i want to request an established relationship with oscar where reader cuts off her long hair to about chin length and is scared he won't like it on her
Based off this request: I want to request an established relationship with oscar where reader cuts off her long hair to about chin length and is scared he won't like it on her
Warnings: None I dont think
You stood in front of the full-length mirror, your heart pounding louder than the scissors in your hand. The strands of your long hair — once flowing past your shoulders — now clutched in your fingers, waiting for that first snip. You’d been thinking about this change for weeks, maybe even months. But now that you were actually doing it, the nerves hit you hard.
You bit your lip, staring at your reflection: the same face, but framed by a cascade of locks that felt heavy — almost like they were holding you back. You wanted a fresh start, a new look for the summer. Something bold. Something that was you.
But there was one problem. Oscar.
You and Oscar had been together for a while now. Comfortable, close, and easy in a way you hadn’t imagined before. He loved your long hair — he often told you how it reminded him of sunshine in the way it caught the light. And you worried, more than just a little, that he wouldn’t like this new version of you.
Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes and brought the scissors to your hair.
Snip.
A piece fell to the floor.
Snip.
Another.
You kept going until your hair was chin length, just brushing your jawline. It was a drastic change, but something about the new you felt brave, ready.
When Oscar came home later that evening, you were sitting on the couch, nervously twisting a strand of your now-short hair around your finger. You barely looked up as he entered the room.
“Hey,” he said, dropping his keys on the table. “Hey,” you replied softly, voice trembling a little.
He froze for a moment, eyes widening as he took you in.
Your heart raced.
Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face.
“You cut your hair!” he said, walking over and sitting beside you.
You looked down, cheeks burning. “Yeah. I hope you like it.”
He lifted your chin gently, making you meet his eyes.
“I love it,” he said, sincere and warm. “You’re beautiful. And this —” he reached out, fingers brushing your short strands — “this suits you so well.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“Really?” you whispered.
“Really,” he smiled. “It’s you. Just a new version. And honestly? I think it’s even more you than before.”
You laughed softly, feeling the knot of fear unravel inside you.
“Thank you, Oscar,” you said, leaning into his side.
He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close.
“No matter your hair, or anything, I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
In that moment, you knew you’d made the right choice. Change was scary — but sometimes, it was exactly what you needed to grow. And with Oscar by your side, you could be anything.
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how about a drunk!daniel refused to sleep when you didn't let him have his 100th kiss on you so he whined and fake cried like a baby asking for your affection. you then proposed to tell daniel what you loved about him until he fell asleep.
Thank you! loved writing this, love Danny. Read here x
Based on this anon request: how about a drunk!daniel refused to sleep when you didn't let him have his 100th kiss on you so he whined and fake cried like a baby asking for your affection. you then proposed to tell daniel what you loved about him until he fell asleep.
Warnings: Drunk, mentions of alcohol (no active drinking), fluff
It started with a slurred number.
"Ninety-nine!" Daniel beamed triumphantly, lips pressed to your cheek as he counted yet another kiss.
You laughed, arms wrapped around him to keep him from toppling over. “That’s enough, baby. You’ve had your ninety-nine.”
He pulled back, blinking at you, betrayal written all over his expressive face. “Nooo. No, no, no. One more. Just one.” He held up a finger, nearly poking you in the eye. “The hundredth one is special. That’s, like, the anniversary of kisses.”
You squinted at him. “That’s not how that works.”
He let out a wounded groan, dramatically collapsing backward onto the couch like a man denied his final wish. “You’re being so mean to me.”
“You’ve had three beers and two glasses of wine. You’re sloshed.”
He sniffled—sniffled—and rolled onto his stomach, hugging a throw pillow like it had betrayed him less than you had. “Just a little kiss. A tiny one. A micro-kiss. I’ll cry. Don’t test me.”
You raised a brow. “You are crying.”
“Fake crying,” he mumbled into the pillow, then peeked one eye up at you. “Unless it works.”
You knelt beside the couch, brushing his curls off his flushed face. “Dan.”
“Yeah?” he sniffed, bottom lip out.
“I love you.”
“That’s not a kiss,” he grumbled, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
You smiled. “You want one more kiss?”
He nodded like an overgrown toddler, still half-pouting.
“How about this—no more kisses for now, but I’ll tell you a hundred things I love about you. You’ll get that hundred, just not in the way you expected.”
Daniel perked up, resting his chin on the pillow. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
He squinted. “But you better not cheat and say, like, ‘your elbows’ and ‘your knees.’ That doesn’t count.”
You laughed softly. “No cheating. All real things. Now lie down.”
He snuggled into the couch, arm thrown dramatically over his face like a melodramatic prince. “Fine. Begin.”
You leaned in, kissed his forehead, and began counting.
“One: I love the way you light up when you’re excited about something—like a little kid who’s just discovered racecars for the first time.”
“Mmhmm,” he hummed, eyes fluttering shut.
“Two: I love that you’d rather make people laugh than win an argument.”
A lazy smile tugged at his lips.
“Three: I love how you remember the tiniest things about me. Like how you never forget I hate cold butter on toast.”
“Because that’s a crime,” he mumbled.
“Four: I love the way you take care of everyone around you—even when you’re the one who needs rest.”
You went on. You told him about how his laugh made your day better, how his voice sounded different when he was being genuine, how he danced like no one was watching even when everyone was, how he sang off-key just to make you giggle.
By number thirty-five, he was shifting less.
By fifty-two, his breaths had evened out.
By seventy, you knew he was asleep.
But you kept going—softly, like a lullaby—for your own heart.
And when you reached number one hundred, you leaned in and pressed one final kiss to his temple.
