hi, i'm daisy and i'm irish. my main teams are redbull, mclaren, haas, and williams but tbh i like all of them and just enjoy the sport. I also watch f2 and a bit of f3 :)
for my stories i'll be going by the 2025 grid and obvi update it next year :)
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fic-tober masterlist! (2024)
a very f1 christmas! masterlist (2024)
who i write for:
mclaren masterlist (OP81 &LN4)
ferrari masterlist (CL16, LH44 & AL65 )
williams & mercedes masterlist (GR63, KA12, CS55 &AA23)
redbull & vcarb masterlist (MV1, IH16 & LL40)
alpine masterlist (JD7, PA17 & FC43)
the retirees (LS2, JB22 & DR3)
the youths masterlist
misc drivers:
lance stroll
losing battle it's a marriage of convenience that's becoming pretty inconvenient when you start falling for your best friend.
ollie bearman
Creepy guy who isn't all that creepy Why does your cappuccino taste like shit? And why are you being followed by a random 6 foot man?
Alright Ollie isn’t exactly ecstatic after Brazil… you change that.
unsure ollie is nervous before the car launch...
sledding accident an accident in the alps...
chaotic trio how your best mates react when they see you're getting hate online
bloodonmyhands your past relationship ends and you may or may not get with his rival...
(but you can request others!)
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the grid: (aka blurbs) 'the grid' = piastri, leclerc, riccardo, verstappen, russell, norris, albon, hamilton (but tell me if there's others you want on it :)
getting caught making out
complimenting you
you find out you're a bet
meet-cutes!
wedding shenanigans!
time for a hot lap!
confesses!
late for a date!
no nut november!
(more) no nut novemeber (jenson button, mark webber, fernando alonso, nico hulkenberg, kevin magnussen, valterri bottas, zhou gunayu, kimi raikkonen, sebastain vettel)
when their teammate likes you...
when the media says something insane
when they admit they love you
valentine's day!
mafia!
can you fight?
attending the met!
crying during an argument
୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ
playing favourites masterlist
your first season as an f1 driver doesn't start the best, and you quickly realise McLaren doesn't like women very much. On top of that, your race engineer is as smug as the rest of them, and you have to deal with him all the time.
pairing: race engineer! oscar piastri x f1driver! fem! reader
warnings: lots of misogyny, lando is an asshole in this, illusions to ed behaviour, reader is not in a good head space, all of mclaren is super sexist, mentions of crashes and injuries.
꩜ summary: you and oscar admit something you shouldn't.
꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! royalty! reader
꩜ warning: SMUT 18+, technically cheating but like...
꩜ a/n: do i have something here? forbidden romance thing... lmk if yall want more :)
Monaco events were always Oscar’s least favourite. He hated the Monaco clubbing scene almost as much as he hated clubbing in general. He didn’t like the time it took to get ready, or the traffic, or the small talk, or the fact that all anyone would talk about would be Singapore.
If he had it his way, he’d simply say home, order in food, and fall asleep with you beside him. Instead, he was pulling on a white shirt that was just a bit too tight around his neck, and a pair of slacks his mum had bought him 2 years ago. Still, going with you was better than going alone. McLaren was keeping him away, and diplomacy was keeping you busy. Though finally, you had agreed to take a tiny weekend break from work to visit him in Monaco. He couldn’t count the number of times he thought about relocating to you, so that he could come home to you after every weekend. He was proud that you took your role so seriously, but he also missed you more than anything. You’d be going to the event as friends, which is what you were, no matter how badly he wanted that to change. Oscar had to remind himself constantly. A year as friends, and he still felt his head spin every time you held his hand, or ran a hand through his hair. You were just magnetic; it was so unfair.
“Osc,” your voice called out from his bathroom. God, even just hearing your voice around the house, smelling your perfume, seeing your clothes in his laundry, it eased the ache in his chest when you eventually had to go home again. He continued to button his shirt as he walked toward you. “Can you give me your honest opinion on my dress?” You asked as he turned the corner, seeing you in just a bra and panties, your hair done exactly how he loved, your makeup flawless, and 2 dresses in your hands, equally as mind-blowing. His eyes traced over how your (minimal) clothes clung to you. Beautiful black lingerie that had him thinking about things other than the event ahead of you both. You were irresistible.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath, thanking the universe for his luck. You gave him a confused look. “Sorry, you just… You look stunning.” His hands balled at his sides, knuckles white, like he was holding himself back from something. You decided to ignore it. Tension oozed from the moment his eyes focused on you.
You rolled your eyes, pretending the compliment didn’t make your stomach flip. You hated that he could do that to you, make you weak with just a few words. Still, you pushed through it, holding up to options, a red dress and a black dress. “Red or black?” The red dress had a low neckline that he knew would cling to you perfectly, and a cascading silk skirt. He gulped. The black dress was simple, a straight neckline that still made him breathless, and a back cutout that would probably bring him to his knees. Tough decision. He stayed like that for a moment, just staring. You cleared your throat, taking his attention off the dresses (and whatever he was imagining you doing in them), and back to you. You felt heat building beneath your skin at the intensity of his stare. “Opinions?”
He took a deep breath and steadied his voice. “Black. Please.” He choked out, trying desperately to play it cool. You ignored whatever was wrong with him and moved past him to place the red dress back in his closet. His eyes followed you the whole time, his brain weighing up whether or not you two could be late. As you walked back into the bathroom, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pressed his lips to yours. This happened sometimes, you two hooking up. Honestly, he wasn’t all that proud of it, but he needed you, and you were always off galavanting with your boyfriend, Roland. He was the perfect English boy, your parents' choice, of course. The nicest schools with the best teachers, and the most pretentious uniform. Degrees from various colleges all over the world, even though he didn’t deserve them. He was to be your king; it was already agreed.
Still, Roland didn’t get this, these moments when you threw caution to the wind and went for something, someone, you actually wanted. You didn’t push him away, you didn’t tell him to stop. You just wrapped your arms around his neck as he let his hand explore much more than friends do. “We can’t be late,” you whispered against his lips. He hummed low in his throat, but he didn’t stop. His mouth moved against your with growing hunger, kissing you like he could erase your duty, your arranged marriage, your planned life. Oscar was like that, someone who walked in and turned everything upside down. His hands brushed against your thighs as he backed you up against the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink. You gasped at the contact, and you didn't miss the way he’d smirked. His lips pressed against your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck. “Oscar, we can't keep doing this. Someone's going to catch us," You said warningly. He didn't listen; he just kept kissing you. "Oscar." You scolded. He groaned against your pulse point, sucking the skin there after biting it playfully.
“Say my name like that again, it turns me on.” He admitted, as you chuckled. The kiss relocated back to your lips, and quickly turned hungry. His lips worked in tandem with yours, urgent and possessive. He wanted to remind you exactly who you preferred, exactly who you wanted, especially after those posed paparazzi pictures of you and Roland last week. The images flooded his brain as he kissed you harder. Roland’s arm around your waist. Roland’s hand on your cheek. Roland’s lips on yours; it drove him mad. His hands squeezed your hips as he kissed down your neck again, getting tantalisingly close to your tits. If only the people of your country knew what he felt for you, what he did to you, god, it just made him harder. You ran your fingers through his hair, pulling at the strands of chocolate brown hair. He smiled into the kiss, that was your sign, the sign that you’d given up on convincing him to stop. Anyway, Queens are never late; everyone else is just early, right?
His lips continued down your neck and tits, then down your stomach until he was kneeling in front of you. He smirked up at you, completely at your mercy. You smiled and pushed a hand through his hair, gripping it at the root. “What time is it?” You asked, and he took a glance at his watch.
“We have 30 minutes until we need to be there.”
“How fast can you drive?” You teased, and the self-satisfied smile on your face went straight to his head. God, he loved this, loved you. Wait. What did he just think? No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. He can’t- he shouldn’t- he promised he wouldn't fall in love with the one woman he couldn’t have. Still, the moment continued, and Oscar found himself pulling those irresistible black panties down your legs. Just focus on the moment, Oscar, he told himself, don’t think about the after.
The after. That was the best part. Your tired smile and weary eyes, a joke always ready. You always smiled at him like he was the only person on the planet, and he pretended it didn’t make him want to kiss you. He’d hold you like it made a difference. You’d hold him like it could. You’d smell like him when you left the next morning, but only after breakfast in bed. The in-between was beautiful too. The days you two spent together between races and appearances in the palace. Simple cinema trips, or takeout nights. He’d pick you up from the airport with his black-out windows and pretend he didn’t know why his heart beat so damn fast. Joe (your head of security) would look the other way as you hugged him just a second too long.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered before he pressed his tongue flat on your clit. You gasped at the sudden contact, eyes closing as you gripped the kitchen sink. His eyes dripped with want as he watched your reaction, delighting in the way he could make you squirm. He started slow, teasing you. He loved this too, making you feel good. You worked so hard, cared so much, sacrificed so much- you deserved to be taken care of, and he was just happy that you’d chosen him to do the job. “So beautiful,” he whispered as he pressed feather-like kisses to your thighs. “So smart,” he continued. “So kind. God, I missed you.” He sighed before diving in. His warm hands gripped your thighs as his tongue split you open, sucking and fucking you. You didn’t think you’d ever been this wet.
He pressed in deeper, his tongue pressing into your soaking walls, and you moaned a lot louder than you probably should’ve. “Shit! Oscar, fuck!” You pressed a hand into his hair and pushed him against you, tongue-fucking you deeper. For just a moment, he actually thought about what you two were doing, and he’d never been so turned on. He was tongue-fucking you against his bathroom sink before you two would walk out to an event and pretend to be friends. It went straight to his cock, and he pushed his tongue in harder, desperate to make you cum.
“You’re soaking,” he groaned, his voice deep with want. He glanced up at you once again, catching your eye as he licked a stripe up your slit, making your hips buck into his face. The fucker smirked. Your slick all over his chin and face, he smirked. He was the image of sex, and you almost couldn’t focus. Then, he lowered his mouth back on you, messy and perfect, totally in tune with what you needed- it drove you crazy. It was downright filthy how he was using his tongue on you, and you would probably laugh at the amount of slick coming out of you, if it weren’t for the way he was sucking on your clit. You groaned out his name as he picked up the pace, his tongue swirling around your clit as you pulled at his hair. He groaned at the contact, moving quicker, sucking harder. “Use me.” He practically begged.
Your orgasm snuck up on you, building quickly, until you didn’t realise it was happening. You bucked against his face as you whined his name, and he didn’t stop fucking you until your thighs were closing around his head. “Osc-Oscar!” You groaned, pulled his face away from your pussy and pushed your legs together to soothe the ache the overstimulation was causing. You finally looked at him again, and he looked sexy. Blown-out pupils with your slick all over his face and neck, ruining the collar of his shirt. You gulped as you felt heat rush back to your core, eyes focused on him. He was irresistible.
“Get on the bed,” you instructed, sliding off the sink. He rushed to the bed, shedding clothes as he went, a smile on his lips. You joined him, straddling on top of him as he looked up at you like you were the only person in the world. You loved this, loved him. Wait. What did you just think? No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. You can’t- you shouldn’t- you promised you wouldn't fall in love with the one man you can’t have. Still, you continued, pulling his boxers off down his legs with a smile. He was leaking precum, and so sensitive that he whimpered when you finally took him in your hand. “God, you’re so big, Oscar.” You weren’t lying; he was huge, but still, you knew saying it gave him an ego boost and turned him on. You smiled smugly when his tip oozed another load of precum. “Missed you too.” You smiled softly before sinking onto his cock. He filled you up perfectly, hitting every spot that made your knees weak. He whined your name, his hands rushing to grab at your ass as you slowly started to ride him.
He pressed his head into the crook of your neck as he groaned, his forehead hot and sweaty. He pressed his lips against your neck, no doubt making you up in ways you would have to cover. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not when his cock was hitting all the right spots, and he’d eaten you out so well you thought you might’ve passed out. “You’re so good to me,” he said breathily. “So fucking perfect,” he pressed his hips up to meet your thrusts, and god, he just got deeper. You groaned against his ear, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. “Tell me you’re mine.” He pleaded, pulling back to meet your eyes. He was totally gone, drunk on the pleasure of it all.
“I’m yours,” you told him, wishing for even a second that it could be true. “I’m all yours.” You nodded as he dragged your hips against his faster, taking over the pace. You were both desperate for it now, desperate to cum. You were leaking all over his thighs, slick coating everything. He reached a hand down between the two of you and pressed a finger against your clit. You squeezed him even tighter.
His eyebrows clinched together, eyes closing as his hips stuttered. “I love you.” He choked out as he came inside of you. You came right after him, eyes brimming with tears as he kissed your neck, whispering little I love you’s into your skin. He loved you; it had been true since the moment he met you. You were just… everything. You were the only person he’d ever want to talk to, want to wake up beside, want to stand beside, through everything. He said it.
You didn’t even think about it, you just… said it. “I love you too.” You groaned as you orgasmed, legs quivering, eyes closed. You loved him. It was the truth.
You both came down, eyes wide and chests heaving. You pulled off of him, watching as he gritted his teeth. You just lay on the bed. He’d said it. He’d said it. The words you’d been simultaneously dreading and wishing for. He’d done it. The worst part was that you said it back. You, the woman who was always supposed to be logical, always supposed to put others above herself, always focused on being Queen, not finding her Prince Charming. You’d found him, and you couldn't have him, and that was the part that hurt the most.
He didn’t look at you; he grabbed a wet cloth from the bathroom and cleaned you both up. He pulled on his boxers and suit trousers, then a new shirt. He had that spaced-out look in his eyes, like he was wishing tonight hadn’t happened. That hurt more. He poured you a glass of water and left it beside you. You didn’t react; you couldn’t. You got up and started pulling your dress on. You fixed your hair as he laced up his shoes. You fixed your makeup as he gathered your things and packed your bag for you. You slipped into some heels as he held the door open for you.
