hi angel

Vero 26 Capricorn Sun, Sagittarius Rising, Scorpio moon Kpop. F1. Flowers

[boxbox81babygirl]

No Cameras Here – OP81 

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader  

Part 32 to Let the Light in

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 1:21  

This time, getting ready for media day in Spielberg—the first day in the paddock as Oscar’s girlfriend—felt different. 

You weren’t just getting dressed. 

You were preparing not to be seen. 

Not because of him. 

But because you weren’t ready for the world to have an opinion on something that still felt so… yours. 

Every choice was more deliberate, more calculated than it would have been if you were simply heading in with Alex like usual. 

For a moment, you and Oscar had considered it anyway—entering with Alex, then slipping away somewhere between Ferrari and McLaren like it would be easy. 

But Alex being Alex… she drew attention without even trying. 

More than you needed. 

More than you wanted. 

And sneaking around in the paddock wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded. Even if you managed it perfectly, people would notice. They always did. Questions would follow—where had you gone, who had you met, why had you disappeared. 

And you weren’t exactly invisible yourself. 

Your name carried. 

You weren’t as inconspicuous as you liked to think. 

So instead of entering with Alex—and definitely not with Oscar—you would go in with one of his team members. 

Planned. 

Coordinated. 

Understood. 

Every step mapped out. Every timing aligned. 

Everyone involved knew how private this needed to stay—and respected it. 

So when you stood in front of the mirror, finally ready, you allowed yourself a small breath. 

A simple white dress. 

Soft cotton, light against your skin. 

Clean. Effortless. 

White sneakers, worn in just enough to not look new. 

Nothing that would draw attention. 

Your hair was pulled into a soft bun—no loose waves, no effort to stand out. 

A few delicate pieces of jewelry—barely noticeable unless someone was looking for them. 

Your orange bag hung from your shoulder, the only pop of color, matching the subtle check on your Nikes. 

Your paddock pass for the Austrian weekend was already tied to the strap, resting against the fabric instead of hanging around your neck. 

You looked like someone who belonged. Because you did.  

But not someone people would or should stop for. 

“Is the orange for me?” Oscar asked, a grin tugging at his lips as he stepped out of the bathroom, his eyes found you immediately. 

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you turned slightly toward him. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you teased, lightly hitting his shoulder. 

He barely reacted, already stepping closer, his arms sliding around your waist from behind like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Warm. 

Familiar. 

His chin brushed your shoulder as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. 

You met his gaze in the mirror. 

For a second, neither of you said anything. 

He was looking at you properly. 

Taking in the small details—the way your hair was pulled back for once, the simplicity of the dress, the quiet effort to not stand out… and still somehow standing out to him anyway. 

“Thanks again,” he said softly, his voice lower now, “For coming.” 

You smiled, your hand coming up to rest lightly over his where it was wrapped around you. 

“Of course.” 

But Oscar shook his head slightly, like that answer wasn’t enough. 

“No, I mean it,” he murmured. “I know this isn’t… easy.” 

His thumb brushed absent circles against your waist as he spoke. 

“You don’t have to do any of this.” 

Your expression softened. 

“I know,” you said quietly. 

And you did. 

That was the difference. 

No pressure. 

No expectation. 

Just choice. 

You shifted slightly in his hold, turning your head just enough so you could look at him more directly. 

“I want to be here,” you added. 

“With you.” 

Something in his expression changed at that. Subtle—but there. 

Like the words settled somewhere deeper than he expected. 

His grip tightened just slightly. 

Not holding you in place. 

Just… holding on. 

“Okay,” he said quietly. But he didn’t move away. 

Instead, his gaze drifted back to your reflection again, a faint smile pulling at his lips. 

“You know,” he added after a second, voice lighter now, “you’re not doing a great job at not getting noticed.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?” 

He hummed softly, leaning in just a fraction closer. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Bit distracting, actually.” 

You rolled your eyes, though the warmth in your chest betrayed you. 

“That sounds like a you problem.” 

“Definitely is,” he agreed easily. 

A beat passed. 

Quiet. Comfortable. 

Then— 

“You ready?” he asked again, softer this time. 

Not about the outfit. 

Not about the timing. 

About everything. 

Your fingers laced with his where they rested against your waist. 

You exhaled slowly. 

“Yeah,” you said. 

“Good,” he smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “I’ll be the one in papaya,” he added, winking before finally stepping back. 

“Natalie will be here any second,” he said, reaching for his bag. “If you need anything before we meet in the drivers’ room, just text me.” 

Of course he would say that. 

Even with everything he had to do. Even with how busy his day would be. 

Still making sure you were okay. 

Your smile softened. 

“I know.” 

This time, you pulled him toward you instead—your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. 

“Thanks.” 

You rose onto your toes, pressing your lips softly against his. 

“Can’t wait to see you again,” you murmured against his lips, smiling. 

“Damn,” he murmured under his breath, before deepening the kiss just for a moment—his arms tightening around you, pulling you closer again like he didn’t quite want to let go yet. 

Just for a second longer. 

And when he finally did, it wasn’t immediate. 

His hands stayed at your waist a fraction too long, his forehead hovering near yours as if he was quietly weighing whether leaving was actually necessary yet. His gaze flicked over your face once more—slow, unhurried—like he was trying to memorize something he already knew by heart. 

Only then did he exhale, soft and almost reluctant, and ease back just enough to create space again. 

Until a knock at the door cut through the moment. 

Reality returning. 

“See you later,” he said softly, pressing one last kiss to your lips before stepping back. 

He grabbed his bag, running a quick hand through his hair as he moved toward the door. 

You watched him open it, greeting Tom with an easy nod. 

You gave a small, almost shy wave in return. 

And then the door closed behind him. 

Leaving you alone again. 

The quiet settling back in. 

Different this time. 

Not empty. 

Just… waiting. 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

You’ve been here before. 

That’s what you keep telling yourself as you walk through the paddock, matching Natalie’s pace like it’s second nature, like this is just another weekend, just another pass clipped to your bag, just another version of you slipping into a space that’s always opened for you. 

You know how to do this. 

You know where to look, where not to linger, how to keep your expression somewhere between polite and forgettable. You know how to laugh at the right volume, how to stand just off to the side so you’re seen but never questioned. 

You’ve done this a hundred times. 

With Alex by your side. With Arthur. With your family. Alone. 

Just not like this. 

Because this time, there’s something sitting just under your skin warm, electric, impossible to ignore. 

This time, he’s yours. 

The thought comes quick, uninvited, and you press it down just as fast, like it’s something dangerous. Like if it shows on your face, even for a second, someone will notice. Someone will look a little too closely and figure it out. 

“Just stay with me,” Natalie says, glancing back at you, a kind smile on her face. 

You nod, easy. Of course. You would’ve anyway. 

You’re good at this. You’ve always been good at this. 

But your senses are different now sharper, tighter, like everything is turned up just one notch too high. Every voice, every movement, every flash of a camera somewhere in the distance makes your shoulders pull in just slightly, makes you check yourself without meaning to. 

Not because you don’t belong. 

Because you do. 

Just not like this. Not out loud. 

You don’t look toward his garage. 

Even when you feel it before you see it that quiet pull, like something in you knows exactly where he is without needing confirmation. 

You feel his eyes on your for a second, know exactly when he has noticed you. When it drifted from data or telemetry towards you. When it lingered just a second too long before he moved again to answer something Tom had asked. 

But your gaze stays forward. Your steps don’t falter. You say something to Natalie, something easy, something normal, and she answers, and it almost feels like any other time. 

But beneath it, there’s that steady, thrumming thought… 

He chose you. 

After everything. After the almosts and the maybes and the way you told yourself not to expect anything, not to build it into something real.  

He chose you. 

He asked you. 

Hoped for you. 

And now you’re here. 

Not as a friend. Not as a familiar face drifting in and out of garages that were never yours. 

But as something that wants to be hidden, just for a bit longer.  

Your reflection catches in the glass as you pass, and for a second, you pause not physically, just inside your own head. 

You look the same. 

No one would know. 

That’s the point. 

Natalie says your name, and you blink, snapping back. 

“Sorry,” you say, a small smile, controlled. “Just taking it in.” 

She hums, like that makes sense, like there’s nothing more to it than that. 

You’re grateful for it. 

Because if she looked any closer, if anyone did, they might see it the way your chest feels too full, the way your thoughts keep circling back to one thing, one person, one truth you’re not allowed to show. 

You follow her further in, steady, practiced, effortless. 

Like you’ve always done. 

Only now, every step is a secret. 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Messages with Alex

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

yourusername

yourusername 🤍☀️🍰🐚✨ 

Liked by alexandramalenalerclerc, charles_Leclerc, lando and 798’970 other's  

alexandramalenaleclerc: la plus jolie 🤍 

yourusername: toi 💗💗

oldmoneyaesthetic: she doesn’t post. she curates. 

softluxurygirl: white dress, pastries, shells… this is literally a summer moodboard ☀️ 

manon.v: Y/N M/N ANSWER THE PHONE NOW!! 

manon.v: En plus, tu es magnifique, ma petite sœurette 🥰💞 

leclercfamilyupdates: this friend group is actually unreal 

charles_leclerc_fan: why is charles just casually in everyone’s dumps 😭 

charles_leclerc_fan:  slide 6 is giving “boyfriend energy” but who is he?? 

F1gossipcentral  no bc why does this feel like a soft launch of something BIG  kimiantonelli_updates:  didn’t she used to be linked to Kimi Antonelli?? this is a timeline shift  drszone: kimi literally posted his girlfriend like last week btw so that rumor is over 

f1fanatic92: ferrari backseat pic is sending me 😭 

monacopaddockwatch: she’s literally ALWAYS around alexandra though, this isn’t new  paddockinsider: people underestimate how connected she is to ferrari circles tbh  monacogpqueen: same like why is this friend group lowkey a netflix series  softluxurygirl: i just came here for aesthetic inspo and now i’m invested in lore 

gridtalk: slide 6??? why is no one talking about slide 6 👀 

f1gossipcentral: no because that slide is VERY interesting… 

leclercfamilyupdates: leo being in 2 slides is the real main character honestly 🐶 

charles_leclerc_fan: charles just casually in a friend’s dump again like it’s normal life 😭 

f1gossipcentral: no but WHY is everyone skipping slide 6 like it’s nothing 👀 

paddockwatcher: because we’ve all learned not to start that conversation again 💀 

f1fanatic92: slide 7 is actually so soft though like??? sea shells??? 😭 

oldmoneyaesthetic: she romanticises everything even silence 

kimi12antonelli: DOES NO ONE WANT TO KNOW WHO THE GUY IN SLIDE 6 7 AND 8 IS? 

randomfanaccount: guys why is nobody talking about the fact she’s actually stunning 

Kimifan12: OK BUT WHO IS THE GUY IN SLIDE 6 7 AND 8 😭 

op81fan: ok crazy thought but… what if she’s the one oscar was soft launching 👀  oscarpastry: be serious 😭  81babe: babes you’re reaching 😭 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

“Are you sure nobody will see me out there?” you asked, hesitating just slightly as your fingers curled tighter around his. “I don’t want to be a bother… like people having to constantly make sure I’m not seen.” 

Oscar was already smiling before you even finished. 

Like he’d expected that. 

Like he knew exactly where your mind would go. 

He didn’t answer right away—just kept gently pulling you by the hand toward the door, like he already knew you’d follow anyway. 

“Hey,” he murmured, soft but certain. 

One last tug—and you stumbled forward, right into him. 

Exactly where he wanted you to be. 

Your breath caught slightly at the impact, your hand landing against his chest to steady yourself. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his fireproofs—the black ones that made him look unfairly good. 

“You sure?” you asked again, quieter this time, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned in more. 

And Oscar— 

God, he liked that. 

You could see it in the way his smile softened, the way his shoulders relaxed, like your closeness did something to him too. 

His hand slipped from the door, letting it fall open just slightly behind you, before coming up to your face—fingers brushing gently along your cheek. 

“Yeah,” he nodded easily. “No one’s going to notice.” 

His eyes found yours. 

Steady. Warm. Certain. 

“You’re not a bother,” he said calmly, voice low enough that it felt like it stayed between you. “Not to me. Not to anyone.” 

His thumb traced a small, absent movement against your skin. 

“And I want you there,” he added. “I want you to watch quali from the main area.” 

A small pause. 

“And there won’t be cameras,” he continued, already anticipating you again. “Natalie knows. She’ll make sure you’re fine.” 

A beat. 

“She doesn’t mind.” 

Your lips pressed together in a soft pout, though it didn’t quite land with the same conviction as usual. 

“You just took away all my arguments,” you murmured. 

That earned you a quiet chuckle. 

“Yeah,” he admitted easily. “That was the plan.” 

Your eyes narrowed slightly at him—but you were already leaning further into his touch, not even trying to hide it. 

And he let you. 

Of course he did. 

For a moment, neither of you moved. 

The noise outside the room felt distant—muted behind the half-open door, like the world had taken a step back without asking. 

It wasn’t heavy. 

Wasn’t fragile. 

It just… paused. 

Comfortable. Easy. 

Safe in a way that didn’t ask anything from you. 

Your fingers relaxed slightly against his chest, but you didn’t pull away. 

Didn’t want to. 

“Can I take you out there now?” he asked gently after a moment. 

And before you could even answer, he leaned in—pressing the softest kiss to the bridge of your nose, then just barely to the corner of your mouth. 

Your breath hitched again. 

“Yeah,” you managed, quieter than before. 

He smiled. 

Then took your hand again—fitting perfectly into his—and pressed one last kiss to the top of your head before pushing the door open fully. 

And this time, you stepped out with him without any hesitation. 

The corridor outside was already alive in the distant sense—footsteps somewhere further down, muted voices bouncing off polished floors, the controlled chaos of a paddock day just beginning to build. 

And that was when it hit you. 

One thing you had forgotten—somewhere between planning, timing, and carefully staying out of sight— 

was that eventually… 

you’d run into him. 

Honestly, you were almost surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. 

“Woah—” 

Lando stopped mid-step in front of you, clearly not expecting to see you there. 

His eyes landed on you first. 

Then flicked to Oscar. 

And then— 

Your hands. 

He didn’t react immediately. 

Just… paused. 

Like his brain hadn’t quite caught up yet. 

His expression shifted in real time. Surprise first. Then recognition. Then something quieter.... like a realization finally catching up to him. 

“Didn’t expect you here,” he said. 

Not to Oscar. 

To you. 

His gaze stayed on you a second too long. 

You were dressed simply—intentionally so. Light jeans, a soft fitted tank top, the same sneakers from yesterday, your bag loosely hanging from your hand. Nothing loud. Nothing that demanded attention. 

Just… you. 

But Lando was looking like he’d noticed every detail anyway. 

And that alone made something in your chest tighten. 

Your fingers instinctively closed a little tighter around Oscar’s. 

Not dramatic. 

Just reflex. 

A grounding check-in without words. 

Oscar felt it immediately. 

His hand squeezed back—steady, firm, reassuring in a way that didn’t draw attention but still anchored you right where you stood. 

You exhaled slowly. 

Calmer. 

You managed a small smile toward Lando. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I get that.” 

A beat. 

Silence stretched—not uncomfortable yet, but shifting. 

Lando’s eyes flicked down again. 

Then up. 

“Since when?” he asked, voice light, expression recalculating. He gestured vaguely between you and Oscar, like he needed confirmation that what he was seeing was actually real. 

But there was something under it— 

something that didn’t quite match. 

Like he was trying to figure out when exactly he’d missed it. 

Oscar straightened slightly beside you. 

Subtle, but noticeable if you knew him. 

Not defensive. 

Just present. 

Lando barely looked at him. 

Still you. 

Because he had wanted you for such a long time. Not Oscar, you. 

But that question made your stomach tighten the slightest bit. 

Since when? 

That was a good question. 

And suddenly, not an easy one at all. 

Should you answer with how long you and Oscar had actually been together? Or with how long this had been quietly building before it ever became official? 

Or do you answer the version that feels heavier—the one sitting unspoken in the room— 

why you hadn’t said anything earlier, when Lando had been trying for you for what felt like forever? 

And none of those answers felt simple anymore. 

“A while,” Oscar answered instead. 

Lando’s head turned toward him slowly, like he was letting the words settle. Trying to place the moment he had missed it. The shift. 

But there hadn’t been one clear moment. 

That was the problem. 

“We kept it quiet,” you added gently. “Private.” 

Lando nodded, though his eyes stayed searching. 

“That’s…” he hesitated. 

For half a second, it looked like he might say something else. 

Something honest. 

But he swallowed it down. 

“…great,” he finished, a tight smile pulling at his lips. 

You smiled back, your hand still in Oscar’s—warm, steady. Even as your own fingers trembled slightly. 

You had expected a confrontation—and were almost relieved when it didn’t come. 

Still, you understood the disappointment. 

Maybe you should’ve been clearer with him. Clearer that there was never going to be anything between you. 

But instead, you had waited. 

Hoped that, with time, his attempts would fade… that whatever this had been for him would quietly disappear on its own. That he’d just lose interest... 

And now, standing here— 

it didn’t feel quite as simple as you had told yourself it would be. 

“That explains Barcelona,” he added after a second, attempting a joke this time. 

It almost worked. 

You nodded. “Yeah.” 

Another pause. 

Around you, the paddock kept moving—mechanics crossing past, engineers deep in conversation, distant cheers already rising from somewhere near the grandstands. 

But right here— 

it stilled. 

“Are you happy?” 

And this time, you weren’t sure who he was asking. 

Oscar— 

maybe hoping the friend he had lost last year was still somewhere there. 

Or you— 

because maybe, after everything, he had liked you. Not just the idea of you. 

Your gaze shifted to Oscar without thinking. 

Your eyes met his. 

And the warmth that followed—quiet, steady, certain—was something you didn’t think you could ever fully put into words. 

Not to anyone else. 

“Yes,” you said finally, your voice soft but sure as you looked back at the Brit in front of you. 

“Very.” 

Beside you, Oscar gave a small nod. 

But his eyes didn’t leave you. 

Lando swallowed, the movement subtle but visible, before nodding once. 

“Good.” 

This time, it sounded more real. 

He shifted his weight, already half-turning, ready to move on—to his car, his session, something easier than standing here— 

But Oscar stopped him. 

A hand on his shoulder. 

Light. 

Respectful. 

“Hey,” he said. 

Lando stilled, glancing back over his shoulder before fully turning around again. 

“We’re keeping it private for now,” Oscar continued calmly. “No cameras, no press. Just… for us.” 

A beat. 

“Can you keep it between us?” 

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Lando’s face. 

Not surprise. 

Not even hesitation. 

Just… recognition. 

Because he knew exactly what that meant. 

Knew what it took to keep something like that yours in a place like this. 

“Of course,” he nodded, the answer coming easy. “You did the same for me and Magui.” 

Oscar’s expression didn’t change much—but there was a quiet acknowledgment in it. 

“Yeah,” he said simply. 

A small understanding passing between them. 

Driver to driver. 

Something unspoken. 

“No worries, mate,” he added, softer now. 

Then his gaze flicked—just briefly—past Oscar. 

Not obvious. 

But not accidental either. 

A quick glance. 

A check. 

Like he was putting pieces together without asking the question out loud. 

And then— 

He stepped back. 

This time for real. 

Turning fully, slipping back into the controlled chaos of the paddock—engineers calling, radios crackling, people moving with purpose. 

He didn’t look back. 

Not because he didn’t want to— 

but because he knew he shouldn’t. 

Whatever that had been—whatever he might have hoped for, at some point— 

It wasn’t his anymore. 

And it didn’t belong here. 

Not on a race weekend. 

Not now. 

So he let it go. 

Or at least— 

pretended to. 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Messages with your sister 

❁

Groupchat with Alex and your sister

✿❀ Let the Light in ❁✿

@ilichilangel thank you so much for the love and your scene. and also for being my beta reader and helping me whenever i need it! 🤍

So, Sol doesn't have just 1 chaos monkey in her life but 3. which would you rate the worst? Alex, Arthur or Manon (her Sister)?

taglist: @teamnovalak @anamiad00msday @engelsmoment @madd1115 @frankiejo04 @aerangi @dakotapaigelove @azldee @dazaisdogsblog @yumarkie @jennibahng @suns3treading @sassyangel16 @alwaysclassyeagle @moons-v @disappointednotsuprised24 @okcurran @esw1012 @okayarkay @sltwins @bhagyashreeghuge @mysteriousduckprincess @kay-bello @vinylphwoar @mclarensnumberone @taetae-armyyyyy @woninabillion04 @cherryhazee @shawnscurlz @csceclairs @daddyrafeslittleslut @theladybiers @piastripastry81 @be4rnellis @princessria127 @phosphen3-s @wiggly-yrath @artyyjia @chloclo @nilletellsstories @sunshinevansh @cherryniyaah @lora21 @marinasblogs-posts @blablabla2242 @dustyinkpages @applejackrootbeerhollis @pharmasennapuff @astrrlily @melissa66orion @dutchlionforev @gold66loveblog @bruhitsmoose @iceceweam9 @whistlef0rthechoir @omniandscared @vintageroses10 @eclipsiieevsx @br1adna @lagrandeourse @xyrillekl @sen-nes @fasterthanyous @noope306 @llicsa @liv1209 @houseoftwistedspirits @girlypoop123 @martzensvault @thefalseapp @dead-boys-stuff @itzrachel04

[ilichilangel]

@boxbox81babygirl ily and i love this series!! x

[merclando]

can we talk about 2026 oscar because i need a moment

[smileysuh]

yes, sir - TEASER

🌙 starring. Johnny Suh x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. You wonder if Johnny is vocal in bed. He’s a quarterback and used to leading with authority and confidence. Would he be good at dirty talk? You’ve heard from your friends that many of these frat boy football players are kind of lame in the imagination department, that sex is often wordless and entirely physical… but as someone who has spent her entire life in her head and not her own body, you’ve started to realize that having a partner who talks to you and puts your mind at ease when you lose your virginity is something that would be important.

tw/cw. Virgin!reader, loss of virginity, masturbation, mentions of porn, reddit sex audios, sex proposition, heavy foreplay, oral, fingering, squirt, multiple reader orgasms, protected sex, huge dick!Johnny, ‘we’ll make it fit’, pussy stretching, mutual orgasms, praise, dirty talk, slight sir kink, soft dom!Johnny, body worship, breast worship, slight religious themes, etc…  I pet names: (hers) Princess.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 9.6k 

🍭 aus. Non idol au, frat au, brother’s best friend, virgin reader, football player!Johnny, Cheerleader!Y/N, etc…

☀️ mlist + an.  So the smut scene is 4.8k, which is one of the longest I’ve ever written, but I wanted to go back to my frat roots and do a virgin reader with a soft dom who ensures she has the perfect first time, you know, something you can only find in fanfic ;)

“So… what can I do for you?” Johnny asks, slipping his phone into his back pocket.

“Well,” you release a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said at the gym. About how it’s clear I don’t have much experience with men, and how you like cute girls-”

“How I pay attention to you because you’re a cute girl,” Johnny corrects with a grin.

You can feel yourself getting flustered, and you look away from Johnny, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah, well… I guess, I guess I was thinking maybe… maybe since I’m in university, I should experiment a little.”

“Experiment?” Johnny cocks a brow.

You nod, skin now burning hot. “I was wondering… if maybe… maybe you would kiss me?”

Johnny takes a step forward, and you back against the door, body reacting out of the fear you’ve held your whole life in regard to the negatives of not being abstinent.

He slowly takes your hand, and you force yourself to look up at him.

“Have you ever been kissed, Princess?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Once, at Christian summer camp.”

“You’ve only ever been kissed just once?” Johnny lets out a shocked laugh. “You know, Mark has told us about your family, about the rules and the chastity that was instilled in you since you were young. Are you sure you want me to kiss you? I wouldn’t want to be…” he moves even closer, his voice lowering, “stealing your innocence.”

☀️ to read the full fic AND 3.4k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

👹 or wait till the fic is posted on tumblr Friday the 24th of April 2026

🔮 see what’s already available to read on my m.list

Interact to be tagged when the fic is posted, reblogs and replies will be prioritized

[ilichilangel]

“we’ll make it fit”

I am feral

[ilichilangel]

Buffy Da Mata

Buffy Da Mata (born November 9, 1999) is an Australian-born creative director and former kart racing driver, known for her early involvement in European junior motorsport and her later transition into spatial and fashion-oriented design. She is the daughter of Brazilian-born driver and coach Gonçalo Da Mata and Australian interior designer Lara Da Mata.

Da Mata competed in various karting championships during her youth before retiring from competitive racing at the age of 19. Following her departure from motorsport, she pursued architecture in Lisbon, where her work developed into a broader focus on spatial design, brand environments, and creative direction. She is currently based in Lisbon, working across international fashion and design projects.

