i know requests are closed, but i just want to send this in incase i forget 💕
oscar winning the championship, he celebrates with his girl, the reader, after. fast forward a couple weeks, they found out they're pregnant, i think it'll be hilarious if it were triplets! fans are starting to think something bad happened to reader, because they haven’t appeared at the paddock in months. but then they just post about the birth of the triplets 9 months after abu dhabi, and everyone just starts clowning oscar. 💕
Our Little Podium - OP81
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!gf!reader summary: Oscar wins the World Championship in Abu Dhabi, and he and Y/N celebrate accordingly. Fast forward a few months: Y/N has vanished from the paddock, F1 Twitter is convinced she’s a spy for Ferrari, and Oscar is up at 3 AM googling the aerodynamics of a triple stroller. wc: 3.2k 💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)
The radio crackles, cutting through the deafening roar of the crowd, but to you, everything else sounds underwater.
"P1, Oscar. P1. You are the World Champion!"
Tom Stallard’s voice is cracking, losing its usual composure, and that’s what finally breaks the dam. You’ve been crying since lap 55, tears silently tracking through your makeup, but now? Now you are openly sobbing into your hands, huddled at the back of the garage near the monitors.
On the screen, Oscar screams—a raw, uncharacteristically loud release of tension that sends shivers down your spine.
You don't wait for the team to organize. You’re running toward Parc Fermé before the car even comes to a full halt.
The atmosphere is electric. Fireworks are exploding over the Yas Marina Circuit, painting the night sky in gold and red, but your eyes are locked on the papaya car. Oscar climbs out, standing on the halo, punching the air. He looks like a titan. He looks unstoppable.
But then he hops down, and the first thing he does—before acknowledging the mechanics, before weighing in, before removing his helmet—is scan the crowd. His head whips left and right, frantic.
He’s looking for you.
You push past a camera operator, slipping through the gap in the barriers. "Oscar!"
He freezes. Even with the helmet on, you can feel his gaze lock onto you. He rips the helmet off, his hair a mess of sweat, his face flushed with the purest joy you have ever seen.
You run. He doesn’t wait. He steps forward, meeting you halfway, and the collision is desperate.
He doesn't just hug you; he scoops you up. One arm around your waist, the other supporting your legs, he lifts you completely off the asphalt.
"We did it!" he yells, his voice hoarse, burying his face in your neck. He spins you around—once, twice—right there on the track. Your feet dangle in the air, and for a moment, the world is just a blur of floodlights and papaya.
"You did it," you sob, clinging to his race suit, not caring about the sweat or the smell of burnt rubber. "You're the champion, Os."
He sets you down but keeps his forehead pressed against yours, oblivious to the cameras circling you like sharks.
"We did it, love," he corrects you, his breathing heavy, his hands trembling slightly against your back. "We."
The next few hours are a blur of champagne, interviews, and flashing lights. But there is a pattern to the chaos.
Oscar is pulled away to weigh in. Five minutes later, he’s back at your side, pressing a kiss to your temple.
Oscar is dragged off to the podium. As soon as the anthem ends and the champagne is sprayed, he’s looking down at the crowd, pointing right at you.
Oscar is ushered into the team photo. He refuses to take it until you are standing right next to him, his arm draped possessively over your shoulder.
Throughout the garage celebrations, the team starts making bets on how long he can stay away from you. The answer is never more than five minutes. He slips away from billionaire sponsors and team principals just to find you in the corner, holding your face in his hands, kissing you like he needs to recharge his battery.
"I have to go do the media pen," he whispers against your lips, smelling of sticky rosewater and victory. "Wait for me?"
"Always," you smile, wiping a smudge of champagne off his cheek.
You stand off to the side, watching the press conference on a monitor. Oscar is sitting in the center seat, the World Drivers' Championship trophy gleaming in front of him. He looks exhausted but radiant.
"Oscar," a journalist from Sky Sports asks, "you stayed incredibly calm all season, but tonight we saw a lot of emotion. What kept you grounded during those final, stressful laps?"
Oscar doesn't hesitate. A soft, genuine smile breaks across his face—the kind usually reserved only for you.
"My girlfriend, Y/N," he says into the microphone. A collective aww ripples through the room. "She’s been my rock. Honestly, she’s my lucky charm. I don't think I could have kept my head straight without her in the garage."
You press a hand to your heart, feeling fresh tears prick your eyes as the press swoons over the answer.
