- Headcannons about Harry not growing up in Number 4 Pivet Drive and instead living full of love with her Aunt Olivia, the wife of Sirius Black.
🐦🔥 Doubt
- Headcannons about Harry at 10 years old finding something out that might've broken his Aunt's heart. She can't let a seed of doubt bloom from her son's heart.
🐦🔥 Wariness
- Headcannons about Hyacinth, Olivia's daughter and Harry's cousin, became wary of dogs after a bad memory.
🐦🔥 The first and last visit
- A simple visit to their Aunt Petunia escalated quickly.
𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲
🏈 Dance in the field
- Fred Weasley x fem!reader
- A dance in the field in The Burrow was a day to remember for the couple. But also the ones who witnessed it.
𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲
🏈Cofession with the curtain closed.
- George Weasley x Hufflepuff!femreader
- George couldn't hep himself but confess even with his girl's eyes closed.
🏈 "Oh, come on!"
- George Weasley x Slytherin!femreader
- After a very cruel prank, George found himself pinning someone certain because of it.
𝐎𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐝
🦅Gaze
-Oliver Wood x Gryffindor!femreader
-She never knew that the Gryffindor keeper could make everyone disappear with just a glance.
🦅"Ye alright?"
-Oliver Wood x Ravenclaw!fem!reader
-Yule ball stirrs many different emotions. For Oliver? Just dread on how to ask the girl he fancy.
𝐂𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐲
🥨 A boyfriend, maybe? Part 1 Part 2
- Cedric Diggory x Ravenclaw!femreader
- A certain Ravenclaw girl is getting a well-deserved reward after working so hard for the exam.
𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲
🍋🟩When I met you
- Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!femreader
- Draco can finally feel what he has been lacking all this time.
𝙈𝙖𝙯𝙚 𝙍𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧 (ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ.)
𝙽𝚎𝚠𝚝 (No longer taking request.)
🕊️ Only the beginning
- Newt x Medjack!fem!reader
- Everybody is begging Newt to just a make a move.
𝗙𝗼𝗿𝗺𝘂𝗹𝗮 𝟭
🏎️. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .༄˖°.🍃.ೃ࿔*:・. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦
ᴄʜᴀʀʟᴇꜱ ʟᴇᴄʟᴇʀᴄ¹⁶
🐎 Shut up and drive
- Charles Leclerc x Racer F!reader
- One-sided tension sucks... But maybe it won't be if you got a dinner out of it.
ᴄᴀʀʟᴏꜱ ꜱᴀɪɴᴢ⁵⁵
🌹 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗
ᴏꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴘɪᴀꜱᴛʀɪ⁸¹
🐱 Oddly Romantic
- Oscar Piastri x Mechanic F!reader
- One mistake turned into a romantic gesture. At least it was romantic.
ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ¹
🥇𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗
ᴍᴀx ᴠᴇʀꜱᴛᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ³
🏆 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗
ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤/ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕤 ୭🧷✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🎀
🫧 I only take fluff and angst requests. I am not comfortable in writing explicit content (nsfw) or spice in any kind of character.
🫧I am open to gender neutral preferences, but I am more on feminine reader.
🫧I am also open to original story ideas!
🫧I am open to many more characters or personalities other than the list above. I am just mainly writing for them.
🫧I can also do some headcannons, but only for those I have in the list. I do not make headcannons for those I do not know well.
🫧You can request or ask me questions about my stories or fictions. I am also open to constructive criticism!
I am very happy to serve you enjoyable fictions to fuel your imagination.
I think I have a few ideas here and there but not fully writing themselves out. I'm halfway through 1 lando fic, the other one is still writing itself 😘
Is the prompt too vague or too detailed? Maybe you're too stuck on following it word for word and are afraid of diverging?
Or do you not feel like you're able to capture lando's persona in a believable way?
Or am I way off lol let me know!
The prompt that was sent to me was great, the idea was very ✨Lando✨ not too vague for me to get a lot of ideas to be overwhelmed or too detailed for me to not let the creativity take over
So it's definitely my anxiety that I won't do it right. Like, it's gonna be too off for it to capture the idea that was given to me or it's gonna be too on point that it's boring to read.
And honestly, I love Lando. His strength as a person is that he's perfectly complicated, he's exactly how a normal human is. He's got the perfect layers to be someone you relate to. But that's a nightmare for me. I cannot capture the authenticity of Lando for it to be indeed believable.
The reason why I'm so doubtful is because I always think that people who even read your work and gives you their precious ideas is so much of an honor to not do it right. The fact that these people who request an idea is thinking you can do it is unbelievable to me.
You said and captured everything I want to say so thank you for that. It's making me feel seen in a way and at least I know that my failure is okay. That my inability to write at the needed pace for me to deliver this, is okay and that people recognize it.
That is bigger than you think it is for me, or for any writers out there, so thank you.
Synopsis: Oscar can be considered the friendliest driver, agreed upon by his fellow drivers and the people in his own garage. One rookie mechanic stood out from many because of her lack of voice in the garage, because of this, Oscar was drawn to her and couldn't let his reputation of being the friendliest not touch the mechanic's heart.
Warnings: Profanities.
OSCAR PRIDES HIMSELF for being someone thoughtful. He had spent most of his life with people that supported him all throughout: his family, his friends, and of course, his team. Around so many people that always got his back, it's hard to not do the same for them.
The moment Oscar switched to McLaren was a fine addition to his life. The air of a fresh start after a messy leave from Alpine is exactly what he needed. More effective teams, greater care, and people who actually listen to what he has to say. A team where every day doesn't feel like it was too shitty to work with when the day barely started. It was perfect for him.
Every day, at exactly 8:30 AM, he'd walk in and greet countless engineers and mechanics by their first name. Most drivers don't even remember their own anniversaries, and here's Oscar greeting every single one of his team and thanking them before the day even started.
"What's up, Harold?" A dab followed Oscar's greeting. "Hope you're not burning your hand on that," to which Harold only chuckled with a grateful smile as he continued to adjust something in the engine.
Oscar suddenly whipped his head when a certain blonde nodded past him. "Hey, Linda, did you get a haircut?" Nobody noticed it except him. "Yes! My goodness, I was waiting for someone to say something!" Linda smiled as she unconsciously touched her hair. Oscar only gave a very charming smile back as he continued walking.
In a field of drivers always at the edge of their seat, always full of emotions waiting to burst at anyone who dared to pop the bubble, Oscar was different.
So yes, he's proud of himself to be someone very caring.
One specific morning of Miami qualifying, Oscar walked in the motorhome with a perfect mood. His coffee was exactly how he liked it, and the morning sun isn't too warm for him. He definitely doesn't know any day better than this.
"Someone woke up on the right side of the bed," Lando teased as he poured himself the awful coffee the whole team tolerates. Before he could put it up to his lips, Lando paused at the coffee cup in Oscar's hand. "Is that the new trending coffee shop about 20 minutes from here?"
Oscar shrugged, the smugness hidden well under his nonchalant smile. "Got time." Who has time of at least 15 minutes for coffee? Lando shakes his head before sipping his coffee. The burn to his tongue was a good energiser for the day, keeping his head out of the fact that George will definitely bag the pole.
"New engineers came in this morning. They're very enthusiastic," Lando mentioned. Neither of them usually bats an eye at new engineers or mechanics. They're usually veterans already at what they do. "I'll go greet them then." Oscar continued his walk to the familiar motorhome, leaving Lando with a raised brow.
Zak was holding a bit of a pre-con meeting, the briefing room halfway filled with new, young faces.
Zak paused at the sight of his driver, making his way to mention him. "And here we have one of the two drivers you'll be working for." The room brought their hands together to clap for him as he shyly nodded.
His eyes automatically swept across the room, trying his best to memorise all of them in hopes of greeting them from now on. He knows that as a rookie, getting a bit of recognition goes a long way for their confidence to build up. He didn't stay long, though; after sharing a few waves and a small pep talk, Oscar made his way to his engineers to yap his way about the new upgrade, planning, and wanting to know if he can push even harder than any of his free practice.
The day ended with the best result they can get. Piastri at P3 and Lando at P5. It was not their best, but racing isn't always about being the best; sometimes the way is to find a way to do everything with what you've got.
After qualifying, George proving that he's Mr Saturday, Oscar and Lando surrendered their car to the mechanics to beautify it all up again for tomorrow.
They were given the rest of the day to get their head in their game and to prep themselves mentally for whatever might happen tomorrow. As usual, Oscar's greeted by a lot.
"Good job, mate. Fantastic result," Erick said after reviewing the data, tapping Oscar's shoulder in encouragement.
"Tyre management is getting better and better," Morris winked after wrapping up the wheels.
