how to lose a guy in 10 days (pt.1) | OP81
pairing: oscar piastri x journalist!reader
summary: a 'how-to' journalist sets out to show women what not to do in relationships, an F1 driver strives to prove he can make anyone fall in love with him. wc: 3.7k
liked by amelia.lang, vogue, and 104,928 others
yn.howto Out for drinks with the Composure ladies <3
user1 girl please we NEED a "how to become a journalist in new york"
yn.howto Trust me, I'm still figuring that out for myself
user2 what did yn ln write into her shifting script, i need it
amelia.lang espresso martini warrior
user4 did anyone else absolutely LOVE the composure cover last month?
user5 OMG I KNOW charlixcx looked so good
user6 i'd sell my kidneys (notice i said both) to see a charli and yn collab
user7 my wife is away at war (nyc)
mcmahonemma us when we're supposed to be working on the outline
jeanninesmythe I'll remember this at the next staff meeting :)
"Yn, I told you already," Jeannine says, walking alongside you into her office. The rest of the girls are already in their usual spots, Amelia on the corner of the couch, Emma leaning against the table in the center. "You work at Composure Magazine. We are fashion, trends, diets, cosmetic surgeries, salacious gossip... that's Composure."
"But Jeannine, I want to write things that matter, things I care about," you explain, closing the door behind you, "politics, the environment, foreign affairs."
Jeannine turns sharply on her expensive heel. The gentle chatter of the room hushes to a strong silence. "Look, Yn. The column is new for you. When you turn it into a must-read, then you can write about whatever you want. Until then, you can write about whatever I want." You catch Emma's eye--she shrugs empathetically.
"Alright people," the tone of Jeannine's voice shifts easily, from the stern one she used on you to the more casual one she tends to prefer. "What have we got for me today?" She looks around the room. What you've always liked about working at Composure was the familiarity. Unlike the stuffy meetings and harsh co-workers you imagine everywhere else, Composure is friendly. Any one writer can complain about their boyfriend or their dog and all writers will happily listen. It's noticeable in the atmosphere of the room. There's a relaxed nature to it that you could never choose to leave. Before Jeannine goes on, the glass doors are pushed open by a messy Michelle, whose green sweater has clearly not been ironed. "Michelle. Pitches for the new edition?"
Michelle takes a seat across from you, wiping at the corner of her eye. "Um, I'm sorry, Jeannine, I wasn't feeling very well..." The following silence speaks volumes.
"She got dumped," Amelia explains as she hands Michelle a few tissues. "You look great though, hon." The girls all nod, murmuring something about if she's been doing pilates or drinking that new green smoothie they saw on the internet.
Between blowing her nose, which, for Michelle, is always comically loud, and straightening out her sweater, she replies, "I haven't eaten since the split." Despite the community at Composure, there's moments like the one you know is about to transpire.
"Good for you!" Jeannine, with a wide smile, states. "Write about it." This gets a few laughs from the girls. You, too, grin a bit, hoping that it comes off as supportive rather than malicious.
Michelle puts down the tissues, her jaw being slightly slack. "Jeannine, I can't use my personal life for a story." You look between the editor and writer, all too familiar with the tension. Michelle's basically in a watered down version of the conversations you have weekly with Jeannine. 'I can't write that.' 'You have to write that.'
"I'd be happy to write about Michelle's personal life," quickly, Ryan raises her hand.
"What!" Michelle shouts. The worry apparent on her face is wholly understandable. Ryan's known for her hyperbolic writing. If you were Michelle, you wouldn't want that drama queen digging into your messy breakup, broadcasting it for all to see.
"Jeannine, with all due respect, I can't let Ryan muck around in my personal life for a story." Jeannine's eyes start to narrow. Brace for impact.
"I'll do it," the words leave your mouth before you can stop them, rolling out like they've got minds of their own.
"What!" You don't bother to look over at Michelle, sure of the face she's pulling. It's the same glaze of betrayal in her eyes as the one after breakups and fights. Only you're not consoling her this time; you might be adding to it.
"C'mon, would you rather I do it or Ryan? No offense, Ryan." Michelle seems to consider it, but only a bit. She's stubborn. "Plus, I won't write about you. You can be my inspiration. It'll be like a 'what not to do' early in relationships, you know?"
Michelle hasn't really moved, but Jeannine is nodding along, her smile growing wider with every passing second. "Sold," she says, adding, before Michelle can interrupt, "How to lose a guy in 10 days."
