingham | request ā here |
| oscar masterlist | jude masterlist |
"But it don't matter how your love feels anymore, It will never be the cure" where the public hears 'the cure' and they can't help but wonder what happened to the "happy" couple, all while a relationship has been blooming behind closed doors...
note ā (manips by me!!) i took this request and RAN with it, this is pretty long and full of drama and some messy timelines but i hope you enjoy !! likes, reblog's and comments are really appreciated ā¤
Liked by user1, user2 and 152,383 others
tmz Y/n L/n performed a unreleased song called "the cure" during a surprise set at Coachella.
L/n saying "This next song is a new one. It's about being in a relationship that is quote-unquote happy and having these thoughts of 'Why do I feel so depressed? Why canāt I feel how I think itās supposed to feel in my head?' After I had that conversation with myself, I went and wrote 'the cure' which is this song, I hope you enjoy". L/n gave no hint as to when the song will be released.
In the song, L/n talks of loneliness and intrusive thoughts while reflecting on a relationship she initially viewed as an "antidote". L/n has been in a relationship with McLaren Formula One driver Oscar Piastri for 2 years now, their relationship status is unknown at this time.
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user1 oof love can't fix everything honey šš
user2 it has been a minute since they've been seen together
user3 uhhhh did they break up????
->user4 people have been saying it for awhile now
->user5 there has been speculation for like 6 months tbh
user6 the feeling of love not being able to fix you when you thought it would... damn
user7 wait she's just like me fr š¬
user8 that 2 years is probably not accurate if she has a whole break up song written and about to start a album rollout
user9 it feels like a break up song but also not idk why
->user10 feels more like coming to terms with learning love can't fix everything
user11 "i hope you enjoy" and it's one of the most heartbreaking songs she's written
user12 omg if this is a single then her album is going to HURT
enews How Y/n L/n and Oscar Piastri kept their break up under wraps for half a year after 2 years- scratch that a year and a half of dating...
While the two kept up appearances by liking each otherās posts and mentioning each other to a certain extent, for 6 months the pair werenāt dating according to their respective teams.
The shock of the split seemed to only be from the fans. The former couple appeared to have been dealing with a nagging ex from Piastriās side for a while and it looked to have gotten under the skin of L/n, the McLaren driver is rumored to have continuing to talk to his ex despite the disapproval from his girlfriend at the time.
Itās unclear why the two have officially split but it shouldnāt be a shock when Y/n L/n makes it clear sheās not on the lookout for someone new, as sheās already been getting very familiar with a known English manā¦. š
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user1 SAY IT AIN'T SO
user2 he was still talking to his ex.... ain't no way
user3 i donāt get the point of publicly being togetherā¦?
->user4 i think it was less ābeing togetherā and more not making their break up SO obvious
->user5 but they DID break up so why hide it
->user6 itās not āhiding itā itās them not needing to tell the world about it on socials because sheās not some random influencerā¦.
user7 "scratch that" y'all are so messy man
user8 i feel like the public mention of each other actually did help with the rumors of a break up
->user9 it 100% did, people would speculate and then a few days later oscar would like a post about her or someone in his family would
->user10 and people assumed they were obviously still together then
->user11 honestly it was usually oscar... so maybe they broke up and he just missed her š
->user12 she mentioned him like ONCE in the past 6 months while he's talked about her quite a bit so i think the ex thing is probably true
user13 wait im kinda sick
user14 why are we ignoring that last part....
->user15 it has to be jude bellingham
->user16 he's been in her likes for a little bit now and she's been in his
user17 he didn't seem that committed to her i fear
Liked by judebellingham, chappellroan and 3,937,815 others
yourusername THE CURE SONG AND VIDEO IS OFFICIALLY OUT NOW!!!!! this song means so much to me and Iām so so so happy that itās out in the world! hope you enjoy this imaginative music video that I adore xoxoxox ā¤ļøā¤ļøā¤ļøā¤ļø
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user1 the way you casually dropped the song of the decade
judebellingham perfect liked by yourusername !
->user2 IN EVERY WAY
->user3 feeling envious...
->user4 the bare minimum but still cute
user5 šā¤ļøItās amazing
user6 alreadyĀ #1Ā on my On Repeat playlist
chappellroan you are everything
->yourusername ily <3 liked by yourusername !
->user7 MY FAVSSS
Liked by judebellingham, chappellroan and 6,318,362 others
yourusername my third album āyou seem pretty sad for a girl so in loveā is out June 12th. I am so proud of this record and I canāt wait for you to hear it. available for preorder now!
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user1 this album cover is everything
judebellingham "so american" my favorite
->yourusername mhmm is that the only one?
->judebellingham plus "stupid song" and "drop dead"
->yourusername whoa i wouldn't have guessed....
->user2 uhhh are we getting jude LOVE SONGS!?!????
->user3 i mean it's been about a year of them together user2 so....
user4 screaming and i will be streaming
user5 counting down the days
vinijr expectations will be my favorite liked by yourusername !
->user6 ?!???? š
->judebellingham you'll like it
->user7 ugh he got to hear the album before me... it's not fair
user8 Oh my goodness yay
user9 lives were changed
conangray i am screaming at my phone liked by yourusername !
user10 nature is healing
user11 okay so if the cure is right there... does that mean it's pretty sad for a girl so in love and then the end is kinda "so in love" !????
->user12 wait why the end be so in love??
->user13 jude saying those three are his favorite š
->user14 the so american makes me that that!!
irisapatow š so fkn excited liked by yourusername !
user15 cigarette smoke???
->user16 i feel like it might be rhetorical
->user17 like instead of it literally being cigarette smoke itās the feeling of an ex lingering
->user18 your mind... user17
Liked by yourusername, vinijr and 7,682,564 others
judebellingham lifeās been pretty good recently
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user1 omg this dress is so so so good y/n
yourusername š¼š¤
->judebellingham šš
->user2 parents <3
->user3 her first time being hard launched im- ššš
user4 oh this is so important guys....
user5 mother is GLOWINGGG
jobebellingham wonder who took that 5th picture.....?
->judebellingham 5th šø credit jobebellingham
->yourusername thank u jobebellingham
->jobebellingham your welcome y/n!
->user6 such a annoyed filled reply jude ā
->user7 pls these cuties
user8 he's in loveeeee
user9 i'd also post y/n as much as i could
vinijr š
->judebellingham š
->user10 PLEASEEEE I LOVE THEM
->user11 jude is so over it š
YnLnUpdates Excerpts from a recent Y/n L/n interview!
"Some of the songs in the beginning were written and at the time I thought āwow a love song, I've written so many songs about an array of emotions and now romantic love is apart of thatā and then when I showed them to my producer heās was like ādamn you seem pretty said for someone whoās supposedly writing love songsā and it made me take a step back and really think about the feelings that I was writing about.ā
āI obviously did end up writing ālove songsā because despite problems that were happening there was still love. I was so scared of the possibility of getting heartbroken and in some songs thatās noticeable but after my first real breakup as an adult it made me appreciate that relationship and love that was there at some point.ā
"The album is in chronological order. It goes from being in love to the cracks in the relationship showing to the breakup and so on. Though at one point it was going to be 'expectations' and then 'cigarette smoke' was going to be the end of the album but things changed."
āWell I'm really happy, like, itās hard to really put into words. When you arenāt looking for love it has a funny way of making you feel like you found something that you didnāt know was missing.ā
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user1 her producer being the reason for the album name so funny š
user2 to think we wouldn't have gotten drop dead...
->user3 hate to thank a man for something a woman made but..
->user4 thank you jude bellingham for being beautiful
user5 so a lot of the love songs about oscar are going to be sad #alright
user6 god after hearing her interviews from last year the difference in how happy she is now is so obvious
user7 see how easy it is to not be a loser when it comes to your ex oscarpiastri
user8 the chronological aspect of the album is going to hurt i just know it
user9 i do appreciate her talking about how she was in love with oscar
->user9 she could just not acknowledge it and only talk about the break up and falling in love again
->user10 i was wondering if she was going to talk about her past relationship since she's in a new one it might've been weird, so her talking about it is really nice :)
->user11 also love that she can talk about it in a positive light!!
user12 feeling sad because she seems so content with the the break up and oscar is still being weird :/
user13 she's so in loveeee now im so happy for her <3
F1Gossip Oscar Piastri when asked about Y/n L/n in a recent interview...
"She's amazing, I wish her nothing but the best."
Piastri and L/n were in a relationship for a year and a half prior to their split. L/n is now in a relationship with English football player Jude Bellingham.
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user1 im sad again
user2 if you watch the video he actually seemed genuine
->user3 yeah i think he knows it's 100% over :/
->user4 sounded sad but also like he accepted it
user5 we all heard begged, this isn't going to work on me
user6 oh so he listened to the album too
user7 i mean he's in a relationship with the girl he was still talking to with y/n so i'd hope he's moved on since he did when they were together
->user8 LIKE!?!?? i love him but it would just be better for him to just distance himself from her since she's moved on
->user9 and she's also talked not "highly" but she hasn't trashed him so he should probably just let her be
user10 i fear this is just the result of just two people's relationship not working out... nothing more they obviously have respect for each other
Summary ā If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?
Content ā angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?
Navigation ā Part 05 | Part 06 | Part 07
IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).
Summary ā If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?
Content ā angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?
Navigation ā Part 04 | Part 05 | Part 06
IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).
rafe gets jealous when he sees you with another guy :<
a/n :: abandoned fic from march again.. hope you enjoy reading this ! english is not my first language.
c/w :: nothing??? just arguing
divider cr :: @uzmacchiato <3
you could feel him staring, of course he was. you broke up with him 2 weeks ago, because jealousy got the best of you. you just couldnāt stand seeing sofia clearly flirting with rafe and him just standing there allowing her. he tried to deny it but you already made your choice and dumped him.
so here you were, at a bar with some random dude talking about his boring job. you werenāt even paying attention to him, just smiled and looked at him with doe eyes to make it seem like you cared. rafe on the other hand, was sitting on a couch with his buddies with a beer in his hand not so far from where you were standing. when your eyes met his, you saw the way his jaw clenched and his eyes darkened as he looked at the guy. you wicked at him before wrapping your hand around the guyās biceps and laughed unnecessarily loud at some notsofunny joke he made. thatās when rafe stood up and made his way to you. he just grabbed your arm, didnāt even let you say goodbye to the guy before yanking you to the exit. you raised your voice, āwhat do you think you are doing?ā āi was about to ask the same question.ā you scoffed, āwell i was having a talk with a really nice guy before you rudely interrupted us !ā he leaned in smirking, ācāmon , you know he canāt give you what you wantā you tried to escape his grip but that only made him hold you tighter. you could smell his cologne that drove you fucking crazy and feel his hot breath against your ear. āwe both know that only i can make you see starsā he whispered. that made you close your eyes shut and you almost gave in, but you remembered how he immediately went to stay at sofiaās when you broke up with him. you pushed him at the chest, āwe are over rafe. and besides,no need to act childish cause itās your fault that we are not together anymore.ā rafe didnāt say anything as he stumbled back, his gaze locked on you while you stormed back to the bar to get your things and leave.
Summary ā If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?
Content ā angst, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to... divorce?
Navigation ā Part 03 | Part 04 | Part 05
IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Y/N swears theyāre just friends. Oscar strongly disagrees.
You confidently introduce Oscar to people as āmy best friend.ā Oscar hears this and just raises an eyebrow every single time.
Because from his perspectiveā¦ best friends donāt: hold hands without thinking, fall asleep on each other during flights, steal each otherās hoodies, text goodnight every single night.
The first time someone asks if youāre dating, you laugh and go, āOh no, weāre just friends.ā
Oscar, standing right next to you, quietly says: āThatāsā¦ not how Iād describe it.ā You stare at him like what are you doing???
He doesnāt push it aggressively. Oscarās style is more quiet certainty.
Like when people ask about you, heāll casually say things like: āYeah, sheās my person.ā
You, meanwhile, are completely oblivious.
When you cuddle during movie nights, you think itās normal because youāve always been close.
Oscar is just lying there like: this is literally my girlfriend. She just doesnāt know it yet.
If someone flirts with you, Oscar suddenly becomes very attentive. Arm around your shoulders. Standing a little closer.
You: āWhy are you acting weird?ā Him: āIām not.ā
The grid starts noticing before you do. One of the drivers asks Oscar, āSo are you two together or not?ā
Oscar shrugs and goes: āWe are.ā āShe just hasnāt realized it yet.ā
The moment that really breaks your brain is when someone refers to you as Oscarās girlfriend. You immediately correct them. āNo no, weāre just friends.ā
Oscar, completely calm: āYou slept on my chest for six hours yesterday.ā
You: āThatās normal.ā Him: āā¦is it?ā
Eventually someone asks the two of you directly: āSo what exactly is going on between you two?ā
You open your mouth to say friends again. Oscar cuts in before you can: āWeāre in love.ā You choke on your drink.
Later you corner him like: āYou canāt just say that!ā Oscar shrugs, very calm. āWhy not? Itās true.ā
And the worst part? The more you think about itā¦ the more you start realizing he might actually be right.
synopsis: y/n l/n is an upcoming model, with immense potential to become the next it girl, so when rumours begin to circulate that she is dating oscar piastri, the shy and slightly awkward f1 driver, people struggle to believe them - could he really bag a baddie?
fc: from pinterest (including nailea devora)
warnings: some mean comments
note: living vicariously through this btw i love a lil awkward man š my reqs r also open as well if anyone wants to request a specific fic or smau!
INSTAGRAM
yn.ln
liked by user1 and 742,932 others
yn.ln living the dream.
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user1 ugh you're perfect
ynlovers2 you're THAT girl | liked by yn.ln
-> yn.ln š
-> user7 my biggest crush tbh!
user3 so excited for your next shoot
-> user4 ik im dying to see the pics š«
user5 who is your makeup artist please i need a tutorial so bad
ynupdates The people's princess
oscarpiastri
liked by piastrinews and 562,342 others
oscarpiastri Took some days off
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user1 osc in his aesthetic era
user3 oh what a cute pict- IS THAT Y/N
-> user6 the way this was literally my reaction
-> user5 WAIT ??? HOLD UP
-> user8 this is either the craziest reach on earth or ur a genius
piastrinews Soft launch?? šš
-> user3 i need more info desperately pls provide
-> user4 fr
user7 everyone is delusional that literally can't be y/n
-> user11 that's what im sayinggg
-> user8 i wouldn't put them tg at all ngl
piastrinews
liked by ynupdates and 984,674 others
piastrinews Fans are divided, with some speculating that the mystery woman is Y/n L/n, while others deny it completely. Oscar's recent post also points to there being a woman in his life. Who do you all think she is? š
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user2 okay who actually cares though, let him live
-> user6 fr! these accounts are so weird
-> user3 everyone needs to get a grip immediately
user10 guys let's be realistic, could oscar actually pull y/n???