"What a race you'll be having tomorrow, lad. Good luck," Allan added as he walked past.
It was nice to feel wanted.
This team made him feel wanted. That was kind of hard to feel not attached to.
Oscar noticed—and was happy—that the new engineers and mechanics from this morning were talkative. They weren't arrogant or big-talk, small-work types but people who are actually passionate about what they do. Finn was yapping to Gorje about the aero with animated hands to visualise what he's saying, Gorje nodding with great agreement.
Rodirick was already cracking up jokes that lighten up the mood even with someone almost dropping a very sensitive part.
Jessi was scolding everyone (mostly her fellow rookies) about them leaving black stains everywhere. No one really minds her.
But one oddly stands out in contrast.
That mechanic was working on the engine when Oscar first entered his room and still working on it when he came out 3 hours later. He hardly saw her mouth open.
He didn't mind it; maybe she was like him and shut up when focusing. Or maybe she's an introvert. A moment alone with Lando in the hospitality suite, Oscar ordered the chicken wraps while Lando ordered himself another plate of pasta.
While waiting, Oscar doesn't hesitate. "Hey... Have you heard anything from one of the mechanics?" he asks. Lando looks up from his phone, cracking a smile. "Kinda hard not to, mate; they're pretty talky." That's true, but Oscar wasn't talking about them. "I meant the girl." That made Lando look up to him fully. It's not every day Oscar talks about a girl, especially if it's just a girl. "Which one?" Oscar made a vague motion to himself, trying to imitate a girl's hair and some of her facial features. It didn't help. With a few more bad clues about physical attributes, Lando clicks it in.
"Oh! You mean Y/N?" Oscar was surprised that Lando knew her name. Lando isn't very great at remembering names. "You got her name?" Oscar asked.Lando shrugged, shaking his head no. "Just got it from another very talkative mechanic. She's very quiet. Or maybe she's mute," Lando jokes, but now that Lando thinks about it, Y/N reacts when she's being talked to but only replies in nods or shakes of her head.
Maybe she is mute.
Oscar was surprised to be given that thought. Somebody who's mute? That's rare but honestly not a problem. If she works hard, nobody will even remember her as someone who's mute but rather for when she contributed.
Oscar let it go; he has many more names to connect to new faces the next day morning.
Oscar is very insistent on being the same friendly guy who knows everyone by their first name and knows every little thing that matters about them.
He's not going to leave out one girl because she's mute. If there's a will, there's a way, right?
On race day, Oscar fulfilled his very strict routine for the morning. Woke up early, got a simple breakfast, got coffee, and was into the motorhome like no other.
He saw Gerald. He remembered a certain post from him. "Congratulations on your baby girl, Gerald," he greeted with a dab to Gerald, who brightened up like the sun at the mention of his baby girl on the way. This caused a few people who are near to whip their heads toward them and let out a few whoops and cheers for the adorable news.
Oscar never realised it, but maybe those kinds of reactions from those he greets are exactly why he makes the effort. People forget that the person in the garage is much bigger a person than the one driving the car. This is the Oscar way to give thanks.
As Oscar continued to walk, letting the stir he caused to have its moment, his eyes landed on you.
Oscar said a simple "Hi" with a small wave of his hand and his signature smile. It was everything you used to watch on TV and in interviews; nobody said it's more captivating in person.
Everything about you got thrown out the window as you simply nodded with a small smile and turned your gaze back to fixing the sides of the car. But inside, your heart never pounded so hard that you felt the pulse in your fingertips. God, why is it so hard to suddenly say a greeting back? You went through so much studying and proving yourself only to fold at the mere sight of Oscar Piastri.
And can you really blame yourself? This is Oscar we're talking about. The one driver you've been watching since his F3 season. You watched him climb the ladder of the motorsport while climbing your own as a top-tier mechanic. You dream of creating the best formula for cars, to possibly give your all-time idol the car he'll win a championship with. But building cars is better than talking to him.
Oscar was a bit stumped, though. He thought that after you'd stay a day here and hear everyone talking about everything, you'd hear him being the friendliest there is in this whole garage. Surely that reputation makes you want to be more open, right?
But no. That nod of yours only meant one thing to Oscar: "I'm not yet comfortable with you." And Oscar, with his competitiveness, refused to believe that's true. So now he's off to make that a challenge he'll win with nothing in mind of what he might get in return.
The race went intensely. Wheel to wheel like no other, 20 drivers are hungry for the same podium, 19 rivals for Oscar. Decisions were made, frustration out in every sentence over the radio, and an occasional lock-up on some that caused a yellow flag.
Your eyes are stuck to the screen, watching Oscar—two of your drivers—while viewing data on the other screens. Hands are fisted as another car gets close to him; your heart skips a bit every time he comes in for tyres and sees him speed out. While this is all very nerve-wracking, it was everything you dreamt it to be. Engineers and mechanics litter the garage; some are pacing, some are too stiff to move from their place. The smell of burning rubber and gas fills the air as the race continues; the yells from other mechanics of other teams can be heard from where you are. It was like a fever dream you don't want to wake up from.
The race ended with a good win for the team. Oscar landed at P2, and Lando got overtaken by Leclerc in the final 3 laps and landed at P4. But still, a win is a win. Another set of points for the team and their drivers.
You sat yourself confidently with the crew beneath the podium. Seeing Oscar make his entrance and receive his trophy. But you know what's even better? You being a part of a team's win.
The spray of champagne got to you; the fizz of it as it landed on your skin was the taste of victory, you're convinced.
Back at the garage, when everyone was sticky from champagne, cheers of victory were made from left to right. Oscar was very glad to bring the car home with victory on his back. He naturally swept the sight in front of him. Smiling faces, jumps of joy and every happy expression you can think of. And you.
You were looking at the screen of replays and data; you had that shine in your eyes that tells Oscar that you're taking this in and probably got your insides going tumbling and full-on circus. Which was true.
Your trance was broken by Amanda, a fellow mechanic, who shook you with a big smile and a huge congratulatory hug. You smiled back, eyes turning crescent as the smile went up past your cheeks.
He sucked in a breath. If he told himself he had seen better smiles, he'd be lying.
Before he could even make up his mind about approaching you and potentially embarrassing himself to you, he got pulled away by the media team to present himself in the media pen and the conference room.
The joy hardly went down after that, even when the sun itself was retiring, painting the sky a pretty portrait of a sunset.
You used the public shower room to freshen up with a new pair of uniforms and grabbed a drink—which was only Monster, apparently—and got yourself leaning on the rail, overlooking a portion of the track.
You remember only seeing this on TV, as you notoriously write down anything about mechanics shown in the race. You even went through all the seasons of Drive To Survive for a sliver of any idea you might get for the future making of a Formula 1 car.
Now... You're here. Next week you'll be in another soil, another track, with the same people.
The TV screen you tire your eyes with is now reality. All the hardships and mentally draining journey were suddenly so worth it. And working for McLaren? What a fine bonus.
"Enjoying the view?" A voice bloomed behind you, making your head whip to its direction and making you straighten up at the sight of Oscar.
Holy shit. He's talking to you. Is this real?
"Sorry to interrupt... Seems like I share my favourite spot." Oscar joined you, leaning on the rail. The sunset casts an orange glow on him. No wonder he thrives in McLaren... These golden rays make him more handsome by a thousand times. It genuinely got her speechless.
While she was frying up in her own thoughts, Oscar chuckled. "Relax... I'm here to chill." He does that lazy grin that makes you want to just melt into a pool. Oscar spent a good moment enjoying the view, eyes darting from the sunset to the luminous light that gives the track something out of a memory. He loves this image.
You got a moment to collect yourself, joining him in looking at the view, but your mind was painfully focused on how close he is that you can still smell the champagne—the smell of victory—on him. It makes you suffocate in the best way possible.
"Thank you," he said suddenly. His eyes focused on the view as you turned to look at him with a surprised look. "You guys give everything to give us these cars..." His eyes found yours, confident that they were onto him. "Thanks for giving me the best car.
His gratitude, literally, is a thanks for the whole team. Why does it feel like it's only for you?
Before words formed in your mind, preferably something not cheeky or too confident, your face broke into one of those smiles again.
Oscar gave his on the sight of yours and had to look away to possibly try to hide the blush on his cheeks using the golden rays from the sun.
Part of your brain (probably the prefrontal cortex) says that you shouldn't act like a dumb teenage girl because what he said isn't about you and you alone. It was for the team. But another part (the limbic system, maybe) screams that he shouldn't flash that smile if he meant it as nothing more than just a thanks.