The elevator ride to his car was silent; the walk to the car was even worse. You sat in his passenger seat, he sat in the driver’s seat, and he took off, leaving the garage and venturing out into the Monaco night. The silence was deafening for a few moments, until he reached across the centre console and took your hand. You squeezed his.
You both had a lot to think about, but that was a promise- a promise that you’d figure it out together.
Sure, you weren’t the most talkative person, especially when it got closer to lights out, but the stoic silence from your side of the garage was insane. The consistency of it scared him, too. Max was used to small fighting talk, jokes about taking him out, or just promises of beating him. He was used to you, funny, talented, beautiful you. You’d been like this since Miami. Silent, awkward, tense, and completely allergic to Max Verstappen. And it had nothing to do with your performance on track. You were both overperforming in a shitty car, with an even shittier team behind the two of you.
“Alright?” He asked as you pulled your gloves on. You simply nodded, offering him that polite smile he despised. Not because it wasn’t genuine or kind, but because it was impersonal, and you’d always held him closer than others. In more ways than one. In more ways than you both probably cared to admit out loud.
Fuck, he knew it was wrong, but he was in love with you. He was a husband. He should have had his head stuck in his family, but his mind was constantly running back to you. His teammate. You two had always gotten along, even when you were back in VCarb. He’d taken you under his wing, and it was great. The World Champion mentoring you? What more could you want as a young driver? You took everything in with such enthusiasm, constantly seeking him out for advice and conversation. Then the conversation turned to personal conversation, asking about family and spilling secrets you both thought you’d bring to the grave.
Then there was that night in Abu Dhabi 2023. Max was a 3-time World Champion, the season was over, and he was happy. Relaxed in a way he hadn’t been in months. He wanted to find you, to tell you that your support meant a lot, to spill the secret that had been keeping him up at night for months. It felt wrong. You were a rookie, and he’d been in the sport for nearly a decade. Sure, he was only 3 years older than you, but still, it felt strange. Truthfully, all of it was strange. He had a wife, yet he was so sure his soulmate was the woman he raced against every Sunday.
You found him wandering his hotel, drunk, incoherent. You brought him back up to his room, planning on dumping him on his wife, but she was nowhere to be seen. So you helped. You made him drink water. You helped him get into bed. You laughed at his drunken mumbling. You stayed when he asked, because you weren’t strong enough to refuse him.
You froze when his hand reached up and cupped your cheek.
“You know I love you, right?”
He’d asked it like it wouldn’t fuck everything up. He’d asked it like it wouldn’t ruin the two of you. He’d asked it like it wouldn’t shatter your heart.
So you ignored him over the break. You didn’t answer his texts or calls. When media day rolled around, you had Daniel as a buffer to keep everything civil. You faked the smiles and laughter. You asked about his break and pretended you didn’t know what he’d done with his time, as if you hadn’t scoured every Monaco gossip page in search of something about him. All you found were his anniversary pictures (which fucked you up), and some snaps of him on a boat in Santorini. You played the role of RedBull friends well, and then the day ended. You were changing out of your suit, wiping the makeup off, and pulling on something comfier when a knock came at the door. He didn’t wait to be let in; he swung the door open and stepped inside like he owned the place, and it pissed a part of you off.
Then he crossed the room and he kissed you, and everything seemed to make sense. The second his lips touched yours, you were on fire. He was on fire. His hands roamed as you tugged at his suit, and both of you pulled back and looked at each other, unsure if crossing this boundary was a good choice.
You did it anyway. If you no longer go for a gap, and everything, right?
The next few months were full of red-eye flights, long FaceTime calls, and a whole lot of guilt for both of you. You loved every minute of being with him, but the aftermath destroyed you. You’d lie awake wondering how you ever let this happen, how you could ever betray another woman like that, how you could ever betray yourself like that. Then, Max would show up with all of his affection and care, and you’d crumble. Granted, it got too much for you in Miami, seeing him kiss his wife, and then smile at you like it was normal. It wasn’t, and you knew that, so yeah, you cut him off. He couldn’t blame you either. If he were you, he’d be running for the hills. He wasn’t mature enough to just break it off with his wife because he was a coward, and he wasn’t brave enough to break it off with you because he’d never felt love like it before.
The radio silence from you had been the most awful part. You’d been moved up after both Daniel and Checo were underperforming (even though it wasn’t their fault), and you’d impressed. Now, instead of seeing your disappointed faces, or god-forbid guilty looks from the VCarb garage, he saw them just across from his own.
But it was the silence that was torture. No more answering his calls or texts, no more moments where you pulled him back from the brink of insanity. No. He was alone now, having to face everything, having to swallow the guilt he created, and having to miss you more than he’d ever missed anyone.
The rain pelted down in Belgium, the scent of the surrounding woods framing the track. You both just sat there in full race gear, twiddling your thumbs. He hated it. He hated being awkward with you- it never used to be like that. Even before it, you were friends. You were people who talked about their set-ups and whatever plans you made for the break. Now, it was like there was some sort of cloud of shame over the two of you, like you both couldn’t handle the idea of facing up to what you’d done.
He kept his eyes trained on the ground as “I missed you,” he admitted, his voice small and vulnerable. Half of you wanted to cry at how sincere he sounded, and the other half of you wanted to punch him for making you fall in love with him. “You’ve been quiet.”
“What would you have me be?” You shot back, voice venomous and angry. You weren’t even sure if you were more angry at yourself or him. He still didn’t look up. “Because I was never really yours, Max.”
His eyes shot up, frustration pulling at his features. You turned your attention to his posture. He held his tension in his shoulders; you’d always noticed that. God, you hated how well you knew him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He bit out, danger lacing his tone.
“I mean, that we weren’t real,” you gritted out, though it hurt to even admit it. It was true. Neither of you could fully commit, nor would you fully commit. Max was too busy trying to do the right thing for himself, always aloof and unburdened. While you were trying to do the right thing for everyone else, constantly aware and guilty. It wasn’t that either of you lived like that, so you ended it. “It doesn’t matter how you dress it up; neither of us would’ve ever committed to each other.”
“Speak for yourself,” he said, low and tense. “I would’ve-”
You rolled your eyes. “No. You wouldn’t’ve. You didn’t in the whole year that we had an affair, and I didn’t expect you to. You have an image to protect, you have to keep people happy, I was just the thing you did to feed your ego-”
“Don’t,” he practically growled, eyes dark. “Don’t pretend what I feel for you is anything less than love.”
Love. What a funny word. It brings people together, and it tears others apart.
“You knew it was never going to be us,” you shook your head. “You have a wife. I have a career I fought tooth and nail to get. Don’t pretend that if we continued, it wouldn’t ruin us both.”
He couldn’t argue, so he let you walk away. Even though it broke you both.
Hey girl ! How are you , i know your probably swamped right now with real life and then you have writing on top of that but I was just wondering if you were going to update playing favourites . You are such a talented writer with how you put details into your writing , your writing reflects the amount of time of dedication you put into working I mean seriously you are my favourite writer , your readers love and respect you so much , I’m just asking no need to rush or pressure you trust me I’ve seen so many bossy fans and you can see how it changes writers. We all love you girl!
naive- o.piastri
summary: your second season as an f1 driver starts with a bang, aka mclaren trying to end your relationship. you'll both have to fight to save it, if you even can.
pairing: race engineer! oscar piastri x f1driver! fem! reader
warnings: lots of misogyny, lando is an asshole in this, illusions to ed behaviour, reader is not in a good head space, all of mclaren is super sexist, mentions of crashes and injuries
a/n: honestly thank you all for being so patient I've lowkey had the worst year of my life (lol) and stuff like this always makes my heart so happy. I love writing, but it's just not always feasible at the moment with everything going on in my life. thank you to the anon that said this, you're so sweet! I'm glad you guys are still loving playing favourites, and I completely plan to continue (this, my mixtape, and everything else) just at a slower pace as I figure everything out. chronic illness is no joke! thank you all for the love! :)
part thirteen -> all other parts here!
“We’ll fix this.”
God, you were so naive. The first race of the season was only a week away and you were technically still a McLaren racing driver. Oscar was officially off-boarded from the team, and sent to Aston Martin. It was scary, thinking about getting in the car and not having his voice in your ear, not hearing his small laughter when you crossed the line first, not shouting at each other over things neither one of you could change. You were anxious, to say the least. If he was, he didn’t let on. You had gone over the contract a hundred times with a hundred different people, every page spread out on the floor of the Piastri family home like you could somehow will the words out of existence.
Ms. Y/l/n must never fraternise with, date, or marry a team member of another team without expressed permission from the team.
Zak’s handwritten “I do not condone,” haunted you more than you’d like to admit. God, you wished you’d thought ahead, you wished you hadn’t been so stubborn about love. You had always believed there wasn’t a point in even entertaining the idea that someone would love you, especially not in the way Oscar did. Fuck, were you wrong. He sat beside you the entire time, he set up meetings with some of the best contract lawyers in the world, he held your hand in every single meeting where your HR forms, pleads to change the contract, and just general relationship, got rejected outright. He was always there. Always fighting. Always working.
It gave you hope. He wasn’t going to leave you in the dirt and let you fade away in a team that hated you. He was going to stay. Knowing that felt better than words could describe.
“Y/n!” May’s voice rang out through the house, smiley and soft. “Oscar lost in mario kart so he’s taking me for ice cream, he wants you to come if you're free?” She offered, pulling on her sneakers.
You looked down at the seemingly endless pile of legal documents in front of you (courtesy of your lawyer, looking at how you could possibly bring them to court over this), and you shrugged. You’d been craving cookies and cream since last night and you really didn’t want to spend more time on this. “Sure,” you smiled, standing up. “Let’s go.”
Australia was warm, thankfully. The bright sun shone down on your back as you walked the streets of Melbourne, a coffee in one hand, and Oscar’s hand in your other. He just squeezed your hand and pointed towards another poster of you being put up, a proud smile on his lips. “I forget I’m dating a superstar sometimes.” He murmured, bringing your hand up to his lips for a small kiss.
“Cringe.” May scoffed, walking off in front of you as you laughed and Oscar rolled his eyes. He had a lot of patience with his sisters, but crashing a date just because she was bored and didn’t know what to do, that kind of annoyed him. You squeezed his hand and stepped in closer.
You smiled against his neck. “It’s alright,” you pressed a soft kiss to his clavicle. He nodded, a soft smile reaching his lips. “I do agree with her though.” Then you pressed a kiss to his cheek, well, intended to, because he whipped around, and kissed you full force, a bright smile on his lips. God, he really was sappy. You pushed him off, eyes rolling as you walked on, catching up with his sisters instead of him. He shook his head.
Since he’d been moved to Aston, he’d been thinking. Hard. He’d figured out why they’d moved him to another team instead of just firing him- your relationship became a conflict of interest. According to his new contract, he could barely have friends from other teams, let alone have a girlfriend who was the lead driver at another team. So he started getting creative, figuring out how he could fix this mess, for the both of you. He had the beginnings of a plan, but… it was a lot. A lot of risk. A lot of burned bridges, a lot of margin for mistakes and errors. He knew his plan was a ballache for you. You didn’t like the media, you didn’t like being the centre of attention. You didn’t like having to explain yourself, he knew that from the start. But this was the only way out. The only way to keep the both of you together. The only way to make it work.
An exposé.
Had he only really learnt what that work meant over the break because he picked up one of his mom’s magazines and got to reading when his phone died? Absolutely. But, it worked for Harry and Megan, it could work for the two of you. If he could somehow get you to agree, if he could somehow secretly contact a credible newspaper or magazine, and somehow keep this all under wraps as they built their article, then maybe you two might be free by summer break.
Though, he had moral issues with it. How could he ask you to risk your seat like this? You would forever be seen as the driver who talked, so who would take on the added risk of employing you? Could he really ask you to give up the thing you’d worked your whole life for, sacrificed relationships and years for, bled and lived for?
No. No he couldn’t. He watched fondly as you walked ahead. May kept her arm stung lazily over your shoulder as she licked an ice cream Oscar had bought her. He let himself think, just for a minute. Let himself dream. Wonder about a life with you by his side, nice walks in the park and quiet nights in. A white dress and a small ceremony where he told you every single way he loved you, and every way he planned to love you. Sleepless nights with a kid that had your eyes and his teeth, maybe two, or three. Days unburdened by tyre temperatures and seat fittings. Days completely empty for all papaya, and full of your favourite colour. A house, full of all your favourite colours. A home, a warm one. He wanted to give you all of that. He wished he could. He pushed those thoughts back into their box, and let out a deep breath.
He was going to break his own heart, and break yours.
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꩜ summary: you're angry about the result of the Italian GP. you find a way to use your anger for something more constructive, fucking your boyfriend.
꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! ln4 ex-best friend! reader
꩜warnings: smut 18+, piv unprotected sex (please don't be stupid, wrap it up girl), oral (f receiving), jealous oscar, etc. mentions of lando being a creep to reader, lowkey public sex (on a plane?)
꩜ a/n: kinda part two to: so good (can you guys tell I like to write angry sex yet?)
As much as he wanted to not let Lando pass when a slow stop was clearly just part of racing, he let him. He needed the team.
Begrudgingly, he exited his car, he played the teammate game, and he smiled. He kept smiling. He did every interview, answered every invasive question, and basically pretended Lando was his best mate. Obviously it was all an act, he wouldn’t choose to stay within 100 metres of Lando, if he could have his way. But he needed a seat in a good car, and McLaren gave him that. While Lando might’ve been ahead today, it was only because Oscar let him pass. Oscar gifted him that podium, and he felt a little bit better when the tifosi crowds cheered for him, and booed his teammate. He felt better over the summer break too, the summer break he spent every moment with you. Travelling with you, talking with you, exploring with you, fucking you, sleeping in the same bed as you, and hearing all about your masters degree. It was heaven on Earth. Not once did you fall for Lando’s whiney texts about feeling alone in Greece, mostly because your opinion of him was starting to change. After the British GP, where you had rode Oscar half to death in the hotel room, you two cuddled up in bed to watch a movie, when a notification popped up on your phone. It was from Lando.
