Sponsor Wars
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader
Summery: Oscar and the Reader are secretly dating, but their fanbases think they hate each other. Quad Lock decides to make them co-host a podcast where they pretend to be rivals, which only makes things more chaotic.
Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.
A/N: Something possessed me with this one that's all I have to say
6 Months Ago:
You and Oscar met for the first time backstage.
You were jet lagged. He was grumpy. Someone gave you both too much caffeine and stuck a mic in your face.
You (jokingly): “Oh, him? Yeah, I could take him. F1 drivers are just go-kart kids with PR teams.”
Oscar (deadpan, sipping water): “You drive a fridge with wheels and call it sport.”
The press ate it up.
A 7-second clip of you fake-scowling at each other while Oscar says “stock cars are for people who failed geometry” goes viral overnight. Someone adds WWE music. It becomes a meme. You’re trending on Twitter under “#RacingEnemies.”
Then someone finds a photo of you bumping into each other off-camera and you flipping him off—even though you were laughing.
It doesn’t matter.
The internet decides you hate each other.
It spirals fast:
You tweet: “Imagine racing 19 other rich guys for two hours and still needing a tire blanket to function.”
Oscar replies with a photo of your pit crew and captions it: “NASA called. They want their tech support back.”
You mock his podium interview accent on Twitch.
He changes his iRacing username to ‘ChevyH8r88’ during a stream.
Behind the scenes, though?
You were already dating.
You met up for sushi the day after the media thing and immediately hit it off. What was supposed to be a fake-feud joke to promote your series spiraled into a full-blown fanfiction warzone. By the time you realized the internet thought you hated each other, it was too late to fix it without revealing everything.
And honestly?
You leaned in. Hard.
🎧 “Sponsor Wars”
Brought to you by: Quad Lock™. Stick it. Grip it. Ship it.™
The intro music slaps way too hard for a podcast hosted by two people who allegedly hate each other.
Oscar: “Welcome back to Sponsor Wars, the only podcast where the co-hosts are legally obligated to interact twice a week, thanks to the beautiful people at Quad Lock™—now with 70% more spite.”
You: “And 30% more sexual tension.”
Oscar: splutters audibly “That’s not—You can’t say that in the ad read!”
You: “It’s not in the script if you don’t look.”
Oscar: “You’re a menace.”
You: “And yet, here you are. Contractually chained to me for another 15 episodes. How’s that feeling, Piastri?”
There’s a moment of silence, the kind where a normal co-host might pivot to a race recap or a sponsor plug.
Oscar does not.
Oscar (dry): “Like Stockholm Syndrome with merch codes.”
You: “Use promo code ‘HOTPITSTOP’ for 10% off your emotional damage.”
Oscar: “Why is that real?”
You: “Because I emailed Quad Lock™ at 3 a.m. and they let me name the code.”
Oscar: “Unhinged. Truly. Do you sleep?”
You: “Only on long-haul flights and your chest, next question.”
There’s a violent pause. You can hear Oscar blink. Maybe glitch a little.
Oscar: “We’re not even five minutes in and you’ve already said ‘sexual tension’, ‘your chest’, and slandered my race result in Singapore. Do you wanna just light the NDA on fire while you’re at it?”
You (mock sweet): “Would that be before or after I light your engine map settings?”
Oscar: “That’s not even a—! You drive stock cars, you can’t just—”
You: “I can and I will. You’re lucky I don’t know how to hack into your telemetry.”
Oscar: “You barely know how to spell telemetry.”
You: “Spell ‘denial’ then. Go ahead.”
Oscar: “…D-E-N-I—oh f*** you.”
You: “You wish.”
Oscar: sputtering again “You—Stop. Okay. Topic of the week. We’re supposed to talk about the cultural differences between NASCAR and F1.”
You: “Oh, easy. NASCAR is blue-collar chaos with beer, and F1 is Euro-dramatics with champagne.”
Oscar: “F1 is precision. Strategy. Data-driven performance—”
You: “—and no one can touch each other or it ruins their whole personality.”
Oscar: “Oh my god.”