Before you can even open your mouth for a reply, Zak calls him over. Oscar looks back, a bit slumped for... Whatever reason you don't even want to dwell on. He turned his gaze to you, taking too long for the safety of your heart ready to pound its way to him, and gave you a smile before walking away.
You'll remember this day. Save it to your phone's calendar, force your brain to make you dream it every night—anything to remember this moment.
You buried your face in your hand, sighing with more breath than you have, and decided to down the monster drink you have to maybe flush down and dissolve the butterflies in your stomach.
The team made a great way to make you fall comfortably in their whirl of hard work.
All the fun stuff came with a routine. A day is reserved for meetings, another for the making of the parts, and another for the assembling. All those times, though busy, are thrilling. A joke was cracked here, another one later, and a debate that started over lunch and stretched for another day before mutually dropping it. You can never be bored in this garage.
While you were busy living the dream life you had, Oscar and Lando were in their little driver bubble. Training, media, and, if the schedule has mercy, they both have time to spend with family and friends in between the weeks of constant travelling.
One morning on a Tuesday, no media was set for the day; both drivers audibly sighed at the news and went off to do their own thing for a couple of hours before meeting up for lunch in the hospitality.
Lando didn't waste time and sat himself down next to Oscar at a random table. "Thought I'd be happy with a bit of freedom around here. Made me bored as hell instead," he said, aspirated. Oscar can't relate, though; he's busy setting himself with a mission. A tiny mission. The conversation went light between bites of their food until Oscar's phone lit up from a notification. Now, Lando minds his business. He doesn't care what anyone does in their free time. But when Oscar's phone lit up with a notification reminding him of his streak in learning ASL, Lando forgot to be dyslexic and immediately snatched the phone from the table to look at it closely.
Oscar jumped at the sudden movement from Lando, pausing mid-bite of his poached egg to look at Lando like he had gone crazy.
"Why... do you have an ASL learning app on your phone?" Lando slowly peeled his gaze from Oscar's screen and onto the man's eyes. So that's the part he didn't plan for. His eyes darted anywhere but Lando and his phone to come up with a very believable story.
Someone suddenly went deaf in his family? No, that's unnecessary. Lando is close to his family; he might ask his mother who it was. A hobby? Lando won't believe in that bullshit. As Oscar was running out of ideas, Lando's lips turned into a wild grin.
"Is this the mute girl?" Lando said teasingly with a matching shit-eating grin on his face. Oscar's eyes went to him but stayed quiet, the only answer Lando needed.
But instead of going hysterical, Lando placed the phone back on the table and crossed his arms while his face tried to contain the hearty laugh. This is the first time Oscar has found interest in a girl, not since his last ex, and he doesn't want to scare the Australian away from embarrassing him for feeling this.
"The things you'd do for love..." Lando shakes his head as Oscar's face turns red. "I was just... trying to create a more inclusive environment," Oscar defended, finally swallowing the food in his mouth.
"For one girl?" Lando questioned, not believing in any excuse he gave. "They do say get you a man who'll learn ASL for you." But something popped into Oscar's mind. Are you really mute? Oscar was quick to voice that question. "Can't she really speak?" That made Lando pause to think about it. All of the boxes are checked for usual signs of someone being mute. You react when called but don't answer; you create noises with the team, each wins but never really responds to congratulations, and you hardly speak. Sounds like a mute for Lando.
"I guess... But you can ask her, you know." Lando's face turned back to teasing. "Since you're already learning, why don't you ask?" That's true. Oscar can only ask to find out. But what if he's wrong? There's a 50% chance he's right and you might be impressed that he's noticing you in close ways that will come off as points romantically, or another 50% chance he's wrong and looks like a creep who assumed the worst for somebody so innocent. He's really hoping to see that smile again, without risking anything much...
Right... Smile.
Then it clicked.
The next day Oscar was back to being the friendly guy that everyone loved at the garage. A dab here, a wave there, a laugh here, a nod there. The usual.
Visiting the main garage, where most mechanics spend their time, he easily found you trying to reach something under the car. A clink of metals, as you do, suggests you're trying to tighten something that was suddenly too far to reach with your wrench.
The mechanics greeted him, especially Jake, who was excited to tell him about the new upgrade the engineers sent them to assemble. Jake ended the talk with a bright smile. Another achievement for Oscar.
You, on the other hand, were too busy fighting the knot you need to tighten. Your hands are already full of grease, and your shirt has some noticeable stains from it. Giving your arm a break for a second, you rotate it to release some stress from your shoulder. Then a cup of coffee appeared in front of your face.
Your eyes travelled up the arm and onto the face of who it might be. It was Oscar. Giving you the same lazy grin that always makes him more breathtaking. Your hand slowly crept up to the cup, suddenly forgetting the stains of her hand.
"You're welcome," Oscar said before she could properly thank him. Sipping his own coffee, he looks at the halfway-done car. "You seem busy." His eyes, from observing the car, suddenly observed you. "Grease looks good on you," he joked.
A joke is supposed to make you laugh, a short, maybe long time of happiness to bring a sound of joy out of you. But instead you felt like a statue as you stared at his eyes. Feeling like a freshman getting an interaction with your favourite senior.
Again, before you even say anything, he nudged your shoulder. "I'll leave you to it. I trust you'll give me a good car."
He walks away, and only then does it sink in on you. Oscar fucking Piastri gave you a coffee. You gave a chuckle; a huge smile fell onto your face as you looked back at the retreating sight of him. Surprisingly, he looked back.
And he was glad he did.
It was that smile again. He makes many smile with his dry humour and funny remarks, but your smile is just... different. He was never an addict in his life (except for racing), but if he were, it probably felt like what he feels when he sees that smile.
He made sure to casually look back at where he's going, not wanting to risk a bump to someone with coffee in his hands. As he turns the corner, he tells himself that the loud and fast thump of his heart is from the coffee—screw that, he barely feels this anyway—it was definitely from her.
He's definitely more hooked than what he planned.
You don't like many things.
You don't like double sugar but will take double cream on your coffee.
You don't like being interrupted while doing something.
You don't like surprises or sudden movements around you.
You don't like people who eat candy at meetings and create a loud noise with the wrapper.
You're just... very particular in what you like and don't like.
But then, suddenly, when Oscar first gave you coffee, it had two sugars and two creams. It was really sweet, almost too sweet, but that's for old you. The new you, who has gotten so used to getting free coffees from Oscar, suddenly tolerates the sugar spike in your bloodstream.
You say because it was free. And that Oscar made so much effort to not take it. But then suddenly, you ordered it the very same when you got to the coffee shop.
"Coffee latte, two sugar, two cream." Doesn't sound like someone who hated it before.
One fine afternoon, you were writing down the list of done tasks you had for the day. You need to focus in order to recall everything you did today to submit the report of the daily process.
"Busy?" A voice suddenly popped out in your corner that made you jump and created a surprised noise. You don't know why, but Oscar made a surprised, happy face at the sound.
You shake your head as you clutch your heart from the surprise.
"Brought you pastries. Saw you didn't take any lunch. Make sure to eat up." Before getting a word in, Oscar was already walking away.
You looked back at the notebook next to the paper bag emitting the sensational smell of bread. Your focus is broken. But you picked up the pen again and began writing.
In one circumstance, Zak just had to stretch the meeting that started at 10AM and was supposed to end at 11PM. It was already nearing 12:30PM... Everyone is looking like they're already dreaming about the lunches they're supposed to have right now.
A crackle of a wrapper made your eye twitch. Must be an idiot.
But then a hand sneaked close to you, holding a candy ready to be eaten. You traced the hand and found the face of Oscar as the arm's owner. Then suddenly maybe eating a piece of candy isn't so bad.
You don't even realise it, but Oscar has used these simple, small ways to slither his efforts and presence into your life. And it's not like he wasn't in it before, so maybe that helped.
Though you refuse to acknowledge all this, friendly gestures are from a different motive. And people that are around you also refuse to let you not acknowledge it as that.
Amanda purposely pulled Nick away from the seat beside you to sit down on it and smirk at you. "That coffee must be great." She pointed to the coffee cup next to you. The one given by Oscar. "I wonder how it tastes; never seemed to get one myself."
You rolled your eyes. "Please, Amanda. Now is not the moment for us to have this debate."
Amanda groaned at another declination of your heart at her teasing. "Fine. But how about those pastries he got you?"
You kept typing. "He brought the same one for someone else," you said confidently.
"No, he didn't."
"Maybe you didn't see it."
"Did you?"
You just looked at her, giving her a look to drop it. Amanda gave her a smug smile, recognising her victory in this argument before actually leaving her alone and putting Nick back on the seat.