It was a very long voice note, detailing his love for you, and how Oscar could never be half the man he was. You blocked him and hadn’t spoken to him since, turning all of your focus towards Oscar. He could pretend to say he was upset, but everyone would know that was a lie. Belgium, Oscar showed that he was superior. Sure, in Hungary, Lando won fair. The champagne on the podium of the Dutch GP tasted just a little sweeter, knowing that Lando wasn’t standing beside him. Today, was so fucking unfair he wanted to pull his hair out.
One good thing came out of today though, you finally opened your eyes. You saw the blatant favouritism, the way only some of the mechanics showed up for Oscar, the way it was ‘race him’ but only when Lando came out first. Fuck, he was angry, but you were livid. You didn’t even pretend to hide it, standing at the barrier under the podium with a blank face, refusing to clap for your former best friend. He smiled from the third step, dripping with champagne. An evil plan formed in his head.
He just had to wait until the plane.
The ride to the airport was a full-on hour-long rant about how fucking unfair he’d been treated. Tom and Mark were actively participating in the conversation, while Oscar was enjoying the way your body was pushed right up against his, so much so that neither of them noticed when he slid his hand up the back of your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. His self-satisfied smirk probably said too much anyway. He loved you like this, all riled up and completely fucking stunning. You were defending him like you could will time to go back, and you could shove Lando off the track yourself. It was amusing, and totally hot.
You two were fast tracked through the airport, breaking up with Mark and Tom before heading for your private charter to head home. You’d be sharing with Lando, and he’d make another shitty attempt at an apology before you’d shut them both out, and put your headphones in. Oscar didn’t mind much, especially considering you were usually holding his hand while Lando looked at him like he either wanted to kill him, or wanted to be him. He was leaning towards the second option, especially with how many times he caught Lando staring at the way Oscar interacted with you. The simple hugs, his arms around your waist as you wrapped yours around his neck, fitting together perfectly. The quick kisses that left you both wanting more. The way he let you lead when you were walking through the paddock, allowing you to side-step the hoards of photographers and fans. The way Oscar’s hand constantly made its way into the back pocket of your jeans, and you didn’t care. The way Oscar could do something as embarrassing as griddy after winning, and you still kissed him. The way you two worked. All brains, brawn, and beauty. The smiles you gave him, and the way Oscar’s hands were constantly on your body, the way you didn’t mind. It clearly drove him insane.
Good.
“I’m sorry today was so shit,” you sighed, putting your bag on the chair you had decided to claim, then turning back to him. He shrugged, placing his bag on the chair next to yours. You frowned up at him, and he smiled softly. His hands found your hips, squeezing gently as he looked you over, wondering how he ever got so lucky. Your hands rested on his cheeks, before you tugged him down to give him a ‘proper kiss’, as you’d call it. Your lips worked with his, starting off slow and tender. It didn’t last long before you were pushing him down into his seat. He loved everything about this, how messy you both got, how fucking desperate you both got, how good you tasted. “How long do we have?” You asked between kisses. He could barely bring himself to care, trying to focus on the moment, and the woman, in front of him. Still, he forced his eyes to open and caught a glimpse of the watch on his hand.
Somehow, he did the maths in his head, and Lando was meant to get here in 8 minutes. “8,” he choked out, trying to keep his lips on yours. “We’ll be quick,” he smirked and you nodded against him, and started making quick work of his shorts. He was already so fucking hard it hurt, but he wanted to do something even more. He grabbed you by the waist, and pushed you back into the chair across from the one he was sitting in, and he got on his knees. You were so good to him, constantly supporting him through your own career, constantly showing up for him, and always being perfectly yourself. He loved you for it. His head went up your skirt, pulling a yelp from your lips as you steadied yourself on the chair, shallow breaths full of anticipation falling from your lips. “No panties?” He smirked, yanking your skirt off your body to expose you fully. “You’re so wet,” he almost laughed, watching your glistening pussy. He wanted to make you feel good, had to make you feel good. “God, you’re fucking perfect.” He pushed his tongue against your slit, mixing your arousal with his spit, a smile already on his lips, as your hand reached into his hair.
“We have 7 minutes, Osc, just let me fuck you,” you whined out as he slowly licked your glistening cunt. God, you were getting what you wanted, just not in the way you usually did. Honestly, you liked being in control. You liked having Oscar whining under you, it got you off. Oscar was great at this too, of course. Great at making you feel good. But you wanted to fuck him so badly, you’d even beg. “P-please! Please baby.” You breathed out, hands scrunching in his hair.
“Wanna make you feel good,” he slurred against your pussy, the vibrations making you arch your back off the chair. “Just let me make you feel good first,” he practically begged, all breathy and moany, and it went straight to that coil in your stomach. You ground down against his face, his fingers scissoring inside your cunt as he licked your clit like his life depended on it. He pushed a hand up your top, feeling your tits through your bra. God, he’d never get enough of those little noises you made, the breathy moans, the actual screams, all of it. He adored it. He liked knowing he was making you feel good. “So perfect.” He whined, his hands hiking up under your thighs and pulling you further towards his face.
God, you were so close. You grabbed onto your seat, and finally felt the coil snap, waves of white-hot pleasure pulsing through your body as Oscar kept going, sucking and fingering you until you twitched, thighs clamping together around his face. He looked up from that position, eyes all dark and wide, mouth and chin covered in your orgasm, and that self-satisfied smirk that made you want to fuck him all over again. He was one pretty motherfucker.
Quickly, you crawled onto the floor with him, he quickly discarded his shorts and boxers, wrapping his hands around you as you situated yourself above him. He looked at you in awe as you sank down on his cock, taking him fully. His brain went to mush as you rode him, and he wouldn’t have even cared if Lando walked through the door and saw what was happening, it was just another chance, the perfect chance to remind Lando that, you wanted Oscar. You’d always want Oscar. You fucked him, you sucked his cock, you woke up next to him, and you shared everything with him. Not Lando. Never Lando.
He smiled as you moaned his name, bouncing up and down on his cock. “3 minutes,” he breathed out before lowering his mouth down to your neck and pressing kiss after kiss to the skin there. God, this was dirty, you thought. Fucking on the floor of a private plane, 3 minutes before Lando and the entire crew was supposed to get on board. It went straight to your head, the eroticness of it all. God, you only wanted to do this stuff with Oscar. You wanted Oscar’s hands on you like you were in a dirty porno. Oscar’s lips on your neck as you let out loud moans, feeling every fucking piece of him inside you. You swore you could feel every vein, that’s how deep he was. “So tight,” he groaned, thrusting up into your cunt, meeting the way you bounced down on him. He somehow got deeper. “Gonna cum,” he whined in your ear, the words almost dying on his tongue as he bit his lip to stop himself.
“Not yet, just wait,” you said, breathless. Your thighs were starting to hurt, but you needed to cum again. He reached a hand down between the two of you and played with your clit as his other hand balled at his side, and his face scrunched up. “You’re doing so good, making me feel fuckin’ amazing Osc,” you breathed out, and it only made it worse. Your voice, the soft moans falling from your lips, your pussy gripping him like you never wanted him out, it was all too much. “I-I’m cumming! Cum, Oscar, you can cum!” you groaned out, riding your orgasm out as he finally let go. Fuck, it was almost life changing. The look of pure ecstasy on your face as you both came, riding out your orgasms until it hurt. He loved you so much.
“I love you.” He smiled, slurring his words just a little. You smiled back at him.
“I love you too,” you pressed a kiss to his forehead before getting off his cock, and standing up. He looked down at his watch. Shit, you guys had one minute. Suddenly, Oscar was up and pulling pyjamas out of your bag for you, pulling his own shorts back on, and pulling a hoodie. He wiped his face off with an old t-shirt in his bag, but left his hand, still practically dripping in your cum. You and the cabin reeked of sex. Sure there was cum dripping out of your pussy into your panties, and sure, Oscar’s boxers were soaked in precum, and yeah, maybe there was a little wet patch on the floor from where you two had fucked, but neither of you cared all that much. The plane door opened and Lando walked inside, the smell of sex hitting him in the chest. He stared at you both, somehow looking betrayed and sad at the same time. He made eye contact with Oscar as he sucked his fingers clean, a smirk on his lips.
He fumed, but took the further seat from the two of you, and sulked. You sent Oscar a cheeky smile, and he realised this was all he would need. You.
꩜a/n: i've been so busy and just writer's block-y recently, so I am genuinely very sorry that stuff hasn't been coming out. I love writing for this blog but between school starting up and everything else going on in my life, ya girl is tired :(
The day had finally come. All the planning and torturous hours spent arguing over whether ivory was white, and whether or not eloping sounded better than the 300 person wedding you two were planning. Yes, 300 people. That was after cuts.
But it was all worth it. You woke up to the love of your life snoozing comfortably beside you, his arms thrown over you and wrapped tighter than he’d admit, and today, you two would be married.
You felt sick. God, the amount of people you’d have to talk to, all eyes on the two of you, jesus christ, weddings really were an introvert's worst fear, weren’t they? You were excited too, of course. You couldn’t wait to get ready with all of your bridesmaids and family. You couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle, or slide the ring on his finger and finally call him your husband. You could probably wait to deliver the vows (mostly because they were long as shit), though you could probably wait for the embarrassing speech your sister was going to deliver, you could wait to feel that dull ache in your chest when you remembered that your grandmother wouldn’t be there to see you walk down the aisle , and you could wait for the first dance.
You couldn’t wait for Max. Surprisingly, he had taken the reins when it came to wedding planning. He was good at it. He cared, a lot. He had spreadsheets and word docs dedicated to seating charts and guest lists. He had the venue booked before you even had to say you liked it, he just knew. He just… he knew you. Completely. He took what he liked, and he took what you liked, and he meshed them perfectly. A stunning venue in the country with space enough for all the guests, at a reasonable price (reasonable enough for a multi-millionaire), and the most accommodating and kind staff. You’d been on cloud nine since you’d arrived last night, the rehearsal dinner going off without a hitch.
“You’re thinking so loudly right now,” he sighed, smushing his face into the side of yours, draping himself over you even more. “Shush.” He smiled against your skin and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
You smiled and brought a hand up to brush through his hair. “We’re getting married today.” You said dreamily. It didn’t even feel real. How was this your life?
His hand cupped your jaw and turned your face towards his, then he swallowed your lips in a passionate kiss. Your lips worked together, deepening the kiss as your hands ventured south. It had been 3 full weeks since you’d seen each other, and you were both more than excited to be physically together, but of course, the wedding came first.
A knock on the door pulled you apart from each other, the deafening voices of Victoria, your sister, Sophie, your mom, and your brother screaming to wake up for the special day. Max sighed and dropped his head against yours, soaking up the last few seconds he’d have you for the morning. “I’ll see you later?” He asked like it was a real question.
You chuckled. “I’ll be in white.”
He looked at you with that look in his eye. The one that made you want to hide, because he just looked so… happy. It was overwhelming sometimes. “God, I can’t wait to marry you.” He smiled, and kissed you one last time, then got up and opened the door to the screaming family. He was dragged away by his groomsmen and Victoria, who was his Best Woman, and your bridesmaids rushed into the room with breakfast and pre-wedding jitters to spare.
You took a breath, and let the day begin.
The morning had been great, breakfast with your bridesmaids, fixing some last-minute changes, getting your makeup done, talking to your photographers and videographers, and just generally being ridiculously busy.
Now was the moment. You were dressed in a gorgeous white dress that had felt right since the moment you’d pulled it on in the beautiful dressing room. Everyone was sitting in their seats, everyone was in their walking order, your father stood on your right, and your mother on your left. The music began. The groomsmen walked. The bridesmaids walked. Victoria and your sister walked down together, the Best Woman and the Maid of Honour. The ringbearer walked. The flower girls walked. Next it was you. Your father turned to you, eyes shimmering with tears he refused to shed. “You’ve got this. He’s got you.” He whispered, one final promise of belief in this, in you and Max.
It planted the smile that you walked down the aisle with. You just took it one step at a time, not actually believing this was real. People gasped and smiled, and you thought you saw Sophie tearing up. What you didn’t expect was Max crying. Yes, yes, we’d all like to think our future spouses would cry when they see us walk down the aisle to them, but Max was always just so… Max. He was calm and nonchalant. He was controlled and unbothered. He didn’t cry unless he had a reason, but you guessed this was as good a reason as any. The tears fell down his cheeks, but he made no attempt at wiping them away, he just kept his eyes on you. Radiant, gorgeous you. He was enamoured, he always had been, but you really nearly knocked him on his ass this time. When you had finally finished the long walk to the top of the aisle, you hugged your parents, they hugged Max, then you turned to him.
Time stopped for a moment, and you just stared. His perfectly messy but styled hair, his beautiful face, his stupidly kind eyes. God, you adored him. You loved every piece of him, even the competitive and borderline violent racing side of him. He stared at you too, taking you in.
“You’re so beautiful,” he smiled tearily. “Fuck, I love you.” He shook his head, like if he kept staring at you, he’d break.
“I love you too,” you smiled, wiping some tears away for him. The officiant smiled at the both of you, waiting for the nod of approval to start. “Ready for this?” You asked, squeezing his hand.
꩜ summary: oscar's jealousy is actually something else in disguise
꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader
꩜ a/n: yall life and writer's block has been hitting me like a bitch so please bear with me for the moment :)
Jealousy wasn’t something he was completely familiar with. He applied the same logic to everything since he was a kid, if he wanted something, he worked, and eventually, he got it. School, races, his seat, his championships, and even you. He put in the work, and it worked out for him. You two had met in school, and after a few months of friendship, you’d asked him out. He’d been blind-sighted (as only teen boys can be), but happy that he had a chance with the girl he’d been subconsciously crushing on for months. You two hit it off, but that didn’t mean there weren’t things you both had to fight for. The distance was never easy, but you both fought to stay together. The media was never easy to deal with, but you both fought to keep it out of your minds and the relationship as a whole.
So jealousy had never been a problem. He loved you, and you loved him.