-> user8 i love oscar but it's so hard to believe šš
-> user6 girl please oscar is so handsome don't pmo
-> user11 @/user6 EXACTLYYY why are we pretending he isn't
user1 they would be so cute together
user9 bye idk if i want to be her or be with her
user5 y/n should lowkey date me instead but whatever
PRIVATE TEXTS
INSTAGRAM
yn.ln
liked by yslbeauty and 873,992 others
yn.ln to new adventures, thank you YSL ā”
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yslbeauty welcome to the family š¤ | liked by yn.ln
user1 oh my god.
user6 this is the collab of dreams are u seriousss
ynupdates Our beautiful queen š®āšØ
ynlovers2 IM SO PROUD
-> yn.ln you're the sweetest
user3 where can i get that magazine ahhhhhh
user4 convinced no one could handle all that
-> user7 this is why all that oscar stuff is unserious & untrue
ynupdates
liked by yn.ln and 876,428 others
ynupdates Y/N WALKS FOR YSL! Y/n makes her debut as a YSL model with a stunning floor length dress, adorned with fur. You looked beautiful and we are so proud of you Y/n!
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user1 oh my gosh i nearly fainted when i saw her
yn.ln thank you for your support everyone!! š«¶
user3 wait.. isn't this runway in the same country oscar is visiting....
-> user4 world pause.
-> user5 girl no one wants to hear about oscar, it's not true.
-> user7 her joining ysl is proof enough that they aren't dating.
-> user8 @/user7 damn you guys r just haters to the max, they would look good together
user2 everyone needs to stop commenting about oscar and focus on y/n's achievement :/
user5 this is genuinely amazing wtf!!!
piastrinews
liked by ynlovers2 and 764,328 others
piastrinews It has been reported that Oscar attended a YSL event whilst on holiday, but this rumour has yet to be confirmed by him.
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user2 IM TELLING U HE IS WITH Y/N
-> user4 like this actually can't be a coincidence ppl are just jealous and bitter and don't want to accept it
-> user1 my y/n x oscar fantasy is coming to life
user6 i hate this account
user7 just feeding people's delusions š
-> user9 do people really believe he is dating one of those models pls
user8 admin when i catch u...
ynupdates No one has confirmed this is the same event that Y/n attended, there were multiple YSL events across many nights & she did not attend all of them.
-> user7 THANK YOU. everyone is getting ahead of themselves
-> user10 regardless of whether they're dating or not, these posts are weird. oscar is a grown man, he can attend whatever tf he pleases
-> user4 this is the only updates account i don't hate. u seem normal
PRIVATE TEXTS
INSTAGRAM
yn.ln
liked by ynupdates and 873,221 others
yn.ln behind the scenes š
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user2 hi so i want you
user3 i don't understand how your photo dumps are so beautiful
ynupdates Update: Y/n is still the best!
oscatbeeastri Gorgeous as always š | liked by yn.ln
-> user1 hmm.... y/n liked...
-> user3 i so hope this is oscar's second account
-> user6 @/user3 it could be or it could be a fan account š§
user10 dying to see more pics from the event!!
ynupdates
liked by ynlovers2 and 672,434 others
ynupdates A comment on Y/n's latest post has been sparking curiosity, could it be the secret account of F1 driver Oscar Piastri?
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user6 bro im crying he didn't even try to hide it
-> user3 i just know he couldn't help himself š
user1 yeah this counts as a hard launch
user7 how do we know this isn't just someone impersonating oscar? or a fan? use your heads
-> user4 damn u mad for absolutely no reason
piastrinews š interesting..
user5 right no. oscar could not bag a baddie and i'm sick of everyone pretending he could.
-> user9 this is rude asf delete your account
-> user11 oh u will look stupid when they announce it
-> user7 YUP finally someone said it!
PRIVATE TEXTS
INSTAGRAM
oscarpiastri
liked by yn.ln and 988,739 others
oscarpiastri Fyi, I did bag a baddie
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yn.ln š«šš«¶
-> user1 GIRL WTF and u didn't tell us š
-> user2 so it WAS oscar at your event
ynupdates So happy for you both!
user4 ohhh i know some people are mad. stay mad actually š
synopsis: y/n is a popular influencer who was invited on a brand trip to the miami gp. there, a particular driver catches her eye and she takes to her private account to fangirl a little, where he can't see... right?
pairing: oscar piastri x influencer!y/n
genre: crack & fluff - smau
fc: random pinterest baddies
note: hii first post! was lowkey fighting for my life formatting all of this and it came out super long but i hope you enjoy!! <3
INSTAGRAM
yn.ln
liked by f1 and 830,724 others
yn.ln i love u miami. thank u sm for having me š
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user1 you are gorgeous!
f1 Thanks for joining us! ā¤ļø | liked by yn.ln
user2 queen of the paddock i guess š
user3 literally wish i was you omg
user4 yn and lando in the same place????? my worlds are colliding
-> user5 ikr i was gagged ššš
-> user6 brb reading yn x f1 driver fanfics lol
-> user5 @/user6 real af drop the links
user6 <33
ynupdates
liked by user1 and 143,857 others
ynupdates Y/n spotted at the Miami GP! She posted, confirming she had been gifted the trip by Formula 1.
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user7 ahh this is such a crazy crossover
-> user2 i couldn't believe my eyes bro
-> user5 i hope she got to meet some of the drivers š¤
-> user2 @/user5 yearning to see their interactions or whatever
user3 this is the content we deserve
user8 they just invite her to anything these days what
-> user1 someone's mad she got the invite and they didn't
user9 drop the hair routine lowkey š
TWITTER
INSTAGRAM
ynupdates
liked by user2 and 342,826 others
ynupdates Y/n has created a new, private twitter account, which was made public briefly yesterday. We wonder what she's been posting š.
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user1 i just missed it ššš i wanna see what shes been posting
-> user3 ikk im so annoyed
user2 i saw someone on tiktok saying she was talking about an f1 driver
-> user3 omg no i have to know???
-> user5 wait i saw that too, i wonder which one tho š«
-> user6 you are actually feeding my delusions rn omg @/ynupdates pls confirm
-> ynupdates @/user6 While our account has not been accepted by Y/n yet, we do accept submissions from fans so if anyone is on the account, they can send us screenshots.
user4 so all of us are just sitting in her requests fr
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oscarpiastri
liked by yn.ln and 283,239 others
oscarpiastri Another race down. Thank you everyone! š§”
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user1 Amazing as always
user3 smashing it!!!
user4 the racing gods blessed you fr this time š„¹
-> user3 finallyyy he deserves it
yn.ln congrats!! š | liked by oscarpiastri
-> user6 ariana what are you doing here????
-> user7 HUH
-> user5 giggling to myself because im on her priv so this makes perfect sense
-> user2 this NEEDS to happen.
-> user3 oscar likeddddd š¤š¤
ynupdates
liked by user1 and 472,973 others
ynupdates It seems Y/n has a little crush on Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri š. She has made numerous tweets about him on her private account and even commented on his recent post! (Thank you to those who sent in screenshots).
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user3 THIS IS WHAT I HAVE BEEN MISSING???
user6 nooo whoever sent these is lowkey a snitch
-> user2 girl please y/n made that comment publicly š
user1 oscar liked her comment too ... new ship?? š¤
-> user2 this is actually my dream couple i can't even lie
user6 i don't know if i want to be him or be with him
yn.ln .... š
-> user4 GIRL ššš
-> user5 i love u but u are literally a public figure š it was going to be exposed eventually
-> user2 brb making edits of you and oscar...
-> ynupdates Sorry! I promise we love you!!!
user6 do not let any f1 fanpages hear this im scared
TWITTER
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yn.ln
liked by oscarpiastri and 782,933 others
yn.ln you ain't got no mrs, but you got a sports car.
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user3 THE CAPTION pls
-> user4 in the words of ms tate mcrae herself š
-> user1 her acting so nonchalant on the main is sending me lmfao
oscarpiastri I do have a sports car actually | liked by yn.ln
-> user8 WJEBJDUXKDWHSHDJS
-> user5 oh my god. im floored
-> user3 HELPPO WTFFF
-> user7 this is what the people wanna see!!!!!!! holy shit
summary: when your brotherās teammate, oscar, decides to rage bait him by hitting on you, it actually turns into something else entirely (or maybe that was his plan all along) but he may or may not (he definitely) fucks it up
face claim: ruby lyn & random pinterest baddies
authorās note: shoutout to my fav @piastreline for hyping me up while making this!!! hope it lives up to your expectations loool
ynnorris
ā” liked by lando, oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and others
ynnorris trench coat buttoned to the TOP
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piastreline and these ballerina ass slippers. whatās going on?
lando why are you so performative
ā¤· ynnorris why are you so bitchless
oscarpiastri cute cat šš»
ā¤· ynnorris thanks šš»
ā¤· lando delete this
oliviarodrigo only brit i like
ā¤· louispartridge_ ???
user67 im sensing oscar has a little crushā¦
ā¤· user5 how did you even reach that conclusion
ā¤· user67 trust me on this guys
ā¤· user14 youāre DELUSIONAL
oscarpiastri
ā” liked by lando, mclaren, ynnorris and others
oscarpiastri mega weekend š big thanks to the papaya team and a special someone who was there to support me today
view all comments
lando what. who?
ā¤· ynnorris why? scared someone will steal your boyfriend?
charles_leclerc great job son
ā¤· ynnorris why would you not censor j*b š
user67 waitā¦ yn was at the gp todayā¦
ā¤· user9 ohmygod be serious rn she was there for her brother
ā¤· user67 no HEAR ME OUT
ynnorris do you have a mirror in your pocket? because i can see myself in your pants
ā” liked by oscarpiastri
ā¤· lando ????????????????????
oscarpiastri
ā« Ā· you might be sleeping - jakob, clairo
ā” liked by oscarfan5, mclaren, ynnorris and others
oscarpiastri very much needed break
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mclaren recharging
lando is that my sister you PEDO
ā¤· oscarpiastri sheās a year younger than meā¦
ā¤· lando damn right PEDO
user8 ohmygod? aesthetically pleasing post? clairo? heās in DEEP
ynfan1 IS THAT YN IN SLIDE THREE HELLO???
ā¤· ynosctruther right like is this a soft launch???
ā¤· partypooper maybe theyāre just friends lol
oscarslefttoe iām shaking this is too couple coded
ynnorris these shorts donāt look good on youā¦ theyād look better on my bedroom floor looooool š«¦
ā¤· oscarpiastri fair
ā¤· lando WHAT THE FUCK
ā¤· norrisfan7 oh i just know the pr team hates her
ā¤· ynnorris THEY CANT STOP ME HEHE
user67 need them to kiss rn
ynnorris
ā” liked by oscarpiastri, iheartynosc, user67 and others
ynnorris guys chill im just doing charity work (teaching him how to dress)
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oscarpiastri i dress fine actually
ā¤· ynnorris no you donāt
ā¤· oscarpiastri no i donātā¦
user67 TEACHING HIM HOW TO DRESS IS GF BEHAVIOR SORRY
piastriluv the last slide ā¦ sheās leaning into him??? guys hello.
lando im blocking you both
ā¤· ynnorris love you too big bro
ynlover you two look like the couple that argues in ikea and then kiss in the parking lot
ā¤· ynnorris ā¦maybe
oscarfan89 they are either deeply in love or deeply unserious no inbetween
user14 oscar loves women who bully him confirmed
iloveop81 oscar blink twice if sheās holding you hostage in a thrift store
f1gossip
ā” liked by user19, ihateynnorris, oscarfumbleastri and others
f1gossip āGOD NOā? šš„
Oscar Piastri shuts rumors down hard when asked if he and Y/N Norris are dating and fans are LOSING it. In a new paddock interview, Piastri responded to a question about his rumored relationship with Y/N with a quick: āGod, noā¦ me and Y/N? No. I donāt see her like that at all.ā No clarification. No āweāre just close friendsā. Just straight rejection or was it?? Clips are going viral, with some fans calling his response cold, while others argue he was simply trying to shut down speculation. What do you think? Was this: A) just poor wording, B) a public rejection, or C) something heāll regret later?
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user81 bro couldāve said ANYTHING else
user7 imagine hearing the guy you like react like thatā¦ yikes
norrishearts šØšØ fumble of the century
oscarmidasstri that was unnecessarily harsh wtf
user2 did he just call her undateable?
user56 he didnāt mean it like that
ā¤· user65 then he shouldnāt have said it like that
iluvyn wtf? y/n is literally an angel
landonorizz i just know lando is going to bury him alive
user67 oh
ā¤· user99 itās so bad weāre even losing user67
unfollow oscarpiastri | cancel
ynnorris
ā« Ā· all i wanted - paramore
ā” liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux, 18lovers and others
ynnorris reconnecting with nature after whatever the frick that wasā¦
ynnorris has turned comments off on this post
f1gossip
ā” liked by ynosc4ever, user67, ilovecillianmurphysobad and others
f1gossip Wellā¦ that escalated quickly. š After THAT interview, Oscar Piastri and Y/N Norris were spotted meeting last night ā first seen talking quietly while walking, then caught kissing on the street shortly after. No statements have been made by either party yet, but weāre pretty sure actions speak louder than podcasts, interviews, and PR teams. Enemies to lovers?Miscommunication to makeout? What chapter are we in??? š«£š„
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user70 I WAS JUST RECOVERING FROM THE INTERVIEW WHAT
random3 i bet lando is somewhere punching a wall rn
ā¤· user67 heās quitting to start his very own matchmaking business actually
loveyn if he apologized like that iād forgive too tbf
user69 imagine going to make up and then that happens on the street im screaming
ynoscfan3 i love communication
ā¤· oscarsimpastri that wasnāt communication that was desperation in 4K
georgerussell63 fav romcom
user67 WE ARE SOOOOO BACK
ynnorris
ā« Ā· crush - ethel cain
ā” liked by oscarpiastri, lando, mothercain and others
ynnorris make upā¦ make outā¦ same thingā¦
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oscarpiastri i prefer the latter
ā¤· ynnorris who?
ā¤· oscarpiastri me
ā¤· ynnorris asked š¤£š¤£
lando FINALLY
ā¤· lando wait wrong acc
ā¤· user67 FINALLY
ethelcainlover22 ethelcainlover22
ā¤· ynnorris marry me
ā¤· oscarpiastri ?????
user7 he is down bad
papayagirl everybody act surprised
oscarfan8 yk oscar is a dog person.. are you gonna get a dog too?