A cold water bottle was stationed at your desk after an hour of working in the car one time. A sticky note stuck to the table beside it. "Don't forget to hydrate . :)"
Charlie slides his glasses down his nose to give her a raised brow with a matching smirk.
"Shut up, Charlie." You swatted his shoulder, him wincing and rubbing the spot as he walked away.
Another pack of candy got passed to you from Oscar. Harriet cleared her throat beside you, "He's feeding you."
You turn to glare at her silently.
"What? I'm just saying, he's taking care of you," Harriet defended, subtly raising her hand in mock surrender.
You gave her some to shut her up.
"Mr Piastri is getting friendly." Linda bumped your shoulders together, unloading some carbon fibre pieces you requested.
Here it goes again. A roll of your eyes just can't be helped as you sigh. "He's friendly to everyone," you answer.
"In the obvious sense," Linda replied with a scoff. "You, on the other hand... get so much more."
Before you even try to defend yourself again, Linda patted your back and left.
The team is thriving. Each innovation that the technical engineer submitted was approved and was put into action. You, as one of the mechanics, did a great job at helping assemble the car.
It was the Azerbaijan GP that delivered another win for the team. Lando landed P1 with Piastri just at P3.
And just like before, the spray of champagne into their faces is the best way to taste the victory and hard work they've put into the car that brought their drivers home.
After everyone was sticky and lining up for the public showers, Oscar couldn't find her anywhere.
Oscar, while doing all those gestures, was continuing his streak with the ASL app. He finished the course in the span of months. That's impressive for someone always in a car.
And he finally decided to use this opportunity to maybe... ask you out. No, not maybe—definitely ask you out.
He decided to swiftly shower and freshen up and get to the parking lot. Hardly any cars are going out; it was only 30 minutes after the race, and nobody wanted to go home yet.
But he figured that this is the best way to spot you.
He waited until the hour passed... then another. And another.
It didn't feel like it at all because he's becoming nervous as hell. He started to open up the app again and review what he had learned.
At the four-hour mark, you walked into the parking lot with some of your fellow mechanics. Laughing along with them but never uttering a word yourself. You had that smile again, the one he wishes he were the reason for.
He knows he'll do everything for that smile, and he'd pride himself in not only making everyone smile but also you.
Amanda first spotted Oscar locking his eyes on you, and since she had gotten quiet beside you, you followed her gaze, and your eyes fell on the man you thought you could only see on TV.
Amanda stopped and made you face her. She licked her lips and brought it to your brow, fixing your makeup and cupping your cheeks. "Whatever he says, say yes." Amanda tapped your cheek before catching up with the rest of the group, happily chatting away.
You slowly approached the man. Oscar pushed himself off his McLaren 750S Spider to make his steady steps closer to you.
You both got into a safe distance, close but not touching, far yet intimate. He liked this setting.
Then he started signing as he softly spoke it. "I hope I'm not ruining your night."
His hands were faster than he thought. Maybe all those months of practice are paying off.
Your face turned into a confused one. Why is he signing?
The confused look on your face was taken by Oscar as a cue to keep going. His soft voice guides his hands to translate, "Thanks for meeting me. I'd like to ask you out for a date. I hope my little gestures reached your heart."
Your eyebrows shot up. Oscar took that reaction as him doing a very good job.
"Maybe coffee? Or dinner? Anything you want."
Oscar stopped signing. A proud smile was left on his lips. She could've melted at the sight of him. Freshly showered hair, a bit messy, and goodness—a damn smile. But she's more confused right now.
"Why... are you signing?" She asked clearly and loudly. Definitely not mute. His eyes went wide like saucers and immediately went through different phases of realisation.
"I—I thought you were mute!" He said, now not bothering to sign, as she can clearly hear and talk.
She let out a laugh that didn't last, as she was too surprised at the absurdity of the situation. "You hardly speak, and frankly, I have never heard you speak," Oscar added in his defence, but still, a smile broke out on his face.
"That's... oddly romantic," you said after a moment with a breathless laugh. Oscar literally learned how to sign just because he thought she was mute. And he signs fast, which probably means he spent a good amount of time learning it.
"And wait", she paused, "those gestures of yours – the coffee, the candies, the pastries... was that you flirting?"
Oscar sighed. Then nodded to confirm. "I didn't know how to flirt with someone who's mute. I know you'd use sign language, but what good is that if I don't understand it?"
Your heart melted at his answer. And the fact that she's not surprised he's even saying this right now speaks a lot about her being right about who he is.
He's a person who greets each of his team by their first names. Who knows little but enough of everyone to know which to say to light up their mood. He's the person you'd hope would not miss a day in the garage.
He successfully made himself impactful in the kindest way possible.
"I don't like your coffee," she said suddenly in the middle of processing what was happening. The sound of cars leaving in the background was a great silence breaker. "But I find myself ordering the same thing every time."
She sucked in a breath. "I don't like being interrupted when I'm focusing, but when it's you, it's fine," she continued.
"I don't like eating in meetings because it makes me feel obnoxious about others, but when it's from you... suddenly I don't hate it." This man just altered who she was. Oscar made everything tolerable; he made everything okay.
"That's... oddly romantic of you." Oscar echoed her earlier statement.
The moment sank on them. The dark parking lot where the light is just enough to see their faces. The sound of cars one by one getting out of the lot and on their way home. And the lingering smell of champagne in both their hairs gets swept by the gentle breeze.
"Maybe... we're oddly fitting for each other," you whispered. Like a thought suddenly said outloud.
Without a direct yes, Oscar felt the answer more than she had said it. Your face cracked a smile, and Oscar did too. Because this is the only beginning of where he's the reason for that smile.
I have officially broken my record of most words used in one fic. Holy smokes!
I just had this idea of Oscar in my dreams and started to ball it out on my notes app. Mind you, my notes app gave up because of word limit and I had to make two parts LMAO!
My new profound passion for F1 drivers are mostly gonna be my focus, but still feel free to request anything you want, my sweetings.
Synopsis: The first female driver title means nothing at the face of World Driver Championship. You face the big dogs whether you like it or not, they're not playing nice either. Tension has been cooking between the drivers from Ferrari and Mercedes in the midst of the season as they're, in no doubt, fighting for the title.
Warnings: Profanities.
YOU BOTH DON'T KNOW when this started.
The sudden tension, the sudden frustration, and glares thrown at each other, the sudden seed of hatred planted in both your stomachs whenever you laid eyes on each other.
It was the start of the season. Everyone was excited, everyone had placed their bets, and everyone are wearing their team's merch. Everyone is hyped after the great fight from last season; the fans are not expecting less.
The motorhome of Mercedes is busy, as always. The people are always busy in delivering the performance they're known for. And they don't fail to do that. You hope you can do it, too.
Everything was going fine for you; you were living up to the name of the first ever woman to step foot into this male-dominated sport for decades. Mercedes landed a jackpot when they saw you, the rookie that held many promises by your performance alone. It's now your 3rd season, and you're already fighting for the championship.
And it would've been easy. The car never fails; many even say that you're almost flying whenever you drive it. Toto did not waste any of your useful input, as they make it, too. And you're delivering those tasteful victories. The taste of podium is already familiar, guaranteed even, if you land on the pole. P2 more often than not.
Achieving greatness was almost easy if it weren't for a red car that looks like it had some yogurt poured over it.
Specifically that Monagasque driver who pisses her off whenever he squeezes into the most impossible gap she obviously doesn't want to give.
And you can't even say that the frustration she feels is about racing. Hell, you're adults! What stays on the track, stays on the track. Like what mature drivers should do. But Charles is making that hard to do.
That's when it started.From the laughter shared from backstabbing Netflix workers and their annoying camera and speakers ready to twist whatever they find to some dramatic narrative, it was suddenly turned to silence. The others became silent too when they saw either of you enter in the same room. Some even share a look with Charles and then try their hardest not to laugh, making you feel like the odd one out.
It's like having mean girls from that movie suddenly gang up on you. Except it was drivers who were pushing to their 30s in Formula 1.
It seems like Charles is making sure that you remember that you're a woman. Which, to you, doesn't make sense. In every interview he's in, in every question he answers about you and your fight for the title, it always contains the words "She's a woman" or "She's impressive for a woman." You'll beg for those to stop. You don't even know if he meant it in the way you heard it, but the malice is there.
He once said, "Well— Yeah, I mean... Y/N is a driver that is different. Just didn't expect her to be sort of like a superhero with that car of hers. And the fact that she's a woman made this..." He didn't even bother to finish it as he just flashed those dimples and smiled.
You've been hearing that since you were in Formula 4. It's like your whole skills and talents are so outrageous just because you're a woman. She's tired of the "you're too great" for a woman quotes said with that mockery and disbelief that you're even here when all your life is for wherever you are now.