Her commonly used name, “Buffy,” is a nickname adopted during childhood, inspired by her interest in the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Early Life and Background

Buffy Da Mata was born in Adelaide, Australia, to Gonçalo Da Mata, a Brazilian-born racing driver and coach, and Lara Da Mata, a Sydney native and interior designer. She is the eldest of three children, with a younger brother, Rafael Da Mata (born May 12, 2001), and a younger sister, Mariela Da Mata (born April 13, 2004).

Her nickname, “Buffy,” originated in early childhood due to her fascination with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and it later became the name she was most commonly known by in both personal and competitive settings.

As a child, she was described as notably shy and reserved. At the age of five, her father enrolled her in karting in an effort to encourage social interaction. Despite her quiet nature, she quickly demonstrated a natural aptitude for racing.

Da Mata temporarily stepped away from karting between the ages of nine and thirteen. Following her family’s relocation to Lisbon, Portugal—due to her father’s career in motorsport—she returned to the sport alongside her brother.

Karting Career

After resuming competition in Portugal, Da Mata participated in various regional and international karting championships. Known for her technical consistency and race awareness, she progressed steadily through the junior ranks.

She later participated in testing for lower-tier formula racing categories, signaling a potential transition into single-seater competition. However, despite promising performances, she ultimately chose not to pursue a professional racing career.

At the age of 19, she retired from competitive motorsport.

Education and Career

Following her departure from racing, Da Mata pursued architecture in Lisbon. She earned her undergraduate degree from the Lisbon School of Architecture before completing a Master’s degree at the University of Lisbon in 2025.

Her academic work focused on spatial design and environmental integration, interests that later informed her professional direction.

After completing her studies, Da Mata transitioned into creative direction and spatial design within the fashion industry. Her work centers on brand environments, installations, and visual storytelling, often bridging architecture with fashion presentation and experiential design.

She has collaborated with multiple fashion houses and creative teams across Europe, contributing to runway environments, brand activations, and event-based design projects.

Personal Life

Da Mata is known for maintaining a relatively low public profile. Despite her early exposure to the highly visible world of motorsport, she has remained selectively visible, with a curated social media presence focused primarily on design, travel, and visual work rather than personal publicity.

Her upbringing within a multicultural family—Brazilian and Australian—combined with her reserved personality, has often been noted as a defining contrast in accounts of her life.

Family

Buffy Da Mata is the daughter of Gonçalo Da Mata, a Brazilian-born former racing driver turned driver coach. After competing in formula racing during his early career, Gonçalo transitioned into coaching in the early 2000s and later returned to involvement in formula racing environments in 2026.

Her mother, Lara Da Mata, is an interior designer from Sydney, Australia.

Her younger brother, Rafael Da Mata, initially competed in karting alongside Buffy during their youth in Portugal before transitioning away from motorsport. He later pursued soccer, earning a scholarship to the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), where he played at the collegiate level while following a pre-law academic track.

Her younger sister, Mariela Da Mata, is an artist whose work has been featured in multiple exhibitions and art expos. Unlike her siblings, she did not participate in motorsport, instead pursuing a creative path influenced in part by her mother’s background in design.

[ilichilangel]

hi!! i’ve been reworking this! pls see updated bio on Buffy :)

[boxbox81babygirl]

Awareness | Crash Into Me

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x OC!Ísis Senna

Part 1 of Crash Into Me

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 1:21 

Oscar Piastri was kind. 

That was the first thing Ísis noticed about him—and the one thing she couldn’t quite reconcile with everything she expected from a Formula 1 driver. 

Not the results. Not the reputation. Not even the quiet confidence the paddock seemed to respect. 

Just… the ease of him. 

And for reasons she didn’t like examining too closely, it irritated her more than it should have. 

Because kindness like that didn’t survive this sport. 

And if it did— 

It meant someone else would have to break it. 

He was grounded. Everyone knew that. And Ísis learned it quickly, too. 

He wasn’t loud. Didn’t fill a room just to prove he could. There was nothing performative about him—no sharp edges, no arrogance disguised as ambition, no constant need to assert himself in spaces where he already belonged. 

A simple guy, finally living the dream he had spent his entire life building toward. 

And he was good at it. 

Annoyingly good. 

Not the kind of good that came purely from raw, effortless talent—the kind that flickered unpredictably without structure. No—his was constructed. Earned in hours no one saw. 

The late nights in the simulator when the paddock had long gone quiet. The extra debriefs that ran longer than necessary. The careful, almost meticulous study of telemetry—line by line, corner by corner. The questions asked in meetings that actually changed outcomes. 

Disciplined. Precise. Reliable. 

He worked for it. Chose it. 

And it showed. 

P4 in his second year. Calm under pressure. Clean races. No unnecessary risks, no wasted movement. The kind of driver teams built around—the kind they trusted to deliver results without creating chaos. 

The kind who had chosen this life and never once seemed to question it. 

The kind she was about to ruin. 

Because he was good. 

But she was better. 

And that made everything worse. 

Because she understood exactly what that meant— 

That she was about to take something from him that he had built, chosen, and earned… 

While she had arrived with it already attached to her name. 

Last year, the car had been good—and he had clearly been the number two driver. There had been structure then. A quiet, unspoken hierarchy. A defined understanding of where each of them stood within the team. 

This year, the car would be better. 

And the fight for number one was open. 

Not hers by default. Not his by promise. 

Just… open. 

And she intended to close it. She had to. 

“How’s the suit on you?” His voice came from her side—easy, warm, familiar in a way that never seemed forced. 

It was their first day back from winter break. Both had been asked to appear at the MTC to try on their suits, review the upcoming season’s schedule, and film a handful of marketing and promotional pieces. 

Ísis straightened almost instinctively before turning. Her gaze dipped—briefly, involuntarily—over the papaya and black suit, catching the line of his shoulders before settling on his face. 

Pale skin. Freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. A few faint beauty marks, traces of old scarring. Hazel eyes that met hers without pressure, without demand. Just kind. 

“It’s fine,” she said with a small shrug. “Could be tighter around the waist.” 

Oscar nodded, glancing down at his own suit as he tugged lightly at the fabric. 

“Yeah, I can imagine.” 

There was recognition in that. He remembered—from last season—how particular she was about fit. Just like every driver had their own preferences. 

“Have you told them already?” 

She nodded, her dark hair shifting softly with the motion. “They took the measurements this morning.” 

A brief silence settled between them. 

Not uncomfortable. Not entirely easy either. 

Oscar didn’t rush to fill it. He rarely did. Ísis had always been quieter around him—more contained, more deliberate. Not that she was overly friendly with other drivers either. 

She preferred it that way, and he never seemed to take it personally. 

But he noticed. 

“You’re looking forward to it?” he asked after a moment, tilting his head slightly. “This season, I mean. Car feels good. Team’s in a good place.” 

An easy question. A standard one. 

Ísis held his gaze a second longer than necessary—chocolate against hazel—aware of the cameras positioned around them, capturing everything for YouTube clips or the next season of Drive to Survive. 

She couldn’t simply walk away. Couldn’t ignore him. 

“I’ll do what I need to.” 

Not yes. Not of course. 

Because she didn’t have the option not to. 

Oscar’s brows drew together slightly. 

“That didn’t sound like a yes.” 

“It wasn’t meant to.” 

Another pause. 

Most people would have laughed, deflected, softened the moment. 

Oscar didn’t. 

He studied her instead—subtly, carefully—as though trying to reconcile something that didn’t quite fit with the version of her he had in his head. 

He hadn’t been able to figure her out last year. 

As if that would suddenly change over winter break. 

“You’re still going to be quick,” he said finally, almost under his breath. Not reassurance. Not encouragement. Just a conclusion he had already reached. 

Ísis exhaled softly. 

“I know.” 

Simple. Certain. 

No humility. No arrogance. 

Just fact. 

And for the first time, she saw something shift in his expression—subtle, but real. Not discomfort. Adjustment. Recalculation. 

Across the hall, someone called her name. 

Ísis glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. Dark hair swaying with the movement, a few loose strands catching briefly against her cheek before settling again. 

“I should go.” 

“Yeah,” Oscar nodded. “See you in the briefing.” 

She gave a small nod in return and stepped away. 

But then she paused. 

Not because she wanted to. Because something about the moment felt incomplete. 

She looked back at him. 

Really looked. 

At the way he stood—loose, grounded, at ease in a space that had clearly become second nature to him. At the quiet focus in his posture. At the ease with which he occupied the environment, as though it had simply adjusted around him rather than the other way around. 

A space he had chosen to belong to. 

Something tightened briefly in her chest. Not visible. Not acknowledged. 

“Good luck this year,” she said. 

Simple. Controlled. 

Oscar blinked, caught off guard. 

“What?” 

Not because he hadn’t heard her. 

Because he hadn’t expected it to sound like that. 

But she was already turning away, already moving toward her engineer, hands lifting to peel the upper half of her suit down as she walked, movements practiced and automatic. 

Leaving him with it. 

He watched her go. 

Frowning slightly. 

Drivers said things like that all the time—casual, throwaway phrases exchanged between competitors who would spend the next nine months trying to outperform each other. 

Good luck. Have a good season. See you out there. 

But the way she had said it— 

It felt deliberate. 

Measured. 

Like she meant it—and something else alongside it. 

And that didn’t align with how she presented herself. Not on track. Not off it. 

Oscar’s gaze dropped briefly to the polished floor, the faint reflections of the overhead lights stretching beneath his shoes. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as the ambient noise of the MTC—footsteps, distant voices, the low hum of activity—blurred and receded around him, narrowing his focus to the weight of what she actually meant behind it. 

Then he looked up again, toward the corridor she had disappeared into. 

The high walls of the McLaren Technology Centre seemed taller than they should have—closing in with quiet precision. The hum of activity carried through the space, echoing faintly, making it feel at once expansive and confined, as though the building itself held its breath around what had just passed between them 

He exhaled slowly through his nose. 

Something about her. didn’t align. 

And he had the distinct feeling— 

This season wasn’t just going to be competitive. 

It was going to matter. 

❯❯❯❯ 

Ísis was everything you wanted in a driver. A marketable driver. 

Composed. Media-trained. Carrying a name that opened doors before she even spoke. With it came expectation, attention, infrastructure—a narrative already forming around her long before she had done anything to earn it on track. 

She didn’t have to fight for relevance. 

She arrived with it. 

And she was good. More than good. 

Consistent where others were volatile. Controlled where others cracked. The kind of driver who made performance look inevitable—even when it wasn’t. Clean inputs, measured risk, no wasted motion. She didn’t overdrive; she extracted. Lap after lap, session after session, she delivered exactly what the data promised—and more. 

Easy to position. Easy to build around. 

Too easy, sometimes. 

Formula 1 knew it. McLaren knew it. Zak knew it. Ísis knew it. 

And Oscar did too. 

He just didn’t like thinking about it. 

Because while she was being positioned as a story, a presence, a face of something larger—he was not. 

He didn’t come with a legacy name that drew immediate attention. He didn’t have sponsors waiting in line before he had proven himself. No pre-written narrative, no inherited spotlight, no expectation that preceded results. 

He had results. 

He had discipline. 

He had to earn every inch of recognition the hard way—through consistency, through performance, through showing up and executing better than the next person, over and over again. 

And it worked. 

But it never looked like hers. 

Never arrived as easily. Never carried the same inevitability. 

He wasn’t who people searched for first in the paddock. Not for interviews. Not for headlines. Not for narratives. 

He wasn’t legacy. 

He just was. 

So when he looked at her, it wasn’t admiration that came first. 

It was calculation. 

Because drivers like Ísis didn’t just compete. 

They altered expectations. 

They shifted focus. They changed how people spoke, how teams planned, how the season itself would be framed. They came with gravity—subtle, but constant—pulling attention, shaping conversations before a single lap was driven. 

And now she was on his side of the garage. 

Or rather— 

In the same fight as him. 

Which made her less of a teammate… 

And more of a problem he would have to outperform. 

Any—and everywhere they went. 

Starting in Barcelona. 

“So,” the interviewer began, offering a polished, practiced smile as he looked between them, “you’ve just finished your first proper laps in the car—how are you feeling?” 

The air was sharp. 

Barcelona in January carried a cold that didn’t demand attention—it took it. Quietly. Persistently. It settled into joints, fingertips, and the space between breaths, threading itself through layers of fabric and finding whatever warmth there was to take. 

Even layered in thick team jackets, it lingered. 

Ísis flexed her fingers subtly around the microphone, chasing warmth that didn’t quite return. The metal grille felt colder than it should have, the chill biting faintly into her skin with each small shift of her grip. A strand of hair brushed her cheek in the breeze, and she resisted the urge to tuck it back immediately, keeping her posture composed, still, controlled for the cameras angled in their direction. 

Beside her, Oscar stood still. 

Not rigid. Not braced. 

Just… unaffected. 

Shoulders loose. Posture relaxed. As though he had already adapted to the conditions rather than resisting them. 

Her gaze drifted toward him. 

His was already on her. 

A brief pause. 

Not accidental. Calculated. Measured. 

“Do you want to?” she asked quietly, just low enough not to carry. A courtesy. A formality. A quiet handover offered instead of taking the lead the way it was so often handed to her by default—without question, without hesitation, without anyone stopping to ask if she wanted it in the first place. 

Oscar shook his head once, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth. 

Easy. 

Unbothered. 

He always looked unbothered. 

And that, more than anything, was beginning to get under her skin. 

Ísis turned back to the interviewer, the transition seamless. Whatever flicker had existed a moment ago was gone, replaced by something practiced and controlled. 

“The car feels good,” she said. “Does what it should.” 

A soft laugh followed—light, measured, revealing nothing but doing exactly what it shoud outwardly. 

The interviewer smiled. Oscar’s expression shifted—slightly. 

Not amusement. Recognition. 

“Can you already tell us anything about the car?” the interviewer pressed. “We’ve seen a few laps—it looks quick.” 

Ísis shook her head, lips curving faintly. 

“Can’t tell you anything,” she replied, tone easy but deliberate. “Wouldn’t want our competition to know.” 

“But,” she added, “it feels good. And we’re looking forward to getting more laps in Bahrain.” 

A clean, controlled answer. 

Exactly what was needed—and nothing more. 

A gust of wind cut across the paddock before the interviewer could continue. 

Sharp. Sudden. 

Ísis instinctively pulled her jacket closer, shoulders drawing in as her hair lifted slightly, loose strands brushing against her lips and cheek. She exhaled quietly through her nose, steadying herself, fingers tightening for a brief moment at the edge of the fabric before settling again. Her stance adjusted almost imperceptibly, grounding her weight against the cold as she maintained composure for the cameras. 

Oscar noticed. 

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t comment. 

He simply shifted— 

A fraction closer. 

Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that his presence disrupted the wind’s path where she stood. Subtly breaking the direct edge of the gust before it could fully reach her. 

Subtle. Unremarkable. 

Unless you were paying attention. 

But she felt it immediately. 

The difference. 

And something in her chest tightened. 

Not gratitude. Not irritation. 

Something worse. 

Something that made it harder to keep him where he belonged— 

On the other side of the line she had already drawn. 

The interviewer turned to him. 

“Oscar, from your side—how was the car?” 

Oscar adjusted his grip on the microphone, the movement small and unhurried. His thumb brushed once along the handle as he settled it more comfortably in his hand, exhaling lightly through his nose before he spoke. 

“Yeah, it’s been good,” he said. Calm. Measured. “Still early, obviously, but the balance feels reasonable. There are areas we can improve—that’s what testing’s for.” 

Structured. Predictable. Reliable. 

He spoke like someone who trusted the process completely as though uncertainty wasn’t something to react to, but something to work through. 

“And compared to last year?” 

A pause. 

Not hesitation—consideration. 

His gaze shifted briefly, unfocused for a second as he gathered the right phrasing, choosing his words with the same precision he would later apply on track. 

“Different,” he said. “A step forward in some areas. We’ll understand it better over the next few days once we start pushing it more.” 

Ísis stood beside him, expression neutral. 

Listening. 

But not entirely. 

Watching. 

Measuring. 

For a brief moment, her attention shifted—not to what he said, but to how he occupied space. 

He moved like someone who belonged within the system. 

She stood like someone the system had already decided to revolve around. 

Two different advantages. 

Both real. 

Neither equal. 

She looked away before the thought could settle. 

“And how did you spend the off-season?” the interviewer continued, tone lighter now. “Did you stay in England, or go home?” 

Ísis’ expression softened slightly. The shift was subtle but visible—something easing at the edges of her composure, a quiet warmth returning to her features. The dark chocolate of her eyes caught the light differently now, less guarded, more open, as if the distance she usually maintained had momentarily thinned. 

“I went back to Brazil,” she said. “Spent time with my family. My sister. My mum.” 

A pause. 

“It was good.” 

Simple. Genuine. 

Everyone in the paddock knew this version of her. 

The family-oriented one. 

The grounded one. 

The one that made sense in interviews—clean, relatable, easy to frame within a narrative. 

Even if it wasn’t the whole truth. 

“Will we see them more this year?” 

Ísis let out a quiet laugh, a small breath of amusement escaping as she shook her head. 

“I’ve been trying to convince my sister,” she admitted, a hint of warmth threading through her tone. “We’ll see how successful I am.” 

A brief glimpse of something softer— 

Then gone again. 

“And you, Oscar—back to Melbourne?” 

His smile came easier than hers did, she thought. It always did. Less controlled, more at ease, like it surfaced without effort rather than being carefully placed. There was a naturalness to it that didn’t feel rehearsed for cameras, even if he was fully aware they were there. 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Spent some time at home. Family, my sisters… bit of sun, barbecues.” 

There was a faint lift in his expression as he spoke—something almost unguarded in the way his voice softened on the word home. His gaze flicked upward for a moment, tracking the grey sky above them, as if comparing it to something remembered rather than observed. 

“This,” he added quietly, almost to himself, “is a bit of a shock.” 

A small laugh followed—brief, understated, carried out with the same ease as the rest of his response, acknowledging the contrast without leaning into it. 

Ísis didn’t turn. 

But she noticed. 

Of course she did. 

Different worlds. 

Different rhythms. 

Same stage. 

Same stakes. 

The interviewer continued, moving effortlessly between personal and racing-related questions—anything to keep the segment engaging while he had the rare opportunity to speak with two drivers at the very start of a new season. 

Around them, cameras clicked. Crew members moved with purpose. The paddock continued its rhythm—efficient, structured, relentless. 

And while questions were asked and answers passed back and forth between them, 

something between them— 

Lingered. 

Not tension. Not yet. 

Something quieter. 

More dangerous for it. 

Awareness. 

Unspoken. Unavoidable. 

The kind that didn’t need acknowledgment to exist. 

And neither of them were pretending it wasn’t there anymore. 

For a moment, nothing shifted. The cameras moved, voices carried, the paddock remained indifferent to anything that didn’t appear on a timing sheet. 

But something had already changed. 

Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. 

Still, it sat there—in the space between them, in the pauses that lasted a second too long, in the way their attention kept returning, instinctively, no matter how often it drifted away. 

Awareness. 

Uninvited. Unresolved. 

And impossible to ignore now that it existed. 

Ísis adjusted her grip on the microphone, her expression settling back into composure as the interviewer concluded. 

Oscar handed his mic back without hesitation, already stepping half a pace away—like even a small increase in distance mattered more than it should have. 

Neither acknowledged it. 

Neither needed to. 

Their eyes met once more—brief, measured, enough. 

Then it broke. 

Ísis turned first, already moving toward her engineer, focus narrowing back into something controlled and precise. 

Oscar remained for a second longer. 

Watching. 

Not openly. Not obviously. 

Just enough. 

Then he looked away. 

Because that was easier. 

Because that was safer. 

Because whatever this was— 

It wasn’t something he could afford to indulge. 

❯❯❯❯ Crash Into Me ❯❯❯❯

Let me know what you thought and what you really want to read in this story!

xoxo babygirl

taglist: @yumarkie @naenaen @heartsformarie @aturnof-thepage @teamnovalak @originaldaughterofagun @pharmasennapuff @mayax2o07 @nerdylittlesh1t @astrrlily @gabby-marrie15 @thegirlinblackgreensilver @persassyjacksonsblog @devilacot @kebsf1shit @whistlef0rthechoir @helloiamoscarsfoot @just-emmaaaa @dessashippr @hannahbananababybanana @kay-bello @sunshinevansh

[ilichilangel]

been waiting for this 🙂‍↕️

[ilichilangel]

Because what else could happen?

Chapter 1 -Between floors

The elevator doors slid open just as Buffy stepped inside.

She didn’t look up at first, too focused on everything else to spare a second glance. The strap of her bag slipping from her shoulder, an errant curl tickling the back of her neck, the text from Kika asking where she was, the bottle of wine she brought balanced in the crook of her arm. All distracting.

It wasn’t until the doors began to slide shut that she felt the presence of someone else. Subtle. Almost imperceptible like they were holding their breath in an effort to not startle her. Her chest tightened before her mind caught up.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Oscar stood across from her, one hand resting lightly against the railing, posture relaxed in a way that would’ve read as casual at first glance. But she saw the stillness underneath it. The pause. Almost like he’d stopped short the second she entered. His shoulders held just a fraction too steady, breath caught in this chest.

For a second, neither of them said anything. Buffy simply turned her back on him, staring blankly at the mirrored doors in front of her.

Six months. That’s how long it had been, a lull that promised to stretch for eternity had just abruptly ended in this elevator.

“Hi,” he said finally.

Buffy blinked once, like she needed the extra second to place him somewhere that wasn’t memory. “Hi.”

The doors shut fully, sealing them into the space.

It’s suffocating, too small a space for something that hasn’t been touched in months. A year ago, they’d met like this. Not in this particular elevator but something close, on the way to a similar get together. .

They had fallen into each other’s rhythm without trying.

She shifted her weight slightly, eyes flicking to the numbers above the door before settling on his reflection in the doors, close enough to see without committing to looking directly at him.

He looked the same but at the same time he didn’t

Broader, maybe? If that was even humanly possible. Not dramatically so, but enough that it registered in the way his shirt sat across his shoulders, the way the color of his shirt fought to fit his neck.

His hair was longer too, just slightly, softer at the edges curling slight against his ears and neck.

Of course she noticed the small things. The things easy enough to miss if you didn’t know him. Impossible to ignore if you did.

He smelled the same, familiar in a way that caught her off guard. It lingered faintly in the enclosed space, clean, understated, something warm underneath it. Distinctly him.

The realization rooted itself somewhere deeper in her chest than she would admit. Time hadn’t touched that part of him, she couldn’t quite tell if that made it better or worse.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, the words coming out more measured than she felt.

It sounded neutral. It wasn’t. It was pointed, a silent confrontation of what transpired between them.

Oscar nodded once. “A bit” he paused, “You too?”

Buffy huffed quietly, almost a smile but not quite. “Not exactly the same kind of busy.”

“Still counts.”

Easy. Certain. Like the rhythm between them hadn’t been broken.

She looked at him properly and for a second it slipped. It was too familiar, like no time had passed whatsoever.

The elevator hummed softly as it climbed filling the silence.

“You could’ve reached out,” she said.

It came out more direct than she intended, cutting clean through whatever fragile ease had started to form.

Oscar didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

Simple, no excuse, not deflection. No long winded reason for why. Just yeah.

“But you didn’t ...”

“No.”

A beat stretched between them,Dense with everything they were choosing not to say.

“I thought about it,” he added.

Buffy’s expression shifted, just slightly. She tilted her head. “And you landed on not doing it at all?”

He met her eyes, steady. “Didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Honest. Simple. Far too casual for how this conversation felt.

She looked away first, facing the doors again exhaling softly. “You didn’t get to decide that for me.”

“I know.”

Another beat. The elevator dinged. Perfect timing.

The doors slid open before anything else could be said. A metaphorical period at the end of the sentence.

Buffy stepped out first.

⸻

The apartment was already alive. Warm with noise and smell, music low in the background, voices overlapping, food slowly cooking in the kitchen. Warm, inviting. Far too easy for how Buffy currently felt.

“Finally,” Kika called, appearing from the kitchen with a glass in hand as they pushed through the front door. Her eyes flicked between them, quick, entirely too observant. “You made it.”

Buffy stopped just inside the doorway, turning toward her slowly. “You didn’t tell me he was coming.”

The words slipped out in Portuguese, sharper than anything she’d said so far.

Kika didn’t even hesitate,”It didn’t seem important.” A shrug added to the tone. Buffy stared at her. Of course she was meddling.

Behind her, Pierre let out a quiet laugh, already catching onto something he absolutely did not need explained.

“Of course it was important,” Buffy muttered, switching back to English as she slipped her shoes off. “You’re unbelievable.”

Kika just smiled, Completely unapologetic, shamelessly even,“You’re welcome.”