ā¤· ynnorris my cat is like oh no no no weāre not getting a dog donāt even thing about it girl
oscar piastri has somehow become part of the leclerc family, justā¦ not for the reason everyone assumes.
pairing: oscar piastri x leclerc!fem reader
requested: yes!! hope this delivers
warnings: use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline for plot purposes, oscar piastri leclerc propaganda, mentions of alexandra and other members in charlesā family. also this is just for fun and obviously fiction, i'm not trying to reflect any person in real life ā¹3
a/n: helloooo i promise i didnāt die. iām slowly restarting requests <3 also brace yourselves because the next request i'm posting is pure angst...
MY MASTERLIST
oscarpiastri
Monaco
liked by ynleclerc and 424.325 others
oscarpiastri Another Monaco podium. On to Barca
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username1 i love you so much š„²
username2 so nice to see oscar with his dad on the podium
ynleclerc š ā¤ļø liked by the author
ā¤· username3 omg i didnāt know y/n and oscar were even friends
ā¤· username4 the leclercs fully adopted him this weekend i fear
username5 1681 podium we cheered!!!
username6 father and son celebrating on the podium together
f1 The Piastri-Leclerc genes are strong šŖ
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
ynleclerc
Monte-Carlo, Monaco
liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 193.264 others
ynleclerc weekends at home š¤
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username1 i missed you in the paddock pls donāt disappear again
alexandrasaintmleux ā¤ļøā¤ļøā¤ļøā¤ļø
ā¤· username2 the most gorgeous girls
ā¤· username3 i love their friendship
username4 my favorite leclerc, no competition ā¤ļø liked by the author
arthur_leclerc Where did you get the cap?
ā¤· ynleclerc some small brand
ā¤· arthur_leclerc That's my cap
ā¤· ynleclerc prove it
yourbff FORZA FERRARI
username5 i spot the same bracelet from charlesā post
ā¤· charles_leclerc She stole it
ā¤· ynleclerc borrowing isn't stealing
ā¤· charles_leclerc It's been 3 months
ā¤· username6 NOT THREE MONTHS š
username7 oscar likedddd
ā¤· username8 they're probably just friends through charles and arthur
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
ynleclerc updated their story
ā¤ļø liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff and others
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oscarpiastri
Hope they made you smile š
ā¤· ynleclerc
maybe he just has good taste?? idk sounds possible
charles_leclerc
Did he send the giant bouquet on purpose to earn points or is this just his style?
ā¤· ynleclerc
you literally know him
ā¤· arthur_leclerc
Thatās why Iām shocked
He used to be a dork who laughed at everything I said
Now heās sending coordinated bouquets from Barcelona like some kind of professional romantic
arthur_leclerc
I canāt believe Oscar Piastri is sending my sister flowers
ā¤· ynleclerc
iāll let him know the approval committee said yes
lorenzotl
He has good taste
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
alexandrasaintmleux
I love you š«¶š»
oscarpiastri
Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya
liked by leclerc_pascale, ynleclerc and 1.011.608 others
oscarpiastri Enjoyable one that
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username1 p1 baby letās gooooo
username2 you did it amazing im so so so so proud of you
username3 awwww charlesā mum liked this
ā¤· username4 heās fully integrated into that family itās so sweet
username4 did i seeā¦. ABS š¤Æ
ynleclerc well deserved š„¹š§”
ā¤· oscarpiastri Thank you!
username5 thatās my world champion right there
charles_leclerc ššš ā¤ļø liked by the author
ā¤· username6 charles supporting his adopted son
ā¤· username7 this will never not be funny
username8 finally a smile šāāļø
arthur_leclerc Congrats š ā¤ļø liked by the author
username9 the entire leclerc family is in these likes i love it
ā¤· username10 heās one of them now
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
op81updates
liked by username1, username2 and 187.44 others
op81updates oscar in a recent interview revealing that his french is actually quite good because charles' mum cuts his hair and doesn't speak english so they communicate in french š #CanadianGP
Interviewer: "Last time we spoke, your French was a work in progress. How's it coming along?"
Oscar: laughs "I think my French is actually quite good now! Well, better than it was."
Interviewer: "Have you been practicing?"
Oscar: "Yeah, I've had some help and I've been putting it to use."
Interviewer: "Oh? How so?"
Oscar: "Well, I get my haircuts from Charles' mum, and she doesn't speak a single word of English."
Interviewer: surprised "And she understands you?"
Oscar: smiles "She does now! Took a bit at first."
Interviewer: "The Leclerc family must really like you."
Oscar: "I hope so."
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username1 mr worldwide (0.000000001% french)
username2 okay so the thread about yn and oscar is making more sense now
username3 hope he's getting a family discount at least
ā¤· username4 FAMILY DISCOUNT I'M SCREAMING
ā¤· username5 if he's dating yn he better be getting it for free
username6 they really get along well and that makes me soooo happy
username7 THAT'S SO FUCKING CUTEEEE
username8 well he IS a leclerc so that makes sense to me
username9 oscar piastri leclerccccc
username10 i really need to hear oscar speaking french
username11 omg pascale still cuts his hair I MOVED
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
ynleclerc
So Easy (To Fall In Love) - Olivia Dean
liked by oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and 127.849 others
ynleclerc this n that
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username1 the third pic š
username2 soft launching is an art form and sheās mastered it
alexandrasaintmleux šššš ā¤ļø liked by the author
username3 whoās the mystery man in pic 3
charlotte2304 TrĆØs belle š ā¤ļø liked by the author
yourbff heās getting better at taking pics finally
username3 learning the art of thirst traps youāre doing great keep it up
username4 oh my god did anyone saw y/nās comment before she deleted it
ā¤· username5 YES IT WAS JUST KEYSMASH I HAVE THE SCREENSHOT
ā¤· username6 she really said sjdkfksk and then DELETED
ā¤· username7 canāt blame her šš
ā¤· username8 iām starting a new rumor as we speak
ā¤· username9 y/n girl... come back... weāre not judging...
ā¤· username10 proof sheās just as down bad as the rest of us
ā¤· username11 sheās one of us fr
username12 never let your hair see a pair of scissors again!!
username13 i understand the product placement but aināt nobody looking at that damn water bottle
ā¤· username14 REAL
ā¤· username15 what water bottle
username16 oscar you didnāt even TRY to pretend this was about training
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
ynleclerc updates their close friends story
ā¤ļø liked by yourbff and others
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
ynleclerc and alexandrasaintmleux updated their story
ā¤ļø liked by hattiepiastri and others
username1
are you going to spa??
ā¤· ynleclerc
canāt wait!!
kikagomes
see you soonš
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
username2
spa weekend?
oscarpiastri
liked by ynleclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 687.254 others
oscarpiastri Tough opponent on the way to Spa charles_leclerc
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username1 LEOOOOO omg cutie
username2 wait does this mean y/n and alex were with them??
ā¤· username3 i think so, alex posted charles with leo on a plane and y/n posted clouds from a plane
ā¤· username4 THEY WERE ALL TOGETHER
lando you lost to a dog ā¤ļø liked by the author
username5 so weāre all just ignoring that oscar charles y/n and alex flew together
ynleclerc he won every round
ā¤· oscarpiastri Can confirm
username6 Y/N WAS THERE IāM UNWELL
username7 sidequests??
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
ynleclerc updated their story
ā¤ļø liked by arthur_leclerc and others
username1
best track on the calendar
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
username2
girl we KNOW youāre not only there for ferrari donāt play with us
oscarpiastri
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps
liked by ynleclerc, nicolepiastri and 1.273.830 others
oscarpiastri Did I mention I like Spa?
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username1 oscplaining was done
ausgp This win ATE ā¤ļø liked by the author
username2 goat doing goat things
nicolepiastri So proud!!
ā¤· oscarpiastri ā¤ļø
username3 the way y/n was supporting charles but also probably dying to celebrate with oscar
ynleclerc you may have mentioned it
ā¤· oscarpiastri Once or twice
ā¤· username3 at this point you two just need to confirm it
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
ynleclerc and oscarpiastri updated their story
ā¤ļø liked by charlotte2304 and others
ā¤· ynleclerc
you literally exposed us to 50 million people so no
charles_leclerc
Where's my invitation to this dinner?
yourbff
why is he holding you like you're about to LEAVE he's got a grip
friend1
relax bro aint nobody takin her from u
username1
IS THAT OSCAR'S HAND
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
username2
OSCAR AND Y/N POSTING AT THE SAME TIME THIS IS NOT A DRILL
oscarpiastri
liked by ynleclerc, lando and 2.847.936 others
oscarpiastri Summer break so far āļø
tagged user: ynleclerc
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username1 OSCAR PIASTRI HARD LAUNCH
username2 HE REALLY JUST DID THAT
username3 oscar really said IāM MARRIED š£ļøš£ļøš£ļøš£ļø
ynleclerc š¤āļø
username4 i thought he was becoming a bonus leclerc brother notā¦ this????
ā¤· username5 we were NOT expecting this from him but we will adapt
username6 can oscar fight??? š®āšØ
āāāā ąØą§ āāāā
ynleclerc
liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 325.793 others
ynleclerc my family approves š
tagged user: oscarpiastri
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username1 iām pretending not to scream at the last pic thanks
charles_leclerc ā
ā¤· arthur_leclerc ā
ā¤· lorenzotl ā
username2 remember when she keysmashed on his gym post and we all knew
oscarpiastri They do?
ā¤· ynleclerc you passed the test months ago
ā¤· oscarpiastri Could've told me that
ā¤· ynleclerc where's the fun in that
username3 "my family approves" girl they ADOPTED him
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Qualityā Free Actions
Free to watch ā¢ No registration required ā¢ HD streaming
Summary: you meet Oscar exactly once when he breaks your nose with a football in the paddock. You meet him exactly twice when he breaks it again with his elbow in a hotel room. Some love stories start with a meet-cute. Yours starts with a medical bill and the worldās most apologetic future World Champion who keeps turning your face into a crime scene. (Heās really,Ā reallyĀ sorry about it.)
The air in the paddock is thick with a nervous energy you can almost taste, a metallic tang of anticipation mixed with the sweet, acrid scent of high-octane fuel and burning rubber. Itās a symphony of controlled chaos. The low, guttural growl of an engine being tested somewhere down the pit lane rumbles through the soles of your shoes. Team personnel, clad in vibrant, logo-splashed uniforms, move with a crisp, clipped purpose that makes you and your friend, Beth, feel like youāre wading through a current.
āI canāt believe this is real,ā Beth whispers, her voice tight with awe. She clutches her phone like a holy relic, trying to discreetly film everything without looking like a complete tourist. Which, of course, is exactly what you both are.
āTry to act like we belong here,ā you murmur back, though your own eyes are as wide as dinner plates. Youāre scanning the river of people for a familiar face, a flash of papaya, a shock of blond hair. Winning these paddock passes felt like a one-in-a-billion lottery ticket, a glitch in the universe that accidentally spat you out into the heart of the circus.
And then you see them.
Just ahead, in the wide expanse of asphalt between the impossibly sleek, futuristic structures of the McLaren and Red Bull motorhomes, are Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris. The tension of the impending qualifying session seems to have bypassed them entirely. Theyāre in their full race kits, minus the helmets, their hair damp with a pre-race sweat. A simple black and white football bounces between them.
It's a lazy, fluid rhythm. The ball arcs from Landoās knee to Oscarās chest, where he cushions it dead before volleying it back with the inside of his foot. They aren't speaking, just moving in the easy, comfortable silence of longtime teammates and friends. It's so disarmingly normal, so achingly human, that it makes your breath catch in your throat. This isnāt something you see on a broadcast. This is a stolen moment, and youāre a thief for watching it.
āOh my god,ā Beth breathes, fumbling with her phone. āGet a picture.ā
āNo, donāt,ā you hiss, grabbing her arm. āLet them have their space. Weāre not supposed to ā¦ā
Your words are swallowed by the scene. Lando laughs, a bright, familiar sound that makes your stomach flutter, as he attempts an overly ambitious flick. The ball spins wide, and Oscar jogs a few steps to intercept it, his movements economical and precise. He stops it with his right foot, a picture of calm concentration.
He looks up, just for a second, and his eyes ā cool and impossibly focused ā sweep over the area. They don't linger on you. You're just part of the scenery, another face in the blur. He gives Lando a small, almost imperceptible smirk.
āGetting sloppy, mate,ā Oscar calls out, his voice a low, calm murmur that barely carries over the ambient noise. The Australian lilt is subtle, but itās there.
Lando grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. āJust lulling you into a false sense of security. Show me what youāve got, then.ā
Oscar juggles the ball once, twice, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. Itās the smile youāve seen in a hundred post-race interviews ā reserved, a little shy, but genuine. He shifts his weight, positioning himself for a clean pass back to Lando, whoās now standing a good twenty feet away, near the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality suite.
This is the moment the universe decides to stop glitching and start actively conspiring against you.
From Oscarās point of view, itās a simple calculation. A routine heās performed thousands of times. He sees Lando, sees the space, gauges the power. His mind is already halfway to the garage, running through the qualifying plan, sector by sector. This is just muscle memory. A final, mindless release of nervous energy before being strapped into a carbon fibre rocket ship.
He draws his right foot back. The motion is clean, fluid, athletic. It should be a perfect, low chip that lands right at Landoās feet.
But a mechanic from another team, his arms laden with a stack of tires, cuts directly through Oscarās intended flight path. A sudden, unexpected obstacle. Oscarās brain registers it a millisecond too late. He tries to adjust, to pull back, but the command is already halfway to his foot. He overcompensates. Instead of a soft chip, he connects with the ball with the full force of his instep. The connection is too clean, too powerful.
The ball doesn't arc. It shoots. A black and white missile.
It rockets past the mechanic, past a startled-looking influencer who ducks instinctively, past the spot where Lando was standing.
And it flies directly towards the two girls who had stopped to watch, the ones who were trying to look like they belonged. The ones with the wide, starstruck eyes.
From your perspective, time slows to a thick, syrupy crawl. One second, youāre admiring the effortless grace of a world-class athlete. The next, a sphere of stitched leather is expanding in your vision at an impossible, terrifying speed.
There is no time to react. No time to raise your hands, to turn your head, to even flinch.
There is only the ball.
And then, a concussive, explosive thump.
A universe of white-hot, blinding pain erupts from the bridge of your nose, radiating outwards through your sinuses, your teeth, your skull. The sound is less of a crack and more of a wet, sickening crunch that you feel deep in your bones. Stars, genuine and cartoonishly bright, burst behind your eyelids. The world tilts on its axis, the vibrant colours of the paddock smearing into a nauseating blur.
Your hands fly to your face, a useless, reflexive gesture. You feel a gush of warmth spill over your fingers, slick and hot.
āOh, God!ā Beth shrieks beside you.