And you can't believe you're still experiencing it at the top. Well, it's expected. The top are where those who got used to only seeing the same faces suddenly get so curious at someone who looks so different.
The Singapore heat is a killer. The fans are still hyped and waving their own banners and flags of their respective drivers. The welcome for them was just as hot as the weather. You can only imagine the hell it would feel like once you're in that car. Better not dwell on it; bigger fish are waiting to be fried as the engineers are busy polishing up the car while Toto simply requests you to get ready.
Like a routine that's etched into your brain, the helmet was a final touch before getting into the car.
Rolling up in the grid, mechanics surround your car. The few minutes are being spent by your team hyping the shit out of you. Tapping your helmet, making sure the car is fine and placed properly. At the 30-second mark, they all left. Saying their final goodbyes and cute little thumbs-up of good luck.
The very noticeable red car was just beside you. Everything else feels too pressured. The engine behind you was humming like a beast waiting for those lights to dim. You adjust your deadly grip on the steering wheel, making it a mission to go so fast you won't worry about seeing that red car of your nemesis.
Gears are shifted, and the Singaporean Grand Prix is on. The engines roared to life as they fought for a good launch after the first turn. Charles' wheel is getting too comfortable next to yours.
You successfully passed him, not bothering to check your mirrors as you leave him behind.
Lap went on and on and on; Charles was always just a few seconds behind, hunting you down for your position. Your engineers are making it clear to not let him pass. She was doing just that... Until lap 35, where your rear locked up, you spun once, and your adrenaline and the mere thought of Charles catching up made you save that car on the brink of destruction.
But a flash of red already passed you. You cursed under your breath as you continued, "Gap to Leclerc every lap until I overtake his ass," left your lips as you stared at his rear.
Each time a gap appears, you suddenly become Senna and go for it, but this French-speaking pasta eater just shuts the door on you.
Each late brake from him just gives enough edge to cook an impulsive idea to ram his car from behind and just end this for the both of them in your head. If you did exactly that, you know what to say to the press and his angry face.
".86 gap to Leclerc. Overtake button ready." You never pressed that button so hard in your life.
The car bolted from the new energy and immediately made the car parallel to his. You had the idea of flipping him off but then decided against it since the best comeback is the fact that you're standing on the podium higher than his. But the universe decided to test you. You were just about to pass Charles, his front just beside your rear, then the most shitty coincidence happened. He spun, and unfortunately, your rear was caught in that trick.
You both spun off the track and into the gravel, disturbing the dust and sending debris all over. Charles was much more unfortunate as he hit the barriers while you just had your rear destroyed.
"You okay, Y/N?" the calm voice of your race engineer cackled in your ear. But it was deafened by the overpowering anger rising up and forcing itself out of your throat.
Once the steering wheel was released, you immediately exited your vehicle, not paying any mind to the damages your car had, and immediately stomped over to Charles, who had just exited himself.
"You think you're so smart, huh?" you hissed, clenching your fist so hard it's a good idea to punch something, preferably his face. "You hate me that much to fuck up my race?" Now you're angry as hell. Just this whole predicament is a living, historical reminder that that man in front of her just can't get past whatever issue he has with her.
"Woah—wait," Charles raised his hands, backing off a few steps as he, himself, can feel the anger.
"Y/N, calm down; the marshals are on their way." The meek attempt of your race engineer to calm you fell on deaf ears. All the pent-up, unsaid things that have been sitting on your chest every time you see each other. "You are just so full of prejudice, huh?" A dry laugh left your lips. So I'm in disbelief of what just happened. "You can't stand a woman getting so far up that you just have to fuck us both up. Wow... I'll say A for effort."
"Look—" Charles tries again, but you hold up a hand. "Shut it." You're just tired of it. She said a piece; she's had her fill of satisfaction from this interaction. You know you're still on the radio; anything you say now can be turned into a bad day for your PR team. "Try being more subtle in your hatred."
She walked back on her own. Not minding anyone at the motorhome once you got your helmet off. You grabbed your things and fought the will to flip the cameras away from your face and just get to your hotel room as fast as possible.
The plop to your bed in your hotel room was a nice surrender to this day. If this day turned out great, this rest can be considered and will be felt like a reward. But after that? Maybe ripping these covers in frustration is more like it.
The phone is on silent, making you unreachable for the team and anyone else who tries to do some very much not needed comfort. You'll turn off the DND after you're okay with what happened, so probably never. The time felt like it passed by. You didn't bother to check the time or how long you disassociated.
A hot shower to loosen up definitely helped. The essence of the loss and defeat of this day went down with the water and was forgotten. The sun was setting; it painted the sky in beautiful oranges and purples. She hates how one defeat is making her mood turn sour at anything she knows she used to adore. But she figured that maybe taking a breath will return her peace. Until there was a knock on the door.
You ordered room service before getting into the shower, and you're now craving the brownie a la mode along with that lobster tail you're definitely not telling your dietician later.
With the turn of the knob, the cravings for food were suddenly replaced by a craving to punch a wall.
"Hi" is what Charles uttered. Your eyes stared at him like he had grown a second head, which you hope he does cause maybe it'll be smarter than what brain he used earlier and now. He's also holding the cart of her food.
"What the hell are you doing?" The sight of him is confusing. Especially with that look of utter innocence, like he had not just made her DNF.
"The food is going to get cold; let's come in first," Charles smiles, ready to push the cart.
"Are you also food?" you asked.
"No...?"
"Then you don't need to come in." You reached out for the cart, which he immediately pulled back.
"Okay, fine... Let us talk first," he insisted.
"I do not want to do anything that has got to do with you." Making up was already out of the question; she does not need him doing this.
"I literally cannot and will not sleep if we don't settle what happened at the racetrack." He says, looking more like a victim than someone who, again, made her DNF.
"I'm not threatened by that." You couldn't care less about the abomination that might cause to his sleeping cycle. Charles made a face of utter deadpan and sighed to look more pleading again.
"Please."
One word. It might've been easy to say no. To abandon the meal she's craving and just sleep through it. But having a grudge is never easy to carry. She's been carrying the fact that even if you've already proved yourself, there's always going to be someone that will not acknowledge it. You hate that it was him. Him that you thought would be the kindest. God, you regretted telling your teammate, Lewis, that you're interested in him during your rookie year. With those dimples and charm of his, who wouldn't be interested? But after such hostility? That interest suddenly went up in flames and got replaced by the burning need to rub a victory in his face.
A sigh left your lips. If he says something that is just not it, it's easy to throw him out anyway.
The door widened for him; Charles pushed the cart with him inside, looking too victorious. Maybe a hard slap would wipe that off his face.
Charles didn't make himself too welcome in her space. Which you appreciate because you really don't want to hate anyone right now.
He cleared his throat, fiddling with the hem of his leather jacket. You now only realize you're in your robe; what a vast contrast from the two of you.
"Okay—Uh... about the race," he tested the words. You hope it's as sour and bitter for him whenever you hear those words.
"I'm sorry," he laid it simply. "I swear I did not do it on purpose. My front locked up around the corner and..." You're glad that even he doesn't want to remember that.
"So... I hope that we can move past this." That was the shittiest apology you have ever heard. Your mouth is agape with that unimpressed look. Is that it? "I hope we can move past this?"
What a joke.
"You think what happened earlier is the only thing that makes me want to break a bottle to your head?" A dry scoff can't help but get past your lips. This is all too funny in that sense where you just want to destroy everything.
"You have been resenting me since I managed to become a threat to you." You took a step forward, your emotions getting much more concentrated too. "All those comments about me being so different as a woman, the shared look you guys shared that's about me... I'm not dumb."
Gosh, it's like confronting your bully in high school. It's either this is going to end in a happy way, or it's going to get worse. And you're much more prepared for the second.
But Charles' face going into some different stages of realization threw you off.
"Wait... you think I hate you?" A grin almost took place on his lips, but when your face stayed absolutely serious, it dropped. "Oh, you're serious."
You both shared a very confused moment. He's obviously trying to find the words of whatever explanation you won't accept.
"Okay..." he spoke suddenly. "I don't hate you."
Seriously? Wow, what a convincing thing to say. He felt that thought and raised his hand.
"Hear me out, I..." He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Those interviews... You got them completely wrong," he said, a bit muffled by his hand."I meant it in the most respectful way, Y/N... Of course you're different; you're a woman! An amazing one for reaching this far. I... respect you."
Well... This isn't on your bingo card.
You let out a very hesitant "What?"