Buffy shook her head, but there was no real heat behind it. Too distracted by how hyper aware she was that he was standing just a few steps behind her. That she could not be looking at him and still know exactly where he was.

Before dinner, they didn’t speak again. Not directly, but the familiarity was there. It threaded through everything and was impossible to ignore. They moved around each other without meaning to, like instinct hadn’t caught up to reality yet. A shift to the left to make space. A pause that lasted half a second too long. Conversations that blurred at the edges because something else was pulling focus.

Buffy caught glimpses of him without trying.

Across the room. Half-turned toward someone else. Laughing at something she didn’t hear.

The laugh hadn’t changed either.

Still soft at the start. Still fuller than he expected by the end. It hit her the same way.

Which was…so fucking annoying if she was being completely honest. And disorienting. It annoyed her in ways she couldn’t describe.

By the time they sat down for dinner, it wasn’t a surprise when they ended up next to each other. Another side effect of Kika’s meddling obviously.

Buffy didn’t comment this time. Just took her seat, smoothing her napkin over her lap like it didn’t matter.

Oscar sat beside her a second later. Close enough that it made her pulse spike.

The quiet brush of his sleeve when he reached for his glass. The warmth at her side that hadn’t been there a second ago. The same familiar, understated scent is stronger now in the closer space.

It shouldn’t have mattered. She should have been able to ignore it.

The conversation around the table flowed easily: racing, travel, plans for down time but somewhere along the way, it shifted.

It started small.

A quiet, dry comment passed just between them as Pierre animatedly tells a story they have heard dozens of times before.

“He’s told this story before,” Buffy murmurs while taking a sip of wine.

“Yeah,” he replies. “But this time it has a better ending.

She glances at him, a small roll of her eyes, “That’s not promising.”

Then the first touch.

He reaches across the table for water, hand brushing lightly against her back.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but his hand lingers, just for a second

Buffy stills then leans into it. Barely but just enough.

Across the table, someone was watching. Then someone else.

Because it didn’t look new.

It looked practiced.

Like something that had been happening long before tonight. Like something that hadn’t learned how to stop.

After that, it becomes easier, not dramatic but constant. Hands brushing, their shoulders almost touching. Their attention drifts back to each other without meaning to.

Like they’ve fallen back into something their bodies remember better than their minds.

Later, as plates were cleared with the promise of dessert and conversations fractured into smaller groups. Buffy found herself on the edge of the balcony.

She needed air or space. Both felt like the same thing in this scenario. She needed a space that didn’t feel like it had been touched by him.

The door slid open behind her.

She didn’t turn.

“You okay out here?,” Oscar asked.

There was something in it familiar in a way that settled and unsettled all at once. Like he’d picked up a thread they never finished.

Buffy leaned against the railing, arms folded lightly. “It was oppressively hot in there.” That was half true.

He stepped up beside her, not too close, back against the railing looking into the party through the glass doors.

For a moment, they just stood there. Monaco stretched out below them, all warm light and distant movement.

“You look good,” he said.

She glanced at him. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“I had six months,” he replied. “Figured I’d start simple.”

That almost got a real smile out of her. Almost.

Silence settled again.

“You disappeared,” she said after a moment. No accusation. Just fact.

Oscar nodded slightly. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He exhaled, gaze drifting over the party, before returning to her. “Why did you?

Buffy watched him carefully. “That’s not really an answer.”

“I know. I didn’t think,” he started, then stopped, adjusting. “I wasn’t sure what it was. And I didn’t want to mess it up.”

She studied him. “So you just… didn’t do anything?”

“When you say it like that—”

“That’s what happened,” she interjected.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Buffy looked away, jaw tightening slightly before easing again. “It was easy. It almost felt right.”

“I know.” There it was again, the two words that had haunted the evening.

“That’s not enough for me.” ‘I know’ wasn’t an answer, it wasn’t anything. Just words.

Oscar didn’t hesitate this time. “It is for me.”

She turned back to him, caught off guard by how quickly he said it.

“That’s the difference,” she said, quieter now.

“Maybe,” he agreed. “Or maybe I just didn’t say it before.”

Buffy exhaled, shaking her head slightly as she looked back out over the city. “You can’t just say things like that now.”

“Why not?”

“Because” she stopped herself, pressing her lips together briefly. “Because it doesn’t change what already happened.”

“No,” he said. “But it changes what I do now.”

She didn’t let herself sit in it for long.

“We’ll see,” she said, softer this time. Not dismissive but not convinced. Buffy almost wasn’t sure what there were talking about anymore but she didn’t fight it.

Oscar nodded once. He didn’t push, didn’t offer more of an explanation and didn’t move closer.

He just stayed there beside her. She noticed it differently than she would have six months ago. How it felt different.

Not just that he was there but that he seemed steady, changed but somehow still distinctively Oscar.

Neither of them moved away.

[ilichilangel]

Buffy Da Mata

Buffy Da Mata (born November 9, 1999) is an Australian-born creative director and former kart racing driver, known for her early involvement in European junior motorsport and her later transition into spatial and fashion-oriented design. She is the daughter of Brazilian-born driver and coach Gonçalo Da Mata and Australian interior designer Lara Da Mata.

Da Mata competed in various karting championships during her youth before retiring from competitive racing at the age of 19. Following her departure from motorsport, she pursued architecture in Lisbon, where her work developed into a broader focus on spatial design, brand environments, and creative direction. She is currently based in Lisbon, working across international fashion and design projects.

Her commonly used name, “Buffy,” is a nickname adopted during childhood, inspired by her interest in the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Early Life and Background

Buffy Da Mata was born in Adelaide, Australia, to Gonçalo Da Mata, a Brazilian-born racing driver and coach, and Lara Da Mata, a Sydney native and interior designer. She is the eldest of three children, with a younger brother, Rafael Da Mata (born May 12, 2001), and a younger sister, Mariela Da Mata (born April 13, 2004).

Her nickname, “Buffy,” originated in early childhood due to her fascination with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and it later became the name she was most commonly known by in both personal and competitive settings.

As a child, she was described as notably shy and reserved. At the age of five, her father enrolled her in karting in an effort to encourage social interaction. Despite her quiet nature, she quickly demonstrated a natural aptitude for racing.

Da Mata temporarily stepped away from karting between the ages of nine and thirteen. Following her family’s relocation to Lisbon, Portugal—due to her father’s career in motorsport—she returned to the sport alongside her brother.

Karting Career

After resuming competition in Portugal, Da Mata participated in various regional and international karting championships. Known for her technical consistency and race awareness, she progressed steadily through the junior ranks.

She later participated in testing for lower-tier formula racing categories, signaling a potential transition into single-seater competition. However, despite promising performances, she ultimately chose not to pursue a professional racing career.

At the age of 19, she retired from competitive motorsport.

Education and Career

Following her departure from racing, Da Mata pursued architecture in Lisbon. She earned her undergraduate degree from the Lisbon School of Architecture before completing a Master’s degree at the University of Lisbon in 2025.

Her academic work focused on spatial design and environmental integration, interests that later informed her professional direction.

After completing her studies, Da Mata transitioned into creative direction and spatial design within the fashion industry. Her work centers on brand environments, installations, and visual storytelling, often bridging architecture with fashion presentation and experiential design.

She has collaborated with multiple fashion houses and creative teams across Europe, contributing to runway environments, brand activations, and event-based design projects.

Personal Life

Da Mata is known for maintaining a relatively low public profile. Despite her early exposure to the highly visible world of motorsport, she has remained selectively visible, with a curated social media presence focused primarily on design, travel, and visual work rather than personal publicity.

Her upbringing within a multicultural family—Brazilian and Australian—combined with her reserved personality, has often been noted as a defining contrast in accounts of her life.

Family

Buffy Da Mata is the daughter of Gonçalo Da Mata, a Brazilian-born former racing driver turned driver coach. After competing in formula racing during his early career, Gonçalo transitioned into coaching in the early 2000s and later returned to involvement in formula racing environments in 2026.

Her mother, Lara Da Mata, is an interior designer from Sydney, Australia.

Her younger brother, Rafael Da Mata, initially competed in karting alongside Buffy during their youth in Portugal before transitioning away from motorsport. He later pursued soccer, earning a scholarship to the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), where he played at the collegiate level while following a pre-law academic track.

Her younger sister, Mariela Da Mata, is an artist whose work has been featured in multiple exhibitions and art expos. Unlike her siblings, she did not participate in motorsport, instead pursuing a creative path influenced in part by her mother’s background in design.

[ilichilangel]

Six months after it ends without really ending, Buffy runs into Oscar Piastri in an elevator on the way to a dinner party. They fall back into each other like nothing ever changed. Six months was supposed to be enough time to move on from the thing that never was. The problem is it wasn’t. And this time, neither of them is willing to treat it like it doesn’t matter. Because if they do this again, it has to be for real or nothing at all.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Fem Reader

warnings: slow burn. second chance romance. anxiety. media pressure. inaccurate race descriptions. age gap. self doubt. smut. brazilian-australian reader.

beta read by: @boxbox81babygirl

_____________________

Buffy Da Mata

Chapter 1- Between Floors

[verstarris]

DRIVING LESSONS

Your friends were determined to get you your driver’s license after two failed attempts, so they hired the best driving instructor in Monaco to fix your… driving situation. You expected strict lessons and zero patience. What you didn’t expect was falling for the guy trying to teach you how to drive.

pairing. driving instructor! Oscar Piastri x fem! reader.

warnings. non-f1 au; alternate universe. romance, humor, opposites attract, slow burn, 10,7k words. flirty banter, pet names (princess, babe), oscar’s dry humor.

YOUR COMPLETELY NONEXISTENT DRIVING LICENSE HAD BECOME A RUNNING JOKE IN YOUR FRIEND GROUP. Not a cruel one—just the kind that kept coming back like a bad sequel. Mostly because you had actually tried. Twice. And somehow, against all logic and the laws of probability, you had failed both times.

Eventually, you made peace with it. Maybe driving just wasn’t meant for you. Maybe the universe had looked at you behind the wheel and said, “Absolutely not.” Honestly, it felt responsible to accept that. You told yourself you were doing the world a favour by staying far away from anything with an engine.

Your friends, however, did not share this peaceful acceptance.

Every time you needed to go somewhere, you ended up asking one of them for a ride. At first, it was casual. Then it became routine. Then it became… expected. And lately, those rides had started to come with looks. The kind of looks that said we adore you, but please, we are begging you, do something about this.

Which is probably how you ended up here.

Sitting in a tiny café, across from your friends, all of whom were staring at you with a level of focus normally reserved for interventions or cult meetings. No one was scrolling. No one was chatting. They just sat there, watching you like they had rehearsed this moment.

You didn’t like it.

Not even a little.

There was something about the seriousness on their faces that made your stomach twist, like they had already made a decision about your life and were now preparing to present it to you in a PowerPoint. You didn’t know what was coming, but you were almost certain it wasn’t going to be fun.

“Can you please just tell me what’s going on?” you groaned, leaning forward as you looked between them. “You’re all staring at me like I’m about to be voted off the island. It’s getting weird.”

“Your driving license…” Alex began carefully.

No. Absolutely not.

You didn’t even let her finish. Your eyes rolled before you could stop them, your head tipping back as you let out the kind of sigh usually reserved for tax season. Of course. It always came back to that.

“If this is an intervention, I’m leaving,” you muttered, grabbing your drink like it was emotional support. “I’ve accepted my fate. I don’t drive. It’s better for society. We’ve discussed this many times.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Alex said.

You froze mid‑sip, lowering your cup slowly. “…how is that a problem?”

“Because,” Lily said, sharing a look with the others, “you’ve accepted it a little too much.”

You stared at them, unimpressed. “I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being lazy.”

“I am not being lazy,” you shot back, sitting up straighter. “I tried. Twice. And both times ended in disaster. At some point, you have to accept when something just isn’t meant for you.”

“You mounted a curb,” Rebecca reminded you.

“It was a high curb,” you said immediately.

“It was average.”

“It felt high in the moment.”

Another look passed around the table. You didn’t like that look. It had the same energy as people silently agreeing to unplug a bomb.

Your eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like you’ve all talked about this without me?”

“Because we have,” Alex said, far too casually.

You blinked. “…you what?”

“It wasn’t a long discussion,” Lily added quickly. “More like a shared realization.”

“That I’m a danger to the roads?” you deadpanned.

“That you need help,” Rebecca corrected.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing on instinct. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Alex said, almost apologetic. “Because it’s already happening.”

That was not a good sentence. Not in any universe.

“…what did you do?” you asked slowly.

Their smile was the only answer you needed to know you were absolutely, completely doomed.

No one answered right away.

That was never a good sign. In fact, it was usually the moment right before your life took a sharp turn you did not approve of.

Alex glanced at the others like they were silently choosing a sacrifice, and your suspicion spiked. You straightened in your seat, bracing yourself like someone about to hear bad medical news.

“…Alex,” you warned.

“Okay, don’t get mad—”

“I’m already mad.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“I can feel it,” you shot back. “Just say it.”

There was a tiny pause. The kind that stretched just long enough to make your stomach drop.

Then—

“We found you a driving instructor.”

You stared at them.

Blank. Emotionless. The kind of stare that came from your soul leaving your body for safety reasons.

“…you did what?”

“A driving instructor,” Alex repeated, as if saying it slowly would somehow make it sound less horrifying. “A really good one, actually.”

You blinked once. Twice. Your brain tried to reboot and failed.

Then you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. It didn’t sound healthy. “No. No, you didn’t.”

“We did,” Lily said, far too cheerfully for someone delivering a death sentence.

Your heart sank. Your palms went warm. Your whole body felt like it was trying to climb out of itself.

“No, because that would mean you completely ignored everything I just said about me not driving.”

“You’re not not driving,” Alex said, like this was some kind of motivational speech. “You’re just… temporarily bad at it.”

“Temporarily?” you echoed, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “It’s been years.”

“Growth isn’t linear.”

You dropped your head into your hands, dragging your palms down your face as if you could physically wipe away the situation. Your chest felt tight in that familiar, annoyed‑but‑also‑tired way, the one that came whenever your friends decided they knew what was best for you. “I cannot believe you,” you muttered, even though a small part of you absolutely could. This was exactly the kind of thing they would do.

“It’s already booked,” Rebecca said, far too casually for someone detonating your entire week.

Your head snapped up so fast your neck almost cracked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Your first lesson,” Alex said, like she was announcing a weather update. “It’s tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!” Your voice shot up without your permission, your whole body jolting like someone had plugged you into a wall socket. “You booked it without even asking me?!”

“We knew you’d say no,” Lily said gently, like that made it better.

“Because I am saying no!” you fired back, heat rising in your chest. You could feel your pulse in your ears. You could feel the panic starting to creep in, that old familiar dread of being behind the wheel, of messing up again, of proving everyone right about you being hopeless.

Alex winced, but she didn’t back down. She never backed down when she thought she was doing the “right thing,” which was honestly one of her most annoying qualities. “Just try one lesson.”

“No.” You crossed your arms, grounding yourself, trying to build a wall out of sheer stubbornness.

“One.”

“No.”

“Please.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms as you leaned back slightly, trying to put some emotional distance between you and the disaster unfolding in front of you. “What about the instructor?”

Lily’s smile widened in a way that immediately set off alarm bells in your head. She looked far too pleased with herself, like someone who had just pressed a big red button and was waiting to see what happened. “The best in Monaco. Seriously. He’s helped people way worse than you.”

You blinked.

Slowly.

“…way worse than me?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You definitely meant that.”

“I meant inexperienced,” she corrected quickly, though the tiny wince on her face told you she absolutely meant what she said the first time.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head as you leaned even further back in your chair, as if sliding away from the table might somehow save you. Your chest felt tight, your stomach twisting with that familiar mix of dread and annoyance. “No. No, absolutely not. I’m not doing this again.”

There was a brief pause. The kind of pause that said they had expected resistance, but maybe not this level of immediate, dramatic refusal. They exchanged another look—the kind that made you feel like a toddler refusing vegetables.

“Come on,” Lily tried again, her voice softening just a little, like she was trying to coax a scared animal out from under a bed. “At least hear us out.”

“I have heard you out,” you said, gesturing vaguely at all of them, your frustration bubbling up. “You found some mystery instructor, decided I’m a lost cause, and signed me up without asking. That’s the summary, right?” You threw your hands up, exasperated. “What is even his name?!”

“His name is Oscar. He’s calm, patient, young—” Rebecca started.

You didn’t even let her finish before your eyes rolled so hard it felt like a full‑body reaction. The kind of eye roll that came from years of friendship and deep, exhausted disbelief.

“—and very good at what he does,” she added quickly, like that tiny detail was supposed to magically fix everything.

“Low bar,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, though you knew they heard it.

“Lowkey your type…” Alex cut in, far too casually, like she was tossing out a harmless observation instead of lighting a match and dropping it straight into your bloodstream.

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because of course they said that. Of course they went there. Your friends never missed a chance to make your life harder in the name of “help.”

Your gaze snapped back to them, sharp and immediate, your whole expression tightening. “My type?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes. “You don’t even know my type.”

Alex raised a brow, the picture of confidence. “Don’t I?”

Before you could argue, Lily leaned in with the kind of look that said she had receipts. “You literally like the exact opposites of yourself, girl. Don’t lie to us.”

And the worst part?

Your stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip.

Because you knew exactly what she meant—calm, quiet, steady guys who looked like they could fix a car and your emotional issues in the same afternoon. Guys who didn’t talk too much, didn’t show off, didn’t make everything dramatic. Guys who made you feel safe without even trying.

Exactly the kind of guy they would think this Oscar  was.

Exactly the kind of guy who could ruin your life a little.

And you hated that they knew that.

The worst part of all of this?

You had actually started thinking about it.

Not the driving. Definitely not that. The idea of you behind a wheel still made your stomach twist in that familiar, unpleasant way. But the instructor… that was a different story. Meeting someone who, according to your friends, was apparently calm and patient and had his life together? Someone who could teach people how to drive without losing his mind? That was… concerning. Mostly because it sounded suspiciously like the exact type you pretended you didn’t have.

And even worse—if this whole thing didn’t work out, at least you might meet someone new. Someone interesting. 

You pushed that thought away so fast it practically skidded across the floor of your brain.

Nope. Not thinking about that. Not getting your hopes up. Absolutely not.

“If I show up tomorrow and this man is weird, or rude, or—” you paused, narrowing your eyes as the paranoia kicked in, “—or in on this, I’m blaming all of you.”

“He’s not weird,” Alex said confidently, like he had personally run a background check.

“That’s not reassuring,” you muttered, because it wasn’t.

“You’re going to love him,” Lily added, sounding far too sure of herself.

You stared at her.

Then at Alex.

Then at the rest of them, who all looked way too pleased with themselves for people who had just ruined your weekend.

“…I hate all of you,” you said flatly.

Lily only smiled, completely unfazed. “Tomorrow. Ten a.m. Don’t be late. I’ll send you the adress.”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands, already feeling the weight of this terrible, terrible idea settling on your shoulders. You could practically see your future: panic, embarrassment, maybe a small emotional breakdown in a parked car. Perfect.

And yet… a tiny part of you wondered what Oscar looked like.

You shut that part down immediately.

────────────

You were early.

That was the first bad sign.

You didn’t do early. You barely did “on time.” Your natural state was somewhere between almost late and technically not late if you squint at the clock. But today, somehow, you were here with ten whole minutes to spare, standing outside the driving school like you were about to take an exam you hadn’t studied for and definitely didn’t sign up for.

You checked your phone for the fifth time.

9:53.

“…great,” you muttered, your voice flat. “Perfect. Love this for me.”

Your friends had been far too confident about this whole situation. You’re going to love him, they’d said, like that meant anything. Like you weren’t about to meet a complete stranger and trust him with your life, your nerves, and your already questionable driving abilities. The thought alone made your stomach twist.

You let out a slow breath, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you looked around, trying to convince yourself this was fine. Normal. Manageable. Just one lesson. You could survive one lesson. Probably. Hopefully.

Right?

The door behind you opened.

“Hey.”

You turned.

And for a moment—just one, tiny, traitorous moment—your brain completely stopped working.

Because the man standing there was… not what you expected.

Not even close.

Calm was the first thing you noticed. Not the fake kind people put on to seem impressive, but the real kind. The kind that settled around him like a quiet aura, like he didn’t need to raise his voice or wave his arms to be taken seriously. He just existed, steady and unbothered, and somehow that was enough.

Then came everything else.

Neat. Put‑together. Brown hair that looked soft in a way you immediately pretended not to notice. Brown eyes that were warm but focused, like he actually paid attention to the world around him. A slightly serious expression, but not in a cold way—more like someone who thought before he spoke. Someone who didn’t rush. Someone who noticed details.

And unfortunately, someone who was very, very easy to look at.

Your heart did a small, confused flip.

This was… not ideal.

Not ideal at all.

You blinked once.

Then again.

And then you very quickly reminded yourself to stop staring before you made this even more embarrassing than it already was.

“…you’re my driving instructor?” you asked, your voice coming out a little softer, a little less confident than you wanted.

He nodded. “Oscar.”

Just Oscar. Simple. Calm. Like he didn’t need anything more than that.

Of course.

You straightened a little, trying to force your brain to catch up. “Right. Hi. Hello.” You gave a tiny, awkward wave you regretted instantly. “I’m Y/n—well, you probably already know that. I’m the problem.”

There was a small pause.

Then—just barely—he smiled.

“I’ve heard,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “From who?”

“Your friends.”

Of course. Traitors. Every single one of them. You were going to yell at them later.

You huffed, crossing your arms like that would protect you from the embarrassment. “I hope they told you the full story.”

“They gave me an idea.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

His gaze stayed on you, calm and steady in a way that made you feel strangely exposed. Not judged. Just… seen. Like he was already trying to understand you, not your mistakes.

“I think I can handle it,” he said.

Something about the way he said it—so sure, so gentle—made your stomach do a small, confused flip you absolutely did not approve of.

You shoved that feeling away immediately.

“Wow,” you said, deadpan. “Confidence. Love that for you.”

And he smiled again, just a little, like he already knew you were going to be trouble—and didn’t mind at all.

He didn’t react much, just tilted his head a little, like he was already taking in the entire situation and quietly deciding what to do with it. He had that calm, steady energy that made you feel both seen and slightly judged in the gentlest way possible.

“Ready to start?” he asked.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the car like it had personally ruined your life. “No,” you admitted honestly. “But let’s go anyway.”

He nodded once, completely unfazed, and stepped aside with a small gesture toward the car parked nearby. “Then we’ll take it step by step.”

“Step by step,” you repeated under your breath, as if saying it enough times might magically make you believe it.

“Exactly.”

You started walking, and you were painfully aware of him following just behind you. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel his presence. It was distracting in a way that made absolutely no sense, which somehow made it even worse. Your brain was already doing too much.

When you reached the driver’s side, you stopped.

Just stared at the door.

For a moment, it genuinely felt like the car was staring back at you too, judging you, remembering every curb you’d ever mounted.

“…this is where things usually go wrong,” you muttered.

“Then we’ll take it slower,” he said from beside you, voice steady.

You turned your head to look at him. “You say that like it helps.”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

There was a small pause. Not awkward. Just quiet. A soft kind of silence that made you feel like he was giving you space instead of waiting for you to fail.

And then, for the first time since you’d met him, you caught something subtle in his expression—something close to amusement. Not obvious, not dramatic, but definitely there. A tiny spark of it.

“Let’s try anyway,” he said.

You looked back at the car.

Then at him.

Then back at the car.

Yeah.

This poor man had absolutely no idea what he had just signed up for—and you weren’t sure whether to warn him or let him find out the hard way.

“Alright,” you said, mostly to yourself, like you were trying to hype up a very unconvincing version of you. “How hard can it be.”

Oscar didn’t answer that, which was probably the smartest thing he could’ve done.

You opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat, and suddenly everything felt too real. Too official. Your hands didn’t know where to rest, your feet felt like they were in the wrong place, and your brain was loudly reminding you that you had failed this exact situation before. Twice.

Oscar walked around and got into the passenger seat, and the moment he settled in, the space felt smaller. Not in a bad way—just… closer. More focused. Like the air shifted and now you were very aware of him sitting beside you, calm and steady while you were quietly falling apart.

You swallowed, staring straight ahead like the windshield might offer emotional support.

“Okay,” he said, voice soft and even. “Seat first.”

You blinked. “Seat?”

“Yeah. Adjust it so you can reach the pedals comfortably.”

You nodded quickly, grabbed the lever, and pulled the seat forward—way too far forward.

Your knees nearly hit the steering wheel.

You froze. “…that’s probably too much.”

Oscar glanced over, the corner of his mouth almost lifting. “Slightly.”

“Right.”