“For your hundredth,” you whispered. “Told you you’d get it.”He didn’t stir—but the smile on his lips told you he heard every word.
Please to not copy or Translate without permission x
Based on this request: Oscar taking care of sick reader
Warnings: Fluff, Mild mention of vomiting (nothing graphic), stomach bug, parent/child care, use of the petnames 'baby', 'bunny', 'daddy' and 'bub'
The day had started off just like any other.
You’d gotten up early, still in your unicorn pajamas, bouncing around the kitchen asking for banana pancakes while Oscar tried to pour his first cup of coffee without blinking one eye open.
But by mid-morning, something had changed.
You weren’t bouncing anymore.
Instead, you were curled up on the couch under your bunny blanket, knees pulled to your chest, face pale and drawn.
Oscar had noticed immediately.
He’d been setting up his laptop for a quick sim session when you mumbled, “Daddy… my tummy hurts.”
His heart dropped.
He was at your side in two seconds, crouching in front of you. “Hey, hey. Like a crampy hurt or a twisty hurt?”
You looked at him with glassy eyes and whispered, “It’s all twisty.”
Oscar placed the back of his hand to your forehead. You weren’t burning up, but your skin felt clammy and cold.
“Alright,” he said gently. “Let’s get you to the bathroom, just in case.”
You didn’t make it.
Halfway down the hall, you’d thrown up all over the floor—and all over his socks.
You burst into tears, horrified.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Daddy!”
Oscar, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He knelt down, pulled you close (despite the mess), and hugged you tightly. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay, baby. You’re sick, not in trouble.”
You sobbed into his shirt, your small body trembling.
“I got you, alright?” he whispered, brushing hair from your face. “We’re gonna clean you up, clean this up, and then I’ll tuck you in and take care of you. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
After a bath (complete with your favorite dinosaur towel) and a full sofa-linen swap, you were bundled up in clean PJs, curled into Oscar’s chest with a bucket by your side just in case.
Oscar sat with one arm around you and the other hand scrolling through his phone, looking up what kids with stomach bugs were allowed to eat.
Answer: basically nothing.
Toast. Sips of water. Clear broth if you could keep it down.
You’d already thrown up twice more, each time with less and less energy. Now you just lay limp in his arms, eyes half-lidded, clutching Maxie the stuffed bunny like your life depended on it.
Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “You’re doing so good, bub. So brave.”
You didn’t answer, but you leaned into him.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of cartoons, saltine crackers, and washcloths on your forehead. At one point you fell asleep, head in his lap, and Oscar didn’t move for over an hour—afraid to wake you, even as his phone buzzed with messages from his engineer and Lando spamming him with cat memes.
At some point you woke up with tears in your eyes and whispered, “I don’t like being sick. I want my tummy back.”
Oscar chuckled softly, brushing your hair back. “I know, bub. Your tummy’s just got a mean little bug in it. But we’ll kick it out together, okay?”
You nodded with a small whimper and curled tighter into his hoodie.
By dinnertime, you managed a few tiny sips of water and a quarter piece of dry toast. Oscar fed it to you in bites the size of racecar buttons, praising you after each one like you’d just won a Grand Prix.
“See?” he smiled. “Strongest little stomach on the grid.”
You gave him a weak grin. “I get the fastest recovery trophy?”
“Absolutely,” he said, tapping your nose. “And I’ll let you hold my real one until you're better.”
Your eyes lit up—just a little—and he knew that was worth more than any podium.
That night, he set up a little bed on the couch beside you with extra pillows, bringing in his own blanket so he could stay close.
You stirred in the middle of the night and whispered, “Daddy?”
“Right here,” he said instantly, turning to face you.
You sniffled. “My tummy still hurts.”
“I know,” he said softly, tucking the blanket higher up your chest. “But guess what?”
“What?”
“You’ve got the best pit crew in the world.”
You yawned. “Just you, Daddy…”
“Exactly,” he said with a wink. “And that’s all you need.”
Before you drifted off again, you murmured through half-sleep, “I love you, Daddy.”
Oscar reached out, gently rubbing your back. “I love you too, bunny. Always.”
He stayed awake a little longer, just to make sure you didn’t stir again. And when you finally settled into sleep, breathing soft and even, Oscar smiled quietly to himself.
Even if he had to miss every sim session for the next week and live off toast and water with you, he wouldn’t trade a second of this time.
His girl was sick—but she had her dad.
And he wasn’t going anywhere
Please to not copy or Translate without permission x
Based on this request: Oscar taking care of sick reader
Warnings: fluff, sickness, flu
You were supposed to meet Oscar in Monaco this weekend.
Supposed to.
Instead, you were currently buried under approximately four blankets, nose redder than a Ferrari front wing, voice hoarse from coughing, and surrounded by a graveyard of tissues. Your phone buzzed for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, but you didn't have the energy to check it.
A knock at the door startled you out of your snot-induced misery.
You frowned. Who the hell would come over when you’d told everyone you were sick?
“Hold on,” you croaked, dragging yourself out of bed like a zombie. You wrapped yourself in your softest hoodie and shuffled toward the door, coughing into your elbow. You squinted through the peephole.
Your heart skipped a beat.
Oscar?
You opened the door, a little dazed. “What—what are you doing here?”
“Hi,” Oscar said with a small, sheepish smile. He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a bottle of lemon honey syrup in the other. “You didn’t answer my calls. Figured I’d check if you were still alive.”
“You’re supposed to be in Monaco,” you mumbled, leaning against the doorframe.