"Look, I... I'm sorry if you heard my voice being sarcastic, but I meant everything I said there. I didn't mean to use your gender to let you down; I meant it in a way that I want people to remember you're a woman in the most inspirational way!" He defended, even finding this whole thing ridiculous just as much as you do.
You try your hardest to find even a bit of insincerity in his face. You can always spot it in people who say pretty things... But you found none. And honestly, you don't know how to feel about that.
"Then what about those whispers whenever I enter the room? The exchanged looks?" You ask, seeking more clarification.
That shut him up. Looking like a fish out of water with his mouth opening and closing, trying to find the words to tell you what exactly has been brewing.
You made a face to urge him to speak up; you don't have time for this.
He really tried to think of better ways to say this because this circumstance is not what he wanted the scenario to be.
"I... heard from George that Lewis told him that... You were interested in me." He rubs his nape as he's trying not to stare at you.
Of course... That two twats can't keep a secret now, can't they? You are not thinking of many ways how to effectively sew George's mouth shut and slap Lewis hard.
Charles felt the emotions bubbling inside you, so he took a step forward, trying to explain. "But they only told me that because... I'm also starting to like you."
You? Like you? This is all too much to take in. The sudden revelation that this hatred is only one-sided feels offensive; then what is this? A confession? This feels like a badly written romcom movie, and it totally is! You made a forced laugh, just to make sure that she was laughing before Charles could claim this is a joke. You felt as though the universe were too lazy to write out the slow burn and dumped it all in one day. But in seeing Charles' very concerned face—he may be thinking you're going crazy—really dropped the forced act from you.
Your silence and stunned face cued Charles to continue, "Those whispers and smirks you see are just them teasing me for finally talking to you." Your hand went up to your mouth, keeping back the so many questions that are going through her head. Multiple thoughts popping up anywhere in her brain like a virus on a computer.
"I'm... I'm so sorry I had to dump it all on you. I understand—especially how uh—" Charles rambled, sensing that you're too silent to even assume the idea of this turning out alright. Good job, Charles; you fumbled hard.
"You mean," you cut him off, face half serious, half in disbelief. "All I've been feeling about you... was one-sided?"
"What feeling?" He raised a brow."I felt that you hated me. So I hated you too. I thought—" She ran a hand down her face. "I thought you... just didn't want to be friends with me." Wow, this whole thing is making you look like a pathetic high schooler who knows nothing about love. Well, it's true, except that you're not in high school anymore.
"Yeah... Seems pretty far for what I've been feeling," Charles said with a simple smile, nodding at her with soft eyes. The moment seemed too long for it to stay silent. So Charles took a leap.
"Can I... invite you for dinner? To make up for what I made you feel." That took a groan from you, not because you didn't want to, but because of how stupid it might've been of her. And the guilt she's feeling from assuming the worst of Charles.
Can't blame yourself though; sexism is not subtle in your journey in this forsaken sport you love so much. After taking herself out of her own self-pity, she sighed, and her face broke into a soft smile. "Definitely..." Charles looked like he won this night. And he did, in more ways than one.
He took a step closer, enough for them to be comfortable but still respectful since you're still in your robe.
You only adjusted your clothing up until now and tightened the robe around you. "Again, so sorry about the race—" You cut him off with a shake of your head. All anger from today and the previous events had vanished now from the explanation he gave. "It's fine. Just next time... Just shut up and drive, okay?"
Charles nodded with a smile adorned by his dimples. "I'll shut up as long as you want me to."
It is indeed hard to carry such a grudge... But the way the pieces fell perfectly together after all this revealed you felt light on your feet.
Charles left with a promise of dinner at the next Grand Prix in Austin at 7:30 sharp. He sent a small wave as he continued on his steps outside of her door.
She turned back to her room after shutting the door gently and locking it. She saw the cart of her order of brownie a la mode and lobster tail.
Did he really take this from the employee who's supposed to deliver this? The thought made you laugh.
I've only been a fan of Formula 1 since November of 2025... Now I'm writing about them! Ackk!!
So good to be back from writer block. I was almost sure that I couldn't write and lost all my confidence... But every notification that came because of you guys appreciating my post made me come back. I truly appreciate all of you.
Make sure to submit a request if you have any more ideas that you think I can help bring to life. Thank you for reading my sweetings!
So sorry to ghost my little community of people who appreciates my work, even for a split moment. But I am back and I am feeling the fire of writing again.
Please send any ideas you might have! I'll soon update my list as I will be updating it to keep up with my passion for fanfiction. 😘😘😘
summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.
F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST
pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader
wc: 19.2k
cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!
note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!
WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.
Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.
Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.
It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.
It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?
Still, you decided to try again.
During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.
You went for humor instead. A joke.
Terrible idea, in hindsight.
“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”
Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”
And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”
“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.
He didn’t even look away from the road.
“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.
That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.
You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.
Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.
Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.
Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.
Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.
And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.
After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.
Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it.
It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.
Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.
But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.
It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.
You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.
Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.
Yeah. This was a good morning.
You should have known it wouldn’t last.
It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.
But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.
“Y/N?”
Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.
And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.
You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.
“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”
Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.
You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”
Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.
But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.
Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”
He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.
“Small world,” he added to your silence.
You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”
Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”
You stared at him.
Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.
Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”
That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”
How surprising.
“So─”
You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.
You lied.
“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.
Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”
He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression.
That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.
Not today, Satan.
The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.
You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.
“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”
And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.
“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”
Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”
Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”
You finally turned to face him fully.
His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.
“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”
That’s when something clicked.
You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.
But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.
Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.
“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”
He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”
Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”
You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?
“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.
Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.
“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!
Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”
Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”
“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.
Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”
“So small,” you nodded stiffly.
The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”
Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”
You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”
Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”
“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”
“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.
You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”
“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.
You paused. “Huh?”
“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”
“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”
“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”
You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”
You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”
“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”
The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.
Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.
That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.
“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.
“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.
Lando studied you. Waiting.
“Do I have to guess, or…?”
The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”
You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”
“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.”
You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.
Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.
Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it.
One you didn’t have an answer to.
The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.
You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.
But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.
Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.
“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.
He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.
“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”
“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”
He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?
It took a while for reality to set in.
You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”
Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”
You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”
Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”
“No way.”
“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”
You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”
Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”
“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”
He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”
“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.
“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”
“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”
“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”
You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”
“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.
You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.
You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.
You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”
“Come again?”
“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”
You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”
“There it is.”
“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”
“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.
You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”
“Never heard of that.”
“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”
“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”
“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”
Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”
The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”
He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.
“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”
Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.
“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”
You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.
And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.
“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”
You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”
The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.
Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?
First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.
You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.
“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.
You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”
Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”
“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.
“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”
You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.
So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.
The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.
By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…
“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.
Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”
You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.
“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”
“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off.
“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”
You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”
Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”
You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”
Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.
You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”
Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”
You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”
“Glitter? Really?”
“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”
Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”
You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”
“Right side.”
“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”
You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.
Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.
Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”
“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”
“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”
“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.
You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”
He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.
You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”
And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.
You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”
You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued, voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”
“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”
“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”
A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.
It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.
And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”
When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.
You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.
You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.
It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.
Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.
Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.
Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.
Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.
Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.
You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”
“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”
“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”
“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”
You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.
Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.
This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.
After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.
Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.
It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.
But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.
It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.
The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.
It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.
“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”
You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”
“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.”
He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”
A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”
Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”
“How?”
“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”
He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”
“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”
Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”
The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”
That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”
It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.
“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.
“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”
You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”
It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”
When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.
For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend.
At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.
Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.
Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.
The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”
Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”
“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”
You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.
Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.
Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”
It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”
Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.
And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.
He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder.
“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.
“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.
Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”
“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.
He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.
The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.
You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.
Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.
Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.
It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play.
But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.
Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.
You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.
You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.
Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”
Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”
And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.
“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”
“That’s because you are.”
The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.
The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.
You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.
The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.
You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.
You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.
His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”
The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.
Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.
That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.
His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”
It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”
“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”
“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.
Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”
You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever.
“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”
“I made a mistake─”
“You made a choice,” you spat.
“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”
“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”
“Well─”
“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”
Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”
Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”
Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”
“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.
He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”
“Everything alright there?”
His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.
He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.
“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”
Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”
He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”
Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.
The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”
Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”
You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”
Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”
That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours.
“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”
You couldn’t agree more.
The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.
Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”
You gave a small nod.
“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”
There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it.
“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”
You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”
The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.
“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”
It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.
Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”
You blinked. “Do you?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.
Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.
He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.
And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.
“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.
You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.
Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes.
He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.
And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.
You closed the space.
The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.
Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.
You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.
When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.
“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.
You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.
Yet, you still went to bed alone.
You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.
“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”
Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”
You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.
You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.
The expression on his face stopped you cold.
Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.
You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”
“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.
Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.
Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”
“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”
The world tipped.
The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.