It was becoming a problem. Oscar was meant to have his mind on the conversation happening in front of him. Mark was probably recounting a great story about something Oscar would be interested in. Zak was probably making good jokes about something related to the story. His mind couldn’t leave you. There you were, across from him at the table, giggling with Jack Doohan. Now, Oscar knew Jack. He was sweet. He had the whole laid-back-surfer vibe about him. He was charming.
But you didn’t go for that. No, you’d gone for the awkward, deeply sarcastic, and annoyingly competitive man who was sitting in front of you. The man who had nearly made you cry off all of your makeup before you guys got here, because he told you he’d be missing your anniversary again. God, he loved being an F1 driver, but he hated not having control of his schedule. You’d taken it like a champ, like usual. Did that thing where you swallowed back your tears and smiled and promised him it ‘didn’t matter’, even though it clearly fucking mattered to the both of you. He grinded his teeth as he watched Jack sneak yet another look down your dress. He felt himself getting warm, too warm. His mind kept racing, and soon, the thoughts turned from punching Jack, to reminding himself that this was his doing. You’re never there, don’t be surprised when she finds someone knew. That sentence hit him like a brick to the head, the words of his sister all those years ago. It’d been one of those shitty days where all he wanted was some comfort, but you literally were on a different continent, and he didn’t know what to do. There had been rumours of a new exchange student who had a crush on you, and he’d freaked out about it and blown up at you. You had told him to calm down and ended the call. He went to his sister for advice, since she was the only one home. Hattie had told him that after she’d heard what he’d said to you. It still ran through his head every single time you two got into an argument or even when something came up about the distance and time away from each other being too much. He couldn’t lose you, it would make everything he’d ever done completely worthless.
He blinked back some badly-hidden tears and before anyone could say anything, he got up and excused himself to the bathroom. Everyone just stared at you. You stared back, confused, as Mark sent you a nod, as to tell you to go check on him.
The restaurant's bathrooms were ridiculously hard to find, but you did, and there he was, standing outside them, pacing.
“Okay, what is up with you tonight?” you asked, stepping in front of him, demanding an answer. If he’d been ‘quiet’ in the car, he’d been silent at dinner. You knew these things always caused a rift, but it was never this bad.
He looked at you, tears welling up in his big brown eyes, and he breathed out. His hands found your waist and squeezed, as his head dropped to your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he practically whimpered, trying to fight back the tears. “I’m so sorry.”
You shook your head, arms wrapping around him, and you held him. “It’s alright Osc-”
“It’s not,” he said simply, clearing his throat. “I want to be there, but I can’t. I can’t fucking be there, and I’m so scared that one day you’ll start mistaking ‘can’t’ for ‘not wanting to’.” He admitted, his hands holding onto your waist like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to you.
You ran and hand through his hair and lifted his chin to look at you. “I know you want to be there, but you can’t, and it’s shit, but it’s what it is. We’ll call, we’ll celebrate the day after, whatever. I’m just happy I have you Osc, yeah?” you smiled, a soothing hand carding through his hair.
He nodded and pressed his lips against yours, desperate to find some sort of comfort in this shitstorm. Of course you gave it to him. You always took care of him.
꩜summary: carlos decides it's finally time he gets greedy
꩜pairing: carlos sainz x fem! sister's best friend! reader
꩜warnings: hardcore smut, kind of pwp but also kind of not 18+
Carlos had done it again, proved himself again. In front of you, nonetheless. He shouldn’t want you, fuck, it was wrong. He knew it was. His sister’s best friend? Come on, he seemed like a pervert. You’d grown up together, always the loud one who took focus on a room. Carlos had always been the opposite, silent and waiting at the edges of parties and gatherings, much more interested in blending in than standing out. That’s what made you work. He would be there, no matter what. You would need him, always.
Neither of you admitted it, just left it to drunk touches and empty beds, usually on the family holidays you were invited to. You oscillated each other until you were pulled together, it was the perfect dance. He barely knew who you were really, but he caught glimpses. Soft smiles in the after. Creased brows at game night. Soft giggles over a rare cup of coffee.
He’d heard from others too. You were too wild to pin down, ‘you’ll be lucky to know anything past her name’, ‘you’ll be put through hell to know her’, you talk but don’t say much, but most importantly, you’re different. Not in the way everyone else claimed to be. You were unique. You were you.
And he wanted you. Badly.
The celebrations were in full swing when he laid his eyes on you. You’d been at the track, dressed in one of those skimpy fucking skirts that made all his blood rush south, and an even tinier top that would be better off as a rag than a shirt. For short, you looked good enough to eat, and he was hungry. Now, you’d switched to a simple black dress, the kind that made everyone's eyes fall on you as you practically ran the room through various drinking games and conversations. He watched as men eyed you up and down. He watched as women did the same. He watched in awe. He’d decided. Tonight wouldn’t just be a ‘drunken mistake’, it’d be planned. It’d be purposeful. It’d be the start of something.
You led his eyes to a man and his breath caught. The man took your hand and led you towards the dancefloor, now that had him standing from his spot at the edge of the couch. He wasn’t going to let you get away tonight, not if he knew this was his chance. He weaved through the sweaty bodies, collecting congratulations and cheers like coins. He didn’t register their voices, just sent them non-committal smiles and continued walking. He turned a corner and the view in front of him hit like a storm. There you were, dancing in front of everyone, in front of that asshole, skimpy dress showing off just enough to remind people that you were more than stunning, and more than enough to drive him mad.
He hated parties, always had. He didn’t like the noise or the sweat or the people, but he endured them for the sake of free alcohol and humouring his friends. That’s not what tonight was about. Tonight was about him.
A hand pressed against your ass as another grabbed your shoulder and pulled you flush against him and you startled, until a familiar scent wrapped around you, pulling the corners of your lips up. “Carlos,” you practically purred. He somehow stopped himself from shuddering. “Congratulations, winner.” The words fell from your mouth, and though there was nothing particular about them, they sounded like sin to him. His fist balled at your waist, pulling on the fabric of your dress.
You gasped, hitting his hand away. “This is Valentino!” you scolded, turning to him and pointing at his chest. He grabbed your hand and pushed it out of his face, pulling you even closer in the process. Your breath caught despite yourself.
He cleared his throat, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. “I think we have things to talk about,” he cocked his head to the exit. “Shall we?”
You put a manicured finger up to your chin and tapped like you were thinking. “I don’t know Carlos,” God, the way you said his name did something to him. He could feel his trousers getting tighter. “We wouldn’t want you to get greedy with my time, now would we?” you questioned, teasing him. He rolled his eyes, and led you out of there with a hand wrapped around your wrist. The elevator ride was torture, his eyes boring into yours like there was nothing else interesting to look at. Maybe there wasn’t.
Your back pressed up against the door of his hotel room before you could stop yourselves, his lips finding yours as your brain fought with your pussy. You thought you could’ve talked your way out of it by now, think your way out of it, tease your way out of it, but no. Something in you pulled to something in him, and you couldn’t ignore it. He pressed against you, hot and heavy, his breath on your cheek as he stared into your eyes, desperate. You’d never done this sober before, mostly because you knew what you’d lose. You’d lose the power to call it a mistake, you’d lose your lack of accountability. Tonight, you’d be his, properly. You couldn’t tell if it terrified or excited you, and that turned you on.
“¿Aún conmigo?” he questioned, his lips brushing against the edge of yours. You nodded and quickly swallowed his lips in a searing kiss. “Want you.” he huffed out.
“Don’t blame you,” you ran a hand through your hair, a cocky smirk on your lips. “I’d want me too-” Shockingly, he was rather sick of the cocky act, especially when he already knew how to make you beg for him. He captured your lips with his own again, trying to win the fight. So you fucked to fight, who cares? You two were multi-taskers. It got him hard and you wet, so clearly you were doing something right. His hands wrapped around your waist as yours raked through his hair with more force than probably comfortable. He groaned into your mouth, and suddenly the stupid zipper at the back of your beautiful Valentino dress was broken open by his hands. You pushed him off you, cursing him. He sat back on the bed, peeling his shirt off his body, his trousers following. You fiddled with the dress until it fell down your body, and you didn’t miss the string of Spanish obscenities that fell from his lips in a light whisper. “You couldn’t have just asked for help?” you questioned angrily, fully aware of the fact that you were completely topless in front of him, only in a thong (if it could even be called that) and heels. He gulped. “Boys,” You shook your head, straddling his lap and pushing him back. You scootched up his body, his hands anchoring on your hips as you positioned yourself over his face. He tried to pull you down to meet his watering mouth, but you resisted. “You’re going to buy me a new dress?” It was more of a demand than a question.
It pulled a weak “Yes,” from his lips before you sat and started to enjoy your ride. Your worries subsided as he ate your cunt like a man starved, groans falling from his lips as moans fell from yours. A hand flew into his hair, another secured you to the headboard as you fell into the pleasure full-force. One of his hands kept you against his face, unable to squirm away, the other reached up and played with your tits, mixing between squeezing, and just plain hitting. He didn’t want to make you cum first just out of manners, though he knew it was the right thing to do, he did it because he fucking loved watching you fall apart for him. You loved it too, loved this. You loved to resist against him and make it harder for him, edging yourself on his tongue until he’d eventually flip you over and tongue-fuck you to mulitple orgasms. It took about five minutes before you were on your back, gripping the bedsheets with both hands, and moaning like a whore while he scissored two fingers inside you as you gushed right into his mouth. You pushed his face away with your foot, still shaking with the aftershocks, as he laughed.
The fucker laughed. You scoffed as you sat up and watched him lick his fingers clean. You grimaced. He rolled his eyes. “I just ate you out, it’s the same, no?” You shook your head as he rolled his eyes again, crawling to you on the bed. “Ride me?” he asked, sitting beside you and pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your shoulder.
Playfully, you rolled your eyes. “Making me do all the work?” you teased, and he just let out a groan and wrapped a hand around your waist as he got on top. You bit your lip, trying to hide the smile at getting your way. You always did.
“Eres un puñado,” he breathed out against your lips. You smirked against his as your hand made its way into his pants, giving his dick a few pumps before pulling his briefs down and lining him up with your pussy. “Look who’s greedy now, eh?” he smirked, thrusting into you in one breath-stealing push. You gasped out his name, fingers digging into his biceps as you tried to catch your breath. You couldn’t really, not when he was fucking you so goddamn deep. He started with those deep and hard thrusts, not too fast, but not too slow. Always catching you at the worst moment and knocking the air out of your lungs with a dirty moan. He kissed up your neck and chest, his tongue and teeth marking you up expertly. You just took it, took everything he could give you. “You’re mine.”
And there it was, out in the open. For the first time, he wasn’t trying to hide it, and you weren’t shying away from it.
“Says who?” you smirked, but it quickly fell away as he picked up his pace, falling into a blissful moan. You both knew it. You were built for each other, the perfect mix of lust and love. He wanted to know you, every part of you, and something in your chest told you that you wanted that too. “Fuck, there-!” a particularly hard thrust punched a groan out of you and you nearly came, but he slowed down. You whined at the loss of speed and a hand gripped your chin, dragging your gaze to meet his.
“Say it.” he spat, his breath heavy, like he was holding back too. This was the out. This was your chance to run.
“I’m yours.” you nodded, pulling his mouth down and against yours as he started again, thrusting into you even quicker than before. You just clung to him, moaning his name as he made you cum for the second time that night, then continued long after that. And there it was.
Are you going to do or have you done any follow up to Miami Blues?
miami reds- o. piastri
꩜summary: nerves, bravery, a tense conversation, and a scream into a pillow
꩜pairing: oscar piastri x ex! single mom! fem! reader
find all other parts here -> mclaren masterlist
The McLaren motorhome was equally as imposing as it was impressive. The paddock was filled to the brim with thousands of bodies, all seemingly ten times busier than you’d ever been. It was nerve-wracking, but also exciting. The stadium was vast. Ridiculously big in that way only America can make it. You sucked in a breath and put on the same brave face you’d plastered on a million times, and you walked in with Mia’s hand in yours. Questions would be raised, you knew that. People knew you as Max Verstappen's sister-in-law, they knew you as Lando’s potential love-interest/ best mate, very few knew you as Oscar Piastri’s ex-girlfriend and current co-parenting partner. You swallowed down the ball of nerves in your throat, and somehow lowered your heartbeat down to a respectable 80bpm. Mia squeezed your hand, she hated walking in, hated the attention. You frowned. “Need a lift?” you offered. She crushed her face into the side of your leg and nodded.
“Don’t like it,” she murmured. “Too busy.” Damn, was she right. It was always chaos, all those photographers deciding whether or not you were worth photographing, and somehow, you two always were. Either it was someone alleging you were dating Lando, alleging Mia was Lando’s, alleging you were having an affair with your brother-in-law, or some other nonsense they thought they could spin. They’d have a field day once they found out Mia was actually Oscar’s the entire time, they’d make reels about it, it’d be all over gossip pages, and they’d dig up the old photos of you and him at F2 and F3 races. You weren’t sure what made you shudder more, the pictures of a 17 year old you being splashed on the front cover of an instagram page, or having people want in on your privacy. More anxiety spread through your chest, grabbing ahold of your lungs until your breath quickened. Mia fisted your t-shirt, holding you as close as possible as she hid her face in the crook of your neck. You made a split second decision, one you knew wasn’t fair to Oscar, but you’d already been so fair to him. You’d been nothing but gracious and welcoming, when there were still moments when you wanted to wring his neck out for what he put you through.
The RedBull motorhome smelt familiar, like an old jacket you’d never really get tired of wearing, even after saying you needed to replace it a thousand times. Familiarity can also be misconstrued with cosiness, and make no mistake, the RedBull motorhome was anything but cosy. It had sharp corners and even sharper looks from those who didn’t know (or care) who you were. You mentally thanked past Max that he had sent you extra RedBull hospitality tickets just in case things got wild at McLaren. Fuck, you felt like a fraud. You hadn't even tried yet and you were hiding. Mia didn’t protest, and soon she was playing with some of Max’s pit crew while he watched over her, as you thought about everything.