Amelia jumps in, "Why 10 days?"
"We go to print in 11," I realize. Jeannine, even though she is a grown woman, sends a finger gun my way.
"Okay, this has been productive," the editor claps her hands together. She looks over all of us, her mind probably halfway done with assembling the next layout. I love her as much as I can't stand her. It's a fun line to walk. "But I've got a meeting. Everyone who's on the Lando Norris profile--I forget who it is--let's go."
A larger than I expected group gets up, eager to go interview... I wanna say a race car driver? I'm not sure. I follow alongside them, trying to push through the two leads on the article to reach Jeannine. Before you commit to torturing some guy, you want to try to convince her that your Middle East text is perfectly good.
A few wide hallways, two and a half staircases, and a small trip thanks to your heels, and you still haven't reached Jeannine. The path is recognizable, meaning you know the group will reach their destination way too soon for you to make any progress.
Suddenly, a harsh stop. You bump into Madelyn's back, getting a small look over the shoulder from her. "Sorry we're late," you hear Jeannine say, just as you push past the two girls in front. "It's nice to finally meet in person."
The guy in front of you is kinda smaller than you expected him to be. He's not small per se, but you expected a race car driver (do they call them that) to be much less... normal looking. You can't be internally rude to the millionaire Composure contact.
"Nice to meet you as well," the guy's British voice responds. "You're... Jeannine Smythe, I assume?" They shake hands.
"Yes, and this is the team that's going to be working on your profile," she begins turning to introduce the writers. "This is Madelyn-- oh. Yn, what are you doing here?" Immediately acknowledging that this is slightly awkward, Jeannine pulls you by the arm (a bit harshly). "This is Yn Ln, our resident how-to girl."
Lando, you remember his name to be, shakes your hand as well, his smile seeming polite and genuine in a way you didn't anticipate. "My mom reads your blog," he tells you. "What are you working on now?"
Jeannine is quick to intercept you, putting her arm out in front of you. She's smart to do so, too, because you were about to say Middle East relations. "How to lose a guy in 10 days," she seems mighty proud of the title she came up with. "She's actually going to start dating a guy and then drive him away in a week-and-a-half."
"Sounds intriguing," he comments.
"Not as intriguing as our profile, though, hopefully." Madelyn has jumped in, severing any chance you had to get through to Jeannine. You return to your desk, at least having tonight's outing to look forward to.
But even that would be tainted by having to find and dupe a perfectly nice dude. Hook, line, and the opposite of a sinker.
oscarpiastri posted a story!
oscarpiastri Aussie lad in NYC mclaren, lando
Oscar's palms are really sweaty. Back in his hotel room, he spent at least ten minutes staring at his racing gloves, wondering if he should bring them along. Originally, he decided against it, out of fear that he'd look like a Soprano. Now, looking like a Soprano doesn't sound all that bad.
He's standing outside of the bar. Despite the large windows, he can't spot Zak or Lando, a crowd of people blocking his view. "Okay, Oscar, take a deep breath," he says to himself, garnering a few looks from passersby. "It's just an advertisement. It doesn't matter all that much." Wiping his hands against the side of his pants, Oscar takes another second to prepare before entering. Deep breaths do wonders when he’s waiting for lights out. No way they don’t work now, when no points are on the line.
Just opening the door, he can hear the chaotic volume of the crowd. Apparently, the tables are supposed to be further back but there's no way he can push through this many people and get there. Pitch is over before it even started. Oscar's never been one for the mosh pit. His nose scrunches up and he starts maneuvering around the people. It's his choir of 'excuse me, sorry' versus the uninterested attendants of the bar. Finally, he spots Zak, just a few feet away. He, and the people Oscar assumes are from the ad campaign, are in deep conversation with Lando, who's wooing them, as always. Oscar hurries up.
"Ouch!" a girl says, moving her foot out from his warpath. In the millisecond he has to look over, Oscar sees that she seems somewhat familiar. "Sorry!" he shouts back at her, almost through the crowd.
"Finally," Zak comments when Oscar reaches the table. He's out of breath, but he sits down regardless. Lando scoots over, but only slightly. "Ms. Greene, Ms. Philips, this is Oscar, he's one of our drivers. But I'm sure you know that." The women take turns in shaking his hand, which has gotten clammy again. "He asked to come to this meeting because he had some sort of pitch to make you." Oscar pretends not to see the amused look on Zak's face. "Take it away, Oscar."