“I was. Then I wasn’t. Lando saw how miserable I was and told me to ‘just bloody go already’ before I brought the whole garage down.”
You blinked. “You flew back for me?”
Oscar’s smile widened slightly. “Yeah, well. You’re my favorite human. And I wasn’t about to let you die of the plague alone.”
He nudged past you gently and stepped inside, kicking off his shoes. You stood there, stunned, while he made himself at home.
“Come on,” he said, holding the bag up like a prize. “I got everything. Soup, crackers, some weird herbal tea the lady at the pharmacy swore by, tissues with aloe—because I know your nose gets all raw—and cold medicine. Oh, and cough drops.”
You felt your eyes water, and it definitely wasn’t just the congestion. “You’re unreal.”
He grinned. “Don’t cry, you’ll clog up even more.”
You laughed weakly and coughed, and Oscar immediately dropped the bag and walked over to you.
“Alright, alright. Back to bed. C’mon, I’ll carry you if I have to.”
“Don’t,” you warned, trying to wave him off. “You’ll get sick.”
“I’ll risk it,” he said easily, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and guiding you back to your bedroom. “If I get sick, then you’ll owe me soup and cuddles next week. Fair trade.”
By the time you were wrapped up in your comforter again, Oscar had set up what could only be described as a full sick-person survival station.
The soup was warming on the stove, your favorite show was queued on the TV, and Oscar was sitting cross-legged on the floor with your bottle of cold meds, carefully reading the dosage instructions like it was a strategy manual before a race.
“Okay,” he said, looking up, “you can take two of these every four hours. I’m setting an alarm.”
“You don’t have to do all this,” you whispered.
He looked up again and softened. “I know I don’t. But I want to.”
You bit your lip.
Oscar climbed into the bed beside you, careful not to jostle you too much. “Sick or not, I kinda missed you.”
You turned your head toward him. “You’re such a sap.”
He grinned and kissed your forehead, not caring in the slightest that you were a sneezy mess. “Only for you.”
Later, the two of you were curled up together—him mostly holding you like a hot water bottle—while you sipped the strange tea he’d made.
“This tastes like leaves and sadness,” you murmured.
“Good. That means it’s healthy.”
You groaned dramatically and buried your face in his chest. He laughed and started rubbing small circles on your back.
Despite feeling awful, you couldn’t remember the last time you felt this cared for.
Oscar was quiet for a few minutes. Then: “You know, I was really worried about you.”
You tilted your head up slightly. “It’s just a cold.”
“I know. But you’re alone when I’m gone. And I just… I hate the thought of you being miserable without anyone around. Especially when I could be here.”
You reached out and ran a hand through his hair. “You came back for me. That’s… kind of heroic.”
He smirked. “I prefer the term ‘devastatingly romantic.’”
You laughed again, your chest tightening with the effort, and he immediately hushed you. “Shhh. No laughing. It makes your cough worse. You're on vocal rest.”
“Oh no,” you croaked. “What will you do without my sparkling commentary?”
He kissed your forehead again. “Just lie there and look cute. That’s all I need.”
You drifted off not long after, tucked in his arms, the world muffled and soft. He held you the whole time, adjusting your blanket, making sure your tea didn’t spill, whispering things he didn’t think you’d remember when you woke up:
“I love you, you know.”
“I really, really do.”
“I’d fly back every time.”
And when you stirred and leaned into him, he smiled quietly, kissed your temple again, and held you tightly
Please do not copy or translate without permission x
Summary: The recovery story of Lando's daughter after her motocross injury
Warning: Motocross accident, injury, broken bones, hospital, physio, fluff, angst if you squint
TAKES MOST TAKES PLACE DURING WINTER BREAK
Three days after surgery, the swelling had gone down enough for the doctors to finally place a proper cast on her leg. Lando had barely left the hospital. He’d only gone home once—to shower, grab clean clothes, and pick up her favorite hoodie (one of his quadrant hoodies, actually; she stole it two years ago before it was even released and never gave it back).
She was quiet, more than usual. Not in pain—at least not physically anymore—but in her spirit. She didn’t ask about her bike. Didn’t ask when she’d ride again.
That worried him more than the X-rays ever could.
Week 2 – Home, but Hurting
“Careful,” Lando muttered, arms under her as he helped her down onto the couch. She winced as her casted leg brushed the cushion.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
“You’re not fine,” he said. “You broke your tibia. There’s literally a metal rod in your leg now.”
“I don’t need reminding.”
He sat beside her, rubbing the back of his neck. There was silence for a while, broken only by the quiet hum of the telly in the background.
Then:
“I scared you,” she whispered.
He turned to her. “What?”
“I know I did. You looked... different. At the hospital.”
Lando’s throat tightened. “Yeah. You did scare me. But not because of the injury.”
“Then why?”
“Because you weren’t you. You didn’t smile. You didn’t joke. You didn’t say ‘told you I’d send it off that ramp.’ That’s how I knew you weren’t okay.”
She looked down at her lap. “What if I can’t ride again?”
Lando reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, gently. “Then we’ll figure it out. But you can. You just... need time. You’re strong. Stronger than I ever was at your age.”
She looked up at him, eyes wet. “Promise?”
He nodded. “On every race I’ve ever driven.”
Week 5 – Progress and Pushback
They started physical therapy at a small clinic outside of town. Lando insisted on driving her every time. He’d sit in the waiting room, coffee in hand, reading notes from the McLaren team, but his attention always drifted to the sound of her voice echoing down the hall.
Some days she made jokes and would not shut up to save her life.
Other days she cried in the car, or just completely shut down.