You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”
“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”
His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”
Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”
Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.
He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.
Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.
Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”
You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”
You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.
A beat.
“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”
You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”
Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”
“And what about you?”
The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”
He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.
“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.
Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.
You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.
The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.
You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.
You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.
And with it, everything else.
Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.
You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.
Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him
You let the weight of it all crash down on you.
If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.
The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.
Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.
Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.
You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.
Eventually, it came.
A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.
It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.
You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.
The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.
But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.
You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.
Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.
It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.
Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.
“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.
Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”
He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”
You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”
“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”
You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”
The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.
“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.
“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.
It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.
Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”
You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.
“Why not?”
You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”
Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”
“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”
It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”
He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.
You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.
You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.
You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.
He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.
He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.
“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.
You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”
“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.
Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.
“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.
“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.
You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.
Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”
“That’s good.”
He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”
“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.
“I’m glad.”
Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.
Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”
The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.
“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”
You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t.
Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”
“And did they?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”
Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”
Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”
He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”
He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”
You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.
“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”
There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.
Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.
But that’s not what he did.
“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”
He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”
“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”
Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”
Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”
“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.
Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his.
“So… what do we do now?”
The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”
You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.
As if you had the strength to even think about it.
You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.
The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.
When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.
He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.
“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”
“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”
“I’m just saying, I─”
You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.
That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.
He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.
He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.
Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.
hiii!!! can i request a yule ball fic with oliver wood???
perhaps something related to him asking reader to be his date?
(adore your work btw 🤍🤍)
"ʏᴇ ᴀʟʀɪɢʜᴛ?"
Synopsis: Everyone's getting struggle in finding a date for the Yule Ball, but for Oliver? Oh, he already got his eyes on someone far longer than the Yule Ball. The only problem is how he's going to ask her out.
Pairing: Oliver Wood x Ravenclaw!fem!reader
A/N: Let's just pretend that Oliver is in the same age as Cedric, alright?
The buzz the Yule ball made was both an excitement and frustration to all students. Depending who you ask. Getting outfits? Getting a date? Figuring out how to dance? Not everyone is good at that.
For Oliver? He couldn't care less. He's more bummed that Quidditch practice is unable to take place because of that Tournament. What better more than Quidditch? Totally, not because he's chickening out from asking somebody.
He was hunched over in a table in the Gryffindor common room one weekend, drawing and writing Quidditch tactics for something that definitely won't happen this year, the last weekend before the Yule Ball, before two crackheads decided: hey! Let's go annoy Wood!
Fred and George took the liberty of sitting at the two empty seats with smirks on their faces, eyes definitely teasing. "Ye awlright there, Woody Pecker?" Fred greeted with an awful attempt in Scottish accent. "Already have a date to the Yule Ball?" George ask.
Now he can answer this wisely and say yes to be left alone, or say no and be teased. But before he could say anything, Fred answered for him. "Don't do that George, you might hurt his heart!"
"Alright, what do you two want?" Oliver sighed as he set down his quill. "Just to know if anyone got the spot next to ya. Maybe we could help get ya a pretty lady!" Fred cheerfully answered like he just thought of a world wide solution to Oliver's love life, George just nods so slowly it's kind of suspicious.
"No."
And just like that, the twin's plan couldn't go on.
But the thing is... It's not like he doesn't want to go to the Ball, this is his last year, might as well not think about Quidditch (very hard to do) and just have fun. But the date part? He doesn't know about that.
Whenever anyone close to him mention something along the lines of "date" and "Yule Ball" and "asking my crush out" one name comes to mind.
Y/n Tyres. The Ravenclaw Prefect. The sassy, no rubbish girl. But that's the thing, she's sassy. Not the cute type, it's the intimidating type.
And he understands how a girl is, you're either you're their type, or not at all. And this being his last year? He doesn't want to get heartbroken. He might be drinking fruit punches instead of dancing that night.
But seeing that Fred and George already have a date, Cedric too, even Neville got one. What could hurt?
It's not hard to know Y/n's schedule, just ask Cedric and he'll tell you what time she's free. He's kind like that. And also because he knows Oliver desperately needs this.
At rhe courtyard, Oliver found her light reading a book, she was alone, probably because her friend Rebecca was with her boyfriend. Yes, he knows. Rebecca knows about his little... Admiration.
The soft green grass almost blended in as Oliver approaches. She almost didn't paid it any mind until a two feet was planted firmly in front of her.
When she did look up though, Oliver's mind went blank.
"Can I help you?" She asks in that cool voice that will absolutely fry you if you're messing with her time. So like a wise man, he made up something in that Quidditch filled mind of his.
"I uh... Need a book. For Astrology. I was hoping if I could borrow some from you." Wow, that went smoother than he thought.
Her eyes softened a bit as she nodded. Silently, she reached for her bag and took out a small book and handed it over, then going back to her light reading.
Oliver walked away there so dazed, disappointed and pale that someone took notice. "Ye alright?" One asked. Oliver couldn't even answer that eith how fast his heart is beating and how he couldn't wrap his mind how he turned his opportunity to rubbish.
Maybe next time.
But next time couldn't come faster.
It's Thursday now. Rumor has it that Y/n was going alone in the Yule Ball because all the boys who fancy her couldn't grow a pair.
Now Oliver is in his dorm, trying to figure out a way to make him have courage to just ask the girl out!
Maybe at lunch? Too many people. Dinner? Couldn't risk crying to sleep. At free period? Wouldn't be able go think properly.
Just when?!
He spent almost all day mulling over that stupid simple question. Mind present and not at the same time. Quidditch was supposed to be the only thing in his mind, why the hell is Y/n in it too. Well, that's not her fault anyway. And if that's so, what a beautiful thought to have.
Oliver was day dreaming until when he turned to a corner, he bumped into someone, making them drop all the books in their hand. As he was helping them pick it up and muttering an apology, Y/n walked past.
Oliver abandoned that kid so fast and caught up to her. "Tyres!" He called, making her turn around. Ah, he must be returning the book. The thought made her happy, she likes it when people return things like normal people.
She really hopes that the spine is not damaged too much, she wants to keep a good reputation on Madam Pince. It makes borrowing books much easier... Now come to think of it, Y/n thought that Oliver is just alk about Quidditch, no care for academics at all... So maybe she shouldn't get her hopes up?
Oliver, with Y/n just staring at him made him sweat. Holy crackers, he has never been this anxious even before games. He wonders what she's thinking. Does she look like a pimp? Maybe an idiot?
Just say it man!
“Right, so... I was thinkin’." He's trying so hard to sound casual. He's failing. "About the ball. Not the Quaffle—though, honestly, they should consider enchantin’ it to glow for night games, don’t you think? Anyway—the ball. The Yule one.” He really wants to smack himself in the face because what the hell is he saying.
Y/n blinked oit of her own daze, zoning in and only hearing about half of what he said. About enchanted Quaffle? Or the Yule Ball? This man is confusing...
Oliver's hands is sweating, fidgeting, and trying to grab anything but her hand. He wants to shrink. Like... Actually shrink.
But you know what? Might as well have something funny to say to his kids one day.
“I’d rather fancy goin’, since this is my last year... But not just with anyone. Thought maybe... if you’re not already goin’ with some charmin’ Ravenclaw or mysterious Slytherin..." She's rather popular to those houses you know. Gryffindors don't really like feisty ones. "You might consider goin’ with me? I promise I’ll try not to talk about Quidditch the whole night. Just... maybe half.”
He managed to whip up a boyish grin that looks convincing enough.
In Y/n's mind, she now understands that it's for the Ball. She doesn't think she can enchant a Quaffle if that's what he's talking about. Plus, she's really honored, she almost took herself to the Ball and just drink whatever drink there was and dance with Rebecca, she guess Oliver here is a good change.
She slowly nod. "Sure. I'd like that." She answered.
Oliver almost jumped with joy. But of course he didn't, he'd do that later. A grin couldn't help but crawl it's way to his face as he nod himself. That felt like the world just eased off his shoulder.
"Alright. I'll see you at the Ball, yeah?" He said as he walks backward. "Sure." She answered simply.
She saw how Oliver ran with a happy bounce on his steps as she practically felt the joy coming from him.
Then she remembered her book.
"About my book—!"
Guess who got sick and is banned from using a phone for 2 days? ME!
Don't worry guys, I'm fine and I am recovering, but this is the shortest out of the 6 fics that is pending in my brain so I think it's best to give you guys this.
With me here, I promise, Oliver Wood will never run out of love.
Thank you for the darling who requests this, you answered prayers of many.
hii, could we get george weasley fic where the twins plays a cruel prank on her (by accident or on purpose) and she ignores the both of them and he has to grovel after her type
"ᴏʜ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏɴ!"