Perhaps your reservations had been right. You’d never shared them to anyone, but Oscar just dropped everything to be in your life again, fuck, he moved. In a week! It was sweet and all, but it was overwhelming. Mia was such a wonderful kid and all you ever wanted was the best for her, but was this world the best? Cameras and invasions of privacy, pre-conceived notions based on names alone, and all the pressure in the world. Realistically, you needed to talk to Oscar about the best way to go about this, which felt strange to think. You’d always been the one doing it on your own, making these terrifying decisions for yourself and for her, and just hoping everything would work out. You watched as she climbed on the back of GP, a bright smile on her face as he made her giggle. Your little miracle girl. You thought back to those days when she was so small and fragile you could only see her through a case. Now she was running laps around you already. You chuckled as she told off one of the engineers for stepping on GP’s foot, and smiled when she waved at you.
Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t deprive Oscar of her. Not when she was this wonderful.
He’d watched you choose the RedBull motorhome from the meeting room in the McLaren motorhome, and he pretended it didn’t sting. He knew he had no right, he was just being irrationally angry and you were bringing Mia to see Max and Oscar was in meetings until midday anyway, so it didn’t matter.
But it did. He’d been scared you almost wouldn’t walk in. Just leave him be and see him another time. You didn’t, of course, you were too kind for that.
His heart stopped when he saw you sitting at a table with Mia in your lap with Mark Webber, Nicole Piastri, and Chris Piastri sitting across from you. God, bile rose in his throat before he knew what to do, and he was already rushing over there, terrified that a well-placed jab would send you two running back to RedBull and out of his sight. He couldn’t let them fuck this up, couldn’t let them ruin the one thing he now refused to lose.
“Hey Osc,” his dad clapped a hand on his shoulder. “All good?” Oscar searched his father’s eyes for anything that could cause an issue, any hidden plans or agendas. Nothing. Just calm, cool, collected Chris Piastri. Oscar took in a sharp breath. Chris did the same, paired with that calm stare that had always made the hair on Oscar’s neck stand up straight. He nodded.
“Dad!” Mia jumped up from your lap, a bright smile on her lips as she reached for her dad. His stress melted away when he picked her up and held her close. The night before had been nice, really nice. They’d watched a movie, read some books, he’d explained some F1 stuff, and they played princesses. All-round great night. “Missed you.” She cuddled into his neck, grabbing at his t-shirt like he’d seen her do to you a thousand times. You smiled fondly at Mia, though he’d like to think there was some fondness for him too. Nicole smiled at the two of them. She, out of everyone, was the happiest at this. She’d watched how the breakup had torn Oscar apart all those years ago, and now, how having you and Mia back in his life, how happy you made him.
“Missed you too, Bug,” he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and sat in the chair next to yours, flashing you a soft smile as a hello. No one spoke for a minute, just watching as Mia babbled to Oscar, and Nicole noticed how he smiled brighter than he ever did when in the car. “You good?” He practically whispered and she nodded.
“So, how are you doing, Y/n?” Mark cleared his throat, turning his attention from Mia and Oscar, to you. Nicole knew Mark had never liked you, he was too focused on the future to see the way Oscar’s shoulders relaxed when you walked into a room, to see the way he smiled just a little easier after a loss when you were there. She looked at you, your eyes wide and surprised that they were even speaking to you. She frowned, kicking Mark under the table. Don’t fuck this up for him. She mouthed to the men. He’s happy.
You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the silent conversation going on in front of you. “I’m… I’m good, thanks,” you smiled politely. “Tired from the jetlag, but I’m alright. How are you guys?”
“Good, thanks,” Mark flashed his signature smile. “So, are you going to be coming to many of the races this year?” He asked, trying to sound as casual as he could. You shook your head quicker than he’d ever seen. He sent a look to Oscar, who tried to hide the way his shoulders sank in disappointment.
“No,” you chuckled softly. “This is a one-time thing, Mia has Montessori and I have work.” You explained, your eyes trained on Mia in Oscar's arms.
“That’s too bad,” Nicole pursed her lips. “We’d love to have you at other races, if ever there’s a moment you’re free?” she smiled. You nodded appreciatively and smiled at her. Mark was staring daggers into the side of her head, her ex-husband doing the same. “And the girls would love to see you and Mia,” she added. “They’re coming to Belgium? If you’re free that weekend?”
You smiled shyly, and shrugged. “Maybe,” you nodded. “Thank you, I’d love to see them again.”
Nicole smiled brightly. You’d really grown into the woman she always thought you’d be, all polite and shy, but completely brilliant. Drop-dead gorgeous, of course. She still saw fragments of that headstrong girl she’d watched grow up alongside her son, and she loved it. She saw it in Mia too.
“You could come to Silverstone too,” Oscar offered, his eyes boring into yours like you’d disappear if he didn’t look at you, like there was nothing else to look at other than you. “If you two are free, obviously.” He added with a shrug and an easy smile. You didn’t answer, just nodded softly at him, that ridiculously attractive soft smile on your lips.
“Well, we’ll leave you three to it,” Nicole announced, standing up and dragging Mark up with her. “See you after quali.” she smiled and pressed a kiss to Oscar’s forehead, and ran a hand over Mia’s hair with a smile. Chris and Mark reluctantly left with her, but you could feel their animosity from miles away. You let out a breath.
“Mark still hates me,” you shook your head. “Shocker.” You chuckled to yourself, but Oscar didn’t find it funny. He found it disrespectful and rude. He found it ridiculous.
He sighed. “Yeah, he’s still a dick- I mean, he’s silly,” he coughed to try and cover it up, but you were already laughing at him. Alright, so he hadn’t entirely mastered the art of not cursing yet, but he’d get there. His frustration melted away into laughter as he listened to yours. So melodical. So beautiful. He wondered how he ever lived without it. He watched you for a moment, the scrunch of your nose, the curve of your smile, everything. He smiled fondly. It fell when he remembered what he had to say to you. “I don’t know if you want to talk about it, but about the Beth thing,” he took in a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was going to come in, and I had no idea what she was going to say. Everything has just been so… quick, and I wasn’t on top of it, so I’m sorry.”
You nodded. “Thanks,” you wished he hadn’t brought it up, but it was mature of him to apologise. “I hope I didn’t mess anything up for you two?” You half-asked, half-pleaded, hoping you hadn’t ruined anything for him.
He shook his head. “No, we’re-”
“Oh thank God,” you pressed a hand over your heart, seemingly just seeing the shaking of his head. “I was so worried.”
He gritted his teeth, but smiled anyway. He and Beth were over, he was only interested in you now. “Yeah, all good.”
You smiled. “I’m glad,” you put your hand over his, and he pretended it didn’t set everything in him, alight. “I’m happy for you, it’s important you have someone who can support you. I know this is overwhelming for me, but it must be even worse for you,” of course. Of course you’d be so fucking kind to him. “I mean, last night I went out on my first date in years,” You had no idea why you said it, but it felt right, to remind him that he didn’t have to be on his own, or that he didn’t have to feel guilty for having a girlfriend. “It’s good to have a support system.” You reeled yourself back in, you let go of his hand, you cleared your throat.
Everything in him burned with jealousy, but he didn’t want to admit it. Sure, he had his kid in his arms, you were her mom, and he had no right to have any claim on you other than as co-parents, but all he saw was red. While he’d been with Mia, you’d been out with some guy. His jaw clenched, but he nodded, trying to push down the ugly feeling. “Really?” his voice sounded strange in his own ears. “I’m happy for you.” The words were forced and foreign, but you didn’t seem to notice, just smiling and nodding.
“Thank you,” you smiled. “I’d be open to meeting Beth as well, if you guys are serious.” You offered. He shook his head. You nodded.
He tried to hide it. He tried to stop himself. He couldn’t. He handed Mia back to you, giving some shitty excuse and curt response to your goodbye, and he walked into his driver’s room, and screamed into a pillow.
WHEN ARE YOU GONNA WRITE THE MIXTAPE FOR THINK LATER? I WILL BE WAITING BUT WHEN?
LY DIVAAA
꩜summary: lewis sees you at a party. your hair is shorter. other things have changed too.
꩜pairing: lewis hamilton x fem! reader
꩜warnings: drug use!!!! (please be so careful and do not take drugs!), reader is a mess, lewis is scared, they're both in love with each other but won't admit it :)
꩜a/n: hey yall! sorry this has been taking so long, i've been having a bit of writer's block plus some other things going on in my life soooo yeah :) enjoy and thank you for all the love on this series, i love writing it!
When Lewis walked into the party, he was not expecting to see you there, and definitely not looking the way you were looking. Short hair, that was the first thing he noticed. You’d had long hair for as long as he’d known you, and you two went way back. The next was the white dust around your nose. His posture stiffened. LA was notorious for this, but you weren’t. You’d always been the kind of girl who preferred a night in, or a pub crawl with friends. Not some big LA party where everyone knew everyone and pretended they didn’t see them when they sneaked off to bedrooms despite the rings on their fingers, and watched as they ingested more alcohol and substances than the human body should be able to take. He crossed the room in a few strides, and he was in front of you, searching you for any signs of recognition as he wiped your nose.
“Y/n,” he said softly, taking note of your glossy eyes and doped out smile. “Y/n.” he tried again, panic surging through him. He wanted to get you out of here, let you sober up, make you talk about whatever was happening. You’d been MIA for weeks, ignoring his calls and texts and offers to come to a GP. He’d seen pictures, but he knew better than to believe the press and what they were saying about you. He just wanted his best friend back.
You looked up, staring at him like you’d only noticed him, then you smiled. Wide and pretty, and it brought a soft smile to his lips too. “Lew?” you yawned. “You’re here?” You reached up to touch his face, like you needed to prove he was actually there. He let out a nervous breath as he nodded.
“How about we go back home, yeah?” he smiled softly, helping you to your feet. He still couldn’t get over it, the hair, it was so short. Still, he pushed that aside as he helped you into his car, something he couldn’t name pulling at his heart when he saw your glossy blown-out eyes. Maybe it was fear, or care, or maybe even disappointment. He didn’t linger on it, just got into the driver’s seat, and focused on getting you home. The car ride was short but you spent the entire trip babbling nonsense that he just tried to decode. It was difficult, he was only catching words and phrases, but he got so nervous about it that he grabbed the narcan he kept in his glovebox (he had celebrity friends, of course he kept narcan in his car), and held it in his hand, just in case. You tripped as you got out of the car, and he caught you, lifting you up until you got inside and somehow scurried out of his hold.
You stumbled into the bedroom, shedding his jacket, before plopping onto his bed. He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t fight the fond smile on his lips as you closed your eyes and relaxed. He shook his head, that sense of fondness hitting him in the chest and spreading. “I’ll grab some water-”
“Stay,” you demanded, and who was he to refuse? He had a bottle beside his bed already, he always did. “Missed you,” you mumbled, reaching a hand out for him to take. He took your hand and held it to his chest as he watched you. How had so much changed? You used to be the girl who would annoy him in the paddock, always finding him at the worst moments and turning them into the best. Yeah, you were a bit younger than him, but still, you two were best friends. You’d always been easy to talk to, for anyone. You walked into any room and lit it up, at least that’s what Lewis thought. Now, this was reality, and he really missed those moments. “Been so bad, Lew,” you admitted, and he saw tiny tears falling from your eyes. It pulled at his heart and he already knew he’d do anything to get you out of whatever hole you were in. “I don't know what to do.” He gulped back the ball of emotion in his throat and hummed.
“What’s happening sweetheart?” he cooed, so gentle, so kind. It just made you cry harder. You don’t deserve it, you told yourself. He sat beside you on the bed, raking a hand through your hair. “Talk to me.”
“I’ve been having selfish thoughts,” you admitted, words slurred as your need for tears subsided, and you just stared. Glossy eyes. “Want you, so bad,” you whispered like you were telling a secret. His heart stopped in his chest as he gulped down a surprised gasp, but still, he stayed closed and listened. “I hate it.”
He hadn’t a clue what to say. You were high and probably wouldn’t remember this tomorrow, but he couldn’t lie and pretend he hadn’t been waiting to hear those words out of your mouth for years. He just hated that they weren’t sober. He hated that he hadn’t seen the signs, taken better care of you, noticed. He looked back down at you, and you were already asleep in his arms, so he just tried to quieten his mind enough to sleep. It took some time, but he eventually fell into a deep sleep, content to have his arms around you.
Your head pounded, your skin felt too tight, and your eyes genuinely couldn’t handle the light. You tried to think back, to remember where you even were, think of who you were with, but nothing came to mind. You recognised the curtains, those long black curtains. You gulped, suddenly a lot more awake. Lewis. The man you’d been dodging for months. The man whose bed you were in right now. You sat up much too quickly and covered your mouth with a hand as you felt the urge to vomit, but swallowed it back down. You weren’t going to vomit in Lewis’s bed.
“You’re awake,” he stated, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. You pulled the covers up your body like they could shield you from his inevitable wrath, fuck, you hated this. You felt so small, he had all the power in the room because you were the junkie and he was the concerned friend who needed to fix you. You looked down. This is what you had been avoiding. You awaited the infamous question, the one you’d been dreading to hear from his lips for months. The ‘how long have you been using?’ question. The one that cemented that you had a problem. The one that meant rehab and therapy, and trying to fix yourself. “You cut your hair?” He questioned, and your eyes shot up to meet his. He was walking closer, his eyes trained on you.
“Yeah,” you nodded, pushing some of the strands back. “I felt like I needed a change after the break up.” You hadn’t talked about it, not with him. Your ex was the one who got you into everything, everyone in LA knew that. Then he left you, high and dry (literally) to go fuck a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, and left you behind with a drug addiction and heartbreak. It was always his idea to get high, always his stuff, always him convincing you it was a good idea. You wished you hadn’t listened. You wished you’d just left him first.