He never rushed her. Never forced her to try explain something he could never fully understand or forced her to just “tough it out.” He just listened and waited, the supportive silent which made evrything hurt just a little bit less.
And one day, on the way home, she surprised him.
“Can we go see the track this weekend?”
He nearly missed the turn, but he agreed, feeling the need to give her everything she wanted and more, and incredibly proud of her progress.
Week 7 – Back Where It Happened
They pulled into the gravel lot on a Saturday morning, sun low, the track still damp with dew. Her crutches sunk slightly in the soft dirt as she limped to the fence.
Lando followed silently.
Her eyes scanned the course. The ramp still stood where she’d flown. Fallen. Broken.
“It doesn’t look so scary now,” she said.
“Because you faced it.”
“Not on the bike.”
“No,” Lando said softly. “But in here.” He tapped her chest. “That’s where the real crash happened. And that’s where the healing starts too.”
She didn’t reply, but her hand slipped into his, and she felt so much lighter, as if visiting the track gave her the closure she needed so badly.
Week 10 – Small Steps, Big Dreams
Lando had a surprise waiting in the garage. A stationary training bike—modded with softer suspension, full safety harness, and VR goggles linked to old GoPro footage of her favorite trails.
Her jaw dropped.
“You built this?”
He shrugged. “Had some help. McLaren engineers like side projects.”
She laughed for the first time in weeks. “You’re such a nerd.”
“Dad nerd,” he corrected, grinning.
And that afternoon, as she rode slowly, leaning softer than usual, legs trembling, Lando sat nearby with a stopwatch and a tear in his eye.
She wasn’t just riding and building strength again.
She was rising.
Epilogue – Months Later
Six months to the day after her fall, she stood at the start gate of a small local event. Just an exhibition lap. No jumps. No pressure.
Lando was right beside her, adjusting her gloves, checking the straps on her boots like he always used to when she was little.
“You sure about this?” he asked, eyes searching hers.
She smiled, fearless this time. “Yeah. I’ve got my dad in my corner.”
She revved the engine.
He stepped back.
The gate dropped.
And as she took off, dust rising behind her like a storm, Lando didn’t see a broken girl. He saw his daughter—whole, brave, and flying again.
Please to not copy or Translate without permission x
Summary: In which Lando couldn't attend his daughters race where she got injured but he dropped everything to be there foe her
Warning: Motocross accident, injury, broken bones, hospital, ambulance, paramedics, Petnames 'love' and kidodo, fluff, angst if you squint
(Part 2)
It was just another early morning at the MTC. The air buzzed, remaining excitement from winning the WCC at Abu Dahbi and with the scent of machinery, oil, and the quiet hum of innovation. Lando Norris, though fully dressed in team gear and engaged in simulator feedback, couldn't stop glancing at his phone.
His daughter—his whole world—was racing today.
Her first regional motocross qualifier.
He hated missing her races, but deadlines at McLaren waited for no one. When he kissed her goodbye that morning, helmet tucked under her arm, eyes alight with adrenaline and anticipation, she had smiled at him and said, "Win the day for me, Dad."
He had smiled back, masked with guilt.
"You win it for me, kiddo."
The day dragged. Lando found himself only half-listening during debriefs. He checked his phone more than usual, waiting for updates from his mum—who stepped in as a second parent whenever F1 stole him away. She promised she'd send videos. Pictures. Maybe a FaceTime.
But when his phone rang—loud, sharp, intrusive—he immediately knew.
It wasn’t a text. It wasn’t a picture. It was a call.
Mum.
He answered on the first ring.
"Mum? What’s wrong?"
Her voice trembled whilst she tried to hold it together and not panic him. “Lando... it’s her leg. She came off the bike. It was bad, love. She’s conscious but they’re taking her to hospital now. Compound fracture, the paramedics said.”
Everything blurred. His heart cracked.
"Jesus... what—what happened?!"
“She took a jump too sharp and landed sideways. The bike crushed her ankle on impact. She didn’t cry, not until she saw me. Kept asking if you were coming.”
Lando was already moving—off the simulator rig, out the door, phone pressed to his ear like it was his lifeline.
"Where is she now?"
"St. Mary’s. She’s in the ambulance. I’m following behind."
"I’m coming. Tell her—tell her I’m on my way."
It was a one-hour drive, but Lando made it in just forty-five minutes. Speeding through rain and red lights, his heart was a knot of fear, guilt, and helpless love. When he burst through the hospital doors, breathless and wide-eyed, his mother was waiting in the corridor.
“She’s asking for you,” she said, tears already drying on her cheeks. “They’re prepping her for surgery.”
He didn’t wait.
She was lying in a sterile white bed, her leg in a temporary cast, cheeks pale but eyes bright with pain and unshed tears. But when she saw him—messy hair, McLaren polo shirt stained from the road, face full of anguish—she cracked a smile.
“Hey, Dad.”
That broke him.
He rushed to her side, kneeling beside the bed like he was praying. His hand wrapped around hers tightly, like letting go would mean losing her all over again.
"I'm so sorry I wasn't there," he said, voice hoarse. “I should’ve been there, kiddo. I should’ve been there.”
Her lips wobbled. “You’re here now.”
-
Later, after surgery, when she was asleep, his mum sat beside him outside the ward.
“She’s tough, like her dad,” she said softly.
Lando didn’t look up. “She shouldn’t have to be. I should be the one keeping her safe.”
“You are. She knew you’d come. That’s why she held on.”
That night, Lando stayed in the hospital room, curled up in the armchair beside her bed. He held her hand the whole time. A father, a racer, a protector—broken and healing all at once.