You pushed the seat back a little. Then a little more. Then too much. Then forward again. It was a whole journey, but eventually it felt… okay. Not perfect, but not terrible either.

You leaned back, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, your heart thumping a little too fast for something as simple as sitting.

This was fine.

This was manageable.

This was only mildly terrifying.

“This is already exhausting,” you admitted, letting your head fall back against the seat for a second.

“We haven’t started yet.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s the problem.”

There was a tiny pause, like he was deciding whether to laugh or stay professional. He chose professional. Mostly.

“Foot on the brake,” he said.

You nodded and placed your foot where he told you, trying to look like a functioning adult and not someone who was seconds away from panicking.

“Good. Now the key.”

You stared at the dashboard like it was written in another language.

“…the key,” you repeated, buying yourself time.

He nodded again, patient as ever.

You picked it up, your fingers already a little shaky as you slid it into the ignition. Your heart thumped harder, like it knew what was coming.

“This is the part where everything goes wrong,” you warned him, half‑serious, half‑terrified.

“It won’t,” he said simply.

You gave him a look. “You say that like you’ve seen me drive.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Wow. Encouraging.”

“Turn the key,” he said, ignoring your sarcasm with impressive skill.

You took a breath. A deep one. The kind you take before doing something brave or stupid.

Then you turned the key.

The engine roared to life.

You flinched so hard your shoulders jumped, your whole body tensing like the car had shouted at you.

“…okay,” you said, gripping the wheel a little tighter like it might try to escape. “Why is it so loud.”

“It’s supposed to be loud,” he replied, completely calm, like this was the most normal conversation in the world.

“I don’t like that it’s loud.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t think I will.”

Another small pause. You could practically feel him choosing patience over honesty.

“Put it in drive,” he instructed.

You looked at the gear stick.

Then at him.

“…I’m sorry in advance,” you said, because it felt safer to warn him before the chaos started.

He gave you a look that almost—almost—looked like he was bracing himself. “Just take your time.”

You nodded, shifting the gear into drive.

The car didn’t move.

You frowned at it like it had betrayed you. “…is it supposed to do something?”

“It will,” he said.

You pressed the accelerator—just a little.

The car lurched forward like it had been waiting for the chance to scare you.

You gasped. “OH—NO—”

“Brake,” Oscar said quickly.

You slammed your foot down on the brake, and the car jerked to a stop so hard your whole body jolted.

Your heart was racing. Your palms were sweating. Your soul briefly left your body.

Oscar stayed perfectly calm.

You stared straight ahead, eyes wide, heart still thumping like it hadn’t caught up to the fact that the car had stopped.

“…I didn’t like that.”

Oscar exhaled quietly, glancing at you with that steady, unbothered calm that made you feel both ridiculous and strangely safe.

“Again,” he said.

You turned your head slowly, like you needed to confirm he really meant that. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“…you’re very calm about this.”

“I have to be.”

You huffed, gripping the wheel again, trying to convince your hands to stop shaking. “Okay. Again.”

You took a breath—deeper this time, trying to settle the panic buzzing under your skin—and pressed the accelerator.

The car moved.

Not violently. Not like it wanted to throw you into a ditch. Just… forward. Smooth. Controlled. Like it had finally decided to behave.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, your shoulders dropping a little as the tension eased.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like the car was trying to kill you.

For the first time, you felt like maybe—maybe—you weren’t completely hopeless.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, a shaky kind of disbelief slipping into your voice. “I’m actually doing it.”

The car was moving—slow, steady, unbelievably controlled—but still moving. You kept your eyes locked on the road like looking anywhere else might break whatever fragile magic was happening.

“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” you added, though your tone made it sound like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.

Beside you, Oscar stayed quiet for a moment, just watching you with that calm, steady focus that somehow made your chest feel tight.

Then, in that same soft voice, he said, “You’re doing well.”

You scoffed immediately. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

You shot him a quick look. “I just tried to start the car like three times and almost launched us into a wall.”

“That was once,” he corrected.

“Twice.”

“Once and a half.”

A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it, your shoulders loosening just a little. “You’re being way too generous with me.”

“I’m being accurate.”

“Accurate,” you repeated, turning your eyes back to the road. “Right. Sure. Next thing you’ll tell me is that I’m a natural.”

And beside you, you could feel—not see, but feel—the quiet smile he was trying not to show.

There was a brief pause.

Then—soft, steady—

“Maybe,” he said.

You blinked, turning your head slightly. “Maybe?”

He nodded once, completely serious. “With more practice.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting you should do more lessons.”

You let out a loud, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because this,” you gestured vaguely at the car, “is already a lot. I think I’ve done enough.”

“You’ve driven for thirty seconds.”

“And that was thirty seconds too many.”

Oscar glanced at you, and this time, there was no hiding it—the smallest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re not as bad as you think,” he said.

You raised a brow immediately. “That sounded suspiciously like something you say before delivering bad news.”

“It’s not.”

“Mm. I don’t trust you.”

That earned a real laugh from him—quiet, warm, the kind that slipped under your skin before you could stop it.

You looked at him again, half‑annoyed, half‑something else entirely. “You do realize you’re going to regret that?”

Oscar smirked while looking at you, eyes soft but certain. “I don’t think so.”

────────────

You weren’t even supposed to be here.

Well—you were. Technically. You needed groceries. That was normal. Responsible. Adult‑ish.

What wasn’t normal was the fact that you had been standing in the same aisle for three full minutes, staring at two nearly identical pasta sauces like they were ancient riddles meant to test your worthiness.

“…what is even the difference,” you muttered, picking one up, then the other.

One had basil.

The other also had basil.

Useless.

You sighed, put them both back, then immediately picked them up again because apparently even the simplest decision was too much for your brain today.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

You just needed to step back, clear your head, and—

You took one small step backwards.

And walked straight into someone.

Solid.

Very solid.

“Oh—” you startled, spinning around, your heart jumping from the sudden contact. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

The apology died in your throat.

Of course.

Of course it was him.

Oscar stood there, calm as ever, holding a basket like this was the most normal place in the world to run into your driving instructor—the same man who had watched you nearly launch a car into a wall.

Your brain short‑circuited.

Because of course the universe would do this to you.

“You again?” you said, staring at him like he had just materialized out of thin air—again.

“Me again.” He shrugged lightly, completely unbothered, like running into you in the middle of a grocery store was the most normal thing in the world. Like this happened all the time. Like he hadn’t just watched you nearly drive into a curb two days ago.

You blinked once, slow. Then narrowed your eyes, suspicion settling in like a cat making itself comfortable.

“…are you following me?”

His lips twitched—just barely, but enough to tell you he was fighting a smile. “I was here first.”

“That is exactly what someone who is following me would say.”

“I can assure you,” he said calmly, “I’m not.”

You studied him for a moment, trying to read his face, trying to decide whether he was lying or just naturally suspiciously calm. After a few seconds, you let out a small huff, crossing your arms around the two jars you still hadn’t chosen between.

“This is suspicious.”

“It’s a grocery store.”

“That doesn’t make it less suspicious.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes dropping to the items in your hands. “Still deciding?”

You looked down at the jars, then back at him, feeling your face heat with the kind of embarrassment that only came from being caught struggling with pasta sauce by someone who had already witnessed your driving skills.

“Try this one,” he said, holding out a jar like he actually knew what he was talking about.

You looked at him, suspicious. “Why?”

“It has more basil.”

You squinted at him. “You can tell that by looking at the label?”

“I can tell by reading it.”

You narrowed your eyes, not convinced in the slightest. “You just want me to stop struggling.”

“Maybe.”

“…rude.”

His lips twitched—the smallest hint of a smile he was definitely trying to hide. “You asked for help.”

“I did not.”

“You were struggling.”

“That’s different.”

He looked at you with that calm, steady expression he always seemed to have—the one that made you feel like he was quietly amused but too polite to say anything. It was annoying. And weirdly comforting. And annoying again.

“…just try it,” he said, voice soft but firm, like he already knew you were going to listen.

You huffed, dramatic and defeated, and reached out to take the jar from him. Your fingers brushed his—just a quick, light touch—but it was enough to send a tiny spark of awareness up your arm. Enough to make your brain freeze for half a second.

You ignored that. Immediately. Aggressively.

“…fine,” you muttered, clutching the jar like it had personally offended you. “But if this tastes bad, I’m blaming you.”

“I can live with that.”

He said it so simply, so calmly, like the idea of you blaming him for pasta sauce wasn’t even a little bit intimidating. Like he didn’t mind being responsible for your choices—or maybe he liked it.

You paused, staring at him like you were trying to figure out what planet he came from.

“…you’re very confident for someone who has seen me drive.”

His expression softened just a little at that—not a smile, not quite amusement, just something warm slipping through the calm. “I still think you’ll get better.”

You rolled your eyes, but this time there was a small smile tugging at your lips, the kind you tried to hide but couldn’t quite push down. “Nah,” you said simply, shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s happening.”

“Well,” he said, calm as ever, already stepping back like this was the most natural ending to a conversation, “see you tomorrow.”

You frowned, confused. “Wait—what? You’re saying that like it’s a fact.”

“It is,” he replied without hesitation.

“You don’t even know if I’m coming.”

His gaze met yours—steady, certain, almost annoyingly sure of you. “I think you will.”

That was… frustrating.

And unsettling.

And weirdly warm in a way you absolutely did not want to think about.

You watched as he turned to leave, moving down the aisle with that same quiet confidence he always seemed to carry. No rush. No awkwardness. Just easy steps, like he already knew how the rest of the day would go. Like he already knew you’d show up tomorrow.

“…looking forward to it,” he added over his shoulder, almost casually, like it wasn’t going to echo in your head for the next hour.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then you snapped your attention back to the shelves, grabbing the first random item your hand landed on just so you had something—anything—to do.

“Same,” you muttered under your breath before you could stop yourself.

A beat passed.

You frowned slightly. “…I guess.”

But even as you said it, even as you tried to brush it off, you couldn’t ignore the small, annoying feeling blooming in your chest—the one that felt suspiciously like anticipation.

And the fact that you were already thinking about tomorrow.

────────────

You were on time.

Again.

Which honestly felt like a personal achievement, the kind you wanted to brag about but couldn’t, because that would require admitting you cared. And you absolutely did not care. Obviously.

You stood outside the car with your arms loosely crossed, trying very hard to look casual, relaxed, unbothered—like you weren’t even a little bit looking forward to this. Because that would be embarrassing. Painfully embarrassing.

What would be even more embarrassing—far more embarrassing—was admitting that you had woken up earlier than necessary, taken extra time getting ready, and then stood in front of the mirror questioning your entire existence for longer than you’d ever admit out loud. Not because you wanted to impress Oscar. No. Definitely not.

And it was absolutely not because you had spent a good chunk of last night watching YouTube tutorials titled things like “How to Start a Car Without Panicking” and “Beginner Driving Tips That Won’t Make You Cry.” That would be insane.

You were just… prepared.

Overprepared, maybe.

But still. Prepared.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, pretending to study the car like you were evaluating it, like you were the one in charge here. But really, you were listening for footsteps, for the sound of someone approaching, for that calm voice that had somehow gotten stuck in your head since yesterday.

You weren’t nervous.

You weren’t excited.

You weren’t thinking about him.

You were just here to learn.

That was all.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

The sound of footsteps pulled you out of your thoughts.

You straightened almost instantly, trying to look casual, like you hadn’t just been standing there rehearsing how to say “hi” in a normal human way. You even adjusted your stance a little, pretending you were just… existing. Naturally. Effortlessly. Not waiting.

Oscar walked up a moment later, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just stepped directly into the middle of your carefully constructed illusion of I woke up like this. His presence had that same quiet weight it always did—steady, grounding, annoyingly soothing.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” you replied, maybe a little too quickly, a little too bright. You tried to play it off, but you could feel the warmth creeping up your neck.

His eyes flicked over you—brief, subtle, but enough to make you suddenly hyper‑aware of everything. Your outfit. Your hair. The fact that you had definitely tried harder today than you wanted to admit.

“…you look ready,” he added.

You froze for half a second, your brain scrambling for a response that didn’t sound like a confession.

“Yeah,” you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to suspiciously casual. “I just… threw this on.”

A lie.

A complete lie.

But he didn’t call you out. He just nodded like that made perfect sense, like he believed you.

And before you could stop yourself—before you could think, filter, or protect your dignity—the words slipped out.

“And I’m in a pretty good mood today.”

Oscar raised a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “That’s surprising.”

You stared at him, offended and flustered at the same time, your heart doing that annoying little jump it had started doing around him.

“Wow,” you said, crossing your arms even though it didn’t help. “Okay. Rude.”

But he was still looking at you—calm, steady, a little amused—and somehow that made your chest feel warm in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

Because the truth was simple.

You were in a good mood.

And he was absolutely the reason why.

You slid into the driver’s seat like you’d done it a million times, even though your brain was frantically flipping through every YouTube tutorial you’d watched last night. Your hands moved with confidence you absolutely did not feel, and you tried to pretend this was normal. That you were normal.

This was fine.

You could do this.

Probably.

You reached for the key with a level of determination that bordered on delusion.

“So, key first—” you started, slipping it into the ignition.

“Seatbelt first, princess.”

You froze.

Slowly. Very slowly.

You turned your head to look at Oscar Piastri, who was sitting there like he hadn’t just casually dropped a word that sent your entire nervous system into chaos.

“…sorry?”

He didn’t look fazed at all. Not even a little. Just calm, composed, like calling you that was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t just set your brain on fire.

“You were about to start the car without your seatbelt on,” he said, completely unfazed.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“…I was testing you,” you said quickly, grabbing the first excuse your brain could reach.

He raised a brow, amused. “Testing me?”

“Yes,” you nodded, committing far too hard. “To see if you’d notice.”

“And?” he asked, leaning back slightly, clearly entertained now, like he was watching you dig your own grave and enjoying every second.

You paused.

This was the part where you should have a plan.

You did not.

“…you passed,” you said finally, like that had been the plan all along.

A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, subtle, but definitely there.

“Good,” he said.

There was a beat of silence, warm and a little charged.

Then, softer—almost teasing—

“You can start by putting your seatbelt on, though.”

You let out a quiet breath, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, sorry, Mr. Professor.”

But as you reached for the seatbelt, you could feel his eyes on you—steady, calm, and just a little amused. Not mocking. Not judging. Just…watching you in a way that made your chest feel warm and your stomach twist.

And annoyingly—

frustratingly—

you felt yourself wanting to do better.

You clicked your seatbelt into place with a little more force than necessary, like you needed the buckle to understand how offended you were.

“There,” you said. “Happy?”

“Very,” he replied, and of course he sounded calm about it. He always sounded calm. It was starting to feel like a personal attack.

You huffed and adjusted your grip on the wheel again, trying to look like someone who absolutely knew what they were doing. “Okay. Now we can start.”

“Now we can start,” Oscar echoed, his tone so neutral it looped back around to sounding like mockery.

You shot him a look. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not,” he said, completely steady. “I’m listening.”

“Mm,” you hummed, not entirely convinced but too focused on not embarrassing yourself to argue.

You turned the key again, and this time the engine actually came to life. The sound filled the car, warm and loud and real, and for a moment you just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead like the road might judge you if you blinked.

Oscar didn’t rush you. He never did. He just waited, patient and quiet, like he understood that you needed a second to gather yourself.

“…now I have to put it in drive, right?”

“Mhm. Step on the clutch.”

You did.

“…oh my god.”

His gaze flicked to you immediately. “Did you train?”

Your head snapped toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “No—why would you think that?”

“You’re following instructions very well.”

You scoffed, offended on principle. “That’s called basic competence.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that felt warm, not awkward.

Then—

“So what are we doing next?” you asked, trying to sound casual, like you weren’t secretly hoping he’d say something easy.

“Parking.”

Silence.

You turned to look at him slowly, betrayal written all over your face.

“…you just ruined my good mood.”

You groaned, pulling the car forward with more confidence than actual skill, trying to convince both yourself and the universe that this was going to go well.

“Okay, I can do this,” you muttered under your breath. “Just… straight. It’s just straight.”

“Focus on the road,” Oscar said calmly, like he wasn’t sitting next to a disaster waiting to happen.

“I am focusing.”

You were not focusing.

Not even a little.

Because somehow—somehow—you managed to drift slightly off track, your hands tightening on the wheel as you tried to correct yourself a second too late.

The car veered.

“…okay, okay, okay—”

Oscar’s posture shifted instantly, his calm turning sharp in a heartbeat.

“Turn—” he started.

“I am turning—”

“Not that—”

Panic hit you like a wave.

Your breath caught, your shoulders tensed, and before you could fully process what was happening, his hand came over yours on the wheel. Warm. Steady. Firm. Guiding it back into place with a confidence you absolutely did not have.

“Hey—relax,” he said, voice still calm but quicker now, like he was trying to anchor you before you spiraled.

His hand stayed there for a moment, covering yours, grounding you in a way that made your heart jump and your brain short‑circuit.

You froze immediately, your hands hovering awkwardly over his as he corrected the car with almost no effort at all. It was embarrassing how steady he was compared to the chaos happening inside your chest.

“…I had it,” you said weakly, even though you absolutely did not.

“You did not,” he replied, and there was something different in his voice now. Something warm. Something amused. Like he was trying not to laugh but failing a little.

The car straightened under his guidance, smooth and controlled, and for a moment neither of you moved. His hand stayed on the wheel, still close to yours, and your heart did something very unhelpful in response.

Then—

He laughed.

Not loud.

Not mocking.

Just a quiet, genuine laugh that slipped out before he could stop it, soft enough to make your stomach twist.

You turned your head slowly, staring at him like he had personally betrayed you.

“…what?”

“You’re serious,” he said, still smiling, still trying to get himself under control. “You really thought you had that.”

“I did have it.”

“You were about to mount the curb.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to look offended even though your face was already warming. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I am,” he admitted without hesitation, the smile still lingering like he couldn’t quite get rid of it.

You huffed, crossing your arms even though it didn’t help your case. The corners of your mouth betrayed you anyway, tugging upward despite your best efforts.

“…you’re the worst instructor ever.”

“I saved you,” he pointed out, like that settled everything.

You tilted your head. “From what? Driving into a bush?”

“Among other things.”

There was a beat of silence—warm, soft, almost comfortable.

Then you both laughed this time, yours quieter, his still low and warm, the kind of sound that made your chest feel lighter than it should.

You adjusted your hands on the wheel, exhaling softly as you tried to gather whatever dignity you had left. “Okay, in my defense—”

“There isn’t one,” Oscar said, calm as ever, cutting you off before you even had a chance to build your argument.

You turned your head to glare at him, offended in principle. “Wow. You don’t even let me try?”

“I’ve seen enough.”

“That’s harsh.”

“It’s accurate.”

You shook your head, but the smile tugging at your mouth refused to disappear. “…you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, not even pretending otherwise.

You rolled your eyes and looked back at the road, trying to act like you weren’t secretly pleased he was teasing you. “You’re supposed to be encouraging. Supportive. Nice.”

“I am being supportive.”

“You just told me there’s no defense for what I did.”

“There isn’t,” he repeated, completely serious, like he was stating a scientific fact.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

There was a brief pause—the kind that felt warm instead of awkward, like the air between you had softened without you noticing.

Then, quieter, almost gentle—

“You’re not as bad as you think.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. They slipped under your guard before you could stop them, settling somewhere warm in your chest.

You glanced at him, trying to play it cool even though your heartbeat had definitely picked up. “That’s your professional opinion?”

“Yes.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, studying him like you were trying to catch a lie. “Or your personal one?”

He held your gaze for a second — steady, unblinking, almost too honest.

“…both.”

Your stomach did a small, very inconvenient flip, the kind that made you sit a little straighter without meaning to. You looked away quickly, focusing on literally anything else — the dashboard, the road, the air vents — anything that wasn’t his face.

“Okay, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you said, trying to sound casual even though your voice felt a little too soft. “I still almost took us out.”

“You didn’t.”

“Because you took the wheel.”

“That’s part of the lesson.”

You huffed, sinking a little deeper into your seat. “Feels like cheating.”

“It’s not.”

“Feels like it is.”

A small pause settled between you—but it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. It felt lighter now, easier, like the air in the car had shifted into something warmer without either of you naming it.

“So,” you said after a moment, trying to sound playful instead of flustered, “do all your students almost crash on day two, or am I special?”

“You’re special,” he said immediately.

You blinked, turning to look at him, your heart doing that annoying little jump again.

“…you say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

The words hung there—simple, quiet, but somehow heavier than they should’ve been. You felt them settle in your chest, warm and confusing and a little too real.

And for a moment, you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

You narrowed your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at your lips again, no matter how hard you tried to hide it. “I don’t trust that.”

“You don’t have to.”

You shook your head slightly and looked forward again, trying to steady your breathing, trying not to let him see how much he was getting to you.

“…you’re very calm about everything,” you said after a moment. “It’s kind of annoying.”

“Annoying?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Like nothing ever stresses you out.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh yeah?” You glanced at him, curious despite yourself. “What stresses you out?”

A small pause followed—the kind that made your stomach tighten, like you’d accidentally stepped into something deeper.

Then—

“Right now?” he said.

You frowned slightly. “What about right now?”

He looked at you, just for a second, but it was enough to make your pulse jump.

“You’re not paying attention to the road.”

You stared at him.

“…okay, fair.”

That made him smile again—just a little—and you had to look away because that was starting to become a problem. A real problem. The kind that made your chest feel warm and your thoughts feel messy.

“So,” he started after a moment, voice casual in that annoyingly smooth way of his, “are you free after tomorrow’s lesson?”

Your brain stalled.

Damn…?

“…what?”

“After the lesson,” he repeated, like this was normal, like he wasn’t casually flipping your entire world upside down. “Are you free?”

You stared at him, trying to process the words, trying to understand if you’d heard him right.

“Why?”

Another small pause—deliberate this time.

Then, casually, like it was nothing—

“I thought we could get lunch.”

Your grip on the wheel tightened just slightly, your heart doing a full somersault before you could stop it.

“Oh.”

Real smooth. Truly impressive.

Was this guy flirting with you? Because even when he was calm, he was annoyingly smooth at flirting. Effortlessly smooth. Like he didn’t even have to try.

“I think I might be,” you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

“Thought so.” Oscar smirked, and it was the kind of smirk that made your stomach twist in a way you were absolutely not prepared to deal with.

────────────

The lesson ended in a way that felt… suspiciously normal.

No near crashes.

No panicking.

No dramatic swerving that made Oscar reach for the wheel like his life depended on it.

You even drove through Monaco’s streets without hitting anything—or anyone—whose car was probably worth more than your entire existence. Just you, actually driving, actually surviving, actually doing it.

It felt unreal.

It felt like a win.

You parked the car with a little more confidence than usual, turned off the engine, and let out a long breath that felt like it had been trapped in your chest for years.

“…I didn’t kill anyone,” you said, half‑proud, half‑in disbelief.

“Impressive,” Oscar replied.

You shot him a look, because of course he said it like that. “Wow. You’re really proud of me.”

“I am.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how easily he said it. No teasing. No smirk. Just simple, steady truth.

“…you’re serious?”

“Very.”

And something in your chest tightened—warm, unexpected, a little overwhelming. Because he wasn’t joking. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He wasn’t laughing at you.

He meant it.

And that did something to you. Something small but sharp, like a spark catching on something you didn’t realize was flammable.

You looked away for a moment, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips, trying to steady the flutter in your stomach.

Because being told you were good—by him—felt different.

That made something warm settle in your chest again, but you ignored it—quickly, almost aggressively, like pushing a thought into a drawer and slamming it shut.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing your bag with a little too much purpose. “You’re just saying that because you’re my instructor and you have to encourage me.”

“I don’t have to.”

You paused mid‑movement, fingers still curled around the strap.

“…oh?”

He stepped out of the car first, the door clicking shut behind him, then glanced back at you with that calm, steady look that always seemed to catch you off guard.

“I’m saying it because it’s true.”

That… did something.

Something small and sharp and warm that you absolutely did not want to examine too closely.

You cleared your throat and followed him out, trying to shake it off, trying to slip back into your usual energy before he noticed anything. “Right. Well. Of course I did well. I had a very good teacher.”

“Good,” he said. “You should keep that one.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips refused to leave, no matter how hard you tried to hide it.

You both started walking, side by side this time. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel the space between you—warm, intentional, like neither of you was in a hurry to widen it.

“So,” you said after a moment, “this is where you pretend you didn’t just watch me struggle—”

“Let’s just get the lunch, princess, okay?”

He cut you off so casually you almost stumbled over your own words. It wasn’t even the interruption—it was the way he said it. Smooth. Effortless. Like he’d been calling you that for years.

You looked at him, your brain catching up a second too late.

“…princess?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked, then let out a small huff that didn’t hide your smile at all. “You’re enjoying that way too much.”

“Maybe.”