“Are you alright?” Lewis asked tentatively, his hand reaching out to brush your shoulder. His eyes were full of concern and love, like they always were. You tried to hold them back, but the tears fell. You shook your head, and it was enough for him to wrap you up in his arms and hold you, whispering the entire time. “I’ve got you.” He promised. You believed it.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered back, face flush with his chest. “I’m so sorry.” You wailed but he hushed you softly, a hand running up and down your back soothingly.
“I’ve got you now,” he cooed. “We’re going to get you help, yeah? I’ll be there the whole time.” He promised, a hand running over your hair and cupping your chin so that you’d look him in the eye and see his commitment. Panic filled your chest at the idea of rehab, at the idea of admitting you had a problem, but the thought of Lewis being there beside you, you guessed that was the best way to do it. “I love you.” he reminded you, but it didn’t sound like all the other times. Either way, you nodded.
“I love you too,” you nodded, your arms wrapping around his neck once again. You could do this. Or at least try to, for Lewis.
anyway I love love loveeeee ur blog and have been reading so much of the stuff you write and I heard through the grapevine you’d be willing to write for Alex Dunne
so like I was wondering if you’d be up for writing smth where maybe the reader is the younger sister of one of the McLaren F1 drivers maybe Lando cos of the whole FP1 thing so Alex would’ve been on his side of the garage and obviously they’re being very protective of their sister but she ends up developing a crush anyway or whatever
but again loveeeee ur blog and no pressure to write anything you don’t want to 🫶
pretty strange- a.dunne
꩜summary: lando's gone to breakfast while you chat up another mclaren driver
꩜pairing: alex dunne x fem! norris! driver! reader
꩜a/n: thank you for requesting! i'd love to write for alex if anyone has any ideas, plus any other f2 drivers :)
Alright, it wasn’t your fault. Lando had fucked off to do whatever, Oscar was busy with his own set-up, and Alex was so charming. He had that soft smile and polite nature that made you (upsettingly) weak in the knees. Oscar wouldn’t tattle if you chatted to him, right?
“Hi,” you smiled, holding out your hand to be shook. “I’m Y/n.” He looked up at you with wide eyes, like he was shocked you’d ever introduce yourself to him. He didn’t move for a second, just stayed there, mouth wide open with surprised eyes.
He suddenly lurched back into motion, and he took your hand (which you’d placed directly in front of his face), stood to his full height (taller than you), and smiled, shaking your hand softly. “Alex,” he introduced. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard all about you.” He admitted, trying to keep his cool and failing miserably. A lot of people have heard a lot about you, most people, in fact. Lando Norris’s sister shocks the racing world with a move to WEC, with an all-female team!? Or other headlines. Y/n Norris is showing off that racing is in her blood as she leads the championship. Or another. Youngest, first female, championship leaders, Cadillac is coming out on top! Everyone seemed to know you now, and you could barely wrap your head around it. You loved to race, of course, and you’d never want to do anything else. Watching your brother do it, showed you that you could too, especially considering you were already marginally smarter than him, so it was just a case of realising that F1 wasn’t your sport, but WEC was. You loved being in a team, especially your team. You didn’t think many people would understand, you’d been in a single-seater for half of your life, but it was what you wanted. You had other reasons too, mostly that you wouldn’t want to fight with Lando on-track. You knew you’d win, and you knew he’d hate you for it. So WEC it was.
Finally, he stopped shaking your hand, and you exchanged little chuckles. You cleared your throat. “I’ve heard all about you too,” you smiled, sharp as ever. He felt his heart skip a beat, but tried to ignore it. He hoped it was good things from Andrea or Zak, and not the terrible stories all of his F2 mates had to say about him, though he was aware of your closeness to Jak Crawford, and he gulped. “You’re pretty quick out there,” you admitted, sitting in the seat beside him. You felt that spark of electricity when your knee brushed his. “How does it feel?”
He let out a small sigh with a smile. “It’s amazing,” he nodded. That bright smile seemed to be surgically implanted on his face, but you didn’t mind it much. “And thank you,” there goes those manners again. “But you’re prettier- I mean-! I mean you’re pretty fast, pretty and fast… I mean I’m a big fan.” He somehow stopped the word-vomit coming out of his mouth as his eyes widened and a hand clapped over his mouth, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as you laughed beside him. Oscar jumped out of his car and gave you a pointed look, one that said ‘finish this now or lando will hear about it’. He was always nice like that, always gave you a little more leeway.
You wiped away a tear and smiled harder than you had in days. “You’re really strange Alex,” you clapped a hand on his back and in a split-second decision pressed a lightning-fast kiss to his cheek, and got up to walk out. “And you’re pretty too,” you whispered behind you, but with the tomato-like flush on his cheeks that appeared, you knew he heard you.
Oscar joined you in your walk to the motorhome with a knowing smirk on his face. “You know I have to tell Lando now, right?” he chuckled, and you groaned, crossing your arms.
“I’m a fully-grown adult. I can do what I want,” you scoffed.
“You sure look like one right now,” he murmured under his breath. Yes, you may have resembled a toddler throwing a tantrum, but that was neither here nor there. You rolled your eyes and nudged his arm, and he smiled back. Maybe this would be the start of something, because one thing was clear, you couldn’t get Alex out of your head.
You were restless. Your day dragged you down, and everything felt difficult. Like you were swimming upstream with no moment to breathe. Like you were trying to drive a car with no breaks. Like you- you get the picture. You felt sluggish and exhausted, and completely incurable. Nothing helped, not sleep, not medicine, not even a day off. Nothing stopped your shoulders from being wound just too tight, your hair falling in just the wrong way, or your back aching just too much to be deeply uncomfortable. You wanted to say it was burnout, or fatigue, or blame it on some niche and obscure illness you didn’t know you had, but you didn’t know why you felt the way you did, or how to fix it.
Your keys hit the door at 11:23pm, and you felt every tiny movement you made. Every muscle was on fire, your eyes burned, and your brain pounded, and you still had more work to do. Usually you were better at pacing yourself, but apparently not this month. 4 college deadlines and an accounting fuck-up at your work placement blew up your schedule and turned you into a crisis manager with too much on your hands, on top of your regular duties. Every second of the day had been torture with more people coming to you to solve their problems, when you could barely solve the ones you already had on your desk.
You felt him before you saw him, that lingering mix of colognes and deodorant that you knew so well, even amidst the smell of some sort of pasta dish that you knew would satisfy the rumbling in your stomach. Somehow, you smiled, walking into your kitchen and leaning in the doorway as you watched him work. Small hums left his lips as he focused on the task in front of him. Fuck, it made your heart swell.
“You broke in again.” you mused, wrapping your arms around his waist as you rested your head on his back. He chuckled, the sound reverberating through his body against yours, making your smile all the more brighter. A hand covered yours and squeezed. It’d been months. Months of phone calls and facetimes, months of texts gone unread for hours due to time differences, and months of missing. Missing moments, big and small, missing each other. You felt that ache in your chest ease, and then dissipate entirely. He had a habit of making everything okay, you realised. Especially as your shoulders sagged for the first time in a week, and that weird kink in your back somehow magically disappeared. You didn’t want to claim miraculous magical boyfriend healing, but maybe it was a thing?
He brought one of your hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of the knuckles with such gentleness. “Ciao bella,” he practically whispered. “Alright?” he asked, turning off the stove and turning around, your arms still around him. Your face met his chest as you let yourself remember what it felt like to have him here, to have him safe. He breathed softly against you, perfectly content to stay like this forever.
“Alright,” you nodded, and looked up at him. Those brown eyes and that soft smile made you weak. “Missed you,” you added and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His lips parted in a wide grin and his arms circled your waist and squeezed the skin there. He pressed his lips to your temple as you dropped your head back to his chest. “Too long apart.”
He didn’t say anything, but you knew he agreed. This was hard, living apart was hard, being in a long-distance relationship was hard. But he wouldn’t trade you for the world, or any race win, or any championship. It would only matter if he had you standing by his side, even if you were really thousands of miles away. He nodded his head and tightened his hold. “Missed you more,” he admitted, and you both knew it was probably true. You had family here, friends here, a job, a stable life. He travelled the world, living his life with a calendar that counted every second, the media constantly looking for a slipup, and the burden of expectations hanging over his head. He swallowed down that emotion building in his throat, and he smiled. He was here. He was home.
That’s all he wanted. All he’d ever want. Standing here, with you in his arms.
꩜a/n: lowkey suggestive btw, but no smut or anything just heavy making out :) (also in a time where there is no Mercedes seat shitstorm like there is rn)
All he wanted was a moment of quiet. All the shit in Williams, all of the expectations, all of the repeated questions, it was all too much. He’d debated heavily, and the offers from the top teams just kept rolling in. If McLaren wanted him, yeah, he’d take that. But they didn’t. They side-stepped the conversation. Mercedes finally wanted him now, hell, everywhere seemed to want him. RedBull was calling again. Aston was offering him a seat. Part of him just wanted to hang up his racing suit and go to WRC or WEC. Maybe try out Le Mans, just not bother with the decision making and stay out. Fuck, he just wanted to drive.
But he didn’t. He loved it. He loved the speed. He loved the challenge. He loved being the best in the world.
Training had gone how it always did, tiring, boring, mindless. The Monaco sun belted down on his back as he ran around the harbour, his head down as he tried to quiet his mind. He reached his apartment, stepping into the air conditioning and a smell of freshness he wasn’t exactly used to.
You were home. A week-long work trip had held you away from him as Silverstone came and went, though your support was felt from the other side of the world. He thought you’d still be gone until Friday. He spotted you in the kitchen, tidying plates and cups away as you silently danced to whatever music was in your headphones. For the first time in a week, he smiled properly, the tension in his shoulders easing with every step he took to get closer to you.
“You’re home,” he breathed out as he wrapped his arms around you, despite the sweat. You ignored that and just smiled, turning to him and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It always started like that, him coming back from training tired with his mind full. Just needing to wash away those thoughts that didn’t seem to understand his ideal of a healthy work-life balance. Just a small peck was enough to leave him wanting more. Much more.
“Someone’s needy,” you teased, pulling back, but he just pulled you right back in, his hands squeezing your waist and pulling you closer as he took what he needed from you, though his cheeks heated. His grip only tightened when you opened your mouth against his, welcoming his tongue. “You like this?” you whispered against his lips, sending a shiver down his spine as you wrapped your arms around his neck. If F1 didn’t drive him crazy, certainly you would. He let out one of those tiny whimpers as you climbed up onto the counter, parting your legs so that he could fit between them, his mouth never leaving yours. The noises he was making were so cute you giggled in the kiss, as he hummed against your lips, those thoughts he’d been plagued by for days, finally melting away with just a swipe of your tongue. You pulled back for some air and caught a glimpse of his blown out pupils and glossy eyes, looking so gone for you. Like you were the single thought on his mind, just you, you, you, constantly. You smiled. “You alright?”
He gulped, nodding. “Fine,” he explained. “Just missed you.” He admitted, squeezing your waist again, trying to focus on your eyes as everything in him screamed for him to just kiss you again. You leaned in and pressed a cautious kiss on his neck, waiting for him to let out that classic breath, the one that told you he was completely giving up his fight and just letting you do whatever. It came, and he leaned his head back as you began your attack on his neck. Fuck, he was irresistable. You let one of your hands travel lower, resting against his abs as he tensed under you. He groaned against your lips as you chuckled.
“Calm down,” you chuckled, pulling back and cupping his face with your other hand.
“Can’t,” he breathed out before kissing you again.
hii can i request something with Oscar that maybe reader is just so insistent on having a boyfriend and that no boys pay attention to her , and then is Oscar who is her best friend who is just so in love and obsessed with her, it’s painfully obvious to everyone but her and then in the end Oscar just runs out of patience and just confessed, super cute and fluffy in the end. Idk if it was too specific but i hope you understand 😭😭😭
lovefool- o.piastri
꩜ summary: oscar piastri has been in love with his best friend for years. she's buried all her feelings for him for years, and has set her sights on finding love elsewhere. what happens when he finally (accidentally) confesses?
꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! best friend! reader
꩜ a/n: this is...6.7k+ words... hehe. thank you for requesting I love the idea!
It’s not like you were obsessed with love. You weren’t. You were perfectly fulfilled in your life. You had good friends. You’d escaped your parents. You had your dream job. You’d turned your nightmare into your dream life. You travelled the world with your best friend, and watched as he surpassed his wildest dreams. You just… wondered. Why weren’t you in a relationship? Why didn’t someone like you enough yet? Why hadn’t you found someone yet? Everything else in life was perfect, you were happy. You just… wanted something else, someone to care about you, someone to love you.
It probably didn’t help that you had a scary guard dog best mate in Oscar Piastri. He knew you better than anyone, listened to you, and he was kind. You were glad you’d met him and gotten so close, he was now a huge part of your life. You remembered meeting him like it was yesterday; a shitty day in a new school. Somehow you’d expected more from your parents. You thought they’d listen, but why would they start that?
Haileybury is a new start. Haileybury is a great school.
It didn’t matter what you wanted, it never had. It just mattered that you wouldn’t bother them. Your talent spoke for itself, your family name spoke for itself, but no one saw you. People saw the name. They saw the ability. Then they watched, like hawks. Waiting for you to fuck up, so they could run back to your parents and remind them of the mistake that you were. Show them exactly why they shouldn’t waste their time with you. In all honesty, you wanted to run. The tall gates of Halieybury came into view, and behind it, the behemoth of a school sat, waiting, taunting you, as Headmistress Graham, a tall woman with the largest glasses you’d ever seen, explained the rich history of the area, and told you how you’d ‘love the library, it’s world class!’. You feigned interest. You smiled through the tour. You were polite to every person you met, even those girls who were already sizing you up, on your first fucking day. You wished your parents a safe flight home with about two metres distance between the two of you. There were no hugs in your family, no space for warmth. You walked into your bedroom, and you fucking screamed into your pillow. You just… you had to endure. That’s what you told yourself. With your brain, you could graduate early, then you wouldn’t be stuck in this fucking hellscape, a million miles away from home. You wanted those walls you knew so well, even if they were silent now. You wanted the ability to walk around freely. You wanted your home back, even if it was irrevocably changed.