Tomorrow, he’d call McLaren and reschedule. Tomorrow, he’d talk to the doctors about recovery, rehab, and how to keep her passion alive without risking her safety.
But tonight, he was just a dad, her dad.
And that was more important than anything in the world.
Part 2?? I've already started it but should I finish it or do something different? Partially inspired by his media day outfit today, that top just had a motocross vibe and I'm here for it
Please to not copy or Translate without permission x
Summary: In which Oscar Piastrias daughter is unwell in the paddock but Oscar still has to attend to media duties but it's okay because all she wants is her daddy
Warnings: Mentions of stomach bug, fever, clingy, fluff, use of the names 'darling' and 'sweetie'
Oscar's heart was racing—not because of the usual tension of qualifying, or the anticipation of race day—but because of the little bundle of energy in his arms, the one that wasn’t so energetic today.
Three-year-old you, his child, were clinging to him like a koala on a tree. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, and your tiny little hands were gripping the collar of his shirt as if it were the only thing holding you to this world.
Oscar couldn’t help but chuckle softly as he glanced down at you, noting how you looked pale and slightly flushed from whatever bug had decided to strike you in the middle of a race weekend. You were still adorable in your tiny Mclaren-themed onesie which Zak had bought and insisted you wear at least once this weekend, your golden curls slightly damp from a nap he’d tried to coax you into. But now, the fever had set in, and all you wanted was your dad.
"Hey, little champ," he murmured softly, adjusting your position in his arms as he walked through the crowded paddock. “Feeling better?”
You sniffled into his neck, not answering, only curling in tighter. He could feel the heat from your forehead press against his skin, making his heart ache a little more.
"I know, I know," he said, trying to reassure you, though his own nerves were starting to creep up on him. The interviews were next, and there was no way he could skip them. It was one of the busiest weekends of the season, and he had to be at his best for his team and his sponsors.
He smiled as a couple of photographers waved at him, but when they saw the little one in his arms, their expressions softened. It was well-known that Oscar was a family man, but seeing him carrying his child in the paddock, his typically composed demeanor now a bit more fragile with a sick little one in his arms, was a different sight.
"Sorry, mate, she’s a bit under the weather today," Oscar said to one of the photographers who gave him an understanding look. He felt an unspoken wave of support and respect as they backed off, giving him some space.
As Oscar made his way toward the interview area, he could hear the voice of his team’s PR manager, Sarah, calling to him from behind. "Oscar, we're on in five minutes. Is she alright? Should we reschedule?"
He shook his head, trying to mask his concern with a smile. "No, no, we’re good. I’ll manage."
You let out a soft whimper, and Oscar felt his heart tug. "It's okay, darling. Daddy's got you." He whispered it over and over like a mantra, feeling like he was walking a fine line between being the Formula 1 driver everyone expected him to be and the dad he knew he was.
When they reached the media area, Oscar had to pause for a moment, adjusting your position in his arms so you weren’t pressing too hard against his chest. You were so small—he could easily hold you in one arm, but with how sick you were, you weren’t just heavy in weight, but emotionally heavy too.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself. "Let’s get this over with.”
As he sat down for the interview, you rested your head against his shoulder, the soft whimpers still escaping your mouth as you tried to fight the drowsiness the fever brought on.
The first couple of questions were normal enough. The reporters asked about the weekend, the car, his thoughts on qualifying, but they kept glancing at you. It was clear the baby in his arms was taking more attention than the typical line of questioning.
"Looks like you’ve got some company today, Oscar," one of the reporters remarked, chuckling lightly. "Your daughter doesn’t look too well."
Oscar gave a half-smile, nodding. "Yeah, she’s not feeling great. Poor thing’s got a stomach bug. But she’s a trooper."
He adjusted you slightly as you let out a tiny whine, causing a few of the reporters to give each other concerned looks. One of them, a woman with a kind smile, spoke up. “Do you want to take a break? We can reschedule, Oscar. You don’t have to do this right now.”
Oscar paused, his eyes darting between the interviewer and his daughter, who had now settled into the crook of his arm.
He could feel his own worries surfacing. He loved racing, but you—his little one—came first. And this moment wasn’t just about him; it was about showing that balance between his career and his life as a dad.
"No," he said softly but firmly, "We’re almost done here, and I promised my team I’d be here. Besides, she seems to like being close to Daddy right now. I think we’ll be okay."
Another reporter asked a question, but Oscar was no longer entirely focused. His eyes were on you—your little face pressed against him, still hot with fever, but now calm in his embrace. His heart ached, but it also swelled with love. You were his world. You were the only constant in his life, even when racing seemed to take over everything.
He answered the next couple of questions with a professionalism that had taken years to perfect, but internally, his mind was a whirl of concern for you.
The cameras flashed, and one of the photographers caught a candid shot of Oscar gazing down at you, looking both tender and tired. It was a raw, unpolished moment. The kind of shot that would go viral.
As soon as the interview wrapped up, he stood and immediately took a deep breath of relief. Sarah, his PR manager, was waiting nearby. "You did great, Oscar. But seriously, let’s get her checked out. You can’t work with her like this."
Oscar nodded, already starting to walk toward the medical area. You were still in his arms, though now your eyes were closed, and your little breaths were more shallow, as if sleep was trying to claim you.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he whispered. “Daddy’s got you. Just hang in there a little longer.”
After a short consultation with the paddock doctor, they confirmed it was just a mild stomach bug, and thankfully, there was nothing more serious to worry about. They gave Oscar some fluids for you and suggested he keep you hydrated.
By the time they left the medical area, Oscar felt a sense of relief wash over him. You were still drowsy, but at least you were no longer too hot to the touch. He cradled you against him as he walked back to the team’s garage.