Synopsis: We all know The Weasley twins are funny, a good prank even make Professor McGonagall's lips twitch. But when a certain Slytherin got the honor of their attention for the new prank, things hadn't gone well. And now, someone's at somebody's feet.
Pairing: George Weasley x Slytherin!fem!reader
Even the most peaceful day in Hogwarts can turn to a chaotic one just because of two certain red heads. The quietest halls can be filled with laughter as the twins exit a room full of glitter and a very angry student.
Their pranks varies from harmless and trully humourous, to absolutely gut wrenching anger simmering in your whole being. Usually, it's the latter.
One not-so-normal morning since two red heads is at the empty classroom instead of Transfiguration class and whispering to themselves and planning something mischievous. They're trying to make another product for their future jokeshop, and since they're running out of targets as all Gryffindors are done by now, it's time for Slytherins.
Draco was the first target, of course, already turned his owl to a rat one time, he was absolutely terrified when a rat was crawling in their table to deliver his letter. Demanded to his father that he get a new owl.
Now, it's time for Y/N Monte. A peaceful Slytherin, kind even on some days, but usually sassy. Definitely a Slytherin.
George was the one who introduced her to Fred, he met her during one of their quidditch training. Y/N was practicing her spells with a fellow Slytherin in the Quidditch Pitch when she almost got hit with a bludger, before George managed to bat it away and gave her a "You alright there, darl'?" And a wink.
Ever since, George took that lack of response, but not a hostile look either, to ask her for homework, even make a small talks every once and a while.
So when she appeared to be laughing at one of George and Fred's latest prank, George saw her and immediately deemed her the next target.
A simple flick of George's hand on Fred's shoulder with a pointed look, "Look, Fred..." Muttered from his lips, target locked.
So now, they got to thinking, what makes Y/N Monte the most pissed? Maybe her clothes? Maybe making her green? Or maybe humiliating her in Potion's class?
But the Yule Ball is coming up...
That's a bloody yes.
Y/N has got a boy asked her out, Jacob Holloway, a very built Ravenclaw who had been "eyeing" her out as he said. And for Y/N, it's not everyday she get asked out, hell, she doesn't even expect anyone to ask! So she said yes.
When the Yule Ball came, it was mostly fine. Only that Y/N was absolutely ravishing wearing that silver metalic dress with white roses adorning her collarbones. Totally not enough to make anyone's heart skip a beat.
Y/N and Jacob was having fun, absolutely killing it on the dance floor and having the best conversation. Which actually makes the best opportunity for the twin's prank.
When the couple took a moment for themselves to get a drink and talk to each other about probably something that will make them more interesting to each other. George's wand got out and a few flicks of his wrist, a small vial from Fred flew itself slowly to Y/n's drink and dropped a few.
Once Y/n sipped her drink unknowingly, the twins stood not so far away to listen.
"So, tell me more about your childhood." Jacob started, but before Y/N can answer and say probably how she cried over a snail because she found out they're an invasive species, she muttered something completely out of turn.
"If I die first, I'll haunt you— not a scary hunt but a peek over your shoulder hunt."
Okay. What in Merlin's beard was that?
"I-I mean—" She stuttered after that. She's kind of panicking now because Jacob's face is mixed with confusion and something absolutely weirded out. And that's not a good sign.
Another one came out of her mouth, "Your elbows look kissable."
What. The. Bloody. Hell.
"My... elbows?" Jacob is trying to smile but is absolutely weirded out because what in the hell does one say that someone's elbows are kissable?
"I don't know what I'm saying— I'm so sorry!" Y/N started actually sweat and panic. What is happening to her? Why is she saying these things? It's making her screw up from her date! Ugh!
And from the not so far away table is the two little shitheads trying not to laugh but failed miserably.
Oh Y/N saw them alright.
Her icy glare that was absolutely not playing is on them and they quickly joined the crowd and avoided her for the rest of the night.
She turned back to Jacob who was awkwardly sipping his drink and didn't look her way. She can't say anything else in fear of absolutely saying something more horrid and weird. She just... Left. Jacob didn't bat an eye.
In the heat of her anger, she found the twins laughing their asses off from Neville's dancing, grabbed both their collars and got them to the side.
"What did you do?!" She exclaimed, face contorting in anger. She just lost the only guy who had eyes on her, her only hope that she won't die alone and he's gone off thinking she's some weird bimbo.
"Gave ya love lifes a bit twist, he's boring you know." George had the gall to say as Fred snickers. "Oh, you doorknob! You humiliated me!" She pushed George by the chest, did not move him.
"Relax, darl', he's a wanker anyway." George insist, his smirk getting a bit serious now.
"I know you don't understand how much it hurt for the only guy to ask you out be gone thinking you're a weirdo!" The twins, despite their unruly nature still get themselves some spotlight from the ladies, so of course they didn't know how it feels.
Y/N left then, leaving George with a face that says 'I thought it was funny'. Fred shrugged it off, he was used to people acting like that after a prank. Should be the same for George... It's awfully weird that it's not.
So the next day, unbeknownst to Fred, George got his own little mission:
Say sorry to Y/N.
Which, he doesn't know how because one: they usually don't, and two: she's not just anyone.
Surprisingly.
It's weird that he no longer can bother her during Ancient Rune class, can't even catch a glimpse of her in the halls. It felt empty. Or maybe it's guilt? Oh, yeah, he forgot, he's not supposed to feel guilt.
So now it feels wrong to be pinning a girl who doesn't want to get pinned because of a very not funny prank.
George used his connections to get Y/N's whereabouts and found her in a secluded area in the courtyard.
Walking slowly, he took a breath. Here goes everything.
Soft crunch of the leaves was heard as he slowly tales steps, Y/N was drawing in her notebook. "Hey..." George whispered out. Merlin, what happened to his voice?
Her head looked at him and immediately got her face in a scowl. "Leave me alone." Her voice sounded so firm that it's actually scary.
"Oh come on! Hear me out—" George was cut off when she stood up, ready to leave. He didn't even have the will to grab her arm to stop her.
The next opportunity was during their Transfiguration class. He slid up beside her and made sure to move his lips like a ventriloquist. "Hey, come on hear my apolo—"
"No."
"Oh come on!"
He said that a bit too loudly that heads turned and Professor McGonagall looked at him. "Something to say Mr. Weasley?" The elder woman said with a brow so high it can reach the sky.
He shrunk after that and didn't caught up with her after class.
The next day? He can't take it anymore. Those two days felt like 2 months of trying to catch her and just say "sorry".
So now, it was late in the night. George bribed an oblivious Slytherin first year to say Professor Snape called for her.
So a Y/N in pajamas came out of the dungeons with George waiting, leaning at the wall, acting cool like he wasn't about to say sorry for the first time ever.
When she got a glimpse of him, she's sure Professor Snape didn't called for her. Professor Snape doesn't look like a tall, red head, Weasley twin named George.
She couldn't help but sigh when he slowly walks up to her.
"Please hear me out."
"No."
"Oh come on!" He's practically begging now, begging for this torture to just be ended.
"You humiliated me in front of Jacob." Tell him something he doesn't know and feels shitty about. "I am now known as a weirdo who sees elbows kissable to his friends." Her arms crossed.
"I know..." George sighed. "I'm really sorry, alright? I thought it was funny—"
"It isn't." She inserted.
"—and he looked like a wimp anyway that won't even treat you okay—"
Y/n paused at what he's saying,
"—and I know someone else would treat you even if you act weird and say weird stuff because you're you—"
That he got to stop. Then realized what he said because of that stupid grin in her face.
"Really? I'm really interesting?" She just had to tease. Have you seen this George before? Neither has she.
"That's not me."
"I'm very convinced that that whole rant just came from you."
Did it? George got to thinking... He got the same circumstance when she pranked a girl before, she got pissed off, he didn't say anything though. Shrugged it even.
Why is he here? Why is he here in front if her absolutely loving that grin because just imagine that same face looking at him after trying to scold her after a prank— wait what?
"Well shit." He mumbled under her breath. He just fell in love in the midst of pinning this girl.
She laughed, very amused at the fact that he looks very gobsmacked.
"Does this mean you accept my apology?" George asks hopefully.
She just shrugged, a very sly smirk on her face. "Maybe. You better work for it." She patted his shoulder as a good luck, maybe?
"Oh, come on!"
YAYYY, someone requested a this beautiful George fic, it's absolutely refreshing to write other than school works and all that stuff. It feels robotic not gonna lie so this is a good touch of humanity in me.
Request some more, babes! Love these types of request.
Feel free to explore my list and do not be afraid to ask anyone outside of the said list, darlings!