You shook your head, but the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to fight now. It was there, warm and real, and you didn’t even bother pretending otherwise.

“Okay, Mr. Professor,” you said, bumping your shoulder lightly against his as you walked. “Sorry for stressing.”

He shot you a look, the kind that was half amused and half offended. “Don’t call me that. That sounds so weird.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Oscar.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “Better.”

You grinned slightly, unable to help it. “See? You like it when I listen.”

“I like it when you focus,” he corrected, his tone so calm it almost made you laugh.

“Wow. Demanding.”

“You almost drove into a sign yesterday.”

“It came out of nowhere,” you said immediately, defensive on instinct.

“It didn’t.”

You huffed, but the smile tugging at your lips refused to leave. It was impossible to stay annoyed when he was looking at you like that — steady, patient, a little amused, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin.

You pushed open the café door, stepping inside with him right beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without actually touching. It felt easy. Natural. Like this wasn’t just a driving lesson anymore.

Like it was something else.

Something you weren’t ready to name yet.

You tapped your fingers lightly against the table, glancing at him before quickly looking away again. The café was warm, the low hum of people talking around you making everything feel strangely soft. And then—like the thought had been sitting in the back of your mind the whole time, waiting for the right moment to jump out—

“Oh, I have my finals in two days.”

You said it casually. Too casually. Like it was no big deal. But your heart still picked up a little, that familiar nervous flutter settling in your stomach.

Oscar looked up from the menu immediately, his attention snapping to you in a way that made your breath catch. “Finals?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to keep your voice light. “You know… theory, actual driving. Stuff I definitely should have learned already.”

There was a beat of silence. Not judgmental. Just him thinking. Considering. And then—

“…you’ll pass,” he said simply.

You blinked, caught off guard by how certain he sounded. “You say that like it’s guaranteed.”

“It is.”

You let out a small, disbelieving breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re way too supportive.”

“I’m realistic. You’re not stupid, Y/n.”

His tone was calm. Certain. Like he wasn’t even trying to reassure you—just stating a fact. A truth he didn’t expect you to argue with.

And for a second—

for a moment that felt strangely heavy and warm—

You didn’t really know what to say.

Because no one had said it like that before.

Not with that kind of quiet confidence.

Not like they genuinely believed it.

“…thanks,” you said quietly, softer than you meant to, the word slipping out before you could hide the way it made your chest feel warm and tight at the same time.

He just nodded, like that was enough, like your quiet thank‑you didn’t need anything added to it. And somehow, that made it land even harder.

Then, after a moment—

“I can pick you up after the exam.”

You looked at him, raising a brow, trying to play it cool even though your heart gave a tiny, traitorous jump. “Why?”

His expression didn’t change. Calm. Steady. Like he’d already thought this through.

“We can go somewhere after,” he said. “Celebrate.”

A small pause followed, and you could feel something warm settle low in your stomach.

Then, almost casually—

“Or we can drink if you fail.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Wow. Very optimistic of you.”

“I’m prepared,” he replied.

“For my success or my failure?”

“Both.”

You snorted, leaning back in your chair slightly, trying to hide the way your chest felt warm again. “You really thought of everything, huh?”

“I try to.”

You studied him for a second, really looked at him—the calm way he sat, the quiet confidence in his voice, the way he didn’t seem to be joking even when he was teasing you. And that warmth in your chest settled deeper, steadier, like it had been waiting for a place to land.

It was annoying.

And confusing.

And kind of nice.

You raised a brow, leaning back slightly in your chair, trying to look unfazed even though your pulse had already picked up.

“Is this your nonchalant way of asking me out?”

Oscar didn’t even hesitate. Not a blink. Not a pause.

“If it is,” he said calmly, “will that change your answer?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think it over, even though your heart had already made its decision. “Maybe.”

A small pause followed—quiet, charged, like the air between you shifted.

Then—

“Then it is, yes,” he said. “I’m asking you out.”

You blinked.

That was… very direct.

Very him.

And it hit you harder than you expected.

You tried to ignore the way your heart immediately picked up speed, leaning into the moment like you weren’t completely caught off guard. “Hm,” you hummed, tapping your finger lightly against the table. “I don’t know. This feels a bit risky.”

“Risky?”

“Yeah,” you nodded seriously. “Mixing professional driving instruction with… whatever this is.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, your hand doing a little circle in the air. “What if I get worse at driving because I’m distracted?” 

“You already got distracted.”

You gasped dramatically. “Wow. And you still want to take me out? That says a lot about your decision‑making skills.”

“It does,” he agreed, completely unfazed, like he’d already accepted every possible consequence.

You narrowed your eyes at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation. There wasn’t any. “And?”

“And I still want to.”

That made you pause.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to feel something warm and stupid bloom in your chest.

You let out a soft breath, trying to play it cool even though your heart was doing something very annoying and very obvious.

“Fine,” you said, leaning back slightly, pretending you weren’t smiling. “I’ll go.”

And the look he gave you—calm, sure, a little pleased—made your stomach flip in a way you absolutely weren’t ready to deal with.

────────────

You had never felt this nervous in your life.

Okay—maybe that was dramatic.

But still.

Your leg had been bouncing the entire time, your fingers tapping against the desk while the examiner looked over your results with the slowest pen in the world. Your heart was racing just a little too fast, every second stretching out like it was trying to torture you.

It felt like forever.

Until finally—

He gave you a small nod and slid your paper back across the table.

Passed.

You blinked at it.

Then again, just to make sure your eyes weren’t lying.

“You… passed,” he confirmed, sounding almost amused by your shock.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, the relief hitting all at once, warm and overwhelming.

“Oh my god.”

You actually did it.

You passed.

You barely remembered grabbing your things or walking out of the building. Your mind was still catching up, still buzzing, still replaying the word passed over and over as the door swung open and fresh air hit your face.

And then—

You saw him.

Oscar, leaning casually nearby, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed like he had all the time in the world. Like waiting for you wasn’t an inconvenience. Like he’d been expecting you to walk out victorious.

He looked up the moment you stepped outside.

And something in your chest lifted, bright and immediate, before you could even stop it.

You walked toward him, the excitement bubbling up too fast to control.

“GUESS WHO PASSED, BABE—”

You froze mid‑sentence.

Blinking.

Your brain caught up a second too late.

“…I mean—” you cleared your throat quickly, heat rushing to your face. “—not babe. That just slipped out. Ignore that.”

But he was already looking at you—steady, calm, a little amused—like he’d heard every word.

And like he didn’t mind at all.

Your face lit up instantly.

“GUESS WHO PASSED, BABE—”

The word slipped out before you even realized you’d said it. You were too full of relief, too full of excitement, too full of finally to think about anything else.

You didn’t even register it.

You just ran to him.

And before your brain could catch up with your body—

you kissed him.

It was quick.

Impulsive.

A burst of adrenaline and joy and everything you’d been holding in for days. Your lips brushed his in a fast, breathless moment that felt like it came out of nowhere and everywhere at once.

And the second it happened—

your brain finally caught up.

Oh.

Oh—

You pulled back slightly, eyes widening, breath catching in your throat. “I—”

But you didn’t get to finish.

Because his hand came up to your jaw, warm and steady, fingers gentle but sure, grounding you in a way that made your heart stop for a beat—

and he kissed you again.

Slower this time.

Intentional.

Like he’d thought about it before.

Like he’d been waiting for the right moment.

Your breath caught for half a second before you melted into it, your hand instinctively gripping the front of his shirt as the world around you blurred into nothing. The noise of the street faded. The nerves from the exam vanished. Everything narrowed to the warmth of his mouth, the way he leaned in, the quiet certainty in the way he held you.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t messy.

It was soft and sure and real in a way that made your knees feel unsteady.

And for the first time all day—

you forgot how to think.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to look at you. Just enough for you to feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady, grounding you in a moment that didn’t feel entirely real.

His gaze was steady, but softer than you had ever seen it. There was something warm there, something quiet, something that made your chest feel too tight.

“…congratulations,” he said quietly.

You let out a small, breathless laugh, still a little dazed, still trying to catch up with the fact that you had just kissed him. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I did.”

A beat passed, the kind that felt like it stretched out longer than it should have.

Then, because your brain was finally working again, because you needed to say something before you melted into the pavement—

“…I just kissed you.”

“You did.”

“…and then you kissed me back.”

“I did.”

You stared at him, your heart thudding in your chest, your mind still spinning.

“…okay, just checking.”

That made something shift in his expression—something warmer, almost amused, like he was fighting a smile but not very hard.

“Was that part of your driving plan?” he asked, voice low, teasing in that calm way that always got to you.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, still trying to steady your breathing. “No. That was just… excitement.”

And saying it out loud made the truth of it settle deeper in your chest. The adrenaline. The relief. The way seeing him waiting for you had felt like the final piece of something falling into place.

“Good,” he said.

You blinked, still trying to catch up. “Good?”

“Yeah.”

There was a small pause, the kind that made the air feel warmer, heavier, like something was shifting between you.

Then, quieter—

“Because I was going to do it anyway.”

Your heart did something very dramatic at that. A full jump, maybe two. It was ridiculous how fast the warmth spread through your chest, how quickly your breath caught.

“…oh.”

He didn’t look away. He didn’t even pretend to. He just studied your face for a moment longer, his eyes steady, his expression soft in a way you weren’t used to seeing. His hand was still near your jaw, close enough that you could feel the heat of it, close enough that you didn’t want him to move it.

“So,” he added, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down, “what does a newly licensed driver want to do now?”

You smiled slowly, the kind of smile you couldn’t hold back even if you tried. The adrenaline was still buzzing under your skin, but now it mixed with something softer, something warm and steady that made your chest feel full.

“Well,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “I think I deserve a drive.”

His lips curved just a little—not a full smile, but something close, something that felt like it was meant only for you.

“I think you do too.”

© verstarris 2026

babsie radio ! I know this is probably the most random AU ever but my bestie just got her driving license so I just had to 😭😭

taglist. @amyelevenn @clovermoters @giesoule @zariacore @darling-suee @wwwynette @landosaints @piestri @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @basicchelsea @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @biscuitjuice @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @taetae-armyyyyy @jewelsm481 @kissatelier

[ilichilangel]

oh i am so sat!! @verstarris !!!

[f1atelier]

juicy couture ✶ ln1

2023 – 2026 : different times fans have spotted you in your assortment of juicy couture tracksuits.

lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2.4k ୨୧ warnings : fan culture, passive aggressive fan comments (a few here and there), but other than that none! ୨୧ note : the clip of lando in monaco recently has been popping up on my socials for the past two days now and idk it just inspired this 😆 if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!

part of the lando's heart series.

clip #1 – yn spotted back in monaco with lando hanging out with other f1 drivers

the clip starts out already zoomed in on you standing next to lando who is talking with ollie and gabi. you are caught smiling as a young fan walks by waving to lando and ollie.

when you shift a little the camera finally catches sight of your outfit. the fan recording gasping before they are trying to get a clearer shot of you.

"oh my god, its GREEN."

and sure enough when the light hits you, its very obvious that your tracksuit – sorry, your juicy couture tracksuit – is in fact a deep emerald green. you then walk over to alicia, ollie's girlfriend, and the camera catches her turning immediately and smiling at you. the two of you chat together while waiting for the guys to wrap up their own chatting.

the clip cuts to show you and lando now by his gt3 rs. you standing next to him while he talks to someone, you clearly not paying attention as you look down at your phone. however, the color of tracksuit is even more noticeable in this shot especially when the fan recording realizes that your tracksuit matches the color of lando's gt3 rs.

it's the same exact deep green color.

the camera then catches you walking over to the passenger side, opening the door before effortlessly sliding in. all the while still on your phone, obvious that you're texting someone. a moment later, lando is seen sliding into the driver's seat and starting the car before driving off.

💬 comments :

👤 : NOT HER TRACKSUIT MATCHING THE COLOR OF LANDO'S CAR!! WHO PLANNED THAT!?!?

👤 : i will never get tired of seeing yn in her juicy couture tracksuits, she pulls them off SO WELL

👤 : our first juicy yn moment of 2026

👤 : that green looks SO good on her

👤 : our girl was spilling the TEA who was she texting 👀

clip #2 – yn spotted wearing a black juicy couture tracksuit while out with lando

you and lando are filmed walking out of a restaurant together. you holding his hand as you walk down the sidewalk together, someone calls lando's name and he turns to wave but continues to walk.

the clip then catches lando carefully switching sides with you with him now walking closer to the street. neither of you react to sudden position change as lando links your hands again while listening to you talk. your free hand comes up to adjust your bag straps as you also flip your hair from over your shoulder.

as the two of you continue to walk, the camera catches you walking with your back to the camera – the bedazzled 'juicy' across your lower back and butt glinting under the sun as you walk. a few passersby turn to look – at you or lando is the question – but you both clearly don't notice. to engrossed in each other

💬 comments :

👤 : oh he's smooooooooooth did you see how easily he moved to the outside of the sidewalk

👤 : i'm convinced she has one in every color

👤 : can't get over how hot she looks in that jumpsuit

👤 : everyone say "thank you yn" for bringing juicy tracksuits back

👤 : monaco has no idea how lucky it is to have her living in their city...

clip #3 – THAT BABY BLUE IS STUNNING ON HER

when the clip first starts, you are still in the car with lando. him driving your custom porsche taycan 4s cross turismo he bought you, which was already gathering a crowd as others were recording both the two of you and the car.

truly a sight to behold.

the clip cuts to when lando has parked with him getting out and a valet opening the door for you and helping you out. once you step out, the camera goes shaky – the person behind it gasping as they immediately try to zoom and get a better view of you.

your baby blue juicy tracksuit complementing the meissenblue accents of the car – most notably the wheel rims. you're also wearing a white lace headband to keep your hair pushed back and fully completing the look.

you smile and thank the valet as you turn to see lando rounding the car after handing his keys off. his hand settling low on your waist as he guides your towards the stairs and the camera still trying to follow you before it cuts off when you and lando go inside the building.

💬 comments :

👤 : her tracksuit and her CUSTOM car matching is so cute. you just KNOW she planned that 🤩

👤 : i seen a different angle from the moment and lando looks totally enamored with her when he watches her get out of the car

👤 : oh she totally looks stunning in that blue, its def her color for sure

👤 : forget the chicken or the egg, the real question is: what came first? the tracksuit or the car 👀👀

👤 : could she stand out any more 🙄 she's such an attention seeker

👤 : hear me out guys! yn wearing this blue tracksuit w/ the shorts instead in lando's fiat 500 jolly 🙂‍↕️ she would totally eat

clip #4 – ITS MCLAREN ORANGE 😱 THAT JUST HAS TO BE CUSTOM-MADE

the clip starts immediately in the middle of whatever chaos is happening. other people obviously recording as well as the camera catches lando helping you out of his mclaren p1.

your orange juicy tracksuit standing out boldly against the sea of darks and neutrals that everyone else is wearing. yes, even lando in his all black outfit. what makes your outfit better is the matching orange juicy purse that you sling over your shoulder.

when you are out of the car, lando shuts the door behind you before you're wrapping your arm around his as the two of you walk. as you get closer to the door, that's when the camera catches sight of your black heels poking from underneath your pants.

lando says something to you which makes you laugh before he's kissing your cheek as the two of you disappear inside the building. the video cutting off a few seconds later.

💬 comments :

👤 : yn confirmed it on tiktok that juicy couture did in fact send her this as a custom-made tracksuit. she's been spotted wearing it a few other times to mclaren-related events with lando that are more casual

👤 : her wearing this orange juicy while riding in a mclaren is PEAK it-girl material

👤 : yn, you are THAT girl

👤 : the black heels with the tracksuit are 😍😍 i love it even though i could never 😂

👤 : woooooooow 😬 she's just really trying to milk for attention now huh?? can't she dress like all the other wags for once?? or be private like oscar's gf??

👤 : SHE WORE THAT TRACKSUIT IN THAT HOT LAP VIDEO MCLAREN POSTED WITH HER AND LANDO 😱 I KNEW I SEEN IT BEFORE

clip #5 – yn has got the white juicy + bikini combo DOWN

the original clip comes from alexandra's insta stories, but has been reuploaded countless of times by now.

the clip starts off with you center focused, clearly being shot on a yacht, a drink in your hand and sunglasses being used to push your hair back.

you are laughing, smiling, and dancing as music plays in the background. you're wearing a sage green bikini and overtop to cover you is a white juicy jacket which is sliding off your shoulders the more you move around.

you are clearly having a good time as rebecca comes into frame and the two of you start dancing together. you lip-syncing and clearly having the time of your life with the other wags.

💬 comments :

👤 : lando can't fight all of us can he???

👤 : she's just as snobby as the rest of the wags – literally partying on a yacht and drinking...

👤 : birds of a feather flock together 🙄🙄 so fucking annoying watching them all

👤 : oh she ateeeeeee and everyone in these comments are just jealous bc she looks good in EVERYTHING

👤 : what are some of these comments 😭 you all hating a girl for hanging out with her friend – be so for fucking real guys 😭✋

👤 : she's so beautiful 😍 thank you alexandra for capturing this!!

clip #6 – yn appears in lando's stream (11.30.2023)

lando is in the middle of talking to chat, already full screen as he's trying to show off his new watch. his eyes immediately leave the monitor to look over at his door when he sees you walk in.

"hi, baby," he says, scooting his chair back to allow you to walk into frame and join him. lando's chat is already moving a mile a minute the second he acknowledged you, but seems to go even crazier when you finally do walk into frame.

your lilac juicy tracksuit stands out softly against the lighting in lando's office. his hands immediately finding your waist as he pulls you to sit down in his lap.

"what are you playing?" you ask, eyes flickering from him to his monitor. "oh, fortnite?"

"yeah, do you want to play?"

you let out a laugh, shaking your head, "absolutely not. it makes me angry."

"of course it does," he teases, his eyes moving from you to chat. "i think they love you more than me."

"well... you can't blame them," you say before yelping when lando squeezes your sides. "lando!" you say with a pout as he laughs.

lando kisses your shoulder over your hoodie, reading chat when he notices several thousand messgaes repeating the same thing, "they want an ootd."

"do they?" you ask, leaning closer towards the monitor to see several, several messages begging for you to show off your outfit. you then turn to look at lando who was already looking at you. "can i?" you quietly ask and lando nods.

you then stand up and lando moves his chair back to give you room. "okay, just a quick one so lando can get back to his game," you say as you do a quick pose, hands on your hips before doing a slow turn. "juicy couture – obviously, the color is pastel lilac and i actually had to get this off the uk version of the website because they do not have it on the us website."

you run your hands down the sleeves as you turn around to show off the iconic bedazzled juicy along your butt, the camera catching lando watching you with his lower lip between his teeth.

"no jewelry today because i'm not leaving," you say with a laugh. "and i have on just plain ankle socks because lando's floors are cold," you add as you grab your leg to show-off your socks. "and that's it, pretty basic today guys."

"still pretty though," lando says as he moves his chair back as you begin to move away. "where you going, baby?"

"i'm going back to watch my show. i just wanted to check on you!" you say, as lando grabs your wrist and tugs you back to him. he stands up and while slightly out of frame, its obvious that lando is kissing you from how close you two are.

your light, shy giggle fills the space as he kisses you. he leans back over to mute his mic before he standing up again, still holding you flush against him. your hand is caught sliding down his back before gently patting his butt. lando finally steps away, sitting back in his chair and unmuting.

"tell chat bye, y/n," he says and you lean back into frame with a smile, waving the camera before turning to blow lando a kiss. he smiles as he catches it and presses it to his lips.

💬 comments :

👤 : this is one of my favorite yn stream clips EVER

👤 : she truly is my fashion inspo 😍🤩 i love her so much

👤 : she's a real one for always telling us where she got her pieces

👤 : i always adore seeing her appear in lando's stream and this was like... a year into their relationship before she was even living with him

👤 : nice to see 2026!lando is still obsessed with yn like 2023!lando was lololol

👤 : WHY DID HE MUTE WHAT WERE THEY DOINGGGGGG

clip #7 – yn spotted wearing the ICONIC hot pink juicy tracksuit while in monaco with lando

you and lando are walking across the street after having just left a restaurant together. lando's security guard, rich, following behind the two of you as lando is guiding you across the street and towards his car.

"she's wearing the pink one!" the fan behind the camera says as it zooms in on you wearing the infamous pink juicy suit with your vintage louis vuitton murakami purse swinging in your hand. however, your outfit isn't the only thing catching fans attention.

it's where lando's hand is placed on you. your jacket riding up a little as his hand moves underneath to caress your back. as you turn to say something, that's when his hand casually slips underneath your waistband at your hip. still visible enough, but also hidden enough to be cheeky.

lando looks at you as you talk, a fond smile on his face. you both take a few more steps before you're stopping to look at the port and ocean. you lean over to whisper something to lando before he's turning his head. he then leans down and kisses you, your hand coming up to rest on his cheek as he deepens the kiss.

when you pull away, you are clearly caught smiling as lando tries to chase your lips before you are hugging him. your arms wrapping around his shoulders as both of his rest on your waist. the camera shakes, trying to get a better angle of you both. it, of course, manages to catch the moment lando kisses your neck.

the two of you stand there for another moment before lando is pulling away just enough to have the two of you continue walking. it's right after that does the clip end.

💬 comments :

👤 : THE HAND PLACEMENT 😱😱 LANDO NORRIS SOME DECENCY PLEASE 🙏

👤 : poor rich getting left to be the ULTIMATE third wheel 😮‍💨 hopefully lando pays him enough lolololol

👤 : does she not bring these tracksuits to the races?? yn would fucking KILL it wearing them to the different races 😮‍💨

👤 : that kiss was lowkey too HOT like who told them to kiss like that??

👤 : her pink tracksuit gives ultimate diva energy and i'm LOVING it on her – like i'm convinced that every color is her color

[boxbox81babygirl]

Menances – OP81  

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader 

Summary: One secret. Four menaces determined to figure it out. And a Lando who refuses to stop trying his luck.

Part 25 to Let the Light in

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 1:21

Messages between Nicole and Oscar 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Oscar had only calculated one menace this weekend – his sister. What he hadn’t calculated was that Kimi would stay true to his word and continue trying to figure out who the secret girl he’d been spotted with was – who Kimi had almost caught Oscar with. And worse? Kimi had dragged Oli into his shenanigans. 

It was Wednesday, Media Day, and of course, by cruel fate, he was paired with the duo. George was there too, but he was useless as a buffer—neither helping nor making things worse. 

Oscar tried to ignore them. Tried to ignore their sidelong looks, their whispers, the way they were clearly tallying clues. They were obsessed, like junior detectives desperate to crack a case that didn’t belong to them. 

At least they had the decency to keep their voices low, so the mic wouldn’t pick up anything. Still, he was almost certain George knew by now. 

But honestly, who didn’t, after Oscar had been spotted twice in just one weekend? 

“Oscar,” an English announcer called, and he straightened, expecting another question about track conditions, tire compounds, or championship strategies. But of course, he should have known better. 

“Last weekend you were pictured twice with a woman. Can you tell us anything about it?” 

Cue the laughter. Kimi snorted, Oli nearly doubled over, and Oscar had to force his face into that perfectly neutral, unbothered mask he reserved for situations like this 

“It’s private,” he said smoothly, but his jaw tightened as Kimi and Oli exchanged smirks. 

“Oh, come on,” Oli said, voice quiet but just loud enough for him to hear. “You’ve got to give something. Just a hint. A name? Eye color? Zodiac sign?” 

Kimi leaned in as well, mock-serious. “Yeah, Oscar, we’re dying here. We need closure.” 

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “You do realize I’m not contractually obligated to answer questions about my personal life?” 

“But that doesn’t stop curiosity,” Kimi replied, leaning back, eyes sparkling with playful mischief. The grin was infuriatingly innocent, like a cat that had just knocked over a priceless vase and was pretending it wasn’t its fault. 

Oli giggled, leaning closer. “Or maybe the blonde is someone we already know. That would make this so much easier for us.” 

Oscar took a slow, deliberate breath.  He shot a glance at George, who was awkwardly sipping water, trying not to laugh. Fantastic. Zero backup. 

He opened his mouth to deliver the perfectly neutral, non-answer that would shut them down—his usual, foolproof tactic—when the next question landed like a bucket of ice water. 

“And are you planning to bring her to Barcelona?” 

Kimi’s grin widened until it looked like it might split his face entirely, while Oli tried—and spectacularly failed—to hide his laugh behind his hands. The gleeful chaos in their expressions made it abundantly clear: they were having far too much fun 

Oscar exhaled audibly, lifting the microphone to his mouth with the resignation of a man who had already lost. “No comment,” he said. 

He wanted to say no. Anything definitive. But he’d learned the hard way that media were masters at twisting words into headlines he’d regret by lunchtime. “No comment” was the safest route, even if it meant having Kimi lean back toward him and whisper, voice dripping with smug certainty, “No comment usually means yes.” 