You didn't bother showing up to breakfast. It was a bank-holiday Monday, only very few people stayed back, their rich parents were too wealthy and important to bother seeing their children before they’ve already become adults. You walked around the grounds. Perfectly manicured. Perfectly used. Everyone walked the same path here, literally and metaphorically. They would get their education, and they’d go on to work for their parents until they realise working (if you could call it working), isn’t as fun as they make it out to be. Sometimes it requires effort, and they’re not used to getting their hands dirty, so they push it onto someone else. Someone else always has to take their shits for them, and wipe them up after. You rolled your eyes when a group of girls were waiting at the front gate, for what, you had no idea, but it was blatant whatever it was could only be something that gets Year 7’s out of bed on a day they could spend gossiping and whining about having homework. Hats off to whatever it was, that was impressive. You walked on, the cold air invading your lungs as you listened to the crunch of the ground beneath you. It was melodical. You thought back to home, back to the wild gardens and overgrown trees you loved to climb, and you felt that pull again, the one telling you to go home. You swallowed it down, and you walked back inside, looking for those rehearsal rooms Headmistress Graham had been banging on about.
You sat on the stool as softly as possible. Your hands hovered over the keys. You pushed down. Careful. Cautious. Calm. Controlled. That’s what you’d been taught to be. That’s what you had to be.
A ruckus from just outside the hall pulled you out of your playing, and you stared at the door, half-expecting someone to run in.
He did. A tall boy with brunette hair and two huge bags on his shoulder, his eyes wide as he locked the door behind him. “Fuck’s sake,” he mumbled to himself. You sat there, impatient and annoyed. This was your practice room, it was booked out for you, for the year. He probably played what? Guitar? He didn’t need a fucking reharsal room, he needed a common room and an arsehole with enough ego to assault the lyrics of ‘Wonderwall’ with his voice. He looked flushed, and- had he been running? You guessed he was what the Year 7s were fawning over, and became increasingly more annoyed.
“Alright?” you questioned, turning to face him. His head snapped up and his jaw dropped. You shook your head. Boys. “I’ve booked this room, sorry.” You turned back to the piano in front of you, expecting him to do the regular thing and walk out with a muttered apology. He didn’t. He came closer, walking up to you. Crossing the hall as quickly as he could without running.
“Hi,” he smiled, and you rolled your eyes. “I’m Oscar.”
“Hi Oscar, I’m trying to rehearse,” you bit out. Of course, you couldn’t just get one moment of peace. “Please leave.” You weren’t fighting him on this, you had to rehearse, and he had to leave.
“What year are you in?” he asked, approaching the piano, under some transe. He snapped out of it. “I’m Year 10.” He looked up as you rolled your eyes and turned to the boy as he stood beside you, looking at you or the piano like it was some ancient relic.
“Year 10,” you mumbled, your eyes sharp and staring at him, hoping he’d get the message. Newsflash, he didn’t.
“Cool,” he mumbled, his eyes stuck to your hands as they hovered over the keys. “I’ve never seen anyone use this before.” So he wasn’t exactly a conversationalist, brilliant.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never seen anyone play a piano?” you scoffed, and he went bright red.
He scrambled to think of a response, and his brain came out with utter shit. “I mean, this specific piano. E-everyone thinks it’s a bad piano, so no one plays it, and we have other pianos in the school so they all prefer that- I’m just going to stop talking actually,” He shook his head at your amused expression, mortification rising in his body. Fuck, he could talk to Daniel Riccardo about tyre deg for hours, only a day after meeting him for the first time, but a pretty girl with a piano was his downfall? Fuck’s sake. You let out a small, confused chuckle and the sound rang out in his head, making those butterflies that had awakened the second he saw you, fly around his stomach like they were on fucking acid. He held out his hand to be shook. “I’m Oscar.”
You took it with an amused smile on your lips. He felt his entire body ignite when you touched his hand, though he’d never tell you that. “You’ve mentioned that, Oscar,” you teased, that beautiful, small smile on your lips. Holy shit he could’ve sworn he was having a heart attack with how fast his heart was beating now that you were looking at him. “Year 10, Form B.” You held out your hand to be shaken, and he shook it with fervour, probably letting his hand hold yours for a moment too long.
“Right,” he nodded, his hand still around yours. He was fucked, completely and utterly head over heels embarrassingly fucked. He snapped back to reality. “Form B? Me too.”
You nodded, your eyes falling down to the rest of him. HP Turners hoodie, baggy trackies, oil-strained shoes. He smelt like a fucking petrol station which deodorant section had exploded. You were curious, and really, you could practice whenever. It was more fun to mess with socially-averse teenage boys. “What’s with the bags?” you questioned, pointing at the comically large bags slung over his shoulder. He looked confused for a split-second, almost so small no one would’ve noticed, like he’d forgotten they were there, and then he dropped them on the floor in front of the both of you.
“What they are is killing my fucking shoulder,” he mumbled, rolling his shoulder. “My racing bags,” he explained as he took out his helmet. “This is my helmet bag, holds, well, my helmet, and this,” he held up another bigger duffle bag. “Is just all the other shit I need for races like my suit, shoes, tyre strategies, my homework, all that boring shit,” he smiled. You smiled too, for some reason.
You nodded. “Interesting. What category are you in?”
He looked stunned that you even knew what question to ask. “Umm, British Formula 4,” he smiled. “You know racing?”
“My brother used to race,” you shrugged. You were both quiet, despite both wanting to know more about each other. He saw the way you deflated, noting down your words, ‘used to’. He didn’t pry, he never would. “Well, Oscar, I’d better get back to rehearsal.” He frowned slightly, but nodded and started walking towards the door.
“I’d like to see you again, and maybe get your name.” he chuckled before he opened the door and walked back out. You quickly realised Oscar-who-smelt-like-petrol was a big deal here. He was a racer, and everyone cared. You were used to it, with what your brother used to do, so you didn’t really care.
Just a week into school and a group of girls had adopted you into their group and you were slowly beginning to enjoy their company, but not without some troubles. One girl, Rachel, was in love with Oscar. She could speak of nothing else. It was either his hair (entirely mediocre), or his face (you understood that one), or his arms (lanky?), or what he wore (t-shirts and trackies), or him in his cricket gear (pathetic and prissy). She drove you mad with her constant pestering, always asking about him, since you two were apparently friends now. So what you teased him in form, who cared? Rachel cared. But anyway, soon, your friend group was intrinsically interchangeable with Oscar’s, as his friends became yours after weeks of teasing him. He pretended he didn’t love it, and you pretended not to notice. You tried for literally a year to get Oscar interested in Rachel, just as a favour to her (and yourself), but he wouldn’t bite. Everyone made those jokes that girl and guy best-friend duos always get, the dares to get together, but both of you stood still in your decision. He was your friend. You were his friend.
That was all.
Finally, summer break rolled around. The British Grand Prix had been a test of everything that Oscar was. No only had he fucked up his race with a penalty, he could see the way Lando was talking and looking at you, and it made him sick. In the normal, best-friend way, of course. He just… knew the kind of guy Lando was, and it wasn’t what he wanted for you. Anyway, Belgium had gone in his favour once again, a P6 to win after a red flag caused by an Alpine in quali, and Lando accidentally crashing again, giving him a stronger lead in the championship. You’d been there too, sitting pretty in the garage, giving him all the support he’d needed to get those overtakes done. And now, Greece for 2 whole weeks, full Piastri family, friends, and an all-inclusive resort to yourselves. It was all he needed.
The breeze was slight, and not doing much for the sweat dripping down his back. It was 11am, too early in his world, but Duke had texted him and told him where you were, sending a photo of you swimming in the ocean with the caption “looking for her merman, you might want to be there!”, and yes, it had gotten him out of bed. Everyone knew about his crush (which was really nearly a decade of yearning), and everyone knew about your longing for love. They begged him to just… say something, satisfy both of you. He thought about it every fucking day, every moment between you two, he longed to be more than your best friend, more than the guy you rely on, more than he was.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when it risked losing you. Still, he walked to the beach with three water bottles and a peach (your favourite snack in the world, so much so that the nickname had stuck) in hand, ready to pretend he wasn’t dying inside every single time you touched him.
“Finally back from the dead?” Rachel snorted, watching him approach. He smirked back, blocked out the sun with his right hand as he let himself shamelessly take you in beside her. Fuck, you were gorgeous. Skimpy bikini clinging to you, still wet. You had those ridiculous snorkel glasses on the top of your head, your hair back and out of your face, sunglasses covering your eyes as you read your favourite book for the hundredth time. A small sense of pride bloomed in his chest when he realised it was the copy he’d given to you, fully annotated, at the ripe age of 17. He didn’t understand it then, but he made it a yearly tradition to read it again and rehash all your favourite arguments. Rachel watched as he stared at you, and rolled her eyes. “A-hem,” she added, bringing you both out of your busy minds. “Oscar’s here.”
“Osc!” you smiled, scooching over on your beach bed and tapping the spot beside you. You were halfway through the book already, of course, he smiled and sat beside you, handing Rachel over a bottle of water, and started pulling the peach apart, removing the pit, then offering you a piece. You opened your mouth and he popped it in, feeling much too domestic for a best friend. “So I was rereading-”
“Obviously,” he finished for you, taking a bit of another piece as you rolled your eyes.
You swallowed down your piece and opened your mouth for another. He placed it in and you chewed, then spoke. “And I was thinking about the setting, and I know these are old annotations-”
“I was 17 and I barely understood the thing, please let me write you a new one,” he begged, genuinely embarrassed of the book in your hands. All of his annotations were subtle confessions, even ones that were outright “I like you”, but you’d never taken them seriously. It haunted his dreams that you still had it. “I’m begging here, Peach.” He nudged your arms but you shooed it away.
“I like this! It’s old! It’s funny, it’s very you,” you pouted, and he’d never take it away for you if he knew it made you this happy. He shook his head, laughing. “Plus your handwriting was so much better when you were 17, I can barely read it now,” you laughed and he rolled his eyes, scoffing. “But yeah, the setting, I was thinking that maybe-”
Just then, Hattie and Peter (her boyfriend on his first year of the Piastri family getaway), bolted by, running into the water as they giggled. You watched them happily, but felt a twinge in your heart. You groaned and dropped your head into his lap. “When will I get that?”
Rachel gave him a look that screamed SAY IT!, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk losing you. He shook his head and ran his hand from your collarbone down to the middle of your back and sighed. “Soon, I’m sure.” It killed him to say, but he genuinely did hope you found someone. Even if it destroyed him. He’d given up on love long ago, and he just hoped he could stay close to you once you found your perfect prince charming.
“How about we go clubbing tonight and you can meet some men?” Rachel suggested and a cold sensation filled Oscar’s veins as he gave her a side-eye. She’d never been the best sport about Oscar not choosing her, but he knew she was just trying to do what was best for you. You wanted love. Just… not from him. Which was fine. That was alright. He’d accepted it.
“We have family dinner tonight,” you looked up at Rachel from Oscar’s lap. “But after?” you looked back at Oscar, trying to gauge his reaction. He shook his head.
“Not for me, but I’ll drive you there,” he offered, ever the giver. You frowned.
Your hand rested over his stomach and he tensed, his abs underneath your hand rock-hard. You didn’t even notice. You’d never noticed, just laughed when he said his clothes didn’t fit anymore and called him lanky anyway. “No, we’ll get a taxi, don’t want to make you drive on your time off,” you pouted. Oscar had been different in recent months. He’d been off about something and you couldn’t figure out what. He wouldn’t go out on nights out anymore, wouldn’t bother to celebrate after big moments like wins or your awards. He always wanted to stay in, cuddle on the couch and head to bed to talk for hours, like you used to do at school. It was fine, you enjoyed nights like that just as much as anyone would with their best friend, but still, it rubbed you the wrong way that he would never go out with you.
He sighed. “You sure you want me to come?” he asked, looking down at you, fingers running up and down your thigh now. It had no effect. He cursed himself. You nodded vigorously in his lap and he smiled. Anything to make you smile. “You sure I won’t be too guard-dog-y and scare all the guys off?” You shook your head and rolled your eyes.
“You’re not scary in the slightest Oscar, look at you, you’re fucking lanky,” you held up one of his (very much) not-lanky arms, and faltered for a second. Shit, he was bigger. He was taller. His neck was fucking huge, and you could feel a torso full of abs under your hand. He smirked down at you like he knew what he was doing and you gulped. “See!” you finished, giggling at him. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as you stood up. “Come on, you need some water time,” you dragged him up (which seemed much harder than before with his added strength). “No fun playing mermaids by myself!” you started jogging off into the water, and he got the most perfect sight of your smile, then the back of you. He cursed internally and pulled his shirt off, a grimace on his lips. Rachel shook her head behind him and they both thought the same thing.
How was he going to survive tonight?
Oscar didn’t like going to clubs with you, because it was torture to watch you flirt with other guys. He hated the way they looked at you, like you were just another girl, like you weren’t a piece of sunshine taken and given to the world.
But now, apparently that extended to the swim-up bar in the hotel. He was just behind you, waiting at one of those stupid half-submerged tables, after listening to your rant about the setting of the novel for actual hours. A guy went up to you, harmless, right? Wrong. The way he was looking at you, like you were a piece of meat, or something to be won, it made Oscar sick. He stood to his full height, puffing out his chest just a bit. It felt a little silly, but the surprise in the guy’s eyes was worth it. He came up behind you, a warm hand on your hip as he leaned down and whispered in your ear. “You alright?” he asked, lingering over your shoulder as the guy backed off, nodding at the sight in front of him. You crossed your arms and walked ahead, grabbing your drinks off the bar in a huff. Objectively, he felt bad. He knew how much you wanted it, that novel-worthy love, and he wished he could give it to you. It physically hurt him to know he couldn’t.