Your knees give out. The meticulously clean asphalt of the paddock rushes up to meet you, and you land hard, the impact jarring your already screaming head. Youāre on all fours, head bowed, the world a dizzying, spinning mess. A low moan escapes your throat, a sound you donāt even recognize as your own.
The world outside your personal bubble of agony is a sudden explosion of chaos.
āOh, bloody hell!ā
The voice is Oscarās, sharp with a kind of strangled panic that is utterly alien to his public persona. The calm is gone. The focus is shattered.
Footsteps pound against the pavement, frantic and fast.
āOscar! Mate, what did youāOh my God.ā Thatās Lando, his voice an octave higher than usual.
Two pairs of race-booted feet skid to a halt in front of you. You canāt look up. Your entire consciousness has shrunk to the throbbing, shattered epicentre of your face. You can feel the blood dripping from your chin now, spattering onto the pristine ground.
āAre you alright? Oh God, Iām so sorry. Are you okay?ā Oscar is kneeling in front of you, his voice urgent, laced with pure, undiluted horror. Heās reaching out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you.
You try to answer, to say āIām fineā out of some deeply ingrained, polite instinct, but the only thing that comes out is a choked, wet sob. The taste of salt and iron floods your mouth.
āIs she okay?ā Lando asks, his voice tight with alarm. Heās addressing Beth, who is now kneeling beside you, her own face pale with shock.
āI-I donāt know! You hit her in the face! With the ball!ā Bethās voice is shaky, accusatory.
āI know! I know, I didnāt mean to!ā Oscar sounds desperate. āIt was ā¦ I was aiming for Lando. Someone walked in the way. Iām so, so sorry.ā
He shifts his weight, getting closer. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his fireproofs, a strange counterpoint to the coppery smell of your own blood.
āCan you look at me?ā He asks, his voice softer now, but no less panicked. āPlease? We need to see how bad it is.ā
You shake your head, which is a colossal mistake. A fresh wave of agony and nausea washes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold the world together.
āDonāt move your head,ā he says quickly. āOkay, okay, donāt move.ā
āHer nose,ā Beth says, her voice trembling. āI think ā¦ I think itās broken.ā
A heavy silence hangs in the air for a beat, thick with the unsaid. Oscar lets out a low curse under his breath.
āRight. Okay. Medic. We need a medic,ā he says, his voice taking on a new urgency. He turns his head. āZak! Arthur! Can we get a medic over here? Now!ā
His voice, usually so measured, cracks with the strain. Heās yelling now, and you can feel the vibrations of it in your chest. Youāre dimly aware of more people approaching, of the circle around you tightening. The low murmur of the paddock has been replaced by a focused, localized clamor. Your personal, humiliating clamor.
āWhatās going on here?ā A new voice, this one with an American accent. Sharp, authoritative.
āI hit her with the ball, Zak,ā Oscar says, his voice strained. āIt was an accident. I think her nose is broken. We need a doctor.ā
āJesus Christ, Oscar.ā
You risk a glance, cracking one eye open. Through a watery, blood-tinged haze, you see the concerned face of Zak Brown looking down at you. Behind him, more McLaren personnel are gathering, their faces a mixture of alarm and professional concern.
This is a nightmare. This is a fever dream. Youāre bleeding all over the ground in front of the McLaren motorhome, with half the team, including both drivers, staring at you like youāre a car crash. Which, you suppose, you sort of are.
āItās okay, weāre getting someone,ā Lando says, trying to be reassuring, but he just sounds as freaked out as everyone else. āTheyāre coming. Just stay still.ā
āI am so, so sorry,ā Oscar repeats. It seems to be the only thing he can say. Heās still kneeling there, a few feet away, looking utterly helpless. His face, usually a mask of calm composure, is etched with guilt and raw panic. He looks younger than he does on TV. He just looks like a kid who has made a terrible mistake and has no idea how to fix it.
āYouāre bleeding a lot,ā Beth says quietly, her hand resting gently on your back. āCan you try to tilt your head forward a little? Not back.ā
You follow her instructions numbly, letting your head hang as more blood drips onto the asphalt. Each drop feels like a confession of your own mortification.
A woman in a McLaren polo shirt with a radio pressed to her ear arrives. āMedical team is on their way. Theyāll take her to the care centre.ā
āOscar, Lando, we need you in the garage,ā Zak says, his voice firm but not unkind. āQualifying starts in twelve minutes.ā
āNo,ā Oscar says immediately, shaking his head. āNo, Iām not leaving. I did this.ā
āYou are,ā Zak insists. āThereās nothing you can do here now. The medics will handle it. We have a session to prepare for. Letās go.ā
āZak, I just broke a girlās nose,ā Oscar argues, his voice rising in disbelief. He gestures wildly at you, a crumpled, bleeding heap on the ground. āI canāt just walk away and go drive a race car.ā
āYou absolutely can, and you absolutely will,ā another voice cuts in, this one belonging to a man with a clipboard and a stern expression. Your brain vaguely supplies the name Andrea Stella. āLet the medical professionals do their job. Your job is in that car. Now.ā
He puts a firm hand on Oscarās shoulder. Lando is already being herded away by another team member, casting a worried look back over his shoulder.
āGo on, Lando. Get your head in the game.ā
āIs she gonna be okay?ā Lando asks, his eyes wide.
āSheāll be fine. Go.ā
Oscar doesnāt move. Heās still looking at you, his expression a chaotic storm of regret and frustration. āI canāt just go.ā
āOscar.ā Stellaās voice is iron. āNow.ā
He gives Oscarās shoulder a gentle but insistent tug. The finality in the gesture is clear. Oscar knows heās lost the argument. His shoulders slump in defeat. He looks utterly wrecked.
As Stella begins to pull him to his feet, Oscar leans forward, his eyes locking with yours for the first time. Youāre still looking at him through a curtain of pain and tears, but you see the raw apology in his gaze. Itās so intense it almost hurts as much as your nose.
āWait,ā he says, resisting the pull for one last second. He addresses you directly, his voice low and rushed. āPlease, donāt leave. After qualifying, Iāll ā¦ Iāll find you. The medical tent, okay? Iāll find you there. I promise.ā
He searches your face, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement, some sign of forgiveness you are in no condition to give.
āI am so unbelievably sorry,ā he says again, his voice cracking on the last word. āIāll make this up to you. I promise.ā
And then heās gone. Pulled away into the current of the team, swallowed by the urgency of the sport, leaving you on the cold, hard ground with the smell of his fireproofs, the echo of his panicked promise, and a face full of shattered bone and blood.
Two uniformed medics arrive, their movements calm and efficient in the wake of the storm. They begin asking you questions, their voices a soothing drone that you canāt quite process. Beth is answering for you, her voice still shaky but getting stronger, more assertive.
They help you sit up, pressing a wad of gauze to your nose that you immediately soak through. The world is still spinning, but the sharp edges of the pain are beginning to dull into a deep, throbbing ache that seems to have taken up residence in your entire skull.
As they gently help you to your feet, preparing to walk you to the medical centre, your gaze drifts towards the McLaren garage. For a fleeting second, you think you see him, a flash of papaya orange standing by the entrance, looking back towards you before being pushed inside.
Then the garage door rolls down, a final, definitive curtain on the most surreal and painful ten minutes of your life. And youāre left with only one thought, circling endlessly in your concussed, throbbing head.
Oscar Piastri broke your nose. And he promised he would find you.
***
The world inside the McLaren garage is a pressure cooker of sound and motion. The moment Oscarās MCL39 rolls into its bay, itās swarmed. Fans whir, laptops are flipped open, and a dozen sets of hands descend on the car. He kills the engine, the sudden silence in his ears a deafening roar. For the last hour, his universe has been nothing but the scream of the engine, the voice of his race engineer, and the laser-focused task of wrestling two-tenths of a second from a strip of asphalt.
But the bubble has burst. And the first thought that crashes into his brain, more potent than the G-force he just endured, is your face. Crumpled. Bleeding.
He unbuckles his harness with frantic, clumsy fingers and rips his helmet off. The cool air of the garage hits his sweat-soaked hair. His trainer, Kim, is there instantly, holding a water bottle and a towel. Oscar ignores them both. His eyes find Lando, who is already clambering out of his car a few feet away, being mobbed by ecstatic engineers. P1. Lando got pole. The garage is electric with it.
āYES, LANDO! GET IN!ā
āMEGA JOB, MATE! MEGA!ā
Lando is grinning, a wide, euphoric smile as heās pulled into a series of back-slapping hugs. Heās earned it. He was flawless.
Oscar feels a pang of something that isnāt jealousy. Itās a hollow, churning guilt. He finished P2. It feels like ash in his mouth. He knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his gut, that the pole position was lost in the twenty feet between his foot and your face. He was distracted. He drove angry. Angry at himself, at the stupid football, at the entire godforsaken situation. Heād left a girl bleeding on the ground. How could he possibly find the last few thousandths of a second after that?
āGood job, Oscar! P2, fantastic result for the team,ā his engineer, Tom, says, clapping him on the shoulder.
Oscar just nods, his eyes still fixed on Lando, who is now being handed the black P1 cap for the post-qualifying interviews. An idea ā a terrible, frantic, brilliant idea ā sparks in Oscarās mind.
āI need that hat,ā he mutters.
āWhat?ā Tom asks, leaning in closer over the din. āNeed a what?ā
But Oscar is already moving. He pushes past Kim, past Tom, and stalks towards the celebratory huddle around Lando. Heās a man possessed. Lando sees him coming, his grin faltering slightly at the wild, haunted look in Oscarās eyes.
āOsc, mate, we did it! Front row!ā Lando shouts, ready for a hug.
Oscar doesnāt hug him. He reaches out and snatches the P1 cap right off Landoās head.
āHey!ā Lando yelps, his hand flying to his now-bare head. āWhat the hell?ā
āI need this,ā Oscar says, his voice tight. He turns, his eyes scanning the garage like a hawk. He spots a PR officer, a young woman named Annie, who is holding a clipboard and a black Sharpie. He strides over to her.
āAnnie, give me your marker.ā Itās not a request.
She blinks, startled. āUh ā¦ Oscar, the media pen is waiting for ā¦ā
āThe marker,ā he repeats, holding out his hand, his expression bordering on unhinged. She wordlessly hands him the Sharpie. He clicks it open and shoves it, along with the cap, back into Landoās chest.
āSign it,ā he commands.
Lando stares at him, utterly bewildered. Heās surrounded by cheering mechanics, Zak is beaming, and his teammate looks like heās in the middle of a nervous breakdown. āSign ā¦ my own hat?ā
āYes. Sign it. Now.ā
āWhy?ā Lando asks, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern. āAre you okay? You look a bit ā¦ traumatized.ā
āI am traumatized!ā Oscar hisses, his voice low and intense. āI am responsible for a traumatic event that has caused trauma. For which I need to atone. Sign the hat, Lando.ā
Lando, deciding itās easier to just go along with whatever strange ritual this is, takes the pen and scribbles his signature across the brim of the cap. āThere. Happy?ā
Oscar snatches the signed cap back. āNo.ā
He looks down at his own feet, at the custom-fit, fire-retardant race boots. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place in his frantic mind. Itās weird. Itās definitely weird. But heās committed now. He leans against the workbench, unzips the boots, and pulls them off, his sweaty socks steaming in the cool garage air.
āWhat are you doing?ā Tom asks, his face a perfect mask of professional confusion. āOscar, we have debrief in twenty.ā
āI canāt.ā Oscar is holding the signed cap in one hand and his race boots, which smell faintly of rubber and foot, in the other. He looks around, his eyes landing on the head of hospitality, a perpetually unflappable man named Bradley. Oscar makes a beeline for him, his socks sliding on the smooth concrete floor.
āBradley!ā
Bradley turns, one eyebrow raised at the sight of his driver in his socks, clutching a bizarre assortment of items. āOscar. Congratulations. Shall we arrange the usual for your family?ā
āNo. Yes. I mean, later. I need something else,ā Oscar says, his words tumbling out in a rush. āI need two VIP passes. The full experience. Paddock Club, garage tour, the works.ā
āOf course. For which race?ā Bradley asks, pulling out his tablet.
āI donāt know yet,ā Oscar says, shaking his head. āShe gets to pick. The girl. The one I hit with the ball. She gets to pick any race on the calendar, and she and a friend get the best tickets you can possibly imagine. Money is no object. Bill it to me, I donāt care. Can you do that? Just have the vouchers or whatever ready. Iāll let you know the names and the race later.ā
Bradley looks from Oscarās wild eyes to the boots in his hand and seems to make a swift calculation that arguing is futile. āConsider it done, Oscar. Iāll have a confirmation packet drawn up.ā
āThank you,ā Oscar breathes, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turns to leave.
āOscar!ā Itās Zak, his arm outstretched to stop him. āMedia pen. Letās go. Great day for the team.ā
Oscar sidesteps him. āCanāt. Sorry, Zak.ā
āWhat do you mean, you canāt? Itās mandatory.ā
āI have to go find her,ā Oscar says, as if this is the most logical explanation in the world. He waves the boots and cap. āI have to apologize.ā
He doesnāt wait for a response. He pushes through the throng of people at the back of the garage, ignoring the calls of his name from his engineers, his PR team, his trainer.
āOscar, your cool-down!ā
āOscar, Sky Sports is waiting!ā
āOscar, for Godās sake, put some shoes on!ā
Heās a blur of papaya and white, a man on a holy mission, sock-footing his way through the most exclusive square kilometer in sports. He strides past the other motorhomes, earning more than a few strange looks. He doesnāt care. He has a singular destination. The medical tent.
***
The medical tent is an oasis of calm, antiseptic silence. The contrast to the paddock is so jarring it makes your head ache, or maybe thatās just the broken nose. Youāre sitting on the edge of a narrow bed covered in crinkly paper, a large, intimidatingly white bandage taped across your face. Underneath it, your nose is packed with what feels like a metric ton of cotton. You canāt breathe through it, so youāre forced to take shallow, open-mouthed breaths that make your throat feel dry and scratchy.
The doctor, a kind woman with gentle hands and a calm voice, has just finished explaining that yes, itās definitely broken. A clean break, sheād called it, as if that were some sort of consolation. Sheād given you a dose of a powerful painkiller that has wrapped your brain in a thick, soupy fog, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain into a distant throb. Two magnificent black eyes are beginning to bloom across your cheekbones, a colorful testament to your terrible luck.
āWell,ā Beth says, trying for a light tone and failing miserably. Sheās perched on a plastic chair beside you, scrolling nervously through her phone. āOn the bright side, you met Oscar Piastri.ā
You shoot her a glare that you hope conveys your deep and profound unimpressedness. āHe tried to decapitate me with a soccer ball, Beth. Thatās not āmeetingā. Thatās an assault.ā
āA very apologetic assault,ā she counters. āHe seemed genuinely horrified. And, you have to admit, itās a way better story than just getting a selfie.ā
āIād rather have the selfie and an intact nasal cavity,ā you mumble, your voice nasally and thick.