Oscar exhaled through his nose, imagining the ground opening up beneath him. A dramatic disappearance into the earth might have been the weekend’s most tempting option. 

Fucking Media Day. 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

When you arrived in Barcelona on Friday morning, the first thing you did was head straight to the hotel to take a quick shower and change. Alexandra had wanted to wait for you, but she couldn’t—and knowing full well that Oscar couldn’t just leave his key with the hotel clerk without making headlines, she’d left hers instead, letting you slip in and get ready first. 

So you did exactly that. You picked up the key card, changed out of your cramped airplane clothes, let the hot water wash away the fatigue from the flight, freshened your makeup, and finally stepped into a crisp, completely white outfit.  

Then you grabbed your bag, lanyard dangling, and headed for the track. 

What you hadn’t expected was Lando Norris standing near the entrance, scanning the crowd. 

For half a second, you considered slipping behind a nearby wall, pretending to be invisible—but of course, he spotted you before you could move. His face lit up the second he saw you. 

And that alone made your stomach sink. 

Not because it was unattractive—but because you already knew what was coming. 

You didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t want to lead him on. 

But he didn’t stop. 

Persistent. Playful. Completely unfazed by your lack of interest—or choosing to ignore it. 

“Y/N,” he called out, voice warm, like seeing you was the highlight of his morning. “I wasn’t expecting you here.” 

With your sunglasses perched on your nose, you smiled back, “Alexandra asked if I wanted to swing by—was in Spain for work anyway.” The lie rolled off your tongue naturally, effortless, like it had been rehearsed a hundred times. 

Last year, that answer would have been entirely true. You’d come to races whenever you were nearby—or Alexandra had brought you along from the start. 

But this time, much like Canada, you weren’t here for Alexandra. You were here for Oscar. 

“It’s good to see you,” Lando said, waiting politely for you to scan your pass and move through the barriers. 

You showed your bag to security, let them check it, and finally made your way down the steps—right back into his orbit. 

“You left so suddenly on Sunday,” Lando said, a note of disappointment in his voice. 

The memory hit you instantly: the Sunday after the Monaco GP. The night your eyes found Oscar’s—and the next thing you knew, you were telling Lando you needed the bathroom, grabbing Arthur’s arm for cover, slipping away. 

The night Oscar made you feel so good you could still feel him between your thighs now. The night he’d moaned your name so sweetly, the sound echoing in your mind, making heat pool low in your stomach all over again. The night he called you his and watched you come undone around him. 

“Yeah,” you said lightly. “Wasn’t feeling great.” 

“You better now?” 

“Much better,” you replied, masking the truth with a small smile. “Just… too much alcohol.” 

“Did you get home okay?” 

There it was. Subtle. Curious. 

“Yes,” you said smoothly. “Arthur was kind enough to take me home.” 

A lawyer’s lie would’ve paled in comparison to your ease. 

“Come on,” he said, gesturing you forward. “I’ll walk you to the Ferrari motorhome.” His tone was casual, but his grin gave him away—he wanted more. More time, more attention, more of you. 

You hesitated, wanting to decline, to tell him you could manage—but it was the same direction anyway. Refusing would only make it awkward. 

So you nodded, falling into step beside him, your heels clicking against the asphalt in rhythm with his stride. 

You moved through the paddock together, his presence easy, familiar—too easy. 

“You always know how to make an entrance, huh?” Lando teased, glancing at your all-white outfit, sunglasses sitting perfectly on your nose. “I swear, half the paddock just forgot what they’re here for.” 

You laughed, neutral enough to keep him guessing. “Oh really?” 

He nudged you lightly, grin easy. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind if they did.” His grin was cocky, unapologetically confident—the kind of charm that worked on most women. Not you. 

You tried to stay casual. “I’m just here to see the cars, promise.” 

“Uh-huh,” Lando said, tilting his head, clearly unconvinced. “You’re so subtle. I’d never guess you were secretly the reason the paddock just got ten times more interesting.” 

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“Maybe,” Lando admitted, leaning just a fraction closer, his voice dropping into that teasing, low register, “but I like being ridiculous around you if it makes you laugh like that.” 

Too close. Too familiar. 

You didn’t step away—but you felt it. 

And then, just as you reached the Ferrari motorhome, your gaze landed on him. 

Oscar. 

Leaning casually against the barrier, arms crossed—but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. His eyes were locked on you. On Lando. On the space between you. 

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. 

And it was torture. 

Not just for him—but for you too. 

Because there was nothing you wanted more in that moment than to step forward, wrap your arms around him, press your body against his, breathe him in. You had last seen him Monday, when he’d driven you to the airport—and now it was Friday. Only four days, but it had felt like an eternity. 

“Funny thing,” Lando continued, utterly oblivious—or maybe deliberately ignoring Oscar’s presence—“I couldn’t even dream about seeing you this weekend. And now… here you are, looking way too good for someone who says she’s just here to see the cars.” 

You shook your head, laughing lightly, letting the humor mask the way your stomach twisted. This would work on so many women—you were sure of it. 

But not you. 

Your heart, your attention, your desire— 

they already belonged to someone else. 

Your eyes flicked back to Oscar, and the sight of him sent a shiver down your spine. His jaw was tight, arms crossed, chest rising and falling in controlled breaths. Trapped behind professionalism. Secrecy. Everything he couldn’t allow himself to do. 

“You really have a way, don’t you?” you said lightly. 

“You have no idea,” he said, grin widening. “Maybe I could show you something… special before the chaos starts.” 

Your pulse flickered. Not for him. 

Never for him. 

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. 

“Oh?” you played along. “Like what?” 

“You’ll see,” he said, cocky, unapologetic. “Could be the car. Could be… me.” 

You laughed, breath catching for a second, trying not to show how his audacity had thrown you off—but your pulse betrayed you. 

Because Oscar’s gaze—locked on you the entire time—pressed into your skin like a second heartbeat. 

And Oscar… 

he was dying inside. 

Every joke, every casual nudge, every unthinking brush of Lando’s arm against yours sent sharp spikes of jealousy through him. He wanted to step forward, to pull you away, to claim something he had no right to claim—not here, not like this. 

So he stayed where he was. 

Tight-lipped. Burning. 

And you? 

You walked that line deliberately—amusement on your face, restraint in your body—but your nerves screamed for him. Every flicker of movement, every glance back at Oscar, reminded you of what really mattered. Your heart, your want, your desire—it belonged entirely to him. 

And that made Lando’s persistence… completely irrelevant. 

Oscar’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching almost imperceptibly behind his crossed arms. 

Jealousy burned hot and sharp in his chest—ugly, possessive, impossible to ignore. 

And the worst part? He had no one to blame but himself. 

This— 

the distance, 

the secrecy, 

the fact that he had to stand there and watch another man touch you like that— 

it was all his doing. 

So he stayed where he was. 

Silent. Rigid. Waiting. 

Your heels clicked against the asphalt as you and Lando approached the motorhome, the Spanish sun warm against your skin, catching in your hair and making it glow. 

“Well,” you smiled softly, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair, turning slightly toward him, “thank you for bringing me here.” 

You shifted your weight, ready to step inside—ready to escape— 

but Lando’s hand closed gently around your arm. 

Not forceful. 

Just enough to stop you. 

“Hey—wait,” he said, his voice softer now, something more careful slipping through the usual teasing edge. 

Your body stilled. 

And you felt it instantly— 

Oscar’s gaze sharpening. 

Burning. 

You turned back to Lando, brows lifting slightly in question. “Yeah?” 

For a second, he hesitated—which wasn’t like him. 

“I was wondering,” he started, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin—too familiar, too comfortable—“if maybe later you’d want to hang out. Properly this time. No disappearing.” 

The corner of your mouth twitched. 

“I can’t-”  

You were about to explain. About seeing someone. About how just a few photos of you together in the paddock could start more trouble than you needed—not with your family name, and certainly not with him. 

But before the words could form, Arthur appeared by the automatic double doors. The cool air spilled out as the doors slid open, and relief washed over you. 

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been wondering when you’d show. You texted us ages ago.” 

Your gaze shifted from Lando to Arthur, and the tension drained almost instantly. 

“Sorry,” you said, smiling, “was mid-conversation with Lando.” 

Arthur’s grin widened. “Hey,” he nodded briefly at Lando, then returned his attention to you, “you really need to get inside—I taught Leo a new trick!” He already had a hand on your free wrist, tugging gently but insistently. 

“But—” Lando started, reaching for your attention again. 

Too late. 

You were already moving. 

And for the first time since you’d stepped into the paddock, Oscar could breathe. 

Not fully. Not properly. 

But enough. 

  ❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Sol's Insta Story

  ❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

The moment Oscar opened the door, he didn’t hesitate. 

His arms were around you instantly, pulling you flush against his body, one hand pressing firmly into your back while the other curled into your side. His face buried into your hair, breathing you in like he needed to make sure you were real. 

Like you were actually here. 

You let out a soft chuckle at the suddenness of it—but melted into him all the same, your arms slipping around his waist, your ear pressing against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek. 

Grounding. 

“Good to see you,” he murmured into your hair, voice low, almost quiet with relief. 

He didn’t let go as he pulled you inside, one arm still wrapped tightly around you while the other reached back to drag your luggage in, kicking the door shut behind you. 

The second it clicked closed, something in him seemed to finally settle. 

The day had been brutal. 

His sister had been relentless, circling him with questions he refused to answer. Kimi had turned the whole thing into a game, dragging Oli—and now apparently Gabi—into his little investigation, like they were all part of some ridiculous detective agency. Oscar was almost certain Kimi had tried to rope Max into it too, but Max, thankfully, had better things to care about. 

And then there was Lando. 

Watching him flirt with you—openly, shamelessly, like there were no lines to cross—while Oscar had to stand there and do nothing… 

It had taken everything in him not to walk over. 

Not to make it obvious. 

Not to ruin everything before it had even properly begun. 

And you had been right there. Just a few steps away. 

Untouchable. 

“How was your week?” he asked finally, forcing himself to loosen his grip on you so he could close the door properly. 

Just in time, too. 

Gabi passed by in the hallway, deep in conversation with his girlfriend, not even glancing up. Oscar’s shoulders relaxed a fraction once he was gone. 

Still safe. 

“For me? It was fine,” you said softly, moving past him and sitting down on the bed. The sheets smelled like him—familiar, warm, instantly comforting. “I got the new client.” 

There was a quiet pride in your voice, and it made something in his chest loosen. 

He turned toward you, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Well done,” he said, genuinely. “I never doubted you for a second.” 

You smiled at that. 

“And you?” you asked. “How was your week so far?” 

“Hell,” he exhaled, running a hand through his already messy hair before dropping down beside you. 

Your hands found each other almost automatically. 

His fingers laced through yours, holding on tighter than necessary, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles over your skin—like he needed the contact. Like it anchored him. 

“My sister’s here,” he started, voice low. “She’s made it her personal mission to figure out who you are and meet you.” He huffed out a quiet breath. “Kimi’s turned it into a full investigation. Oli’s involved. Gabi too, apparently. And when Lando’s not flirting with you like a Love Island contestant, he’s asking me why I’m hiding my ‘new girlfriend.’” 

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. 

“Love Island contestant?” you repeated, amused. 

But then it hit you. 

Your expression shifted slightly, your pulse picking up. 

“…wait,” you said slowly. “How does your sister want to meet me?” 

Right. 

He hadn’t told you. 

“She’s… here,” Oscar admitted, scratching the back of his neck, a little sheepish now. “Had a concert today, but she’ll be in the paddock tomorrow.” 

Your stomach dropped slightly. 

“Oh.” 

The word came out softer than you intended. 

A flicker of something—uncertainty, nerves—curled in your chest. 

Did he not want you to meet her? 

Was this… not what you thought it was becoming? 

“Yeah,” he nodded, still not quite catching on. “And if she decides something, she usually makes it happen.” 

“Ah,” you said, forcing a small nod. “Okay.” 

You weren’t entirely sure what to do with that. 

It was only when your fingers shifted in his—slight, unsteady—that Oscar finally looked up properly. 

Really looked at you. 

Your expression. 

The tension you were trying to hide. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked gently, tilting his head. “Or… overthinking?” 

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head as you tried to slip your hand out of his. “I just— I should probably unpack—” 

He didn’t let you go. 

Instead, he pulled you closer. 

His other hand came up to your chin, turning your face back toward him, careful but firm, making sure you looked at him. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “Be honest.” 

The way he said it—quiet, almost pleading—made your chest tighten. 

You exhaled slowly, gathering your thoughts. 

“…do you not want me to meet your sister?” you asked. 

The question felt small. 

Too vulnerable. 

Too revealing. 

And immediately, it sounded stupid in your own head. 

Why would he? 

You weren’t even… defined. Not officially. Not anything he had to claim. 

His grip on your hand tightened gently. 

“Do you?” he asked instead, searching your face. “Do you want to meet her?” 

Because that was the only thing that mattered to him. 

If this had been back in Australia—if you’d been closer, if things had been simpler—he probably would’ve introduced you already. 

But this? 

This was different. He knew that. 

“I… if you want me to,” you said carefully. 

A small smile tugged at his lips. 

“I don’t want to push you,” he said quietly. “Not into anything too fast. I want you to have time. All the time you need.” 

A soft laugh slipped from you, tension easing just a little. 

“I think I’ve had plenty of time,” you murmured, glancing at him. 

All those weeks. The back and forth. The slow build. 

He huffed out a quiet breath at that. 

“Fair,” he admitted. 

“She can be… a lot,” he added, almost as a warning. “Very upfront.” 

You smiled, a little more genuine now. 

“I have a brother and a sister,” you said lightly. “I’ll survive.” 

Your sister—chaos. 

Your brother—brutal honesty. 

You knew the type. 

Still, he studied you for a moment, searching your face, making sure you really meant it. 

Your eyes wandered over him in return—taking him in, every detail, every small mark, every familiar feature—before you nodded. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like to meet her.” 

A beat. 

Then, with a small smirk: “I’d love to hear embarrassing childhood stories about you.” 

Oscar groaned immediately, dropping his head back. 

“Oh, God.” 

You squeezed his hand this time, amused. 

“But she will ask everything,” he warned again. 

You shrugged lightly. 

“So be it.” 

He shook his head, somewhere between disbelief and something softer—something warmer. 

How you could just… step into this like that. 

Like it didn’t scare you. 

Like you trusted him enough to. 

He took a breath, then reached for his phone on the bedside table. 

“Alright,” he said, glancing back at you. “Dinner tomorrow?” 

You smiled. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s do it.” 

  ❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Sol's Insta Story

  ❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

You felt as confident as you could in the dress you had chosen for qualifying today—a black-and-white polka-dot number by an up-and-coming designer, sleek and fitted in all the right places, paired with black heels that clicked softly against the paddock asphalt. Your hair was loose, catching glints of the Barcelona sun, and your red lip gloss made you feel bold. Yet, despite all that, your chest was tight, nerves coiling low in your stomach like electricity. 

You tried to mask it, to keep it tucked away behind your usual poise—but Alex could read you like a book. 

“Okay, spill.” She suddenly stopped mid-step, turning to stand flush in front of you. Warm hands rested lightly on your arms, her expression soft but insistent, dark hair brightened by the sun. 

“What?” you asked, caught off guard by her sudden intensity. 

“What is going on in that head of yours?” she said, voice calm but piercing. “You’re overthinking. I mean, yesterday you were tense after the whole Lando thing—and from what Arthur told me, Oscar wasn’t exactly thrilled either. Probably worse. But then you left looking like the happiest little bug I know. And now… today? Nervous as hell.” She smiled knowingly, eyes sparkling. “So. Spill.” 

You exhaled, shoulders tensing. You hadn’t wanted to share this with anyone—not even Alexandra. Not yet. This was between you and Oscar… and, now, his sister. 

“Oscar’s sister is in the paddock,” you admitted, your voice low. 

“Which one? Hattie or Edie?” Alexandra asked immediately. You blinked. How did she know? 

“Hattie,” you muttered. 

Alexandra’s face lit up. “Okay… and what about it?” 

Her eyes widened suddenly as realization hit. “Are you meeting her?” 

You nodded, finally admitting it. 

Alexandra’s grin stretched impossibly wide. “Oh. My. God. You’re meeting her!” 

You felt your stomach twist into knots. 

“What are you nervous about, Sol?” she asked, tilting her head. She didn’t understand. You were confident, composed, always knew where you stood. Meeting family shouldn’t rattle you… but this wasn’t just any guy. This was Oscar. Even Arthur could tell how different he was. 

“What if she asks what we are?” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, I’m the girl your brother is secretly sleeping with but won’t define?’” 

Alexandra choked on a laugh. She let go of your arms and started walking again, nudging you gently to follow. Microphones and cameras scattered throughout the paddock made you move quickly—you didn’t want this conversation broadcast before you were ready. 

You fell into step beside her, gripping your lanyard a little tighter. 

“First of all—don’t say that,” she said. 

“Helpful,” you muttered, shooting her a glance. 

“I’m serious,” she replied, still grinning. “Just tell the truth. You’re seeing each other. You like each other. That’s it.” 

Simple. Harmless. And yet, your stomach twisted into a tighter knot just thinking about saying it out loud. 

“And what if she doesn’t like me?” you whispered, quieter now, almost to yourself. 

Alexandra stopped walking. Fully. She turned to face you, her expression softening in a way that made your chest ache. 

“She will,” she said, voice steady and reassuring. 

“You don’t know that,” you countered, though your voice wavered. 

“I do,” she said simply. 

“How?” you pressed, skepticism creeping in despite your nerves. 

A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. “Because Oscar looks like he’d fight a small country for you right now.” 

Your breath caught, a heat creeping up your neck before you could stop it. 

“…he does not,” you muttered, trying to sound casual. 

Alexandra gave you a look that made your stomach flutter. “Also,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “if she’s anything like him, she’s probably already obsessed with you.” 

Your grip on your lanyard tightened as you resumed walking, nerves buzzing through your veins. 

“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “So either she loves me… or interrogates me.” 

Alexandra grinned wickedly. “Or both.” 

You groaned, a laugh catching in your throat despite yourself. 

Across the paddock, Oscar’s eyes lingered on you, tracing the way you laughed with Alexandra, how your hair caught the sunlight and danced in the wind, how the dress hugged you in all the right places, and the effortless way you strode in those heels. His heart skipped a beat when the sound of your laugh reached him. You looked so carefree, so alive, just being yourself—completely oblivious to the cameras snapping your every move. 

He wanted to follow you. To tell you good morning, ask how you’d been, maybe brush a stray hair from your face and remind you that he loved the quiet morning when you were tucked in his arms. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not with the prying eyes of the Paddock. Not with the cameras snapping every move, every gesture. One wrong move, one glance, and the story would be everywhere. 

So he dragged his gaze away. 

“Is that her?” Hattie’s voice cut in—far too casual. 

“What?” Oscar asked, startled. 

“The girl next to Alexandra,” Hattie continued, eyes sparkling. “The one you’ve been… obviously following with your eyes. With the hair and the style and—come on, Osc, you know exactly who I mean.” 

Oscar froze. “What—” 

“Stop pretending,” Hattie groaned, leaning closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Is she… her?” 

This time, Oscar didn’t even try to hide the groan that slipped out. “You’re going to meet her tonight,” he muttered, already feeling cornered. 

Hattie only shrugged, completely unfazed. “You could still answer the question. It’s not that complicated.” 

“I’m not answering it,” he said, tone clipped despite his attempt to keep it casual. His jaw tightened. 

“Please,” she pressed, tipping her head up at him with mock innocence. “I’m meeting her anyway.” 

Before he could respond, a familiar voice cut through the tension. 

“Going to meet who?” 

Lando. 

Of course. 

His easy, cheerful tone made something in Oscar snap internally. Perfect timing—exactly when his sister was already digging into territory she had no business being in. Now he was dealing with two menaces at once. 

He just prayed Hattie had enough sense not to say anything. 

“No one,” Hattie replied—just a little too quickly. 

Lando’s eyes narrowed, amused. “That didn’t sound convincing.” He took a step closer. “So… who’s meeting who?” 

Oscar exhaled sharply. “None of your business.” 

“Come on, mate,” Lando teased, grin widening. “Don’t shut me out. Is it…”—his voice dipped slightly—“the girl you’ve been seen with?” 

Hattie’s gaze flicked to Oscar. 

Silent. Asking. 

And that— 

that was the mistake. 

Because the second Lando caught it, something clicked. His expression shifted, realization lighting up his face. 

“Oh my god,” he breathed, grin spreading. “It is, isn’t it?” 

“Again,” Oscar said, already done, grabbing his sister’s wrist—firm, but not rough—“none of your business.” 

And before Lando could push further, Oscar turned, pulling Hattie along with him toward his driver’s room. Away. 

Far away. 

Because he could handle his sister. 

Lando? 

Lando was a different problem entirely. 

The irritation simmered under his skin as he walked—sharp, persistent. Lando’s constant pushing, the flirting, the questions—like he had any right. 

They were teammates. That was it. 

Nothing more. 

He didn’t get to know about you. Not like this. Not yet. 

The door shut behind them with a quiet click. 

Silence. 

For a second. 

Then— 

“Oh, she’s definitely the one,” Hattie said, turning to him, eyes bright with certainty. "You have that look,"

Oscar stopped, then dropped onto the couch with a tired exhale. “What look?” 

She grinned. 

“The one where you look like you’re about two seconds away from ruining your entire career just to kiss her in public.” 

He stared at her. 

Speechless. 

Hattie’s smile softened—just a fraction this time. 

“You’ve never looked like that before,” she said more quietly. 

And she meant it. She’d seen him before. With Lily. She knew what that had been—real, deep, steady. 

But this? 

This was different. 

It was deeper. Hungrier. 

Like it had gotten under his skin in a way nothing else ever had. 

“Don’t worry,” she added lightly, the mischief slipping back into her voice. “I’ll behave tonight.” 

A beat. 

Then she tilted her head, smirking— 

“…probably.” 

✿❀ Let the Light in ❁✿

Soooo, do we think that Hattie will like her?

taglist: @teamnovalak @anamiad00msday @engelsmoment @madd1115 @frankiejo04 @aerangi @dakotapaigelove @azldee @dazaisdogsblog @yumarkie @jennibahng @suns3treading @sassyangel16 @alwaysclassyeagle @moons-v @disappointednotsuprised24 @okcurran @esw1012 @okayarkay @sltwins @bhagyashreeghuge @mysteriousduckprincess @kay-bello @vinylphwoar @mclarensnumberone @taetae-armyyyyy @woninabillion04 @cherryhazee @shawnscurlz @csceclairs @daddyrafeslittleslut @theladybiers @piastripastry81 @be4rnellis @princessria127 @phosphen3-s @wiggly-yrath @artyyjia @chloclo @nilletellsstories @sunshinevansh @cherryniyaah @lora21 @marinasblogs-posts @blablabla2242 @dustyinkpages @applejackrootbeerhollis @pharmasennapuff @astrrlily @melissa66orion @dutchlionforev @gold66loveblog @bruhitsmoose @iceceweam9

[ilichilangel]

HATTIE!!!

[moonlightproblems]

hi! could you do a kimi story about him bringing his older gf to the paddock for the first time and her being nervous and him comforting her and the drivers reactions?

You’re With Me

Kimi Antonelli x Older!Reader

Synopsis: Kimi brings his older girlfriend to the paddock for the first time, and when the attention overwhelms her, he stays glued to her side, grounding her while the drivers react with surprise and teasing — making it clear he doesn’t care about the age gap, only about her being with him.

Requested - I hope you like it!

Patreon - Exclusive Content

You’ve been to races before — in the grandstands, in hospitality, even once in a VIP suite — but never here. Never in the paddock. Never as someone’s partner.

And definitely never as the girlfriend of an eighteen‑year‑old prodigy who drives a Formula 1 car like he was born in it.

Your hand is in his, warm and steady, but your stomach is doing Olympic‑level gymnastics.

“Kimi,” you whisper as you approach the security gate, “I feel like everyone’s staring.”

“They’re not,” he says calmly, squeezing your fingers. “And if they do, it’s only because you’re beautiful.”

You snort. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” he says, glancing at you with that soft, earnest expression that always melts you. “And even if they stare, who cares? You’re with me.”

That should help. It doesn’t. Not fully.

Because you’re seven years older. Because the internet has Opinions. Because the paddock is full of cameras and gossip and people who will absolutely notice the age gap.

Kimi stops walking the moment he feels your hesitation. He turns to face you, hands sliding up your arms.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. “Talk to me.”

“I just…” You swallow. “What if they think it’s weird? What if they think I’m weird? What if they think you are weird for being with me?”

His brows pull together, confused in that pure, Kimi way.