"I think someone’s ready for a nap," Oscar murmured, brushing a lock of hair from your face. You shifted slightly in his arms, now clinging to him in your sleep, but the tension had left your little body.
Oscar’s phone buzzed with messages from his manager and sponsors, but for the first time all day, he felt the weight of it all slide off his shoulders. As he walked through the paddock, he realized something. His world wasn’t just here in the garage, or on the track, or under the spotlight—it was also right here, in his arms.
His daughter.
His little champion.
The team would have to wait for a bit. He had the most important thing in the world to focus on right now.
Please to not copy or Translate without permission x
hi em! lovely to have you here on this platform and i hope you stay with us for as long as you can if possible. can i request a sick!charles who refuses to go to the hospital, only wants his girlfriend to nurse him? somehow he becomes more clingier and cuter when he's sick as well <3
Done, you can read it here x
Thank you for the request!
Based off this request: hi em! lovely to have you here on this platform and i hope you stay with us for as long as you can if possible. can i request a sick!charles who refuses to go to the hospital, only wants his girlfriend to nurse him? somehow he becomes more clingier and cuter when he's sick as well <3
Hey, this is a bit shorter but I really enjoyed writing it
Warnings: Fever, illness, cuddles, fluffffff, and uses on the petname 'Handsome' by reader.
The soft murmur of the rain against the windowsill was the only sound that filled the room as you sat beside Charles on the couch. His usual vibrant energy was nowhere to be found, replaced by an unsettling quietness. His normally sharp eyes were dull, his skin flushed and pale, the fire that burned within them dampened by a fever that had him curled up under blankets, shivering despite the warmth of the room.
You had tried everything to make him feel better: cool compresses, cups of tea, medicine, and even your gentle touch on his forehead to ease his discomfort. But nothing seemed to work.
“Charles,” you said softly, brushing the hair out of his eyes as you took his hand in yours. “Maybe we should go to the hospital… you’ve been like this for a while now. It could be serious handsome.”
He groaned slightly, his head sinking further into the pillows. His grip on your hand tightened, though, as if he were afraid you might slip away.
“I’m fine,” he murmured hoarsely, though his voice lacked conviction. “I don’t want to go. Please… stay here with me.”
You raised an eyebrow. You knew Charles well enough to recognize when he was being stubborn, but this time, it felt different. There was something vulnerable about the way he clung to you, his usual composure replaced by something raw.
“Charles, you’re burning up,” you said gently, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “If you’re really okay, I’ll be happy to stay. But you need to take care of yourself, handsome.”
He turned his head to meet your gaze, his eyes slightly glassy with fever. The usual playfulness in his gaze had been replaced with something more intense, a silent plea.
“I don’t care about the hospital… I just want you here.” He curled his fingers around yours, his touch almost desperate. “You’re all I need right now.”
Your heart softened at the sight of him so fragile, so unlike the confident, passionate driver you usually saw on the track. You gently cupped his cheek, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.
“I’m not going anywhere, Charles. I’m right here.”
He exhaled a shaky breath, his grip on you tightening even more. You could tell he was trying to fight the exhaustion, but his body seemed to be betraying him. He was so tired, yet he didn’t want to sleep without you by his side.
“You don’t mind staying?” he asked, his voice a whisper now. There was a hint of insecurity in his tone, something rare for him.
“Of course I don’t mind,” you reassured him, running your thumb over the back of his hand. “I’m not leaving you, I promise.”
His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and you thought he might drift off to sleep. But then, his arms reached out, pulling you closer until you were lying beside him, tucked under the same blanket.
“Stay close,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I need you… I can’t sleep without you.”
You chuckled softly, though it was tinged with affection. Charles had always been independent, a man who prided himself on his strength, both on and off the track. But in moments like these, when he was vulnerable, it made you realize how much he trusted you to be there for him, to care for him.
“I’m right here,” you said again, wrapping your arms around him as he snuggled closer, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck.
Minutes passed, and though his fever hadn’t broken, his breathing became steadier. But then, just as you were about to relax, you felt his arms tighten around you.
“I can’t—can’t you stay in here with me all night?” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion.
“Of course, Charles. I’m not going anywhere.”
He shifted slightly, then kissed your neck gently. His hands, trembling from the fever, traced light patterns on your skin. It wasn’t an intimate gesture, but one born from a need for comfort, a need for reassurance.
His grip on you remained tight, and the clinginess you once found endearing was now heightened, almost as though he were afraid of losing you.
“You’re too important to me,” he said quietly, the words carrying more weight than usual. “I need you… more than anything.”
Your heart swelled in your chest as you stroked his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as you cradled him against your chest. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and slow, a rhythm you had grown so familiar with.
“I’m here, love,” you whispered. “You’re not alone.”
As the night wore on, Charles drifted in and out of sleep, each time seeking out your warmth and presence like a lifeline. The fever didn’t seem to ease, but you didn’t mind. You were there for him in the way he needed, holding him, comforting him, being the steady anchor that kept him grounded.
The next morning, when he woke again, he felt worse. But he was still insistent.
“I told you… no hospital,” he muttered, his voice hoarse but determined. “I don’t need anything but you. Please… don’t leave me alone today, either.”
You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from his face as he looked up at you with those pleading eyes. You couldn’t help but smile, knowing how rare this side of him was.
“You’ve got me, Charles,” you said quietly. “Always.”
And as he drifted back into a deep sleep, his face relaxed in peace, you realized that, even in his weakest moments, Charles was still the man you loved more than anything.