You look down at your shirt. Itās spattered with blood. Your favourite shirt. You feel a fresh wave of misery wash over you. You just want to go back to your hotel room, order a disgusting amount of room service, and sleep for a week.
The flap of the medical tent is thrust open so violently it makes you jump. And there he is.
Oscar Piastri, in the flesh. Heās still in his race suit, though itās unzipped to the waist, revealing the sweat-damp base layer underneath. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed with exertion and something else ā anxiety. His eyes, clear and startlingly intense, immediately find yours. Heās holding a hat, a pair of racing boots, and he isnāt wearing any shoes.
He just stands there for a second, panting slightly, taking in the scene: you, looking like you just went ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer; the sterile white walls, Beth, whose jaw has dropped.
āHi,ā he says, his voice breathy. He takes a hesitant step inside. āThey said you were in here. I am ā¦ God, I am so sorry.ā
He walks towards you, his socked feet silent on the linoleum floor. He stops a few feet from the bed, looking utterly lost.
āYour face,ā he says, his voice barely a whisper. He winces, as if looking at you is causing him physical pain. āItās ā¦ is it broken?ā
You nod slowly, the motion sending a dull throb through your skull. āClean break,ā you manage to say, the words thick and foreign in your mouth.
āBloody hell,ā he breathes, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. āI knew it. I am so, so, so sorry. There is nothing I can say to tell you how sorry I am. This is entirely my fault. Iām an idiot. I was just messing around and I wasnāt paying attention and ā¦ Iām so sorry.ā
Heās rambling, his usual calm, measured speech pattern completely gone, replaced by a torrent of panicked apology. He seems to remember the items in his hands, thrusting them forward like a bizarre peace offering.
āHere,ā he says. āThis is for you.ā
He holds out the cap. You stare at it. Itās the P1 hat. Lando Norrisās signature is scrawled across the brim.
āLando got pole,ā he explains, as if this makes perfect sense. āSo this is his hat. I made him sign it for you.ā
You take the hat from him, your fingers brushing his. His hand is warm and slightly calloused. The gesture is so surreal, so utterly insane, that a small, hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat. It hurts your nose, so you cut it off with a wince.
āAnd these,ā he says, crouching down and placing his race boots carefully on the floor beside the bed. They look impossibly light, crafted from some space-age material, and are caked with dust and grime from the track. āTheyāre my boots. From today. I finished P2 in them.ā He pauses, looking at the boots, then back up at you. A flicker of self-awareness dawns in his eyes. āThatās ā¦ thatās a bit weird, isnāt it? Giving you my sweaty shoes. I donāt know what I was thinking. I just felt like I had to give you something. Something from today. As an apology. It was a stupid idea. You can throw them away if you want. Or sell them. I donāt know.ā
You and Beth just stare at him. Oscar Piastri is on the floor of the medical tent, having a minor existential crisis over the appropriateness of giving you his shoes. The painkillers, the broken nose, the sheer strangeness of the last hour ā it all combines into a feeling of complete and utter detachment from reality.
Beth finds her voice first. āYou ā¦ you ran here in your socks?ā
Oscar looks down at his feet as if just noticing them. āOh. Yeah. I guess I did. I was in a bit of a hurry.ā
He stands up, looking deeply uncomfortable and out of place. Heās a finely tuned athlete, a man who operates with millimeter precision at 200 miles per hour, and right now he looks like a teenage boy who just accidentally crashed his dadās car.
āThatās not the real apology,ā he says quickly, trying to recover. āThe real apology is ā¦ I spoke to our hospitality manager. And I have arranged for you and your friend,ā he glances at Beth, āto be my personal guests at any race for the rest of the season. Or next season. Whichever you want.ā
You blink. The fog in your brain parts for a moment. āWhat?ā
āAny race,ā he repeats, his earnestness radiating off him in waves. āMonza, Singapore, Vegas, Abu Dhabi ā¦ your choice. Weāll fly you out, put you up in a hotel, give you the full VIP Paddock Club experience. Garage tours, pit lane walks, everything. The best tickets money can buy. Which is good, because Iām buying them.ā He swallows, his gaze fixed on you. āI know it doesnāt fix ā¦ this,ā he gestures vaguely at your bandaged face. āBut itās the only thing I could think of to even begin to make up for it. For ruining your day. Your face.ā
He trails off, looking miserable.
The silence in the tent stretches. Beth looks at you, her eyes wider than youāve ever seen them. This is a grand gesture of epic, romcom-finale proportions. Itās ludicrous. Itās insane. Itās also ā¦ incredibly, unbelievably sweet.
āYouād really do that?ā You ask, your voice small.
āOf course,ā he says without a momentās hesitation. āYou can pick tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever youāre feeling up to it. Just let my team know. Theyāll handle everything.ā
You look down at the P1 cap in your hands, then at the race-worn boots on the floor. He broke your nose, and in a fit of panicked guilt, heās offering you the world on a silver platter. He blew off his media duties, ran across the paddock in his socks, and is offering an apology so extravagant itās almost comical. And all you can see is the genuine, gut-wrenching remorse in his eyes.
āOkay,ā you hear yourself say.
A visible wave of relief washes over him. His shoulders, which had been tensed up to his ears, drop an inch. āOkay?ā
āOkay,ā you repeat, a little firmer this time. Youāre still in pain, youāre still miserable, and you have a long, painful week of recovery ahead of you. But in this strange, quiet, antiseptic-smelling tent, something has shifted.
The story of the day you went to the Grand Prix is no longer just about how you got your nose broken by a stray football. Itās suddenly about something else entirely.
***
The Abu Dhabi air is a thick, humid blanket, clinging to Oscarās skin as he walks from the driverās room to the garage. The sun has begun its slow, spectacular descent, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and purple that reflect off the glass facades of the Yas Marina circuit. Itās beautiful. He doesnāt notice.
His world has shrunk to the size of a pinhead. All that exists is the next few hours. The start sequence, the tire strategy, the delicate, brutal dance of managing a Formula 1 car on the absolute ragged edge for fifty-eight laps. The weight of the World Driversā Championship presses down on his shoulders, a physical, tangible thing. Itās all come down to this. Him and Lando. Teammates. Friends. And for the next two hours, his only rival.
āHydration good?ā Arthur, his trainer, asks, falling into step beside him. āEnergy levels?ā
āFine, Arthur. Iām fine,ā Oscar says, his voice flat. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, a deliberate tunnel vision designed to block out the swarm of media, the sea of faces, the sheer, overwhelming scale of the moment.
Heās been in this bubble all weekend. Heās barely spoken to anyone outside his core engineering team. He eats, sleeps, and breathes data, telemetry, and strategy. Heās built a fortress in his mind, and the walls are a thousand feet thick. Nothing gets in.
But as they round the corner, cutting past the sprawling McLaren hospitality suite, a crack appears in the wall.
Itās just a flash. A flicker of movement on the terrace, a woman turning her head, her laughter catching the light. For a single, crystal-clear moment that seems to exist outside of time, his eyes lock on her. Sheās wearing a simple black dress, her hair is down, and sheās smiling a smile so bright it seems to generate its own light. Thereās a faint, silvery scar on the bridge of her nose, almost invisible unless you were the one who put it there.
His heart stutters. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots through him.
Itās you. The girl with the broken nose. The girl from that qualifying session months ago, the one whose face has been a recurring, guilt-ridden image in the back of his mind. He hasnāt heard a word since his teamās legal department confirmed you had accepted the VIP package. Heād asked Bradley a few times which race sheād chosen, but Bradley had been evasively professional. āWeāre handling it, Oscar. All sorted.ā Heād eventually dropped it, figuring youād chosen a race earlier in the season and heād simply missed you.
But there you are. Here. Now. On the most important day of his professional life. And you look ā¦ whole. Healthy. The bruises are gone, the swelling is a distant memory. Heād only ever seen your face contorted in pain, and now, seeing it relaxed and happy, is a revelation. Youāre beautiful. The thought is so clear and intrusive it knocks the breath out of him.
āOscar, letās go. Andreaās waiting.ā Arthurās hand is on his arm, gently but firmly steering him forward.
Oscar tries to look back, to get a second glance, to confirm that his pressure-addled brain isnāt just conjuring ghosts. But the angle is wrong, and a throng of guests blocks his view. Youāre gone.
āDid you see ā¦ā He starts, but trails off.
āSee what?ā Arthur asks, his eyes scanning the area for a potential threat or distraction.
Oscar shakes his head. āNothing. Thought I saw someone I knew.ā
It couldnāt have been her. Itās too much of a coincidence. His mind is playing tricks on him, manifesting his lingering guilt at the worst possible moment. He dismisses it, shoves the image down, and rebuilds the wall in his mind, brick by painstaking brick. He canāt afford the distraction. Not today.
By the time he straps into the car, the ghost is gone. All that remains is the pinhead. The start lights. The engine. The championship.
***
The race is a fever dream. A relentless, high-speed chess match where every move is made at 200 miles per hour. Lando gets a better start, nosing ahead into Turn 1. Oscarās heart is in his throat, but he holds his nerve, slotting in behind him. The gap between them for the next forty laps is never more than two seconds. They are perfectly, brutally matched.
He lives through the radio, Tomās voice a calm, steady anchor in the screaming chaos.
āOkay, Oscar, Lando is pitting. Itās go-time. We need everything youāve got.ā
He pushes. He drives with a controlled fury, his hands a blur on the wheel, his inputs impossibly smooth. The tires scream, the car slides, but he holds it, wringing every last millisecond out of the machine. The pit stop is a symphony of motion, over and out in 2.1 seconds. He emerges from the pit lane just as Landoās papaya car flashes past. Still P2.
The laps wind down. Ten to go. Five. Three. The gap is 0.8 seconds. Landoās tires are beginning to fade. Oscarās are, too, but he can feel he has more left. He can see Lando sliding in the low-speed corners, fighting the car. The opportunity is coming.
Two laps to go. He gets a massive exit out of the chicane, the DRS on his rear wing snaps open, and heās a rocket ship down the back straight. He pulls alongside Lando, wheels inches apart. For a moment, they are perfectly level, two friends, two teammates, fighting for the ultimate prize. Oscar brakes later, deeper, forcing his car up the inside into the hairpin. He makes it stick. Heās in the lead.
The final lap is the longest of his life. He doesnāt breathe. He just drives, his focus absolute. He crosses the finish line, and the world explodes.
āYES! YES, OSCAR! YOUāVE DONE IT! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION!ā Tomās voice is raw, shredded with emotion.
A sound rips from Oscarās throat, a strangled, guttural sob of pure relief. Heās screaming, crying, laughing all at once. The weight that has been sitting on him for months, for years, for his entire life, simply evaporates. He is floating.
āThank you, guys,ā he chokes out, his voice thick. āThank you, everyone. Unbelievable. Just ā¦ unbelievable.ā
The hours that follow are a chaotic whirlwind of joy. Heās mobbed by his team, lifted onto their shoulders. He hugs his parents until his ribs ache. The podium ceremony is a champagne-soaked dream. He stands on the top step, the Australian anthem playing, and searches the crowd, a sea of celebrating faces. He doesnāt know what heās looking for.
He finds Lando in the hallway before the media pen. There are no cameras, just the two of them. Lando is sitting on a bench, staring at the floor, the P2 cap in his hands. The fierce joy of Oscarās victory is immediately tempered by the quiet pain of his friendās defeat.
āMate,ā Oscar says softly, sitting down next to him.
Lando looks up. The disappointment in his eyes is vast, but thereās no anger. Just a deep, weary sadness. He manages a small smile.
āWorld Champion, huh?ā He says, his voice quiet. āSounds good.ā
āIām sorry,ā Oscar says, and he means it.
Lando shakes his head. āDonāt be. You drove a mega race. A mega season. You earned it.ā He bumps his shoulder against Oscarās. āJust ā¦ do me a favour and get slower now youāve won one.ā
Oscar laughs, a real, genuine laugh. āNo promises.ā
The team celebration in the garage is pure pandemonium. Music blasts, corks fly, and Oscar is passed from one champagne-drenched hug to another. He celebrates with every mechanic, every engineer, every member of the hospitality staff who helped get him here. Itās a roaring, joyous, exhausting blur.
Hours later, the official team party at a beachside hotel is in full swing. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving Oscar with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, floating sense of peace. Heās done it. The goal that has consumed his entire life has been achieved. He feels a quiet sense of what now?
Heās nursing a beer, having switched from champagne hours ago, leaning against a pillar and just watching his team celebrate. Zak is telling a story, gesticulating wildly. Andrea is smiling, a rare and genuine sight. Lando is in the middle of a dance circle, looking like heās put the dayās disappointment behind him for the night.
āYouāre not celebrating,ā a voice says beside him. Itās Tom.
āI am,ā Oscar says with a smile. āJust quietly. Soaking it in.ā
āWell, soak faster. A few of us are heading to W. Some of the other teams are there. Itās the unofficial end-of-season party. You should come.ā
Oscar hesitates. All he wants is his bed. But heās the World Champion. He canāt very well go to sleep before midnight.
āYeah, alright,ā he says. āFor a bit.ā
***
The club is a different world. Itās dark, sleek, and cavernous, the bass of the music a physical vibration in his chest. The air is cool and smells of expensive perfume and cocktails. Itās packed with the familiar faces of the F1 paddock, all letting their hair down now that the season is finally over. He gets a fresh drink ā just a sparkling water, heās had enough alcohol to last a month ā and finds a quieter corner, a leather booth overlooking the chaos of the dance floor.
He watches the pulsing lights, the shifting bodies. He feels strangely detached from it all, an observer in his own victory party. Heās happy. Heās ecstatic. But heās also just ā¦ tired.
And then he sees you.
Itās not a fleeting glimpse this time. Youāre standing near the bar with your friend, Beth. Youāre talking to one of the Williams mechanics, your head tilted back as you laugh at something heās said. The strobe lights catch the silver of the scar on your nose. It was you. He wasnāt hallucinating.
His breath catches in his throat. The exhaustion, the detachment, the quiet haze in his mind ā it all vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden focus. Itās you. Youāre here.
He watches you for a long moment, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it didn't on the final lap. You look incredible. The simple black dress clings to you in all the right ways, and your smile is just as dazzling as it was from a distance. The memory of you, crumpled and bleeding on the asphalt, feels like a scene from another lifetime, a different reality. Itās hard to reconcile that girl with the confident, radiant woman across the room.
He has to go over there. He has to say something. But what? Hi, thanks for coming. Sorry again about the horrific facial injury I inflicted upon you.