You frowned as you sat down at the table. “That wasn’t fair. He was going to give me his number before you walked up,” you sighed as you stirred your cocktail. Day drinking was like a sport on these holidays, and you were already feeling a bit tipsy. Oscar rolled his eyes and sat across from you, placing his hand on your arm as the other held his G&T. He had that stupid pity-smile on his lips and it made you want to scream. “Seriously!” you gaped at his audacity. “He could’ve been the love of my life.” You huffed, deflating. You’d had this conversation with him too many times, but he was always so stubborn, always saying the same thing.
The love of your life isn’t going to show up at a bar.
The love of your life isn’t going to show up at your gym.
The love of your life isn’t going to show up outside your friend's apartment.
The love of your life isn’t going to show up outside one of your concerts.
The love of your life isn’t going to show up in the orchestra of one of your concerts.
The love of your life isn’t going to show up shirtless on a tinder profile.
“Peach, the love of your life isn’t going to show up at a swim-up pool,” he said matter-of-factly. You hated that. He was so sure, so fucking aware. Like nothing else could ever be true, because of course not. He was Oscar Piastri and he had the final say. His thumb pressed soothing circles into your arm as he frowned. He knew it was wrong, fuck, he knew it. But he couldn't let you go off with someone else, someone who wasn’t him. Not when he knew his heart fucking beat and bled for you. “How about we go for a dive?” he offered, trying to wipe the frown off your face.
“What if the diving instructor touches me?” you hissed, annoyed. “Are you going to drown him?’ you scoffed before swimming off and joining another table, one with Rachel, Duke, Tara, and Eoin. Oscar sighed, his head dropping to the table as he watched you go. He was sent many unappreciative glances from the tale, half of them mouthing the same thing at once. TELL HER! but instead, he stayed over at his table, then joined his sister for a game of marco polo, which he continuously lost.
It was an hour to dinner and he hadn’t seen you. He’d swam until he was sure he’d reached his cardio goal for the day, gone to the gym and did some weights, then walked back to your shared room for a shower. You weren’t there. He got dressed into a linen shirt and slacks which was pretty fancy considering the fact that he’d been showing up to dinner in his togs and a tank most of the days. His phone rang with a message, and almost wasn’t bothered to get up and grab it, but he did, fearing it would be from you.
Rachel: Peach’s in here getting ready, still mad about earlier, but it’ll be smoothed over with a PROPER apology. For fuck’s sake just tell her!!!!!!!!!
He gathered his things, and your handbag, and stalked down the hall to Rachel and her partner, Evie’s, room. He knocked once. Then twice.
Then your face was in front of his, all wide-eyed and smiling with those dots of contour going unblended on your cheeks. Your face fell when you realised it was him, and it would’ve been a mood killer if you didn't look so stunning. The hotel robe over his favourite dress of yours, he could see the colour spilling out beneath the white, and his smile somehow perked up even more. That fucking dress with the spider web on the back an the dangerously low neckline, the one that had almost made him say it the last ime. On his birthday no less. It was maddening, the way you’d been dancing in it all night, and your smile, god your smile drove him insane. The way you pushed him to do new things and try new things and evolve, that was his favourite thing about you. You constantly challenged him, and he’d never get tired of it. “Oscar,” you cleared your throat. “Evening,” you nodded and let him into the room, some Olivia Dean song you loved playing from the speakers of your phone. The room was tense, Rachel and Evie watching you two, silent for the first time in god knows how long. Fuck, you couldn’t fake being mad at him that well, and soon the facade slipped with one tiny giggle. He laughed too, wrapping his arms around you from behind as he whispered apologies into your hair. You looked at him through the mirror, and something about the way his eyes lingered on you made you squirm. You liked it, the thrill of him watching you, you always had.
“I’m sorry, Peach,” he said again, definitively. “I was only worried about your safety, but it was a dick move and I promise it won’t happen again,” he smiled that wolfish smile, and you knew it was a lie, but you believed it anyway. You nodded and curled a hand around his own giving it a squeeze before detaching and sitting back down to your vanity and resuming your makeup. “Are we good?” he asked, and you nodded with a smile.
“We’re good,” you parroted, putting his fears to bed as Rachel rolled her eyes. Christ it was exhausting watching you two walk around each other in circles like idiots. To think she once liked Oscar was wild. Now, she saw him as what he was, a pathetic lapdog that would follow you to the ends of the earth. It was kind of funny actually, watching as he fell over himself to be as close as he could to you. You two were so perfect, fitting together like two pieces of a jigsaw, but you just couldn't see it. Mostly, it was Oscar’s fault for not stepping up and admitting his feelings, but you were also to blame for not noticing the way he lit up around you. She shook her head as he entertained you by throwing popcorn into your mouth. Hopeless.
God, if that interaction with Mr. Muscles earlier wasn’t going to send him over the edge, Hattie trying to set you up with one of her friends from college would. His name was Freddie, and Oscar already hated him because he was perfect for you. Smiley and surfing, long hair and completely Melbourne, tall and muscly and a brian full of smarts. He even had little sisters he took care of. He seemed perfect. Oscar just begged the universe to tell you that your heart wasn’t in it, to remind you of the boy who sat beside you who looked a lot like a man now, but still kept those foolish, boyish dreams alive, those ones of you waking up beside him or walking down the aisle towards him. He held his breath as you scrolled through his photos.
He was everything you were looking for. Fuck’s sake, his name was Freddie, what was cuter than that? Osc- No. You stopped yourself. You’d buried that when you turned 18 and watched him with his tongue down the throat of one of the popular girls, and you promised yourself it wouldn’t come up again. Oscar wasn’t yours. He didn’t want you. But you stacked everyone up against him. The way he introduced himself, dorky and too strange to be anything but fate. The way he wouldn’t leave you alone, not until you finally agreed to be his friend. The nights he’d sneak into your dorm and listen as you told him about the horrors that awaited you during break. The night he’d promised you that, while he wouldn’t be able to magically make your brother appear again, he could hold your hand through any tough moment you needed him. The way you believed him. That stupid night when you were both 17 and told yourselves it wasn’t a big deal, and you kissed him and you understood. Understood what it meant to be loved and taken care of. Have someone care.
You blinked it all back. All those moments and memories that you stowed away for those days after dates when you realised that while Oscar was who you wanted to be your forever, he couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be, because he didn’t want you. “He’s cute.” you smiled, but anyone could tell it wasn’t real. Hattie smiled back and promised to send on his number, and you thanked her.
Oscar stiffened beside you, and he had to stop himself from putting a possessive hand on your thigh. He reminded himself, she’s not yours. She won’t be yours. He swallowed back the bile in his throat. Dinner tasted like cardboard, but it wrapped up anyway, and five of you bundled into the rental car, a heavy silence between you and Oscar for the second time that day. The rest of the group were too busy singing whatever showtunes Duke had insisted on to notice, but you did.
The club was cool, this half-inside-half-outside deal with strobe lights and far too sensual music playing. In the least ironic way possible, it felt like a movie scene. The Hills by the Weeknd blaring from speakers as you were dragged into a dance with Evie. You just needed to stop thinking about him. You’d gone years keeping these feelings at bay, and there was no need to ruin the best thing in your life with selfish feelings. The red strobe made him look sinful though, already at the bar, already getting you a drink, like he was your boyfriend. Fuck, it was ridiculous. He acted more like a boyfriend than any of your past boyfriend had, opening doors, perfect chivalry, holding hands, knowing you. Knowing what you wanted. The flashing lights made him look even more delicious than he usually did. You kew he was an athlete, and you knew he looked good, but fuck, seeing him shirtless and now in that stupid linen shirt that strangled his biceps made you want to fucking swoon. He searched for you in the crowd until he found you, then sent you a wink and a smile.
Fuck if it didn’t go straight to your core.
He stood at the bar, the perfect bodyguard, an eye on each of his friends. Rachel and Duke were already chatting with some locals, always able to make friends wherever they went. You were out on the dancefloor, his brain short-circuiting. Evie sent him an evil look while you spun around, gaining the attention of a few guys around you. He felt that same protectiveness, that voice in his head that screamed ‘mine’, but he stayed back. He laid off it. He didn’t want you mad at him again, and he could always try to convince you he saw they do something shady. Sure, it was unethical and completely unfair to you, but his chest physically hurt to not be stalking over there and kissing you, showing you that you had someone who loved you more than anything. He didn’t. He just watched. Watched how you looked in that fucking dress. Watched the way your eyes lit up when you saw him at the bar. Watched as his heart broke for the fifteenth time that day.
Duke walked up beside him, his best friend for years.“Look man, just fucking do it. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t, and you know Y/n, she’d never hold it against you and you might get some closure,” he shouted over the music, directly into Oscar’s ear as his resolve slowly chipped away with the way you were dancing. Shit, it was fair. You looked so beautiful out there he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Stop torturing yourself.” He clapped a hand on his back and nodded, his wisdom for the night, now imparted. Oscar’s hand shook as he moved through the sweaty bodies of the dancefloor, one thing on his mind. Duke had a lot of bad ideas, but also a lot of good ones, and he decided that he couldn’t live like this anymore, and he’d dance with you one last time before forgetting. Forgetting his feelings. Releasing you to find someone who hopefully loved you like he did.
He cleared his throat, and smiled when he reached you, then held out a hand. “Care for a dance?” Evie sent him a look, and he nodded. She scurried away as quickly as possible, as you took his hand with a smile. His other hand went up to your waist as you slowly rocked your bodies together, anticipation filling the air. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispered in your ear. “Any guy here would be lucky to have you.” The words felt foreign in his mouth, he’d always been the silent supporter of your search for love, but now, he was going to try and help. You smiled up at him with that gorgeous smile, that fucking dress that drove him insane, and just you. You being you. You being your wonderful self. The lights flashed again, and suddenly he was kissing you.
FUCK. He thought, but he didn’t stop. He hadn’t kissed you since he was 17, and he was making up for it. His hands grabbed at your waist, pulled you as close to him as possible, as he kissed hard. Hoping that everything he felt could just be seen in the kiss. All the desperation, all the passion, all the… love. He wanted you to feel it, to know it had been torturing him since he was 15 years old that he didn’t get to do this everyday. He was so in his own head that he’d barely realised you were kissing him back, and then he just groaned into your mouth, kissing you harder. You wanted to savour the moment, your hand cupped his cheek as the other splayed out against his chest, fisting his shirt and bringing him impossibly close. You buried this, you told yourself. He’s not yours. He’ll never be yours. So you pulled back, and you ran. You couldn’t entertain someone who wasn’t ever going to be yours, especially not when it was Oscar, the guy you’d been embarrassingly in love with since you watched him fall over at a cricket match, but still get up and smile at you with a thumb up.
Oscar stood there, stunned for a minute. He had no idea what he’d just done. He was just frozen for a solid minute. Someone bumped into him and suddenly he was in motion, fighting through the crowd to find you. He had to tell you, explain, make you understand. It was just a mistake. He didn’t mean it. Everything can go back to normal, he told himself. She’s still your best friend. The balcony looked out over the entire city, the warm Mediterranean air engulfing him as he stepped out. You were out there, leaning against the glass as you watched the last light disappear from the day. He stopped and admired you for just a few seconds, hoping this wasn’t the last time he’d speak to you. Then he decided to do the one thing he’d been putting off for almost half his life, be honest.
“Peach I’m sorry about that, but-” he started until he realised you were crying. Fuck. He’d really cocked this up, hadn’t he. “Peach, I’m sorry,” he shook his head, leaning against the barrier, leaving too much room between the two of you. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” you sniffled, your voice raw with emotion. He passed over a tissue from the packet he always brought with him, for you. “Do you think it’s fun to play with my emotions? Is this like a little game that gets you off? You’ve been fucking playing it since I was fucking 17, and I understand that you probably felt obligated when I asked you when you were 17, but you could’ve said no. I just… this isn’t right,” you scoffed and his eyes widened. You shook your head. “It’s not fair, Osc. Not at all.” He stopped thinking, stopped fucking breathing. You liked him back, this whole time. He could’ve been kissing you every fucking day. He could’ve been your real boyfriend for 7 years now. He cursed himself for not being brave enough before, and for not seeing it before.
“I’m in love with you,” he whispered, and your world stopped for a second. “I’ve been in love with you since I was 15,” he admitted with a defeated chuckle. “I was just too scared to tell you,” he sighed. “I love how you dance when something is delicious, I love how you cling on to me every fucking day. I love your smile and your hair. I love how fucking smart you are. I love how brave, and strong you are to have gotten through everything with your family. I love you. You’re just… you’re everything,” He explained, tearing up. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before. I’m sorry that it came out in jealousy and possessiveness, but I just couldn’t let you go. I can’t. I won’t. And I’m aware that this might be too much too late, and I understand that, but I just need to make you hear me now. Nothing I’ve ever done for you has been out of obligation, not when we were 17, and not now. I kissed you in there because I couldn’t imagine not doing it. I can’t imagine anyone else being the woman I want. You’re the coolest girl I know. I love you so fucking much, peach, my chest fucking hurts.” He sniffled, then chuckled sadly at himself for crying.
You turned to him and shook your head. “You’re such a fucking moron,” you smiled before pulling him in for another kiss, this time with your arms around his neck, and a shared understanding that, yeah, you two were in love. And yeah, that was fucking wonderful. You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead on his. His pretty wide eyes under the moonlight as the first round of this evening’s fireworks display began behind you. You smiled. “I love you too,” his grin somehow got bigger. “So fucking much-” you could barely finish your sentence before he kissed you again. But you were both thinking the same thing, we have years of kisses to make up for, might as well start now.
You both tried to ignore your cheering friends, but you broke away (much to Oscar’s annoyance) and smiled at them, celebrating the almost decade-old crush you’d tried so many times to bury. It didn’t bother Oscar when it meant he got to look at you being so happy it made his chest ache to know it was him making you that happy.
Maybe you hadn’t ever buried it. Maybe he’d made it too hard. Maybe all of that didn’t matter now because he had his arm around your waist and your taste on his tongue and you were smiling brighter than ever.