Please to not copy or Translate without permission x
Summary: In which reader has been busy with work and Lando takes time to makee them feel special
Warnings: Use of the petnames 'darlin' and 'sweetheart', fluff
It was one of those peaceful days in Monaco, where the skies were clear, and the bright golden sun kissed the water without a cloud in sight. Lando was, as usual, full of energy. He was always the kind of person to bring life to a room, but today, his energy was more playful than usual, with a gleam in his eye that made you smile just by looking at him.
You were sitting on the balcony of your shared apartment, watching the world go by. The scent of the ocean wafted through the air, and you could hear the faint sound of waves crashing below. It was peaceful — exactly what you needed after a busy week. You had just finished your own work and were savoring the moment of calm before everything picked up again and Lando left for another race.
But peace never lasted long when Lando was around. You heard the faint sound of footsteps behind you and turned around just as a familiar voice called your name.
"Hey, darlin'!" Lando grinned widely, leaning against the doorframe as if he had no intention of letting you have this quiet moment. His brown curls were a little messy from the wind, and he wore an oversized white quadrant hoodie, comfortable but somehow still so effortleslly gorgeous.
You raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful smirk. "What is it now, Norris?"
Lando’s eyes twinkled mischievously. "Well, I was just thinking… you’ve been working hard lately, haven’t you?"
"Maybe," you said, teasing him. "What’s your point?"
"My point," he said, stepping into the balcony with a dramatic flourish, "is that you deserve a break. And I’ve got just the thing."
Before you could respond, he pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and slipped them on, looking like he was about to take you on an adventure. "Come on, we’re going for a drive."
You couldn’t help but laugh. "A drive? Lando, we’re in Monaco. What’s new about that?"
Lando’s grin only widened. "Not just any drive. A fun one. Trust me."
You were tempted to roll your eyes, but you knew Lando well enough that when he had that look on his face, there was no changing his mind. And honestly, you could never turn down his enthusiasm and adorable smile.
"Fine," you said, standing up and stretching. "But if this is some weird attempt to get me to buy you ice cream again, I’m not falling for it."
"Wait, hold on," Lando said, holding up a finger. "That’s not a bad idea. But no, today is about you. sweetheart" He held his arm out dramatically. "Now, shall we go? The adventure awaits!"
You couldn’t help but laugh at how seriously he was taking this. Taking his arm, you allowed him to lead you out of the apartment. You weren’t sure what he had planned, but you trusted Lando—his spontaneity was one of the things you loved most about him.
The two of you slipped into his McLaren, Lando in the driver’s seat, looking way too pleased with himself as he started the engine. The purr of the car’s engine was like music to your ears, but you quickly turned your attention back to Lando. He was already looking at you, hand placed gently just above your knee, eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Where are we going?" you asked.
Lando shot you a quick wink before turning his attention back to the road. "Somewhere special."
The drive was smooth, the roads of Monaco winding in front of you like a maze, each turn offering a new view of the harbor or a glimpse of the yachts. The sun bathed everything in a warm glow, making everything feel more magical.
You let out a contented sigh as you watched the world around you, the light breeze ruffling your hair. Lando had always had this effect on you. It wasn’t just the places he took you or the way he always seemed to know how to make a moment feel special. It was the way he made you feel: like the world had slowed down just for the two of you.
Finally, after a few minutes of winding through the streets, Lando pulled into a secluded spot near the cliffs that overlooked the sea. It was a small park, one that most tourists didn’t know about, and it had a perfect view of the ocean stretching out as far as the eye could see.
"Here we are," Lando announced, pulling the car to a stop and getting out. He opened your door with a flourish, his hand extended to help you out.
You stepped out, gazing at the view in front of you. The turquoise waves crashed against the rocks below, the scent of saltwater filling the air.
"This… this is amazing," you said, your voice soft as you looked at Lando.
Lando gave a nonchalant shrug, though you could tell he was pleased by the reaction. "Told you. I know all the best spots."
You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. His expression was soft, sincere—nothing like the playful energy he usually carried. There was something calming about him today. Something about the way he looked at you made your heart flutter.
"You really do know how to make a moment perfect," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Lando’s cheeks flushed slightly at your compliment, but he quickly masked it with a grin. "I try." He paused, eyes scanning the horizon for a moment. "I just… I wanted to do something nice for you. You’ve been working so hard, and I figured, maybe you deserve a little break."
You stepped closer to him, the wind picking up, sending strands of your hair across your face. Lando instinctively reached out to push them back, his fingers brushing against your skin. The simple gesture felt intimate, like you were the only two people in the world.
"I appreciate it," you said, your gaze locked with his. "This is exactly what I needed."
Lando’s smile softened, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped. The world around you faded, and all that mattered was the quiet moment you shared together.
"Good," he said softly. "Because I’d do anything to make you smile."
You laughed, feeling warmth spread through your chest. "You’re always so cheesy."
He shrugged with that familiar grin. "I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for you."
You laughed again, shaking your head at him. "You're impossible."
"I know," Lando replied, his voice suddenly more serious. "But I’m also yours."
You could feel your heart race as his words sank in, and for a moment, everything felt even more perfect than before. Lando had this way of making you feel like the most important person in the world, and it was impossible not to fall for him more every single day.
The sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting everything in a golden hue. It was the perfect evening—quiet, intimate, and full of unspoken promises.
Lando leaned in closer, his hand gently resting on your shoulder as he stood beside you, both of you watching the sunset in silence. You felt his warmth next to you, his presence grounding you in the moment.
"You know," he said after a while, his voice light, "I think I could get used to days like this. With you."
You smiled, your heart swelling in your chest. "Me too."