He takes a deep breath, pushing himself out of the booth. He feels more nervous now than he did on the starting grid. He weaves his way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving you. As he gets closer, you turn your head, your gaze sweeping across the room.
Your eyes meet his.
The recognition is instant. Your smile falters for a fraction of a second, your eyes widening slightly. The world seems to slow down, the thumping music fading to a dull, distant hum. There is only the crowded space between you and the sudden, undeniable charge in the air.
He stops a few feet away from you. The mechanic you were talking to says something, but you donāt seem to hear him. Beth notices his approach and her jaw drops for the second time in your shared F1 experience.
āHi,ā he says, his voice coming out a little hoarser than he intended.
āHi,ā you reply, your voice a low murmur that he has to strain to hear over the music.
A small, hesitant smile touches your lips. āCongratulations, World Champion.ā
The two words hang in the air between you, a fragile bridge across the noisy chasm of the club. Your voice is calm, a little wry, and it cuts through the fog of victory and exhaustion in his head like a searchlight.
āThanks,ā Oscar manages to say, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. He takes a step closer, a magnetic pull he has no intention of fighting. āI, uh ā¦ I didn't know you were here. I thought I saw you earlier, before the race, but I figured I was just ā¦ā
āHallucinating?ā You finish for him, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. āUnder the circumstances, I wouldn't have blamed you.ā
āSomething like that,ā he admits, a faint blush rising on his neck. āI asked my team which race youād picked. They never told me. I guess they didn't want the man responsible for your facial reconstruction getting distracted on the biggest day of his life.ā
The joke is clumsy, landing with a thud, and he immediately regrets it. He winces, waiting for your reaction. But you just laugh, a genuine, warm sound that makes the knot in his stomach loosen just a little.
āProbably a smart move on their part,ā you say. āThough you should know, my nose was reconstructed with titanium. Itās stronger than ever. You could probably hit it with another football and it would be fine.ā You pause, your eyes twinkling. āPlease donāt test that theory.ā
āI will never, ever go near a football again,ā he says, his voice so serious itās almost a vow. āI swear. Iāve been having nightmares about it.ā
āReally?ā
āNot really,ā he confesses. āBut the guilt has been ā¦ significant.ā He looks at you, properly looks at you, taking in the reality of you standing in front of him. āHow is it? Your nose, I mean. Honestly.ā
You reach up and touch the bridge of your nose, a light, unconscious gesture. āItās fine. It aches when itās about to rain, which makes me feel like Iām eighty years old. And I have this scar.ā You lean in a little, tilting your head into the light. āSee? The doctor called it a ācharacter-building imperfectionā.ā
He leans in too, his gaze dropping to the faint, silvery line. Itās barely visible, delicate and fine. To him, it looks less like an imperfection and more like a brand, a permanent reminder of his own catastrophic clumsiness.
āIām sorry,ā he says, his voice low and sincere. āFor that. For all of it.ā
āYou gave me a VIP tour of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and Lando Norrisās sweaty P1 hat,ā you counter, your tone light. āIād say weāre almost even.ā You glance down at his feet, then back up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. āI did end up selling the boots, by the way. Paid my rent for five months with a tidy profit left over. So, really, thank you.ā
A surprised laugh escapes him. Itās the first time heās laughed freely all night, a real, unburdened sound. āYouāre kidding.ā
āIām not,ā you say with a perfectly straight face, which then breaks into a wide grin. āOf course Iām kidding. Theyāre sitting in a box in my closet. Beth wants me to build a shrine.ā
The easy back-and-forth feels shockingly natural, as if youāve known each other for years, not just two bizarre, traumatic encounters. The noise of the club, the press of the crowd, the weight of his new title ā it all fades into the background. There is only this bubble of space around the two of you.
āSo,ā he says, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, to keep you here. āDid you enjoy the race? Apart from the constant, looming threat of airborne sporting equipment.ā
āIt was incredible,ā you say, your eyes lighting up. āWatching it from the garage, hearing the comms ā¦ itās a completely different world. And that last-lap overtake was ā¦ā You shake your head, at a loss for words. āI think my heart stopped.ā
āMine too,ā he admits.
An electric silence falls between you. The music swells, a wave of bass washing over the room. He sees Beth make eye contact with you, raising her eyebrows in a silent, questioning gesture. You give her a subtle shake of the head, a silent command to stay put. You donāt want to leave. He doesnāt want you to leave.
Maybe itās the six glasses of champagne he had since the podium. Maybe itās the dizzying, surreal euphoria of achieving his lifeās dream. Or maybe itās just the simple, undeniable fact that he feels more drawn to you than anyone he has ever met. But the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.
āDo you want to get out of here?ā
Your eyebrows shoot up. The playful smile on your face is instantly replaced by a look of amused surprise. āGet out of here? Mr. World Champion, are you asking me back to your room?ā
His face flames. Hearing it said so bluntly makes it sound impossibly forward, ridiculously arrogant. āI ā¦ yes?ā He stammers. āIs that too much? Iām sorry. Iām not usually ā¦ I mean, Iām not good at this. The talking. The ā¦ this.ā
You watch him, a slow, appraising smile returning to your face. You see the confident, untouchable athlete dissolve into a flustered, awkward guy who looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. Itās surprisingly, disarmingly endearing.
āYou win the biggest prize in motorsport,ā you say, tilting your head. āAnd the first thing you want to do is go home with the girl whose nose you broke. Thatās either incredibly romantic or you have a very specific fetish.ā
He chokes on air. āIt is absolutely not a fetish.ā
āGood to know,ā you say, your smile widening. You take a small step closer, closing the remaining space between you. The scent of your perfume, something light and floral, cuts through the stale air of the club. āMy hotel is on the other side of the island.ā You pause, letting the statement hang in the air. āI assume yours is closer.ā
Relief, potent and dizzying, floods his system. āYeah,ā he breathes. āMuch closer.ā
āAlright then, champion,ā you say, your voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. āLead the way.ā
***
The walk back to his hotel is a blur. You slip out a side door, escaping the party unnoticed. The night air is warm and still. You donāt talk much. You donāt need to. The space between you crackles with a nervous, excited energy. His hand keeps brushing yours, sending little jolts up his arm. In the elevator, he finally gives in and takes it, his fingers lacing through yours. Your hand is warm and fits perfectly in his.
His suite is vast and impersonal, a generic landscape of beige furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering marina. The remnants of his race day are scattered around ā his helmet on the coffee table, his champagne-soaked race suit slung over a chair.
He closes the door behind you, and the silence is suddenly immense. He feels that same awkwardness creeping back in. Heās a world champion in his own territory, and yet he feels like a teenager on a first date.
āSo,ā he says, breaking the silence. āThis is ā¦ the room.ā
You turn to face him, a soft smile on your face. You slowly walk towards him, your eyes never leaving his. āItās a very nice room, Oscar.ā
You stop directly in front of him, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You reach up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. His breath hitches.
āFor the record,ā you whisper. āI was hoping youād ask.ā
And thatās all it takes. The last of his reservations dissolves. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is both hesitant and hungry. Itās a kiss that tastes of champagne and victory and a strange, shared history of accidental violence. Itās messy and desperate and absolutely perfect.
His hands go to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your arms snake around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepens, a silent communication of all the things left unsaid. Itās a release of months of tension ā his guilt, your pain, the bizarre, undeniable pull that has existed between you from the moment a football left his foot at the wrong velocity.
Clothes become an inconvenience. The zipper of your dress is cool against his fingertips. The buttons on his shirt give way under your impatient hands. A trail of discarded fabric marks your path from the door to the bedroom. You tumble onto the enormous bed, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.
The world outside, the championship, the parties, the press ā it all ceases to exist. There is only the soft light from the window, the cool cotton of the sheets, and the intoxicating feeling of your skin against his. His confidence returns, not the arrogance of an athlete, but the quiet certainty of a man who knows he is exactly where he is supposed to be.
Every touch is electric, every kiss a discovery. He feels the delicate, raised line of the scar on your nose under his thumb and a fresh wave of tenderness washes over him. He wants to erase the memory of the pain, to replace it with nothing but this.
Things escalate, the pace quickening. The soft, tender exploration gives way to a deeper, more urgent need. Heās on top of you, propped up on his elbows, his body caging yours. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire, a small, trusting smile on your lips. The sight of it, of you looking at him like that, makes his head spin.
He leans down to kiss you again, wanting to devour you, to pour every ounce of his victory, his relief, his sheer, overwhelming joy into that single point of contact. Heās lost in the moment, a universe of sensation.
He shifts his weight, wanting to pull you closer, to deepen the kiss, to feel every inch of you against him. Itās a sudden movement, fueled by passion and adrenaline. A clumsy, uncoordinated shift.
His right elbow, moving faster than he intended, slips.
There is a sound. A wet, sickening crunch.
Itās a sound he knows. A sound that is seared into his memory. Itās the sound of bone breaking. Itās the sound of your nose.
For a split second, neither of you moves. The world freezes. The passionate, heavy breathing in the room is replaced by a stunned, absolute silence.
Then, a sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly to your face, just as they did that day in the paddock.
Oscarās blood runs cold. A wave of ice-water horror crashes over him, extinguishing the fire of passion in an instant. He scrambles back, his limbs trembling.
āNo,ā he whispers, the word a strangled, pathetic sound. āNo, no, no, no, no.ā
Youāre sitting up now, hunched over, your hands cupped over your face. Youāre completely still.
āAre you ā¦ā He canāt even finish the sentence. The question is too horrifying, too absurd. His mind is short-circuiting. This isnāt happening. This is a stress dream. A nightmare brought on by too much champagne and not enough sleep. It cannot be real.
Then you lower your hands.
A single, perfect drop of crimson blood falls from your nostril, landing starkly against the pristine white of the hotel bedsheet. Another follows, and then another.
You stare down at the spreading red stain on the sheets, your expression not one of pain or anger, but of something far stranger. Itās a look of cosmic disbelief.
You slowly lift your gaze to meet his. He looks absolutely shattered, his face pale with a terror so consuming it seems to have aged him ten years in ten seconds.
A long, heavy moment passes. You take a slow, shaky breath.
And then you speak, your voice eerily calm, laced with a thread of galactic-level exasperation.
āOscar,ā you say, looking from the blood on the sheets to his horrified face. āYou really need to stop making a habit out of this.ā
Oscarās brain ceases to function. The words you speak ā so calm, so absurd, so utterly unexpected ā are a foreign language he cannot process. He just stares at you, at your face, at the blood on the sheets, and his entire world, which just moments ago had been a triumphant, glittering pinnacle, collapses into a black hole of pure, unadulterated horror.
āI ā¦ what?ā He says, his voice a choked whisper.
āA habit,ā you repeat, your voice still unnervingly steady. You press the corner of the duvet to your nose, wincing as the fabric makes contact. āYou know, something you do regularly. Like brushing your teeth. Or, in your case, shattering my nasal cartilage.ā
The clinical, detached way you say it finally snaps him out of his paralysis. He lurches into motion, a frantic, chaotic scramble.
āOh my God,ā he says, stumbling out of the bed and frantically looking around the room as if the solution to this nightmare is hiding behind a lamp. āOh my God, not again. I canātāthis isnātāI am the worst person on Earth.ā
āYouāre not the worst person on Earth, Oscar,ā you say, your voice muffled by the duvet. āBut your spatial awareness in moments of passion could use some work.ā
āIce!ā He exclaims, a single, brilliant thought piercing the fog of his panic. āWe need ice.ā He runs to the minibar, yanks it open, and starts pulling out tiny bottles of vodka and overpriced chocolate bars, searching for the microscopic ice tray. āAnd a doctor. Iām calling Dr. Hughes. Heās the team physician. Heāll know what to do.ā
He finds his phone on the nightstand, his fingers shaking so badly it takes him three tries to unlock it.
āOscar,ā you say, your voice firm, cutting through his rising tide of panic. He freezes, phone halfway to his ear, and looks at you. Youāve lowered the duvet. The bleeding is worse now, a steady drip. But your eyes are clear and focused. āDo not call the McLaren team doctor at three oāclock in the morning on the night you won the World Championship to tell him you broke my nose. Again. During ā¦ā You wave a hand, searching for the right word. āā¦ an intimate moment.ā
He stares at you, the logic of your words slowly penetrating his thick skull. Youāre right. The PR fallout from that phone call would be apocalyptic.
āRight,ā he says, lowering the phone. āNo team doctor. Okay. Right. So, a hospital. Weāll go to a hospital. Iāll get the car.ā He starts pulling on his trousers, which are inside out. He doesnāt notice.
āOkay,ā you agree.
āI am so sorry,ā he says, the words a desperate, repeating mantra. He finally gets his trousers on the right way and shoves his feet into his shoes without socks. āI donāt know how this happened. My elbow just ā¦ slipped. I wasnātāI would neverāI swear to God, Iām not normally this ā¦ hazardous.ā
āI believe you,ā you say, and the strange thing is, you do. This wasnāt malice. It was just a freak accident of physics and passion. A one-in-a-billion recurrence.
He finds one of his McLaren hoodies, still smelling faintly of champagne and sweat, and gently helps you put it on over your head. The gesture is so tender, so careful, itās a stark contrast to the accidental violence of moments before. He helps you off the bed, his arm securely around your waist, treating you as if youāre made of spun glass.
The journey through the silent, opulent hotel and down to the underground car park is a surreal pantomime of stealth and urgency. He has you tucked under his arm, your face hidden in the hood, while he scans every corridor for potential witnesses. They make it to his McLaren, and he settles you into the passenger seat with the care of a bomb disposal expert.
The drive to the hospital is silent for the first five minutes, the only sound the hum of the tires on the immaculate Abu Dhabi asphalt and Oscarās frantic, shallow breathing. Heās gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.
āThis is, without a doubt, the weirdest night of my life,ā you say, finally breaking the silence. Your voice is thick and nasally. Youāre holding a wad of tissues he grabbed from the hotel room to your face.
He flinches as if youād slapped him. āI am so, so, so sorry, Y/N.ā He uses your first name, and the sound of it in his mouth, so earnest and broken, makes something in your chest ache.
āI know,ā you say softly. āYou keep saying that.ā
āItās all I can say,ā he replies, his voice cracking. āWhat else is there? āOopsā?ā
A small, painful laugh escapes you. āProbably not āoopsā.ā
āI just,ā he says, shaking his head in disbelief. āI win the World Championship. My lifelong dream. And hours later, Iām in a rental car, driving the beautiful girl I was in bed with to the emergency room for the second face-breaking incident I have personally caused her. How is this my life?ā
āMaybe youāre cursed,ā you suggest. āMaybe you made a deal with the devil. He gives you a world title, but youāre doomed to be a menace to my specific nose for all eternity.ā
He glances at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips before being immediately extinguished by a fresh wave of guilt. āThatās not funny.ā
āItās a little bit funny,ā you insist. āThe universe has a strange sense of humor.ā
The emergency room at 3:41 AM is the same in Abu Dhabi as it is anywhere else in the world. The lighting is a harsh, unforgiving fluorescent. The air smells of disinfectant and quiet desperation. A handful of other people are scattered around the waiting room, nursing their own late-night maladies.