You: “Like, if I bump someone, it’s called ‘racing.’ You sneeze on Max Verstappen and it’s a federal offense.”
Oscar: “Well, at least we don’t have 40 cars all packed like sardines, praying someone doesn’t crash into the wall.”
You: “Says the guy who races on tracks where you literally have no room to breathe without risking an international incident.”
Oscar: “That’s because we’re precise, calculated. You guys just throw the kitchen sink at it and hope for the best.”
You: “Yeah, well, sometimes the kitchen sink comes back as a trophy.”
Oscar: “And sometimes it comes back on fire with three broken fenders.”
You: “That was one time.”
Oscar: “It was last weekend. They had to put out your brakes with an actual garden hose.”
You: “Okay, but did I die? No. Did I finish? Yes. Did I pass four people on two wheels while my spotter screamed like a Final Destination extra? Hell yes.”
Oscar: “That man deserves hazard pay.”
You: “That man deserves an Oscar. Not you. A real one.”
Oscar: “Wow.”
You: “I say it with love.”
Oscar: “You say everything with love and a side of chaos. It’s confusing.”
You: “Admit it—you like it.”
Oscar: quietly “…Stockholm Syndrome with merch codes.”
You: grinning “I knew you’d come around.”
Oscar: sighs “Okay. Fine. You want to talk about cultural differences? Let’s talk about the fans. NASCAR fans will literally fight you in the infield. F1 fans will write a 20k-word Tumblr post about your aura and birth chart.”
You: “False. NASCAR fans will fight for you. Some guy in Talladega got my number tattooed on his calf after I won.”
Oscar: “That’s not fan loyalty. That’s a cry for help.”
You: “What do F1 fans do? Build moodboards of your jawline and compare it to Roman sculptures?”
Oscar: “I mean, technically yes, but—”
You: “One of them made a 3D render of you as a vampire last week.”
Oscar: “It had lore.”
You: “It had erotica.”
Oscar: horrified pause “You read it?”
You: “Out loud. On Twitch. While wearing your hoodie. I got three new subscribers.”
Oscar: “I’m going to pass out.”
You: “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Oscar: quietly “They did get my hair right.”
You: “You’re welcome.”
Oscar: “Okay, next question before I combust. Listener asks: ‘If you had to trade cars for one race, which track would you pick?’”
You: “Easy. Monaco. I want to hit a curb at 130 and see God.”
Oscar: “You’d get black-flagged in the first sector for excessive vibes.”
You: “Let me dream. You?”
Oscar: “Bristol. Just to say I survived it.”
You: “You wouldn’t. You’d cry before turn three.”
Oscar: “I don’t cry.”
You: “You cried when we watched Cars.”
Oscar: “Because Doc Hudson deserved better!”
You: “Exactly. That’s why I love you.”
Oscar: flustered “We’re cutting that.”
You: “No we’re not. Quad Lock™ loves vulnerability.”
🎧 [soft outro music starts]
Oscar: “This has been Sponsor Wars, somehow still on the air.”
You: “Thanks to Quad Lock™—and also probably Satan.”
Oscar: “Catch us next week, where we review each other’s fan edits and try not to spiral into a full PR crisis.”
You: “Spoiler: we fail.”
🎧 [cue dramatic music sting, inexplicably followed by a car horn and a yeehaw]
🎧 [recording light clicks off]
Oscar pulled off his headphones with a sharp exhale. “You cannot keep flirting during ad segments.”
You were already halfway into his seat, grinning. “You say that like I haven’t been doing it for six months.”
He gave you a look. “Yeah, and my media team keeps sending me PowerPoint decks titled ‘Tone It Down: A Crisis Timeline.’”
“You wanna tone it down?” You leaned closer. “Tell that to your face next time you look at me.”
Oscar blinked. “What does that even mean—”
You just smiled and reached over to poke his cheek. “Exactly.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” you said, smug, “you let me steal your post-race hoodie.”
“That was my favorite one,” he muttered.
“It smells like jet fuel and ego. I treasure it.”
“God help me,” Oscar mumbled under his breath.