“Why would they think that?”

“Because I’m older.”

He blinks. “So?”

“So?” you echo, incredulous.

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “You’re older. I like that. You’re smart. You’re calm. You know who you are. You make me feel grounded. You make me feel safe.”

Your heart squeezes.

“And,” he adds, leaning closer, “you look at me like I’m more than a driver. I need that.”

You exhale shakily. “I just don’t want people to judge you.”

“They can judge,” he says simply. “I don’t care. I care about you.”

He kisses your forehead — quick, soft, grounding — and then threads your fingers together again.

“Come on,” he says. “I want to show you off.”

---

The Paddock Walk

The moment you step inside, the noise hits you — engines firing, journalists shouting, fans screaming, mechanics rushing past with tyres and tools.

You cling to Kimi’s hand like it’s a lifeline.

He notices. He slows his pace.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs.

You’re not sure you are, but he looks so proud that you try to believe it.

Then you hear it.

“KIMI!”

You turn just in time to see Oscar Piastri jogging over, smiling like he’s found something amusing.

“Mate, you didn’t tell me you were bringing someone!”

Kimi steps slightly in front of you — protective, instinctive — but not in a way that hides you. More like he’s introducing you.

“This is my girlfriend,” he says, voice steady. “Y/N.”

Oscar’s eyebrows lift for half a second — not in judgment, just surprise — and then he smiles warmly.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

You blink. “You have?”

Oscar grins. “He talks more than you’d think.”

Kimi elbows him.

Oscar laughs. “Relax, I didn’t say what you talk about.”

Your cheeks warm. Kimi’s ears turn pink.

Before you can recover, another voice joins.

“Well, well, well,” Lando Norris says, strolling over with a grin. “So this is the mysterious girlfriend.”

You brace yourself.

Lando looks you up and down — not in a creepy way, just assessing — and then nods approvingly.

“She’s way too good for you,” he tells Kimi.

Kimi glares. “I know.”

Lando laughs. “Welcome to the circus. If you ever need rescuing from him, blink twice.”

Kimi mutters something in Italian that definitely isn’t polite.

You laugh — actually laugh — and the tension in your shoulders loosens.

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

---

Inside the Garage

The Mercedes garage is loud, bright, overwhelming. Engineers swarm around the car. Cameras flash. Screens flicker with data you don’t understand.

You hover near the back, unsure where to stand.

Kimi notices instantly.

He walks back to you, placing a hand on your waist.

“Here,” he says softly. “Stay with me.”

“But I don’t want to get in the way.”

“You won’t,” he promises. “You’re never in the way.”

He guides you to a small corner where you can see everything without being in anyone’s path. He hands you a headset.

“So you can hear me on the radio,” he explains.

Your heart flips.

“You want me to listen?”

“Of course,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You calm me down.”

You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.

---

The Other Drivers React

During a lull, a few more drivers wander by.

George Russell gives you a polite smile. “Lovely to meet you. Kimi’s been very… discreet.”

Kimi shrugs. “She’s mine. I don’t want everyone talking.”

George nods approvingly. “Good man.”

Charles Leclerc stops, looks at you, then at Kimi, then back at you.

“You are older?” he asks bluntly.

You freeze.

Kimi stiffens.

Charles immediately backtracks. “No! I mean — not in a bad way! Just — you look very elegant. Very… composed. Good for him.”

Kimi relaxes. You try not to laugh.

Carlos Sainz gives you a warm handshake. “If you ever need advice on dealing with young teammates, I have experience.”

Kimi groans. “I’m right here.”

Carlos pats his shoulder. “Yes. That’s why I said it.”

---

The Moment You Break

It happens when a group of photographers suddenly swarm the garage entrance, shouting Kimi’s name, snapping photos of the two of you.

Your chest tightens.

Your breath stutters.

Your fingers tremble.

Kimi sees it instantly.

He steps in front of you, blocking the cameras with his body, one hand reaching back to find yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “Look at me.”

You try. Your vision blurs.

He cups your cheek gently. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be this much.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says, thumb brushing your skin. “This is new. It’s loud. It’s a lot. I should have prepared you better.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s me—”

“It’s us,” he corrects softly. “We do this together.”

He pulls you into his chest, shielding you completely from the cameras. His hand rubs slow circles on your back.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers.

You match his inhale.

His exhale.

Slowly, the panic fades.

When you finally pull back, he searches your face.

“Do you want to leave?” he asks. “We can go right now.”

You look at him — at his worry, his softness, his absolute devotion — and you shake your head.

“No,” you say quietly. “I want to stay. With you.”

His smile is small, relieved, beautiful.

“Good,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Because I want you here.”

---

After the Session

When he comes back from practice, sweaty and flushed and buzzing with adrenaline, the first thing he does is walk straight to you.

Not the engineers.

Not the debrief.

You.

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

“How was it?” you ask.

“Better because you were here,” he says simply.

You blush. “You really mean that?”

He nods. “I drive better when I know you’re watching.”

You laugh softly. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“It’s not pressure,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “It’s comfort.”

Your heart melts.

Completely.

Utterly.

He kisses you — soft, slow, grounding — and the whole paddock seems to fade away.

---

Later, Walking Out Together

As you leave the paddock, still hand‑in‑hand, you notice people looking.

But this time, you don’t shrink.

Because Kimi’s thumb is stroking your knuckles.

Because he’s smiling at you like you’re the only person in the world.

Because he leans in and whispers:

“Next time will be easier. And the time after that. I’ll be with you every step.”

You smile.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.”

And for the first time all day, you truly believe it.

[ilichilangel]

wait how sweet!!

[boxbox81babygirl]

hi! I feel like reading some angst or sad stuff, do you think you’d be interested in writing an Oscar fic inspired by the song "I Hate U I Love U" by gnash (feat. Olivia O'Brien)?

I’d be honoured! I hope you like it 🥰 (Sidenote: I only noticed this after writing everything, but it could almost be read as a continuation of love, in lowercase, if you were looking for a pre-log.)

Here is to:

I Hate U, I Love U - OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: You hated that you loved him—but could you have ever helped yourself?

︎▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 1:21 

There was just something about Oscar that made it impossible to move on.

Even after he broke your heart. Even after he chose someone else over you—over someone who had known him his whole life, someone who understood him in ways only you could.

And yet… she still wasn’t you.

The cruelest part wasn’t rejection.

It was that he never rejected you at all. Twice.

He never said the words that would have made it clean. Twice. Never took your heart in his hands and crushed it in one decisive moment.

No.

He handled it gently. Carefully. The kind of care that makes you feel chosen—until you realize it was only ever about not hurting you, not about keeping you.

So he just… set you aside.

Softly.

And then walked forward as if nothing had ever been misplaced.

—

That was the thing about loving Oscar Piastri—falling in love had been slow, quiet, natural.

It had started simply. You met in boarding school at fourteen.

It started as friendship, easy and unforced. The kind of connection that didn’t need explanation.

And somewhere along the way, it shifted.

Not into something defined. Not officially.

But into something that lingered in the spaces between everything else.

Glances that lasted too long. Conversations that stretched into the early hours. A quiet understanding that neither of you ever fully named.

For a moment, it had felt inevitable.

Like if either of you had just reached out—just slightly—everything would have fallen into place.

But then Oscar met Lily.

And the world adjusted around her.

You had accepted it. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because you had learned how to make your pain quiet enough to live with. Because Lily was kind. Warm in a way that made her easy to be around, easy to like, easy to not resent—at least not out loud.

So you stayed.

Close. Present. Still part of his life.

Jealousy lived quietly underneath everything else.

Unspoken. Unacknowledged. But always there.

Because a part of you had already known— you had been close.

Close enough to almost matter in a different way.

And then it happened again: the almost.

Both of you felt it before either of you said anything.

It was the beginning of 2024. Oscar was single again—after years with Lily. Years of you just accepting the jealousy you’d always have to carry when she was around.

And suddenly, the space between you changed.

What had once been carefully maintained as “just friends” started to blur.

He leaned into you more. Texted more. Stayed longer. Looked at you like there was something unfinished between you—something neither of you had dared to name back then.

This time, it didn’t feel like a question.

It felt like a return.

Like everything that had been paused years ago was finally continuing—as if it had to, this time.

One late night, somewhere between exhaustion and honesty, you were lying on his chest when he said it.

Quietly.

Almost like he didn’t want the words to exist outside that moment.

“If I believed in soulmates…” he murmured, eyes heavy, voice softer than you had ever heard it, “I’d almost be sure it’s you.”

You hadn’t responded.

Not because you didn’t have anything to say.

But because everything in you had gone still.

Because that was the closest thing to a confession you had ever heard from him.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not loudly. Not fully. But enough.

And then Solange entered the picture.

Not dramatically. Not suddenly.

Just… naturally.

Like something he hadn’t been looking for—but recognized immediately anyway.

At first, nothing changed.

Or at least, not visibly.

He still spoke to you the same way. Still laughed at your jokes. Still sat next to you. Still existed in your shared space like he always had.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the edges shifted.

The late-night conversations became shorter. The pauses between replies grew longer. The eye contact—once lingering, once searching—became brief.

Contained.

Controlled.

And then he started pulling back.

Not cruelly.

Never cruelly.

Oscar didn’t take things away.

He just… let them fall out of reach.

Softly.

Gently.

Like lowering something fragile onto a shelf you couldn’t quite access anymore.

You noticed it before he ever said anything.

Because you had been here before.

You knew what it looked like when someone was choosing a different version of their life.

And without a confrontation, without a breakup, without a single defining moment—

you were quietly, carefully, gently placed back into the role of friend.

Again.

“What are you staring at?” he asked softly, a faint smirk already tugging at his lips as his eyes tried to follow yours.

But you weren’t staring at anything.

Just an empty page open on your OneNote.

You were stuck.

Caught somewhere between memory and reality, trying to steady your breathing while replaying fragments of conversations you never wanted to hear—and some you never asked to hear.

Mentions of her name. Casual. Effortless.

Solange.

Always Solange. A name you had started measuring yourself against without realizing you were already losing.

You forced a small chuckle, dragging yourself back into the present.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “Been thinking about the next content for your platform.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Just… not the truth that mattered.

Because what you were really thinking about was how easy it sounded when he talked about her.

How her name fit so naturally into his sentences.

How he said it the same way he used to say yours.

You want her, you need her. And I'll never be her The thought lingered—unspoken, but deafening.

“And?” he asked, pulling you out of your thoughts again. “And what?” “What did you think of?” he repeated, his tone light, unaware of the war happening quietly inside you.

You forced another laugh, the sound thin, practiced.

“Another stupid TikTok trend,” you said. “A dance.” He shook his head immediately.

“I’m not dancing.”

“Coward.”

“That wouldn’t get views,” he added, as if defending himself. “Everyone knows I don’t dance.”

“But that’s exactly why it would get views,” you countered. “Remember when you hit the griddy? That went viral.”

The memory slipped out easily.

Too easily.

Because you remembered everything.

He had looked so awkward that day. So unpolished. So uncalculated. So human.

And you had laughed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like being around him would always feel that effortless.

Because it was your face he had searched for in the crowd. Your face he smiled at—checking if you had seen it. If you had caught him in that moment.

He huffed quietly, shaking his head.

“Never again.”

“Coward,” you repeated, softer this time.

There was a pause.

Small.

But heavy.

Oscar leaned back slightly, his attention shifting—not away from you, but toward you in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

And there it was.

The same question. The same tone. The same quiet concern that used to make you feel seen.

Now it just made everything worse.

Because he still cared.

Just not in the way that mattered.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

A lie.

One he accepted too easily.

Oscar never pushed.

Never forced answers out of people.

He gave space.

Always space.

Space for people to come to him. Space for people to leave.

Your gaze dropped again, fingers tracing nothing in particular as your mind drifted back to her.

Solange.

The name had started to feel permanent.

Like she had always been part of his life—even if she hadn’t been there when you were.

You had heard how she laughed. How she understood him. How she fit into his world without friction.

Don't want to, but I can't put nobody else above you.

That was the worst kind of love.

“Did you see her today?” Oscar asked suddenly.

Your chest tightened.

“Who?”

“Solange.”

Of course.

The name landed softly in the space between you, but it still cut like something sharp—clean, precise, familiar in the worst way.

“Yeah,” you said after a beat. “Briefly.”

He nodded, a small smile forming—quiet, content, effortless.

“She’s good to have around.”

Simple.

Honest.

Final.

And somehow, that was what broke something in you all over again.

Because there was no hesitation in his voice.

No conflict.

No trace of the mess you were drowning in.

Just certainty.

She belonged. She was wanted.

You swallowed.

“Yeah,” you managed. “I’m sure she is.”

Your voice didn’t sound like yours anymore.

His phone buzzed.

He glanced down.

And the shift was immediate. Subtle, but unmistakable.

His focus changed.

His expression softened.

Not for you.

Not for this conversation.

For her.

For whatever message had just come through.

For a world you were no longer part of. A world that no longer belonged to you.

I hate you. I love you.

The words echoed in your mind, uninvited but painfully accurate. Because that was what this felt like.

Loving him. Resenting him.

Missing him.

Sitting right in front of him while he slowly—so gently—became someone else’s.

Your throat tightened.

“Hey,” he said again, looking up from his phone, like he had just remembered you were still there.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

And you almost laughed.

Because he would always ask. He would always care. He would still notice the smallest shifts—the tiniest cracks—because he knew you well enough to see them.

Just not well enough to understand what caused them. Not well enough to stop being the reason they existed.

You met his eyes.

And for a second—just a second—everything pressed forward.

I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since you left without leaving. I still love you. I hate that I still love you.

But none of it came out.

Instead, you smiled.

Soft.

Careful.

Just like he had been with your heart.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m fine.”

And this time, he believed you.

Or at least, it looked like he did.

You had spent years teaching him how to.

Years of swallowing words, smoothing edges, making your pain easier to stand next to.

So when you said I’m fine, he nodded—easy, unbothered, already halfway gone again.

His attention drifted.

His phone lit up in his hand again.

That same faint smile returned—automatic, unthinking.

Like muscle memory.

Like her.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

The third time.

Soft. Concerned. Familiar.

Too familiar.

And that was it.

Your head lifted slowly.

And something in you—something that had been holding itself together with quiet, trembling hands for far too long— finally slipped.

And this time, when you looked at Oscar, you didn’t soften.

You didn’t filter it.

You didn’t make it easier for him to understand.

Your eyes were sharp.

Wet.

Breaking.

“How could you do that to me twice?”

The words fell between you before you could stop them.

Before you could reshape them into something safer.

Something survivable.

Because this wasn’t safe.

This wasn’t careful.

This was everything you had swallowed for years—quietly, obediently—finally forcing its way out.

His expression shifted immediately.

Confusion first.

Then something tighter.

Something that looked dangerously close to recognition.

“What?” he asked—but it came out wrong.

Too quick.

Too quiet.

Because somewhere, deep down, he already knew.

You let out a breath that shook on the way out.

“Twice,” you repeated, softer now.

Like maybe saying it gently would make it hurt less. It didn’t.

“Make me fall in love with you,” your voice wavered, your chin trembling despite how hard you tried to steady it, “and then choose someone else twice.”

Silence.

Heavy. Pressing.

Your vision blurred, tears slipping free before you could stop them, and you hated it—hated that he got to see this, this version of you, the one you had worked so hard to keep hidden.

You should’ve been better at this by now.

You had practiced long enough.

“It’s fucking cruel,” you whispered.

Not loud. Not angry. Just… broken in a way that had nowhere left to go.

His breath hitched.

And for the first time, he looked shaken.

Not uncertain. Not distant.

Shaken.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it.

You could hear it in the way his voice dipped, in the way the words didn’t come out clean.

And it would have meant everything—

if it hadn’t come too late.

You let out a hollow, uneven laugh.

“Are you, though?” Your voice cracked on the last word.

Because that was the question.

Not whether he regretted it now. Not whether he felt bad now that it was right in front of him.

But whether he had thought about you while it was happening.

While he was pulling away. While he was choosing someone else. Twice.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

And that silence— that hesitation—

hurt more than anything he could have said.

Because if there had been an answer, he would have given it.

Oscar was many things.

But he wasn’t a liar.

“I didn’t—” he started, voice low, strained in a way you had never heard before. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

You cut him off.

Too fast. Too sharp.

Because that was the problem.

You knew. Of course you knew.

He had never meant to hurt you.

Not the first time. Not the second.

Not now.

Not ever.

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you said again, quieter now, your voice unraveling with every word. “You never do.”

And that was what made it unbearable. Because how do you hate someone who never intended to break you? How do you leave someone who never gave you a clear enough reason to go?

Your hands clenched in your lap, nails digging into your skin just to feel something real. Something that wasn’t this hollow, aching pull in your chest.

“You just… do it anyway,” you whispered.

His eyes were on you now.

Fully.

No distractions. No distance.

Just you.

And it almost made you laugh.

Because this—this—was what it took.

To make him see you. To make him stay. To make him look at you like you mattered in the moment.

You shook your head, tears falling freely now.

“You don’t even realize what you’re doing, do you?” you asked, your voice barely holding together. “You just… move on. You just find someone else and—”

Your breath caught.

“And I’m still here.”

The words broke.

Raw. Unfiltered.

“I’m still stuck on something that never even happened,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “Do you know how pathetic that feels?”

His jaw tightened.

“Hey—”

“No,” you cut in again, stepping back before he could step forward. Before he could soften this. Before he could make it survivable.

“Don’t,” you said quietly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you try to fix it now,” your voice cracked. “You don’t get to fix it now.”

Because fixing it now didn’t undo the years. Didn’t undo the almosts. Didn’t undo the way he had looked at you like you were everything—

right before choosing someone else.

Again.

“I was there,” you said, quieter now, more fragile, more honest than you had ever let yourself be. “Both times. I was right there, Oscar.”

You didn’t give him the chance to say your name.

“You knew how I felt,” you whispered. “Maybe not in words—but you knew. You always know.”

He didn’t deny it.

And that silence— that quiet, devastating confirmation—

was the final crack.

“And you still let me stay,” you said, your voice barely audible now. “You still let me be there while you figured out that I wasn’t the one you were going to choose.”

“I… I fucking hate you,” you breathed.

The words hung there.

Heavy. Wrong.

True.

“I hate you,” you repeated, softer now, breaking at the edges, “for making me believe it could be me.”

His breath caught.

And for a second—just a second—you saw it.

Regret. Real. Sharp.

Too late.

“But I—” your voice faltered, collapsing inward, “I still—”

You couldn’t finish it. You didn’t have to.

Because he knew.

He had always known.

“I still love you,” you whispered finally. Barely there.

Like something fragile you were ashamed to let exist out loud.

Silence followed.

Not the quiet you used to share. Not something easy.

Something broken. Something that wouldn’t go back.

“You think I didn’t—” his voice broke slightly, stripped of that careful control he always carried. “You think I didn’t feel it?”

Your breath caught.

“I did,” he said. “Both times.”

And that— that hurt more than anything else.

Because it meant you hadn’t imagined it.

It had been real. Just not enough.

“Then why didn’t you choose me?” you asked.

Your voice was small now.

Not sharp. Just… tired. Worn down by years of almosts and maybes and things that never became real.

He looked away. And for a moment, that hurt more than his answer.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

And it shattered something in you completely.

Because if he had said*I didn’t love you enough, you could have survived that. If he had said she’s better for me, you could have learned to accept it.

But I don’t know?

That left everything open. Everything unfinished. Everything still… possible.

In the worst way.

“I never stopped,” he said suddenly.

Your heart stuttered.

“What?”

“I never stopped caring about you.” And somehow, that was worse than if he had.

You let out a hollow laugh.

“That’s not better, Oscar.”

It was worse. So much worse.

“Loving you when you don’t love me back?” you whispered. “I could survive that.”

Your voice broke.

“But loving you while you also love me—just not enough to choose me?”

You swallowed hard.

“That destroys me.”

“I hate you,” you said again.

Softer now. Weaker. “I hate that you still feel like home.”

And that finally broke something in him.

You saw it. But you couldn’t stay.

Because if you did—

you would forgive him. You would stay. You would always stay.

So you stepped back. Putting space between you and the person who had never fully left you—

and never fully chosen you either.

And as you turned away, one thought settled, heavy and permanent in your chest:

It would have been easier…

if he had never loved you at all.

— Your resignation letter landed in his inbox the next day. Clean. Professional. Final.

You removed every trace of yourself from his life. Unfollowed him. Uploaded every piece of content you still had onto the shared platform. Deleted everything from your phone. His number. Your messages. Your pictures.

Except three.

The first—fourteen, school uniforms, awkward smiles. The beginning of everything.

The second—the night he whispered something that sounded too much like forever.

And the third—

the one where neither of you were looking at the camera. Just at each other. Like it had always been enough.

And maybe, for a moment— it had been.

And with that— you were finally done with him.

xoxo babygirl

wow… did i hurt my own feelings? yeah. did this hit way too close to home? also yeah. hope you’re just as hurt as i am 🥰🥲

[brainrotism]

📷 lando and oscar monaco polaroid!

[httpspiastri]

Oscar and his custom made McLaren 750s!

📸: balco on instagram

[florial]

[tsunodaradio]

watch this be the wrong thing ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“say it again,” he murmurs, pressing against you. “say thank you, oscar.” (or: unbeknownst to you, the person you’ve been sexting might just be somebody you know.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 5.7k. ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp-ish, soft dom!oscar, sexting, guided masturbation [f], oral [m], praise & degradation, p in v. title from (and fic inspired by) gracie abrams’ risk. commissioned!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

To cut him some slack, he had been honest from the very beginning.

You joined the app on a Friday. Not a rock-bottom Friday. Not a tipsy one, either. Just—a Friday. Grey sky, lukewarm coffee, inbox full of half-asks and ghostings. The app was called Velour. Marketed as ‘the thinking person’s thirst trap.’ A place for people who allegedly read books before they fucked. Where bios quoted Rilke and still managed to ask what color your panties were.

He had no face, no name. Just ‘O.’

A location that blinked Melbourne like a dare, and five black-and-white photos that managed to say everything and nothing at once. Cropped close. A mouth, a hand, the outline of a shoulder. A pair of thighs in compression shorts that frankly should have been illegal. You’d stared too long at that one. There was no context or caption, only the unspoken promise of ruin.

You told yourself you were there for amusement. For attention you could throw away. You uploaded one photo. Jaw turned, mouth parted, collarbone exposed. Let them wonder. Your bio read: said i wouldn’t do it. look at me now. 

Then you swiped. And swiped. And swiped. Until you found him. 

You hovered on the profile longer than you meant to. He had athlete written all over him—but in the subtle way. The kind that didn’t need to shout. The kind that let the shape of a thigh do the heavy lifting.

You matched in under an hour.

He messaged first. 

O: You look like you'd break hearts for sport.

You: only on weekends.

O: Lucky it’s Friday, then.

The rhythm established itself fast. Snark edged with suggestion. A kind of conversational sparring that hummed beneath your skin. He was quick. Dry. Almost too confident, but not in the overcompensating way. In the way of someone who knew what they looked like when they made you come.

O: What are you wearing?

You: what makes you think I’m wearing anything?

O: God, you’re going to be a problem.

You: that’s the hope.

You asked once, joking, if he was some kind of model. He wrote:

O: Not professionally. But people look.

So, yes. He never lied.

It’s partly on you. You never asked for a face. The not-knowing made it worse. Better. More dangerous. Your imagination filled in the blanks with reckless confidence. His voice, when he finally sent a voice note, was low. Smooth. A little amused, a little deliberate.

“Say please,” he’d said in jest, and you replayed it a couple of times in the dead of the night.

You hadn’t swiped on anyone since. Not once. Not when you were bored. Not even when he took twelve hours to reply and you told yourself you didn’t care. The messages became a fixture. A heartbeat.

You’d catch yourself reading and rereading his replies like they were scripture. One hand between your legs. One word in your mouth. You never told him how far he’d gotten under your skin. He never asked.

You should have known.

Maybe not at first. Not in the beginning, when it was all thigh pictures and veiled threats and that smirking voice note that made your knees go warm. But later. Somewhere between the third and fourth night he sent you a recording at two in the morning, voice dipped low and rough with sleep—or maybe just want.

“Touch yourself,” he had murmured. A rasp. Something peeled open. “Slowly. I want you aching first.”

And you did it. God, you did it. Hand slipping under the waistband of your sleep shorts like muscle memory, breath catching as you recorded something back—a whispered thank you, half a whimper. A photo, too. Of the aftermath. Of what he could reduce you to. 

You’d never been this person before. Not with strangers. Not even with the ones who weren’t strangers. But something about O made it feel less transactional. 

It wasn’t just about the sex. He told you little things in the witching hours, when neither of you could sleep and your phones became lifelines.

O: Had a girl once. Didn’t work out.