The check-in process is a masterpiece of awkwardness. Oscar tries to handle it, but heās so flustered he can barely remember his own name, let alone yours. You end up taking over, calmly explaining to the triage nurse that you had a ā¦ fall. And that yes, you think your nose is broken again.
You sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, a strange island of high drama in a sea of mundane misery. Oscar doesnāt sit. He paces. He walks back and forth in a three-foot space in front of you, a caged, miserable animal. Every few laps, he stops, looks at you, and opens his mouth as if to apologize again, but you just give him a look, and he resumes his pacing.
A man with a dislocated shoulder, his arm in a makeshift sling, squints at Oscar. āHey, are you ā¦ā
Oscar freezes, his face paling. āNo,ā he says quickly. āIām not.ā
The man shrugs and goes back to staring at the wall.
After what feels like an eternity, a nurse calls your name. Oscar is on his feet instantly, his hand on the small of your back as he guides you into the examination area.
The doctor is a young, efficient man with tired eyes. He listens patiently to your story about āfallingā and then gently probes your face. Oscar hovers by the door, radiating an aura of guilt so powerful it feels like itās sucking the oxygen out of the room.
āWell,ā the doctor says, shining a light up your nostrils. āIt seems you have a talent for this. Itās broken. Again. Same place.ā
āA talent is one word for it,ā you mumble.
āWeāll need to set it,ā the doctor says calmly. āIt will be unpleasant, but itās better to do it now. A local anesthetic to numb the area, and then a quick, firm ā¦ reset.ā
Oscar makes a small, strangled sound from the doorway.
āWould your ā¦ friend like to wait outside?ā The doctor asks, glancing at the pale, sweating World Champion.
āNo,ā Oscar says immediately, his voice stronger than you expected. āIām staying.ā
He walks over and stands beside you, taking your hand. His palm is clammy, but his grip is firm and steady.
The anesthetic shots are sharp and stinging, but soon a welcome numbness spreads across your face. The doctor picks up a tool that looks like something from a medieval torture chamber.
āOkay,ā he says. āA deep breath. This will be quick.ā
Oscarās grip on your hand tightens. The doctor places the tool inside your nostril, and with a swift, brutal movement, there is a deep, resonant CRACK that you feel all the way down to your teeth.
Your entire body convulses, a strangled cry escaping your throat. But itās Oscar who flinches harder. His eyes are screwed shut, his face a mask of pure, empathetic agony, as if he felt the bone grate back into place himself.
And then itās over. The doctor is taping a fresh, clean bandage across your nose. The sharp, blinding pain is already receding, replaced by the familiar, deep, throbbing ache.
They leave you in the room to wait for discharge papers. Oscar pulls a stool over and sits in front of you, still holding your hand. He looks utterly defeated. The euphoria of his championship victory is a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, sterile, self-inflicted nightmare.
āI felt that,ā he says, his voice a raw whisper. āWhen he ā¦ set it. I felt it. And seeing you ā¦ the look on your face ā¦ā He shakes his head, unable to finish. āThis is all my fault.ā
āWeāve established that,ā you say, your voice gentle. You squeeze his hand. āOscar. It was an accident. A ridiculous, statistically impossible, cosmically stupid accident. But it was an accident.ā
āIt doesnāt matter,ā he says, looking up at you, his eyes swimming with a vulnerability youāve never seen. āIt happened. Twice. I hurt you. Twice. The first time was bad luck. The second time is a pattern. I am officially a health hazard.ā
He lets go of your hand and stands up, resuming his pacing in the small room.
āI shouldnāt be around you. Clearly. Iām dangerous. Iām like a walking cartoon anvil.ā He stops and faces you, a look of grim resolution on his face. āAfter I take you back to your hotel, Iāll arrange a flight for you and your friend. First class, anywhere you want to go. A vacation to make up for the ruined vacation. And Iāll cover every medical bill, now and forever. And then ā¦ Iāll stay away from you. For your own safety.ā
He says it with such finality, such certainty, that it feels like a punch to the gut. An ache, far deeper than the one in your nose, spreads through your chest. The thought of him just disappearing from your life, of this bizarre, chaotic, and strangely wonderful connection just ending here, in this sterile room, is unbearable.
He thinks heās doing the noble thing. The right thing. And itās the last thing in the world you want.
Heās waiting for you to agree, to accept his terms of surrender. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.
He looks so lost, so convinced that heās poison. All the confidence of the champion has been stripped away, leaving only the awkward, earnest, and catastrophically clumsy man underneath. He turns to look out the small window at the slowly lightening Abu Dhabi sky. Heās given up.
Itās your turn to be brave. Or stupid.
āOscar,ā you say. He turns back to you, his expression guarded. āBefore you banish yourself to a remote island for my protection, can I ask you a question?ā
āAnything,ā he says.
āThat night at the club ā¦ before all this,ā you gesture to your face, the room. āWhen you asked me to come back to your room. Why did you?ā
He looks confused. āWhat do you mean?ā
āI mean, what was the reason? Was it because you felt guilty and you were just trying to complete the apology tour? Was it because youād just won the biggest race of your life and you were drunk on champagne and adrenaline and I was just ā¦ there?ā
He stares at you, processing the question. He walks back to the stool and sits down, his eyes locked on yours.
āNo,ā he says, his voice low and firm. āNo. It wasnāt guilt. The guilt was there, itās always going to be there. And it wasnāt the win. That was ā¦ that was all just noise.ā He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. āFrom the moment I first saw you ā I mean, really saw you, at the club, smiling ā I couldnāt think about anything else. I havenāt been able to. I felt ā¦ I donāt know. Iām not good with words. It was just a feeling. That I had to talk to you. That I wanted to be near you. It had nothing to do with your nose or the championship. It was just ā¦ you.ā
The sincerity in his voice is a palpable thing. It fills the small room, pushing back against the smell of antiseptic and the hum of the hospital.
He takes a deep breath, like a driver on the grid waiting for the lights to go out. Itās a moment of bravery. Or stupidity.
āY/N,ā he says, your name a quiet prayer. āWhen we get out of here, and after youāve had time to heal, and after youāre sure you donāt want to file a restraining order ā¦ will you go on a date with me? A real date. In public. During the daytime. With no beds or footballs anywhere in the vicinity.ā
The question hangs in the air, audacious and hopeful and completely insane.
You look at him ā this brilliant, talented, disastrous man who has twice broken your face and is now, against all logic, asking to see you again. A slow smile spreads across your lips, pulling at the tender skin around your mouth.
You tilt your head, your expression a perfect mix of amusement and affection.
āIs that because youāre trying to break my nose for a third time?ā You ask. āGoing for the hat-trick?ā
The anxiety on his face vanishes, replaced by a sudden, startled laugh. Itās a beautiful sound. He shakes his head, a look of relief washing over him.
āGod, no,ā he says, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours. āIām going to spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever touches that nose again. Iāll wrap you in bubble wrap if I have to.ā
āOkay then, champion,ā you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand again. āItās a date.ā
***
The late afternoon sun is low and golden, filtering through the sprawling branches of the oak trees in Melbourne Park. A gentle breeze, a welcome respite from the Australian heat, rustles the leaves. Itās quiet, peaceful. Youāre walking along a gravel path, your hand loosely held in Oscarās. The familiar, comfortable weight of it is an anchor in your world.
A year has passed since the Abu Dhabi emergency room. A year of tentative first dates ā each one meticulously planned by Oscar to be as low-risk and hazard-free as possible ā followed by a second date, and a third, until neither of you were counting anymore. A year of falling in love, a slow and steady process that felt as inevitable as it was unlikely.
His life is still a whirlwind of carbon fiber and continents, of qualifying laps and sponsor commitments. But your life is the quiet space he returns to. Your small apartment, which is now cluttered with his belongings, has become his home. The man who was once a face on a television screen now leaves his slippers by your front door and argues with you about who has to unload the dishwasher.
āIām just saying,ā you say, giving his hand a squeeze, āthat for a man who can calculate braking points to the millimeter while traveling at the speed of sound, your ability to judge the correct amount of pasta to cook is shockingly poor.ā
He feigns a look of deep offense. āItās called being prepared. What if we have unexpected guests? What if thereās a pasta-related apocalypse? Weāre set for a week. You should be thanking me.ā
āMy thank you is not having to cook for three days,ā you concede. āBut my Tupperware collection is filing a formal grievance.ā
He laughs, a deep, easy sound that you feel more than you hear. He stops walking and turns to face you, pulling you in by your hand. The sun catches the flecks of gold in his eyes. The shy, awkward boy from the medical tent is gone, replaced by a man who looks at you with a quiet certainty that still makes your breath catch.
āIs my subpar pasta-cooking a deal-breaker, then?ā He asks, a playful smirk on his lips.
āIām considering my options,ā you say, rising on your toes to kiss him. āBut for now, youāre safe.ā
He leans in to kiss you back, his other hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. And in that moment, in that split-second of blissful, mundane peace, the universe decides to test you one last time.
From the corner of your eye, you see a flash of neon green.
A frisbee, thrown with more enthusiasm than skill by a teenager on the nearby lawn, wobbles violently through the air. It arcs, dips, and then makes a sharp, unnatural turn, as if guided by the hand of some mischievous god of chaos.
It is heading directly for your face.
Time slows. Itās happening again. The world narrows to a single, incoming projectile. You see the ridges on the plastic, the way it spins, the inexorable physics of its trajectory. You brace for the impact, a phantom ache already blooming in your nose.
But Oscarās world speeds up.
His kiss hasnāt even ended when his senses scream DANGER. His racerās reflexes, honed by a thousand start-lights and a million micro-corrections, take over his body. There is no thought. There is only action.
His hand drops from your cheek. In a single, fluid motion that is impossibly fast, he moves. He doesn't just block it. He doesn't just bat it away. His arm extends, his fingers splay, and with the pinpoint precision of a man who lives in a world of milliseconds, he plucks the neon green disc out of the air.
It comes to a dead stop, hovering silently, less than an inch from the bridge of your nose.
A stunned silence hangs between you. The teenagers on the lawn have frozen, their hands over their mouths. The breeze rustles the leaves.
Oscar is panting slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks from the frisbee in his hand to your wide, shocked eyes. Heās holding the plastic disc like itās a venomous snake heās just subdued.
You slowly reach up and touch your nose. Itās there. Itās intact. Itās not bleeding.
A slow, bubbling laugh escapes your lips. It starts as a giggle and grows into a full, breathless peal of laughter. You lean your forehead against his chest, shaking with the sheer, cosmic absurdity of it all.
āOh my god,ā you manage to get out between gasps.
āAre you okay?ā He asks, his voice tight with a familiar, post-traumatic panic.
You look up at him, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. āBetter than okay. My hero.ā You tap the frisbee still clutched in his hand. āLook at you. Finally putting those ridiculously fast hands to good use.ā
A slow grin spreads across his face, a wave of relief washing over him. He looks down at the frisbee, then back at you, a look of mock-seriousness in his eyes.
āAll of it,ā he says, his voice a low, dramatic vow. āThe go-karting since I was a kid, the years in the junior formulas, the hours in the simulator, winning the World Championship ā¦ it has all been a training montage for this exact moment.ā He tosses the frisbee dismissively onto the grass. āMy lifeās purpose is complete. I have saved your nose.ā
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. āMy nose and I are eternally grateful,ā you whisper against his lips.
āGood,ā he murmurs, his smile softening into something tender and real. āBecause I plan on keeping it safe for a very, very long time.ā
He kisses you then, a kiss that isnāt born of frantic passion or champagne-fueled victory, but of quiet certainty and a shared, ridiculous history. Itās a kiss that tastes like home. And you know, with a clarity that settles deep in your bones, that while your story started with a bang and two clean breaks, it will end with a lifetime of very, very quiet saves.
i know requests are closed, but i just want to send this in incase i forget š
oscar winning the championship, he celebrates with his girl, the reader, after. fast forward a couple weeks, they found out they're pregnant, i think it'll be hilarious if it were triplets! fans are starting to think something bad happened to reader, because they havenāt appeared at the paddock in months. but then they just post about the birth of the triplets 9 months after abu dhabi, and everyone just starts clowning oscar. š
Our Little Podium - OP81
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!gf!reader
summary: Oscar wins the World Championship in Abu Dhabi, and he and Y/N celebrate accordingly. Fast forward a few months: Y/N has vanished from the paddock, F1 Twitter is convinced sheās a spy for Ferrari, and Oscar is up at 3 AM googling the aerodynamics of a triple stroller.
wc: 3.2k
š this one will stay as a standalone :)
The radio crackles, cutting through the deafening roar of the crowd, but to you, everything else sounds underwater.
"P1, Oscar. P1. You are the World Champion!"
Tom Stallardās voice is cracking, losing its usual composure, and thatās what finally breaks the dam. Youāve been crying since lap 55, tears silently tracking through your makeup, but now? Now you are openly sobbing into your hands, huddled at the back of the garage near the monitors.
On the screen, Oscar screamsāa raw, uncharacteristically loud release of tension that sends shivers down your spine.
The atmosphere is electric. Fireworks are exploding over the Yas Marina Circuit, painting the night sky in gold and red, but your eyes are locked on the papaya car. Oscar climbs out, standing on the halo, punching the air. He looks like a titan. He looks unstoppable.
But then he hops down, and the first thing he doesābefore acknowledging the mechanics, before weighing in, before removing his helmetāis scan the crowd. His head whips left and right, frantic.
Heās looking for you.
You push past a camera operator, slipping through the gap in the barriers. "Oscar!"
He freezes. Even with the helmet on, you can feel his gaze lock onto you. He rips the helmet off, his hair a mess of sweat, his face flushed with the purest joy you have ever seen.
You run. He doesnāt wait. He steps forward, meeting you halfway, and the collision is desperate.
He doesn't just hug you; he scoops you up. One arm around your waist, the other supporting your legs, he lifts you completely off the asphalt.
"We did it!" he yells, his voice hoarse, burying his face in your neck. He spins you aroundāonce, twiceāright there on the track. Your feet dangle in the air, and for a moment, the world is just a blur of floodlights and papaya.
"You did it," you sob, clinging to his race suit, not caring about the sweat or the smell of burnt rubber. "You're the champion, Os."