Oscar clears his throat and adjusts the sleeves of his jacket. Even though the past 24 hours have consisted of him repeating the speech to himself, locked in a hotel room, the city beckoning him, Oscar's ming goes blank for a quick second. That girl does look familiar, it focuses on instead of the pitch. She's pretty. Like she should be in a magazine.
"Lando, no offense," he starts, already regretting his opening, "but people are kind of at their limit with you." The look on Zac's face makes Oscar rush to add, "In the advertisement-sense, not in the sport or anything, you're great." He's not super happy with this over-correction either. Lando raises his glass with an amused smile. "You've been at McLaren a long time. You've won the championship"--Oscar manages to get out through gritted teeth--"you've got a stand at Silverstone. You've sold all you have to sell."
"I'll cheers to that," jokes Lando, clinking beers with an equally cheery Zac. The two women take reserved sips, more honed in on Oscar's words than the men.
"And I just think that it would be more effective to let me do the campaign. People love you as much as they can. They're not there yet with me." Oscar's own words hurt, but he knows that his best bet is to appeal to ego. "Plus, like, this is Dior. Your image doesn't suit Dior."
"You can't call me broke, I make more than you--"
"It's not about money," Oscar says. It's always futile to argue with Lando. Plus, this isn't really up to him. There's a glint in Zac's eye that tells Oscar to go on. He adjusts a bit, facing his boss now. "When we had that collaboration with Monster, it was very clear that it should be Lando. That's his vibe. Energy. I'm more reserved. I wouldn't have fit with Monster, just like how Lando doesn't fit with Dior."
In a surprising move, Zac nods to the women, resigning the decision to them. Ms. Greene, the one in the green dress, turns to Ms. Phillips, shrugging slightly. Why not? Oscar assumes it to mean. He feels his stupid palms getting sweaty yet again. Stupid.
"Personally, I don't mind," Lando says. Okay, that adds one more thing to the to-do list: get ears checked. Noticing the surprise, he adds, "C'mon people, you really think my favorite way to spend my time is by posing in itchy sweaters?"
Under her breath, mixing with the music, Ms. Phillips comments, "It's a perfume and jewelry collection."
"I'd be happy to let Oscar do it. But there's just one thing?" He looks at Zac, then back to Oscar. "We know that I--my image--sells." Lando puts the beer down, leaning in a little too menacingly for a friendly bar chat. "Do we know if yours does?"
Zac affirms this, "Lando's got a point." Mimicking his golden boy, Zac, too, leans in. Oscar feels as though he's in a dead quiet zoo, being stared at by people who are about to throw apple cores at him, rather than a crowded bar where no food, not even the remains of it, is free. "Do you sell, Oscar?"
"I do." A small part of Oscar wonders if anyone caught his wavering.
"Okay, well, why don't you prove it?" Lando always has the dumbest ideas. Love the guy. "Let's bet on it."
Oscar actually laughs. Maybe not the best thing to do as the guy asking for something, but it's impossible not to. "Bet on what? Do you want me to prostitute myself or something, see how much I go for?" Lando's high-pitched laugh comes out, his chuckling almost harmonizing with Oscar's. There's been plenty of times when Oscar has considered, seriously, running Lando over with a rent-a-car. But every time he hears Lando's laugh, it's hard to forget that they're friends as well as rivals.
"As much enjoyment as that would give me," Lando starts, "I have a better idea. Get someone to fall in love with you. Then it's yours."
"HA!" Zac claps his hands together as he exclaims. "That's hilarious, I love it." It's not just Oscar's hands that are sweating, it's the whole of him. Already not the romantic, sell-able guy he swore he was. "What does Dior think about the world champion's idea, Ms. Greene, Ms. Phillips?" I hate how Zac talks.
Oscar receives an empathetic look from both of the women. And maybe that's what does it. The past year has been a transformation. People, fans, have gone from empathetic to pitying. He can practically see that same transformation happening here. Somewhere, deep down, Oscar knows he backed away in 2025. Subconsciously, he did. He's unwilling to be met with pity any time soon. The wound has yet to heal; right now, all these people are staring into it.
"Let's do it," Oscar announces. "Let's even pick someone right now." The women shrug. "Be kind, Lando. I have to spend time with this girl for... wait, how long do I have?"
"10 days," Ms. Greene smiles. "That's when the Dior party is."
"You bring a girl who is really in love with you, Piastri," Zac states, "and the campaign is yours."