It’s 3:00 AM when you finally get back to the hotel room. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a heavy, happy exhaustion. Oscar places the heavy trophy on the dresser and immediately turns to you.
He looks at you with an intensity that makes your knees weak.
"I meant it, you know," he says softly, walking over to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you into the quiet of the room. "I wouldn't be standing here, holding that trophy, without you."
You reach up, running your fingers through his hair. "You did the driving, Mr. World Champion."
"And you gave me a reason to drive fast so I could get back to you," he mumbles, leaning down to kiss you deeply. "Best night of my life."
You smile into the kiss, having no idea that in a few weeks, your lives are going to get even crazier.
The high of the championship hasn’t worn off, but the adrenaline has. Now, it’s just the lazy, golden haze of the off-season. You are currently in Australia, staying at his family’s place, supposedly to "relax."
But this morning, relaxation is the last thing on your mind.
You wake up feeling... off. Not sick, exactly, just strange. A weird flutter in your stomach, a sensitivity to the smell of Oscar’s coffee brewing downstairs that makes you dizzy. You slip out of bed while Oscar is still downstairs and take the test you bought yesterday "just in case."
You leave it on the bathroom sink, too nervous to look, and go back to bed, pulling the duvet over your head.
Five minutes later, Oscar walks into the bedroom. He’s holding two mugs of coffee, wearing nothing but sweatpants, looking every bit the relaxed champion. He heads into the en-suite to brush his teeth.
You hear the water run. Then the water stops abruptly.
Silence.
A very long, very heavy silence.
Then, a clatter, like he dropped his toothbrush.
"BABE."
It’s not his usual calm, race-engineer voice. It’s high-pitched.
He bursts out of the bathroom, holding the little plastic stick like it’s a live grenade. His eyes are wide, his face pale but flushing pink at the cheeks.
"THERE’S TWO LINES."
You sit up, heart hammering against your ribs. "Is it... is it faint? Or dark?"
"It’s... it’s very red, Y/N! It’s two lines!" He stammers, rushing over to the side of the bed. He looks at the test, then at you, then back at the test. "That means... that means we..."
"We're having a baby," you whisper.
Oscar freezes. The panic in his eyes melts instantly, replaced by a glassy, overwhelming emotion. He drops the test on the nightstand and practically collapses onto the bed next to you.
"A baby," he repeats, his voice cracking.
He pulls you into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you. You can feel him shaking. When he pulls back, there are tears in his eyes—the second time you’ve seen him cry in two weeks.
"We made a tiny human," he laughs, a wet, joyful sound. "I’m going to be a dad."
"A World Champion dad," you smile, wiping a tear from his cheek.
"I don't care about the trophy anymore," he says immediately, looking at you with intense seriousness. "This beats the trophy."
For the rest of the morning, Oscar is glued to you.
Weirdly, he’s already acting like you’re six months along. He keeps his hand flat against your stomach, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of your shirt, even though your belly is completely flat.
"Oscar, it’s the size of a poppy seed," you laugh, trying to get up to make breakfast.
"Careful," he says, gently pushing you back down. "I’ll make the toast. You and the... poppy seed... need to rest."
Later that night, you find him on the couch with his phone, brows furrowed in deep concentration—the same face he makes when analyzing telemetry data.
"What are you looking up?" you ask, peering over his shoulder.
He jumps slightly, angling the screen toward you. The Google search bar reads: when can baby hear my voice??
"It says 18 weeks," he says, sounding disappointed. "That’s so far away."
He looks at your stomach again, then leans down, putting his mouth right against your belly button.
"Hello?" he whispers. "This is your dad. I drive fast cars. Please be nice to your mum."
You giggle, running a hand through his hair. "You’re ridiculous."
"I’m prepared," he corrects, looking up at you with a grin that could light up the entire Melbourne grid. "I think we’re going to be good at this."
Little does he know, he's going to need a lot more than preparation. He’s asking the baby to be nice, not realizing there are three of them in there.
The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the ultrasound monitor. The gel on your stomach is freezing, but your hand is sweating because Oscar is holding it so tight he might actually break your fingers.
He’s staring at the screen with the same intensity he uses for Turn 1 at Monaco.
The doctor moves the wand around, humming softly. Then, she stops. She frowns, leans closer to the screen, and adjusts the contrast. She moves the wand again, pressing a little harder.
The silence in the room stretches for ten seconds.
Oscar’s grip tightens painfully. "Is... is everything okay?" rarely does his voice sound this small. "Is there a heartbeat?"