He sets you down but keeps his forehead pressed against yours, oblivious to the cameras circling you like sharks.
"We did it, love," he corrects you, his breathing heavy, his hands trembling slightly against your back. "We."
The next few hours are a blur of champagne, interviews, and flashing lights. But there is a pattern to the chaos.
Oscar is pulled away to weigh in. Five minutes later, heās back at your side, pressing a kiss to your temple.
Oscar is dragged off to the podium. As soon as the anthem ends and the champagne is sprayed, heās looking down at the crowd, pointing right at you.
Oscar is ushered into the team photo. He refuses to take it until you are standing right next to him, his arm draped possessively over your shoulder.
Throughout the garage celebrations, the team starts making bets on how long he can stay away from you. The answer is never more than five minutes. He slips away from billionaire sponsors and team principals just to find you in the corner, holding your face in his hands, kissing you like he needs to recharge his battery.
"I have to go do the media pen," he whispers against your lips, smelling of sticky rosewater and victory. "Wait for me?"
"Always," you smile, wiping a smudge of champagne off his cheek.
You stand off to the side, watching the press conference on a monitor. Oscar is sitting in the center seat, the World Drivers' Championship trophy gleaming in front of him. He looks exhausted but radiant.
"Oscar," a journalist from Sky Sports asks, "you stayed incredibly calm all season, but tonight we saw a lot of emotion. What kept you grounded during those final, stressful laps?"
Oscar doesn't hesitate. A soft, genuine smile breaks across his faceāthe kind usually reserved only for you.
"My girlfriend, Y/N," he says into the microphone. A collective aww ripples through the room. "Sheās been my rock. Honestly, sheās my lucky charm. I don't think I could have kept my head straight without her in the garage."
You press a hand to your heart, feeling fresh tears prick your eyes as the press swoons over the answer.
Itās 3:00 AM when you finally get back to the hotel room. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a heavy, happy exhaustion. Oscar places the heavy trophy on the dresser and immediately turns to you.
He looks at you with an intensity that makes your knees weak.
"I meant it, you know," he says softly, walking over to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you into the quiet of the room. "I wouldn't be standing here, holding that trophy, without you."
You reach up, running your fingers through his hair. "You did the driving, Mr. World Champion."
"And you gave me a reason to drive fast so I could get back to you," he mumbles, leaning down to kiss you deeply. "Best night of my life."
You smile into the kiss, having no idea that in a few weeks, your lives are going to get even crazier.
The high of the championship hasnāt worn off, but the adrenaline has. Now, itās just the lazy, golden haze of the off-season. You are currently in Australia, staying at his familyās place, supposedly to "relax."
But this morning, relaxation is the last thing on your mind.
You wake up feeling... off. Not sick, exactly, just strange. A weird flutter in your stomach, a sensitivity to the smell of Oscarās coffee brewing downstairs that makes you dizzy. You slip out of bed while Oscar is still downstairs and take the test you bought yesterday "just in case."
You leave it on the bathroom sink, too nervous to look, and go back to bed, pulling the duvet over your head.
Five minutes later, Oscar walks into the bedroom. Heās holding two mugs of coffee, wearing nothing but sweatpants, looking every bit the relaxed champion. He heads into the en-suite to brush his teeth.
You hear the water run. Then the water stops abruptly.
Silence.
A very long, very heavy silence.
Then, a clatter, like he dropped his toothbrush.
"BABE."
Itās not his usual calm, race-engineer voice. Itās high-pitched.
He bursts out of the bathroom, holding the little plastic stick like itās a live grenade. His eyes are wide, his face pale but flushing pink at the cheeks.
"THEREāS TWO LINES."
You sit up, heart hammering against your ribs. "Is it... is it faint? Or dark?"
"Itās... itās very red, Y/N! Itās two lines!" He stammers, rushing over to the side of the bed. He looks at the test, then at you, then back at the test. "That means... that means we..."
"We're having a baby," you whisper.
Oscar freezes. The panic in his eyes melts instantly, replaced by a glassy, overwhelming emotion. He drops the test on the nightstand and practically collapses onto the bed next to you.
"A baby," he repeats, his voice cracking.
He pulls you into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you. You can feel him shaking. When he pulls back, there are tears in his eyesāthe second time youāve seen him cry in two weeks.
"We made a tiny human," he laughs, a wet, joyful sound. "Iām going to be a dad."
"A World Champion dad," you smile, wiping a tear from his cheek.
"I don't care about the trophy anymore," he says immediately, looking at you with intense seriousness. "This beats the trophy."
For the rest of the morning, Oscar is glued to you.
Weirdly, heās already acting like youāre six months along. He keeps his hand flat against your stomach, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of your shirt, even though your belly is completely flat.
"Oscar, itās the size of a poppy seed," you laugh, trying to get up to make breakfast.
"Careful," he says, gently pushing you back down. "Iāll make the toast. You and the... poppy seed... need to rest."
Later that night, you find him on the couch with his phone, brows furrowed in deep concentrationāthe same face he makes when analyzing telemetry data.
"What are you looking up?" you ask, peering over his shoulder.
He jumps slightly, angling the screen toward you. The Google search bar reads: when can baby hear my voice??
"It says 18 weeks," he says, sounding disappointed. "Thatās so far away."
He looks at your stomach again, then leans down, putting his mouth right against your belly button.
"Hello?" he whispers. "This is your dad. I drive fast cars. Please be nice to your mum."
You giggle, running a hand through his hair. "Youāre ridiculous."
"Iām prepared," he corrects, looking up at you with a grin that could light up the entire Melbourne grid. "I think weāre going to be good at this."
Little does he know, he's going to need a lot more than preparation. Heās asking the baby to be nice, not realizing there are three of them in there.
The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the ultrasound monitor. The gel on your stomach is freezing, but your hand is sweating because Oscar is holding it so tight he might actually break your fingers.
Heās staring at the screen with the same intensity he uses for Turn 1 at Monaco.
The doctor moves the wand around, humming softly. Then, she stops. She frowns, leans closer to the screen, and adjusts the contrast. She moves the wand again, pressing a little harder.
The silence in the room stretches for ten seconds.
Oscarās grip tightens painfully. "Is... is everything okay?" rarely does his voice sound this small. "Is there a heartbeat?"
The doctor turns to you both, her expression unreadable for a split second before softening into a professional smile.
"Oh, yes. There are heartbeats." She pauses. "Actually, that was why I was checking again. I wanted to be sure."
She points to the grainy blobs on the screen.
"Well... both are healthy."
Oscar blinks, his brain buffering. "Both?"
"And the third one too," she continues cheerfully, moving the cursor to a smaller shadow behind the first two. "Congratulations... theyāre triplets."
SILENCE.
Absolute, vacuum-sealed silence.
You stare at the screen, your mouth falling open, trying to comprehend the math. Three. Three humans.
Oscar, however, has simply ceased to function. He literally stops breathing. His chest doesnāt move for a full five seconds. He is staring at the doctor as if she just told him he has to drive a tricycle in the next Grand Prix.
"Three?" you manage to squeak out.
Oscarās eyes are wide, unblinking. He looks from the screen to your stomach, then back to the screen. His face has gone a shade of pale that usually indicates food poisoning.
He leans back in his chair, exhaling a breath heād been holding since the doctor frowned. He runs a hand down his face, dragging the skin.
"We celebrated too hard..."
He whispers it. Itās a low, horrified realization spoken into the quiet room.
"Oscar!" you burst out laughing, the shock breaking into hysteria.
The doctor starts chuckling, wiping the gel off your belly. "It happens more often than you think with natural conception, but yes, itās quite a surprise."
Oscar isn't laughing yet. Heās looking at his hands. "Three seats," he mutters to himself. "We need a car with three back seats. Do they make baby racing suits in bulk?"
Then, he looks at you, seeing you laughing with tears in your eyes. The terror finally cracks, and a bewildered grin spreads across his face. He starts to laugh tooāa nervous, slightly manic chuckle that grows into a full laugh.
"Triplets," he shakes his head, leaning forward to kiss your forehead, though he looks like he might faint. "Iām going to need a bigger trophy cabinet. And a lot more coffee."
The Formula 1 season is well underway, but somethingāor rather, someoneāis missing.
You havenāt been seen at a Grand Prix in four months. You haven't been in the background of McLarenās "Unboxed" videos. You haven't even been spotted at the airport.
Naturally, F1 Twitter has lost its collective mind.
The internet has turned into a digital crime board connected by red string.
@.piastrifan3 Guys, Oscar looked at his phone during the post-race cool down room and didnāt smile ONCE. They definitely broke up. Love is dead. Iām burning my merch.
@.user45 Hear me out: She was seen wearing red 6 months ago. Sheās currently in Maranello training to be a strategist for Ferrari. Sheās a double agent. Wake up sheeple.
@.user12 McLaren is hiding something. Is she the new stig? Is she driving the spare car? WHERE IS SHE ZAK BROWN?
@.f1fan5 Y'all are blind. Sheās pregnant. Look at Oscarās interviews. He has that 'Iām terrified and tired' dad energy already. 100% confirmed.
While the internet debates if you are a spy for Ferrari, the reality is much less glamorous and much stickier.
It is 3:00 AM in your Monaco apartment.
You are sitting up in bed, surrounded by a fortress of pillows, balancing a tub of Ben & Jerryās on your massive bump. The triplets are currently having a kick-boxing tournament against your ribs.
Oscar is sitting next to you, the blue light of his iPad illuminating his focused, frowning face. He is wearing his reading glasses, looking extremely serious.
"Babe," he says, breaking the silence.
"Hmm?" you mumble around a mouthful of cookie dough.
"Do we really need three cribs?"
You stop chewing. "Oscar. There are three babies."
"I know, but..." He turns the iPad toward you. "Look at the logistics. Three cribs take up 4.5 square meters. If we stack them... no, we can't stack them. But what if we get one mega crib?"
He taps the search bar. You can see his search history.
Oscarās Google History:
triple stroller aerodynamics
how to hold 3 babies with 2 arms
noise cancelling headphones for infants
can triplets share one crib?? pls help
"They can't share one crib, Os," you sigh, patting his arm. "They will kick each other in the face. Like they are doing to me right now."
He sighs, defeated, and rubs his face. "Right. Strategy error. I'll go back to the drawing board."
He closes the tab on the "Mega Crib" and looks at your ice cream.
"Can I have a bite?"
"Get your own," you growl playfully, pulling the tub closer. "I'm eating for four. You're just stressed."
"I am stressed," he mumbles, resting his head on your shoulder. "The internet thinks we broke up. I saw a TikTok analyzing my eyebrows to prove I'm heartbroken."
"Let them talk," you grin, resting your spoon on the lid. "Just wait until they see the surprise."
It is a quiet Tuesday morning. There is no race this week. The F1 world is bored, still debating why you haven't been seen since testing.
Then, at exactly 10:00 AM, a notification pops up on millions of phones.
@.oscarpiastri just shared a post.
There is no warning. No "expecting" announcement. No gender reveal cake. Just the drop.
Monaco. A black and white, slightly grainy photo taken in your living room. Itās unpolished and raw.
You are sitting on the couch, hair in a messy bun, looking exhausted but blissfully happy, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a white blanket against your chest. Oscar is sitting on the floor next to your legs. He looks like he has been hit by a truck (in a good way). He has bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, andācruciallyāhe is awkwardly holding two more bundles, one in the crook of each arm.
The expression on both your faces says: "We love them more than life itself, but we have slept 40 minutes in the last three days."
Caption: "Welcome to the world, our little podium. š§”š¶š¶š¶ P1, P2, and P3 arrived safely. (Send coffee.)"
The post stays up for 30 seconds before the comment section crashes. When it finally loads, it is pure chaos.
@.mclaren Getting three tiny fireproof suits ready immediately. We're going to need a bigger garage. š§”š§”š§”
@.f1fan45 TRIPLETS??? WTF. I thought she was just hiding a bad haircut??
@.piastriszn "Bro didn't just celebrate. He CELEBRATED." The math is mathing. 9 months after Abu Dhabi exactly... Oscar you absolute legend.
@.danielricciardo Three?? Mate, you donāt do things by halves do you? Congrats!
@.lewishamilton Amazing news. Congratulations to you both.
@.gridgossip Oscar Piastri single-handedly repopulating the grid. By 2045 the entire podium will just be Piastris.
@.user99 Everyone was worried they broke up and meanwhile Oscar was fighting for his life changing three diapers at once ššš
Oscar tosses his phone onto the couch, ignoring the buzzing that sounds like a swarm of angry bees.
"Well," he yawns, leaning his head back against your knee. "Cat's out of the bag."
"The internet is going to clown you for the rest of your life," you whisper, careful not to wake the baby in your arms (Baby P1).
"Let them clown," Oscar smirks, looking down at the two sleeping babies in his arms. "I won the championship, and I got three trophies nine months later. I'd say that's a pretty good season."
"Go to sleep, Oscar."
"Can't," he whispers back. "P2 just grabbed my finger. Iām trapped forever."
For the first time in seventy-two hours, the apartment is silent. No crying, no bottle warmers beeping, no lullaby machines playing white noise at full volume. Just the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing.
You tiptoe out of the kitchen, clutching a lukewarm mug of tea, and stop in the doorway of the living room. The sight before you makes your heart squeeze so hard it actually aches.
Oscar is sprawled out on the big gray sectional. One arm is thrown over his eyes to block out the afternoon sun, his mouth slightly open in deep, exhaustion-fueled sleep.
Curled up right in the center of his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing, is the third triplet. Oscarās other hand is resting protectively over the babyās tiny back, a reflex he doesn't even drop when he's unconscious.
You shift your gaze to the large playpen-bassinet combo set up near the window.
The other two are fast asleep, their heads turned toward each other. And there, in the space between them, their tiny fingers are interlaced. Holding hands.
You lean your head against the doorframe, letting out a long, shaky breath.
Your hair is a mess. You have a stain on your shoulder that is definitely spit-up. You haven't watched a race or checked the news in weeks. Your life is a blur of diapers, formula, and deciphering which cry means "hungry" and which cry means "I just want to scream."
But looking at themāyour "Team Five"āyou wouldn't trade a single second of the madness.
Oscar stirs. He doesn't open his eyes, but he shifts slightly, sensing your presence in the room. He pats the baby on his chest gently.
"Is everyone alive?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
"Everyone is sleeping," you whisper back, smiling. "Go back to sleep, champ."
He hums, a satisfied sound, and settles deeper into the cushions. "Best off-season ever," he slurs, before drifting back off.
You take a sip of your tea, watching the sunlight dance over the three tiny faces that look so much like him.
He was right. He won the trophy in Abu Dhabi, the gold, the glory, the history books. But this? This messy, exhausting, loud, overwhelming life in your living room?
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