“Hey,” you said, head tilted, voice teasing, “if God wanted to help you, He wouldn’t have let you fall for a stock car gremlin with a podcast mic and no boundaries.”
He sighed. “The mic isn’t the problem. The boundaries are.”
“You say that—” you leaned in again, voice dropping “—but you never tell me to stop.”
There was a quiet beat. Then, soft and simple, Oscar said, “No. I don’t.”
A pause settled between you.
“Wanna get takeout before the airport?” you asked, your voice gentler now.
Oscar didn’t even look up—he was already unlocking his phone. “I ordered from McDonald's ten minutes ago.”
You blinked. “You knew I’d ask.”
“I always know.”
@ wheelfightclub
“You cried when we watched Cars” — I need this embroidered on something. Possibly a straitjacket.
@ quadlock4life
This is the most compelling slow burn enemies-to-lovers storyline since 2012 Tumblr. Thank you for your service.
@ fanficfuel
I fear what AO3 is going to look like after this episode. I truly do. (also please DM me if you know who wrote the vampire AU 👀)
@ dragstripdaydreams
Honestly, I’m just here for the accidental flirting. It’s the best part of any sport.
@ burnoutracer
The way they try to roast each other but end up sounding like a couple arguing over takeout is peak content.
@ checkeredflagchaos
If the internet had a NASCAR-F1 romance novel genre, this would be the bestseller.
@ pitlaneparadox
Me after every episode: “Do they hate each other or are they secretly in love?” Still no answer.
The phone buzzed for the seventh time in as many minutes.
Oscar glanced at it, face-down on the table beside a crumpled napkin and the remnants of a half-eaten protein bar. Another group chat lighting up — probably the one Lando renamed #QuadCockBlocked after episode nine. He didn’t check. He already knew what they were saying. He could feel the memes forming like storm clouds.
Across from him, you were scrolling too, thumb moving at the same lazy pace you always used when chaos hit. You thrived in it. Bathed in it. Surfing the tsunami of your own media disaster, as his PR manager once put it.
“Fan edit dropped yet?” you asked, not looking up.
Oscar groaned. “You mean the one where I’m a vampire and you’re the forbidden werewolf I crash into at Silverstone?”
You looked up then, eyes sparkling. “Oh my god, that one’s live?”
“I saw it this morning. It had a soundtrack.”
You leaned forward, elbows on the table, suddenly invested. “What song?”
He deadpanned, “Hozier. Obviously.”
You grinned like Christmas came early. “So good for us.”
“No. No, see, that’s the problem. You say stuff like that and then people think we’re—”
“—Into each other?” you cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Oscar. Babe. We are.”
He rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. “That’s not the point.”
“That's literally the point.”
Oscar leaned back in his chair with a resigned exhale, rubbing a hand over his face. “My media team is going to have a stroke. The Reddit thread about the episode already has fan theories with source citations. Citations.”
You reached across the table and stole a fry off his plate with zero remorse. “Do they at least have the vampire lore right this time?”
Oscar gave you a look. “You mean aside from saying I feed on high-octane tension and post-race adrenaline?”
“So... yes.”
He threw a napkin at you. You caught it midair and bowed like it was a trophy.
You tucked the crumpled napkin into your hoodie pocket like it was sacred, like it belonged in a shrine next to Oscar’s used gloves and a signed die-cast model of his McLaren. Which, incidentally, you owned. Unironically.
“You’re a menace,” he muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.
Outside, the café windows buzzed with a low autumn light, soft enough to blur the faces of fans still trying to pretend they weren’t taking photos. It was getting harder to be subtle in public—not because of the fame, but because of the dynamic. The line between banter and betrayal-of-contract was so blurred it might as well be skid marks on a wet pit lane.
Oscar tapped his phone once, scrolled through his notifications, then groaned again. “We’re trending.”
“What now?” you asked, half-chewing the fry you’d stolen.
He turned the screen toward you. A screenshot of a Reddit post, 12k upvotes in under an hour.