You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have to. The way he wrote it told you enough. And more: 

O: Got a place in Melbourne. Not there much.

You: why not?

O: Work. Travel. Same old.

He never said what he did. You didn’t ask. 

There were nights he’d vanish. You’d tell yourself not to care. You’d go to the gym, go to sleep, try to fuck someone else and never follow through. And then he’d reappear with a two-minute audio clip that would leave you soaked and shaking.

You remember one in particular. The voice, deeper than usual. Accent thicker. Like he’d stopped pretending to be anonymous.

“Good girl,” he said after you sent him a recording of your own. Barely a whisper, just the sound of your breathing, your fingers, his name almost slipping out. “That’s it. Bet you’re so fucking wet right now. You always are for me.”

You should have known.

But you were sleep-deprived. Starved. Touch-drunk on someone you’d never seen, never held, and yet felt like you already knew.

Three days later, he asked if you wanted to meet.

O: You still up?

You: always for you.

O: Meet me. Tomorrow night. Your side of the city.

You: you sure you want to break the spell?

O: I want to see you fall apart in person.

You stared at the screen for a long time. Your mouth dry. Your legs already aching. You typed and deleted three different versions of yes before you landed on a simple thumbs up.

He sent a location pin as a reply. 

A restaurant. Not far. Not loud. Expensive enough to say this wasn’t just about sex, but discreet enough for you to wonder what you were getting into. 

You charged your phone. Shaved everything. Told yourself this was just another night. That you wouldn’t be disappointed, wouldn’t be shocked. That he could be some balding tech bro or a failed actor or worse, and you’d still survive it.

But deep down, you knew.

Maybe not the whole truth. You knew, instead, that this would ruin you one way or another. 

On the day of, you see him before he sees you. Or maybe he sees you first and just pretends he doesn’t. Either way, there’s a lag. A beat suspended between knowing and not-knowing. Then he walks over.

Baseball cap. Hoodie. Sunglasses, even though it’s dark inside and no one here gives a shit. Dressed like a man trying very hard not to be looked at, which, of course, makes everyone look twice.

He takes the seat across from you.

You stare.

Not at the mouth, which you’ve imagined. Not at the hands, which you’ve dreamt of. Not even at the jaw, sharp and familiar. No.

The eyes.

That’s what does it.

You exhale. Slow. Controlled. “You’re joking.”

He lifts the menu. “Hi to you too.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m really not.”

“Oscar Piastri?” you say it low, like a curse. He flinches anyway.

“Technically,” he says, adjusting his cap, “I never told you I wasn’t.”

You scoff. Sharp. Disbelieving. “Oh, fuck off with that.”

“Did I ever give you a fake name?”

“No,” you admit. “Just a letter. Like a Bond villain.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “Did I lie about where I live?”

“No.”

“Did I say I wasn’t Australian?”

You fold your arms. “So that’s the bar, then? You didn’t technically lie, so everything’s fair game?”

He sets the menu down. His hands are steady. “I didn’t lie,” he repeats, quieter now. More serious. “I just didn’t say everything.”

Your gaze narrows. “And what, exactly, were you omitting?”

He shrugs, like it's nothing. Like it's obvious. “That I’m me.”

“You are,” you agree flatly. “Which is exactly the problem.”

He tilts his head, a mockery of innocence. “How do you know who I am?”

“Don’t bullshit me like that,” you huff. 

“I’m not bullshitting anyone.”

“You drive for McLaren. You’re on billboards. You’re on TikTok. You're on the back of some guy's hoodie literally right now,” you say, jerking your chin toward a fan near the bar. “I live in this country. Everyone either wants to marry you or throw eggs at your car."

He smiles, crooked. “And you?”

You pick up your water glass. Raise it halfway to your mouth.

He watches. Waiting.

“Do you love me or hate me?” he rephrases. 

You sip. Let the silence stretch. Let it smolder.

He doesn’t know, you think. He doesn’t realize he’s already made you come four times with just his voice. Doesn’t realize you still keep one of the recordings saved under a boring filename, like MeetingNotes.mp3, so no one ever asks.

You swallow. Set the glass down gently. “Ask me again after dessert.”

His grin sharpens. He leans forward, arms braced on the table, voice low and amused. “If dessert’s anything like your last voice note,” he stage-whispers, “we’re both fucked."

You just smile in response. A little cruel. A little inviting.

Dinner is—annoyingly perfect.

The food is forgettable. The conversation, less so.

Oscar is better in person than you want him to be. Wry. Self-contained. Polite, but not boring. He orders sparkling water and something seared. You get pasta you won’t finish. He doesn’t talk about the car, or the team, or what it’s like to be twenty-something and publicly dissected. 

Instead, he tells you about the time he forgot his passport before a flight to Singapore, about a hotel in Japan where the toilet kept playing jazz, about how he once learned to cook for his ex and now only knows how to make three elaborate dishes he no longer eats.

Sometimes, when he hits the punchline, his voice dips. A cadence that slides lower, smooths out. The accent thickens. Familiar. Unmistakable.

It hits you like a bruise. He’s used that voice on you. You grip the stem of your glass a little tighter, and he notices. 

“You’re staring,” he says lightly, not looking up from his plate.

You arch a brow. “So are you.”

He shrugs, barely containing a smile. “Only fair.”

The rest of the meal passes in rhythm. You say something cutting. He volleys it back. There’s a pulse beneath every word. You can feel it in your knee bouncing under the table. In the way he keeps adjusting his sleeves, his watch, the angle of his posture.

Then, without ceremony, he calls for the bill.

It arrives like a closing chapter. No questions asked. No pretense. The decision already made.

He walks you to the curb with one hand in his pocket and the other brushing yours just enough to make your pulse trip. He doesn’t ask where you’re both heading. 

Neither of you speak on the cab ride. Tension coils in the silence, warm and anticipatory. Your thighs press together. His knee bumps yours once and neither of you moves away. He watches the city roll by. You watch the reflection of his jaw in the window.

By the time you get to your building, you’re drowning in it. Want. Nerves. That stupid, low ache he used to pull from you with nothing but a breath in your ear.

He follows you up without asking. You unlock your door with hands that only barely shake. Step aside.

He enters like he’s been here before, like he owns it. Maybe he does. A little.

You close the door behind you. Lean your back against it. Heart banging like it wants out. Oscar turns. Looks at you. Doesn’t move.

“You gonna kiss me,” you ask, voice too steady, “or just stand there like a fucking statue?”

His mouth curves. Slow. Measured. “Was waiting for the invitation.”

You walk toward him with something sharper than grace. Hunger dressed in confidence. He doesn't step back, but doesn't reach first.

You kiss him like it costs you.

Because it does.

Oscar kisses you like he’s starving.

Because he is.

Your hands find his jaw. His neck. The hair at the back of his head. His grip lands on your waist, then your hips, then your ass. He pulls you closer, and it’s like gravity itself rearranges.

You already know he’s going to be your favorite mistake.

The bedroom is darker than you left it.

Oscar doesn’t ask to be led. He walks in like he knows the way—flicks the light on low, toes off his shoes, rolls up his sleeves. You pause in the doorway. He glances back.

“Are you going to hover there all night, or…”

You arch a brow. “Or?”

Oscar grins. It’s lazy and confident, the way you’ve seen in those Instagram reels where he’s being sprayed with champagne. “Or you can come show me how grateful you are I didn’t bail.”

You scoff, but your feet move anyway.

He reaches for you halfway across the room, tugging you close by the waist. Hands hot and steady. When his mouth brushes yours again, it’s rougher. His tongue dips in like he owns the space. Like he’s checking if it’s still his.

You pull back just enough to speak. “You think you’re cocky enough for both of us?” you breathe. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” That damned accent. Uncut. All bite and heat now, slinking down your spine. “You haven’t seen cocky yet.”

He kisses you again. Deeper this time. His teeth scrape your bottom lip, and your knees nearly buckle. His hand slides between your legs, cupping through your clothes. You have to bite back a groan. 

He freezes. Pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth. “Christ. You’re soaked.”

Your face heats. You go to swat his hand away, but he catches your wrist, fingers curling around it tight. Not painful. Commanding. “Don’t.”

The word lands like a struck match.

You glare up at him. “Don’t what?”

He steps back, dragging you with him until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Then he lets go. “Lie back,” he commands. 

You don’t move.

He tilts his head. Patient. Dangerous. “C’mon. You know how this goes,” he says. “I’ve heard you. Watched you.”

Your throat tightens. Heat curls, low and shaming. “You want me to—”

“Touch yourself, yeah.”

He says it like a challenge. Like a dare. Like he already knows you’re going to.

You hesitate. Try to find some footing in wit. Pride. Something. “Bit arrogant, aren’t you?”

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug, then steps back and lowers himself into your desk chair, spreading his thighs like he’s settling in for a show. That stupid fucking hoodie still on. That face calm, unreadable, but eyes already locked to your hands.

“Not arrogance if I’m right.”

You sit. Slowly. Let the silence drag.

His tone softens. Just a notch. “You want to stop, say it. I’ll go.”

You don’t.

You stretch out against the mattress, spine arching, one hand brushing up under your dress. Slowly. Testing.

His breath catches. Just barely. But it counts.

You pull your dress up. The air bites at the wet heat between your thighs. He sees it. Sees all of you now, bare and hesitant and trembling despite the attitude.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Attagirl.”

You flush hard.

His voice, when it comes again, is the same one from the recordings.

Low. Measured. Laced with that accent that makes you ache in places you didn’t know could ache. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask. It tells. Demands. Wraps around your spine and pulls.

“Start slow,” he says. “Middle finger first. You know where.”

You hesitate. Maybe on principle. Maybe out of spite. His gaze doesn’t waver.

You part your thighs, breath trembling, and slip your hand between them. Skin already flushed, hypersensitive. One touch and you’re jolting like you’ve been struck. There’s too much heat. Too much memory. Too much of him already lodged inside your head.

The way he looks at you like you’re art and ammunition at once. Something precious. Something dangerous. His to admire. His to detonate.

He leans back in your chair—your chair—and makes it his. Arms crossed. Legs spread. Casual dominance wrapped in a stupid McLaren jacket. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, just above a whisper, just enough to sting. “Now pull those pretty little panties to the side, yeah?” 

You slide your finger through the slick heat pooling between your thighs, pressing in just enough to tease. Not enough to satisfy. Not yet. You arch, a quiet curse slipping through clenched teeth. You can feel your heartbeat everywhere.

“God,” you hiss. “Please—”

He cuts you off with a look that’s amused, stern, and fucking devastating. “Don’t beg. Not yet,” he says. “You’re the one who got yourself off without me all this time. Show me how.”

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You glare instead, but your hand doesn’t stop moving. Faster now, the slick sound of it filling the room.

Shame and arousal knot together. Coiling.

Oscar’s next command slices through the air like a whip. “Two fingers.”

You obey. You hate that you do. You love that he knows you will. You slide in a second finger, walls clenching around the stretch, breath catching in your throat. You’re wetter than you thought possible—your body a traitor, your pride fraying at the seams.

The sounds you’re making now are shameless. Gasps. Moans. Pleas that you swallow back before they fall.

Oscar watches like a critic. Like he’s appraising a performance he commissioned.

“Fuck, look at you,” he drawls. “Dripping all over your sheets like a filthy little thing.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, shivering from the inside out.

“Open your eyes,” he snaps. “I want you watching me while you fall apart.”

You listen. And you’re close now—so close your legs twitch from the tension, the ache curling under your skin like fire. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and Oscar takes it as a sign to dole out his next order. 

“Faster. Come on,” he prompts. “Fuck yourself like you mean it.”

You don’t think. You just do. Obeying the voice that’s ruined you so many times before. Your wrist strains and your body trembles; everything else disappears.

He tilts his head, that cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter? Need my cock already?”

You whimper. It escapes you before you can bite it back. Your wrist stutters. You wince.

His eyes flash, sharp. “Keep going. I didn’t say stop.”

“Oscar—”

“You’re so greedy, aren't you? Want me to do all the work,” he taunts. “Want to lie there, all needy and wet, and be ruined. But you can do this. You’ve done it before.”

You’re a breath away now. A single exhale from breaking. Everything inside you is wound tight and aching for release. A sob crawls out from the back of your throat as you go back to pumping your fingers into your sopping cunt, trying to chase pleasure for the man coaxing you towards it. 

Oscar softens, just slightly. Just enough to make it worse. 

“Good girl. Come for me,” he says. “Come just like you did the night I told you to come on your fingers and thank me after."

And you do.

It hits like a wave—sudden and brutal. Your whole body locks, jerks, shatters around your own hand. You sob his name. Mouth open, eyes wide. Locked on his.

You’re still twitching when he lunges.

Oscar’s mouth catches yours mid-breath, swallowing your shudder. It’s not gentle. It’s selfish. Desperate. The kind of kiss that tastes like claiming and salt and the bruised edge of your own name.

You gasp into it, and he’s already over you, under you, everywhere. All teeth and hands and heat. Fingers slick from your own body. Tongue pressing past your lips as if he owns the next breath you’ll take.

Clothes disappear in pieces. Dress shoved up, then off. His shirt peeled from his skin. Fingers catching in your straps, tugging them down your arms. He kisses the hollow of your throat, then bites the underside of your. Your hips squirm as he presses a thigh between them, pinning you down, rolling against you. It’s clumsy, chaotic, intimate in a way that feels dangerous.

“Fuck,” he hisses into your mouth. “I’ve thought about this. So many times. You like this part, don’t you? Being spread out. Slick. Shaking. Waiting for someone to make you come again.”

You try to speak, but he steals your answer with another kiss. Deep, consuming. He doesn’t let you come down. He only keeps pushing, talking, layering heat over heat until your mind goes foggy with it.

“You know what got me off the hardest? The idea of your fingers deep inside, while I talked you through it. And you were doing it. Weren’t you? Playing along like a good little whore. Sending me photos. Moaning my name like you knew it already.”

His hand slides down your side, grazing your breast, your ribs, the trembling dip of your waist. He palms your thigh, pushes it open wider.

“Oh my God,” you manage to choke out, just as he moves back to strip away his clothes. 

Shirt, pants, briefs. It’s almost clinical, the way he undresses. Efficient. No hesitation. No shame.

And then he’s there. Gloriously there. Pale cock standing at attention, with an angry red tip leaking like a faucet. 

You blink. You stammer.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this. Hard and flushed and heavy, thick veins along the shaft. And it’s—bigger than expected. Realer than you let yourself imagine.

Your breath catches. Your thighs tense.

He notices. Oscar’s voice drops, losing some of its edge. It’s not gone, but it’s muted. Softer. Measured.

“You alright?” he asks, cocking his head. There’s a gentleness to his eyes that makes your heart ache and your clit throb. “You can tap out. I mean it. I won’t be mad.”

Your mouth is dry. Your thighs are wet. You nod, then, realizing you need to say something out loud, you whisper, “I want this. Want you.” 

The moment stretches. A beat. A breath. His hand brushes your knee, the gesture grounding. Patient.

His smile returns. Slow. Wolfish. “Good,” he hums, “because I’m going to ruin you.”

He crawls back over you, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance but not pushing in. Yet.

“Gonna fuck you slow first,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Make you feel every inch. Then I’ll fuck you the way I’ve been thinking about since the first time you sent me that little audio message. You remember? All breathless, whispering thank you like you were praying.”

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady as he shifts forward.

“Thought about you with your legs spread, touching yourself just like I told you to. Thought about bending you over this bed, and making you say please until you cried.”

You do. You remember too well.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, pressing against you. “Say thank you, Oscar.”

Somehow, you manage to choke it out. “Thank you, Oscar,” you whimper. 

Finally, finally, he begins to press his tip in. It’s a stretch that borders on unbearable. His jaw clenches. Your mouth falls open. Nails scrape along his shoulder blades, searching for purchase.

He groans into your neck. “That’s it. Let me in. Let me fuck you open.”

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Only feel the drag of him, the weight of it, the way he fills you up.

Oscar braces a hand beside your head, breath hot against your cheek. “You’re so fucking tight,” he grunts. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

You arch. He presses deeper, and deeper, until there’s nothing left between you but the slow, obscene drag of his cock inside your cunt. There’s the sound of your own breathing, ragged and real.

There’s the knowledge—shared and silent—that there’s no going back from this.

He finds a rhythm quickly. Like he’s been mapping it in his head for months. Maybe longer.

Each thrust is deliberate, brutal in its consistency. It’s as if he’s trying to etch himself into the softest part of you, and he is. You know he is. You feel it. Over and over. A litany in motion. Sharp hips, sharp tongue, sharp wit. The shape of him inside you becoming a kind of prayer.

“You look so good like this,” he rasps, breath hot against your throat. “Fucked open. Finally where you belong.”

It’s filthy. Cruel. Exactly what you thought you wanted. Your body flinches. Tighter around him. Unintended. A tell. The smallest betrayal.

His hips stutter mid-thrust. He watches you, eyes narrowing, brain ticking. Calculating. When he smiles knowingly, it’s the kind that feels like danger wearing a soft edge. Something mean with manners.

“Oh,” he says slowly. “Is that what does it for you? Not when I call you my little whore, but when I say you look good?”

You glare, trying to keep your dignity intact, your breath steady. “Fuck you.” 

“I am fucking you, pretty girl.” 

You clench down again. Oscar chuckles breathlessly, the sound low and mean.  “There it is again,” he murmurs, rolling his hips slowly, the grind unbearably deep. “Tight little squeeze. Your pussy’s telling on you, darling.” 

You hate him. You don’t. You want him. You want more. Want it mean, want it sweet, want it all at once. Contradictions melting in your gut.

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple. Tender. Too tender. A cruel kind of affection. It makes your stomach turn in the best way. “You’re perfect, you know that?” he whispers in a tone that borders affection. 

Your body sings. It sings around him. Like a lock clicking open. Like truth breaking skin.

Oscar makes a low sound in his throat, equal parts reverence and smugness. The sound of discovery. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, suddenly gentle in voice but not in pace. His hips are snapping hard. “You want to be worshipped? Want me to treat you like a princess?” 

You want to scoff. You can’t. Your pride’s still here, somewhere, buried under want. But your thighs are trembling.

You’re panting. Clutching. Tethering yourself to whatever's left. Oscar’s right there, relentless. Praising you like a prayer whispered between thrusts. As if every compliment earns him another inch.

“So tight. So fucking perfect.”

“You’re taking me so well. Never felt anything like this.” 

“You were made for me, baby. You’re—hng—sweetest pussy I’ve ever had.” 

Your orgasm builds again. Tangled. Tense. Threatening to snap.

He sees it. Feels it. The way your body contracts. The small, high-pitched sounds spilling from you. The way your hand grips his bicep like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

“Not yet,” he says, a command. “Stay right there. Want to feel you fall apart. Want to watch it happen.” 

He slows, the bastard. His pace turns into deep, dragging thrusts that leave you gasping. He draws it out until it hurts—the pleasure of it all. Until you’re clawing at him, not to escape, but to survive.

“That’s it,” he breathes, brushing his mouth against your jaw. “My good girl. Always so good for me.”

You’re on the edge. Hanging by a thread. Every nerve ending tuned to him, to this.

You just look up at him—eyes wide, mouth parted, vulnerable in the worst way. The best way. “Can’t hold it back,” you whine. “Oscar, ‘m gonna come.” 

“Do it,” he relents, voice going impossibly soft as he hits that spot inside you. The one that has you seeing stars. “Good girls deserve to milk me dry.” 

He doesn’t stop when you start to fall apart.

If anything, he leans into it. Presses harder, deeper. Riding the tension as it breaks, then crests again, then splinters entirely. Your body spasms beneath him, dragged mercilessly through the folds of pleasure, like he’s determined to wring you out. Thorough, precise, and just a little cruel.

You’re gasping. Boneless. Trying to anchor yourself to anything real, anything solid, and finding only him. His hand on your hip, his chest against yours, his mouth, half-sharp, half-sweet, pressing whatever it wants into your skin.

“That’s it. That’s it,” he says, breath unsteady but voice still maddeningly in control. “Look at you. Look what I do to you.”

He slows, but not because he needs to. Because he likes watching you twitch. He lets you linger in that overstimulated afterglow, lets the echoes settle before pulling them forward again.

You think that’s it. That he’ll fold you against his chest, that his mouth will find the shell of your ear and whisper something soft, foolish, post-coital.

But no. Oscar lifts his head. Reaches to brush your hair from your eyes with the back of his fingers as if it’s some gentle courtesy, not a prelude.

“Still good for me to get what I want?”

His voice is not tentative. Instead, it lies in wait. The kind of question that’s already half-answered.

You nod.

“Use your words.”

You swallow. Find breath.

“Yes.”

A corner of his lip tugs upward. Something hungry flashes in it. Then he moves—rising off you with that lithe, economical grace, hands guiding your hips as he shifts the angle, presses your thighs apart again.

Rougher, now. Faster. His control returns in the shape of momentum. Your body, pliant and bruised with bliss, meets each thrust like instinct, like muscle memory. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t want him to stop. You want to be unmade properly. To see what he looks like when he breaks, too.

When he pulls out, you chase the loss. He catches your chin between his fingers, leans in with eyes that are just a little darker than earlier. “Mouth.” 

You blink, then nod, repositioning with something close to desperation. Knees beneath you. Lips parting.

He slides in with a groan that cracks somewhere at the edges, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other tightening in your hair. “Fuuuck. Just like that.” 

You hum, or try to. He shudders, thrusts just hard enough to hit his tip in the back of your throat a couple of times. Your eyes water at the feel of it, but he’s already gracefully at the end of his rope. 

When he finishes—hard and fast, hips twitching, voice fractured into a curse and your name—it feels less like an ending and more like something earned. Like gravity finally catching up to the fall.

He stays there a moment longer. Fingers softening. Breathing out your name like it tastes good in his mouth.

He pulls out after a moment too long. He’s still catching his breath when he sees it: his release, smeared at the corner of your mouth. Glossing your bottom lip. A thin, obscene line trailing down your chin like spilled sin. 

You’re blinking up at him, fucked-out and glassy-eyed, still breathing through parted lips. And it ruins him. Just absolutely levels him.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans hoarsely, reverently. “You look—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. You can see it in the way his hand runs over his face, like he’s trying to scrub the image from his mind and failing gloriously.

He kisses you, then, but not with hunger. It’s something slower instead. Grounded. His thumb catches the mess at your lip, and he hums when you let him wipe it away. He’s tasting himself, tasting you. Taking it all in.

There’s something almost delicate about it, which would be surprising if you didn’t already feel like the floor had dropped out from under you somewhere between his praise and the way he came undone in your mouth.

He pulls back with an exhale. Presses his forehead against yours. Murmurs, “Where do you keep your towels?”

You’re brain is still just a little too foggy to process. “What?” 

“Towels,” Oscar repeats, nudging your nose with his. “Or wet wipes. Or a cloth. Just—anything that won’t make me feel like I’m letting you marinate in me.”

You bark out a laugh. “Didn’t realize you were the aftercare type.”

“I’m not a monster,” he deadpans, dragging a hand through his hair as he sits up. The movement pulls every line of his body into view. Long, clean limbs. Defined stomach. The faint blush of exertion still clinging to his skin. You stare. You don’t mean to.

Your eyes follow the flex of his back as he stands. The easy confidence in the way he moves across your space like he’s lived in it. Like he belongs. He doesn’t. That’s the problem.

You rattle off a drawer, a shelf, the hallway linen closet. He listens, nods, and disappears from view.

And that’s when your mind begins to spiral.

Because you just fucked Oscar Piastri. 

Let him talk you through your orgasm. Let him ruin you, mouth and body and everything soft in between. Let him see you like this—open, loud, desperate.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He’s a goddamn risk. You know that. You’ve heard the warning signs. The drowning metaphors. The stories that end in fire. But you did it anyway. Jumped, swam, sank. Let him into your bed, your life. 

It doesn’t have to mean anything, you reason. It could be a one-off. 

But then—

Oscar comes back. Warm cloth in one hand, clean towel in the other. He settles beside you, nudging your legs open gently so he can clean you up without asking. It’s matter-of-fact. Unflinching. Weirdly intimate.

He says nothing at first; he only takes care of you like he means it. Then, as he pulls the blanket up around you both, he kisses your shoulder and murmurs, low and cocky: “Give me twenty minutes, and then we can go again.” 

You laugh. It bubbles out of you before you can stop it, warmth spreading across your chest like sunlight you weren’t expecting. Dangerous. Disarming.

You press your face into the pillow and mutter, “Asshole.”

He grins against your skin. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t promise anything else. But he wraps an arm around your waist like maybe he’s not done with you. Not even close.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself hoping he’s telling the truth.

Maybe it’s too soon to say it.

But God, you might just love—the risk. Not him. Surely not him.

Right? ⛐

box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.