And as the sun set over the horizon, the world seemed to shrink around you. In that moment, it was just you and Lando—no expectations, no pressures—just the two of you, enjoying the simplicity of the moment, together.
First fic on here <3
Please to not copy or Translate without permission x
Hey! Please Read all before requesting, Thank you!
Rules:
I will write for Poly, any driver (old or current), other than Lance Stroll (No, I am not a hater I just don't really know how to wrute about hi, however if you request I will see what I can do), and I'm happy to cover dark topics, themes of Mental Health etcetera. I write text fics, parent fics, SMAU, AU, and oneshots and some series <3
I will not write descriptively for 1ncest, r@pe, Cnc, Ped0phillia, or Necr0phillia. However will reference them if it fits the storyline.
And most importantly, No Judgement <3
Requesting:
You can either use this as inspiration for requests or just Send it
Menu
Coffee (tropes)
Americano - Office romance
Macchiato - Grumpy sunshine
Capucino - Trapped together
Mocha - Enemies to lover(rivals)
White Mocha - Married
Espresso - Forced Proximity
Latte - Playboy in love
Dark Mocha - dating
Flat White - hook up
Frappe - Friends to Lovers
(Please choose 0-2)
Extras
Whipped cream - Sweet sex
Marshmallows - Rough sex
Chocolate - Both
(Please choose 1)
Milk
Almond milk - vaginal Sex
Soy milk - Oral sex
Coconut milk - Anal sex
Oat milk - Fingering
Whole milk - Hand job
Skim milk - Dry Humping
Non-dairy milk - Mastrubation
Raw milk - Mutual Mastrubation
Goat milk - Penetrative sex
Hemp milk - squirting
(Choose as many as you'd like)
Breakfast
Eggs Benedict - Age gap
Avacado toast - Public sex
Omelette - Blind Fold
Waffles - Degrading/Humiliation
Bruschetta - Edging
Pancakes - Doggy style
Strawberries - Lactation
Croissant - Breeding kink
Pain au Chocolat - Body worship
Yoghurt - Praise kink
French toast - Spanking
Bacon - Hand cuffs
Mushrooms - Size kink
Tomato - Pain kink
Spaghetti - Hickeys
Buttered toast - Mirror Sex
Jam Toast - Daddy/Mommy Kink
Crepes - Riding
(Choose as many as you'd like)
Main Course
Chicken Piccata - “Do I look like I’m messing around? Do I look like I won’t punish you?”
Vegetable Curry - “Move an inch and you won’t be coming tonight.”
Grilled salmon - “Fucking is a reward, but you haven’t been good.”
Beef tenderloin - “I won’t apologise for marking you up, everyone should know you’re taken.”
Beef stoganoff - “You can take it, you’ve done it before.”
Mushroom Risotto - “We’re really going to fuck here? What if someone sees us?”
Chicken Parmesan - “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”
Baked Crab cheese - “You look so good with my hands around your neck.”
Crispy squid - “Do you think, you deserve a reward/punishment?”
Cheese shrimp roll - “I don’t care if it takes all night, you will submit.”
Minced beef Mushroom - “Show me how much you missed me.”
Beef cheese rolling - “Enough, please, I can’t take anymore!”
Beef diced potatoes - “Do you need to use your safeword, darling?”
Butter fried chicken - “Slowly, baby, I’m not going anywhere.”
Sirloin steak - “Do you know what happens when you misbehave?”
Grilled Pizza - “Are you holding back? Don’t.”
Lasagna - “Oh, baby, you’re drooling everywhere.”
Habenaro BBQ shrimp - “It’s my thigh or nothing, I’m not helping you get off.”
Fish tacos - “You seem more sensitive than usual.”
Tomato roasted garlic pie - “I don’t want anyone else. No one else can make me feel like you do.”
Pork chops - “So good for me, look at how much you came.”
Potato gnocchi - “Shh, just look at me, baby.”
Chicken nachos - “God, you love it like this, don’t you?”
Honey garlic chicken - “You know I’m holding back from fucking you over this kitchen counter, don’t push your luck.”
Lemon chicken pasta - “Do you wonder what it is that makes me scream?”
BBQ chicken salad - “Why are you being so gentle with me? I like it when you’re rough.”
Ham carbonara - “It’s hot when you talk back”
Mini meat loafs - “You’re still horny? Didn’t I fuck you hard enough last night?”
Pulled Pork - "You can do just one more for me, right baby?"
(Choose as many as you'd like)
Water
Sparkling water - after care
Mineral water - detailed aftercare
Bottled water - soaking in bathtub/shower
Tap Water - pillow talk
Ice Water - Cuddling
Warm Water - pass out
(Choose as many as you'd like)
This Is Just A Guide, add or take as you wish and let me know anything I should add <3
Warning: Swearing
Hi! I'm Em, I've been watching F1 since mid-season 2024. I will try to upload to this blog at least every other day. This is a no-judgement blog so please send me requests and thoughts!
All 18+ posts will be labelled as such <3
My favourite Drivers are LN04, OP81, and CL16.
My Favourite Team is McLaren (Even though they do their share of pissing me off)
LN04
-Chasing the sun ♡ (Lando Norris x gn!reader)
-Two wheels and one heart ♡♧☆ (Dad!Lando x daughter!reader)
-Part 2
OP81
-The Paddock Baby ♡♧ (Dad!Oscar Piastri x daughter!reader)
-Lemon Tea and Love ♡ (Oscar Piastri x Reader)
-The bug stops here ♡♧ (Dad!Oscar Piastri x daughter!reader)
2087
prguitarman
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
dailybridgerton