The doctor turns to you both, her expression unreadable for a split second before softening into a professional smile.
"Oh, yes. There are heartbeats." She pauses. "Actually, that was why I was checking again. I wanted to be sure."
She points to the grainy blobs on the screen.
"Well... both are healthy."
Oscar blinks, his brain buffering. "Both?"
"And the third one too," she continues cheerfully, moving the cursor to a smaller shadow behind the first two. "Congratulations... they’re triplets."
SILENCE.
Absolute, vacuum-sealed silence.
You stare at the screen, your mouth falling open, trying to comprehend the math. Three. Three humans.
Oscar, however, has simply ceased to function. He literally stops breathing. His chest doesn’t move for a full five seconds. He is staring at the doctor as if she just told him he has to drive a tricycle in the next Grand Prix.
"Three?" you manage to squeak out.
Oscar’s eyes are wide, unblinking. He looks from the screen to your stomach, then back to the screen. His face has gone a shade of pale that usually indicates food poisoning.
He leans back in his chair, exhaling a breath he’d been holding since the doctor frowned. He runs a hand down his face, dragging the skin.
"We celebrated too hard..."
He whispers it. It’s a low, horrified realization spoken into the quiet room.
"Oscar!" you burst out laughing, the shock breaking into hysteria.
The doctor starts chuckling, wiping the gel off your belly. "It happens more often than you think with natural conception, but yes, it’s quite a surprise."
Oscar isn't laughing yet. He’s looking at his hands. "Three seats," he mutters to himself. "We need a car with three back seats. Do they make baby racing suits in bulk?"
Then, he looks at you, seeing you laughing with tears in your eyes. The terror finally cracks, and a bewildered grin spreads across his face. He starts to laugh too—a nervous, slightly manic chuckle that grows into a full laugh.
"Triplets," he shakes his head, leaning forward to kiss your forehead, though he looks like he might faint. "I’m going to need a bigger trophy cabinet. And a lot more coffee."
The Formula 1 season is well underway, but something—or rather, someone—is missing.
You haven’t been seen at a Grand Prix in four months. You haven't been in the background of McLaren’s "Unboxed" videos. You haven't even been spotted at the airport.
Naturally, F1 Twitter has lost its collective mind.
The internet has turned into a digital crime board connected by red string.
@.piastrifan3 Guys, Oscar looked at his phone during the post-race cool down room and didn’t smile ONCE. They definitely broke up. Love is dead. I’m burning my merch.
@.user45 Hear me out: She was seen wearing red 6 months ago. She’s currently in Maranello training to be a strategist for Ferrari. She’s a double agent. Wake up sheeple.
@.user12 McLaren is hiding something. Is she the new stig? Is she driving the spare car? WHERE IS SHE ZAK BROWN?
@.f1fan5 Y'all are blind. She’s pregnant. Look at Oscar’s interviews. He has that 'I’m terrified and tired' dad energy already. 100% confirmed.
While the internet debates if you are a spy for Ferrari, the reality is much less glamorous and much stickier.
It is 3:00 AM in your Monaco apartment.
You are sitting up in bed, surrounded by a fortress of pillows, balancing a tub of Ben & Jerry’s on your massive bump. The triplets are currently having a kick-boxing tournament against your ribs.
Oscar is sitting next to you, the blue light of his iPad illuminating his focused, frowning face. He is wearing his reading glasses, looking extremely serious.
"Babe," he says, breaking the silence.
"Hmm?" you mumble around a mouthful of cookie dough.
"Do we really need three cribs?"
You stop chewing. "Oscar. There are three babies."
"I know, but..." He turns the iPad toward you. "Look at the logistics. Three cribs take up 4.5 square meters. If we stack them... no, we can't stack them. But what if we get one mega crib?"
He taps the search bar. You can see his search history.
Oscar’s Google History:
triple stroller aerodynamics
how to hold 3 babies with 2 arms
noise cancelling headphones for infants
can triplets share one crib?? pls help
"They can't share one crib, Os," you sigh, patting his arm. "They will kick each other in the face. Like they are doing to me right now."
He sighs, defeated, and rubs his face. "Right. Strategy error. I'll go back to the drawing board."
He closes the tab on the "Mega Crib" and looks at your ice cream.
"Can I have a bite?"
"Get your own," you growl playfully, pulling the tub closer. "I'm eating for four. You're just stressed."
"I am stressed," he mumbles, resting his head on your shoulder. "The internet thinks we broke up. I saw a TikTok analyzing my eyebrows to prove I'm heartbroken."