"But how do we pick a the girl?" Oscar can hear Ms. Phillips ask, but her voice is muffled. Everything around Oscar slows. The clinking glasses echo, the slight spills seem preventable. He can spot the small actions of those beside him that he normally wouldn't. Or he's just trying to compartmentalize, find some benefit to the growing pit in his stomach. He runs a hand through his hair.
Lando waits to answer Ms. Phillips' question. Only when Oscar meets his eyes does he reply, "Her." Almost mechanically, all five of them turn, excitedly searching for Lando's woman of choice. The crowd that previously seemed overwhelming is now a barrier. Oscar can tell himself he's not insane for agreeing to this, so long as he doesn't see the girl who'll be on the receiving end.
God, it's bad that Lando can read his mind. What a disadvantage on the track. He picked the girl. How could he have possibly done that? It's simply unfair. More for Lando than for Oscar. This might be the easiest thing Oscar's ever done, loving her. He doesn't even know her, Jesus, but he's sure. From how she breaks out into a laugh that can't be tamed. She moves gracefully, lightly tapping the bar for a refill. She pushes her hair behind her ears, but it keeps falling into her face. She smiles.
"Deal." He doesn't give it a second thought.
yn.howto playing are you gonna be my girl - jet
yn.howto me when i love my friends and i love our barrrrr
You're leaning against the bar, pushing the ice in your drink around with your straw. Michelle and Amelia are off somewhere, searching for the guy you're about to con. The longer they take the better. You're not really sure why you agreed to this. It's not getting you where you want to be. None of the past articles have been, really. It's always the same story; write something stupid with the double stupid hope that you'll get to write something not stupid at all.
That's seeming further and further away now. Tricking some perfectly nice guy and bragging about it to the whole magazine world doesn’t seem like the stepping stone it’s presented as.
"Hey!" an accented voice says from your right. You blink away your thoughts, quick to straighten your back adjust your hair. You turn and holy shit you’re thankful you do. A strangely familiar, and indescribably beautiful, face, donning a sweetly intriguing smile, stares back at you. You’ve experienced a lot in your life—jet skiing, almost falling on the metro tracks, heartbreak—but you’ve never felt this frozen before. Even your fingers feel stuck to the cocktail in your hand.
“Hi,” you somehow manage to get out, although that’s a struggle in and of itself. Pull yourself together. “Yn Ln.”
“Oscar Piastri.” Those two words click everything into place for you, the embarrassingly simple puzzle comes together before your eyes. A literal F1 driver is standing in front of you, looking illegally good. I think this guy’s partner was at the office today, how crazy is that?
“Cute,” you say in an attempt to play off his introduction.
His smile lankily widens. Jesus help me. “Thank you.” You tilt your head, not wanting to make this too easy for him. He’s an athlete, after all. Flirting probably comes as naturally as breathing.
“I meant your name.” Oscar chuckles a bit, looking over at the bartender and raising his hand casually, mouthing his order and a ‘thank you.’
“Thank you two times,” he laughs even more.
“Unattached?” you swirl the liquid in your drink. Hopefully it masks just how invested you are in his answer.
Oscar nods, subtly ignoring the implications, “Currently.”
It’s his turn to be surprised. His eyes slightly widen and you pretend to miss it. Secretly, you know you’ll be imagining it for weeks to come. “Surprising.” You take a sip. Maybe that’ll cool the growing warmth spreading through your chest. It doesn’t.
“Psycho?” you ask. There is a certain reputation attached to people of his… is status the right word?
Leaning in ever so minimally, Oscar whispers, “Rarely.” Your drink disappears in one dangerous swallow. “Interested?” Is he kidding? He must be. The perpetual tapping of your foot and the excessive flush on your cheeks should be evidence enough.
On the off chance it’s not, you reply, “Perhaps.” It’s unlike you to fall head over heels and you’re not gonna let the fact that this wildly handsome guy drives 300 kilometers an hour change that.
You match him grin for grin. “Starving.”
“Leaving.” It’s a statement, not a question, and you hate how good that makes you feel.
“Now?” He’s moving fast, that’s for sure, but it’s definitely in character for him. You give it another second, seizing him up, possibly searching for something you missed the first time around. The glint in his eye, the small moles that pepper his face. This could be very bad, very bad indeed.
guys i know i've been gone but i am BACK! this took so long because i've been unbelievably lazy, new LEVELS of lazy. but this series will be done soon! this was just chapter 1. kinda long and maybe even boring, i know, but i had to do intro. everything else will be super duper fun, promise. i also lifted a ton from the original film, tell me if you noticed <3