"Let them talk," you grin, resting your spoon on the lid. "Just wait until they see the surprise."
It is a quiet Tuesday morning. There is no race this week. The F1 world is bored, still debating why you haven't been seen since testing.
Then, at exactly 10:00 AM, a notification pops up on millions of phones.
@.oscarpiastri just shared a post.
There is no warning. No "expecting" announcement. No gender reveal cake. Just the drop.
Monaco. A black and white, slightly grainy photo taken in your living room. It’s unpolished and raw.
You are sitting on the couch, hair in a messy bun, looking exhausted but blissfully happy, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a white blanket against your chest. Oscar is sitting on the floor next to your legs. He looks like he has been hit by a truck (in a good way). He has bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, and—crucially—he is awkwardly holding two more bundles, one in the crook of each arm.
The expression on both your faces says: "We love them more than life itself, but we have slept 40 minutes in the last three days."
Caption: "Welcome to the world, our little podium. 🧡👶👶👶 P1, P2, and P3 arrived safely. (Send coffee.)"
The post stays up for 30 seconds before the comment section crashes. When it finally loads, it is pure chaos.
@.mclaren Getting three tiny fireproof suits ready immediately. We're going to need a bigger garage. 🧡🧡🧡
@.lando Bro… chill.
@.carlossainz55 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Ayo? Congratulations mate!
@.f1fan45 TRIPLETS??? WTF. I thought she was just hiding a bad haircut??
@.piastriszn "Bro didn't just celebrate. He CELEBRATED." The math is mathing. 9 months after Abu Dhabi exactly... Oscar you absolute legend.
@.danielricciardo Three?? Mate, you don’t do things by halves do you? Congrats!
@.lewishamilton Amazing news. Congratulations to you both.
@.gridgossip Oscar Piastri single-handedly repopulating the grid. By 2045 the entire podium will just be Piastris.
@.user99 Everyone was worried they broke up and meanwhile Oscar was fighting for his life changing three diapers at once 😭😭😭
Oscar tosses his phone onto the couch, ignoring the buzzing that sounds like a swarm of angry bees.
"Well," he yawns, leaning his head back against your knee. "Cat's out of the bag."
"The internet is going to clown you for the rest of your life," you whisper, careful not to wake the baby in your arms (Baby P1).
"Let them clown," Oscar smirks, looking down at the two sleeping babies in his arms. "I won the championship, and I got three trophies nine months later. I'd say that's a pretty good season."
"Go to sleep, Oscar."
"Can't," he whispers back. "P2 just grabbed my finger. I’m trapped forever."
For the first time in seventy-two hours, the apartment is silent. No crying, no bottle warmers beeping, no lullaby machines playing white noise at full volume. Just the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing.
You tiptoe out of the kitchen, clutching a lukewarm mug of tea, and stop in the doorway of the living room. The sight before you makes your heart squeeze so hard it actually aches.
Oscar is sprawled out on the big gray sectional. One arm is thrown over his eyes to block out the afternoon sun, his mouth slightly open in deep, exhaustion-fueled sleep.
Curled up right in the center of his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing, is the third triplet. Oscar’s other hand is resting protectively over the baby’s tiny back, a reflex he doesn't even drop when he's unconscious.
You shift your gaze to the large playpen-bassinet combo set up near the window.
The other two are fast asleep, their heads turned toward each other. And there, in the space between them, their tiny fingers are interlaced. Holding hands.
You lean your head against the doorframe, letting out a long, shaky breath.
Your hair is a mess. You have a stain on your shoulder that is definitely spit-up. You haven't watched a race or checked the news in weeks. Your life is a blur of diapers, formula, and deciphering which cry means "hungry" and which cry means "I just want to scream."
But looking at them—your "Team Five"—you wouldn't trade a single second of the madness.
Oscar stirs. He doesn't open his eyes, but he shifts slightly, sensing your presence in the room. He pats the baby on his chest gently.
"Is everyone alive?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
"Everyone is sleeping," you whisper back, smiling. "Go back to sleep, champ."
He hums, a satisfied sound, and settles deeper into the cushions. "Best off-season ever," he slurs, before drifting back off.
You take a sip of your tea, watching the sunlight dance over the three tiny faces that look so much like him.
He was right. He won the trophy in Abu Dhabi, the gold, the glory, the history books. But this? This messy, exhausting, loud, overwhelming life in your living room?
This is the best podium of your life.
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