[r/formulafiction]
Title: “They’re not acting. They’re just bad at hiding it.” Okay but hear me out—this week’s podcast episode has at least four unscripted slips, including the “that’s why I love you” comment at 36:14, which they didn’t cut. I am begging someone with media literacy to explain how this isn’t a soft-launch of a hard launch.
You tilted your head. “Okay, but like. They’re not wrong.”
Oscar stared at you. “You want us to soft-launch on Reddit?”
“Not on Reddit. Just... in spirit. Through vibes.” You popped another fry into your mouth and shrugged. “We’ve done worse.”
“Name one thing worse.”
“You let me call Max Verstappen a yogurt cup with anger issues live on mic and didn’t cut it.”
Oscar paused. “Okay. Yeah. That was bad.”
“Exactly. So what’s a little accidental confession compared to that?”
He looked at you for a beat too long. Like he was weighing something. Or bracing for it. Then he said, slowly, “My team’s gonna want damage control.”
You shrugged. “Then give them damage to control.”
“Is that seriously your solution?”
You leaned across the table, close enough that he could smell your shampoo—whatever weirdly specific blend of adrenaline and peppermint you always wore. “Oscar,” you said, voice low. “I watched a Twitch stream edit of you getting out of a race car in slow-mo to the Twilight soundtrack. Nothing we say can out-weird the internet anymore.”
He blinked. “Was it good?”
You grinned. “Oscar. It had transitions. It had lens flares.”
He dropped his face into his hands.
“Okay,” he said finally, sitting up straight and wiping both palms down his thighs. “So what’s the plan?”
You tilted your head, faux-innocent. “Plan?”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “You always have a plan. Usually one that makes my publicist cry.”
“Technically,” you said, plucking another fry off his plate, “my plan is to keep being my charming self while you slowly stop pretending you’re not into it.”
He blinked. “You’re deranged.”
“And you,” you said, waving the fry like a wand, “are complicit.”
Oscar opened his mouth, presumably to argue, then immediately closed it again. He sighed. Then—God help him—he smiled.
And that’s when your phone buzzed.
You picked it up lazily, thumb dragging across the screen. Your expression didn’t change—at first. But then something shifted. A flicker of mischief. You turned it toward him wordlessly.
A post. Not even two minutes old.
@ formulaunhinged 📸 Just spotted these two at a café in Monaco. Tell me why this looks like a scene from a rom-com where the racer boyfriend tries to stay grumpy but keeps smiling anyway??
Attached: a zoomed-in candid. Oscar, mid-smile. You, elbow on the table, smirking at him like you already knew how the photo would look.
Below that: Top comment:
@ 8188shipper
I fear they’ve reached the “sharing fries = soft launch” stage of the parasocial pipeline. Godspeed, PR.
Oscar looked at the photo. Then at you. Then at the fry still dangling between your fingers.
He took it.
A beat passed.
“I’m not smiling,” he said, unconvincing.
You grinned. “You are.”
He chewed. Swallowed. “That picture makes it look like we’re—”
“Dating?” you offered.
Oscar gave you a look. “Domestic.”
You blinked. “Worse.”
He nodded gravely. “Much.”
The buzz returned—your phones lighting up again, almost in sync. New mentions. New screenshots. TikToks already stitching the candid with audio from last week’s podcast.
Oscar didn’t even bother checking this time.
He just leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and said, “Okay. Hypothetically. If we were going to hard launch—”
“—We’re not,” you interrupted, teasing, but your heart skipped anyway.
“Hypothetically,” he repeated, ignoring you. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to choose the moment, instead of letting Reddit beat us to it?”
You squinted at him. “Oscar Piastri. Are you suggesting we coordinate our chaos?”
“I’m suggesting,” he said, deadpan, “that if I’m going down with this ship, I’d like at least some input on the soundtrack.”
You stared at him for a moment, dead silent. Then leaned back, slowly, theatrically, folding your arms like you were weighing a multi-million dollar strategy decision.
“Alright,” you said at last, tone mock-serious. “Contingency plan: hard-launch, but make it look like an accident.”
Oscar raised a brow. “Isn’t that just our entire brand?”
“Exactly.” You smirked. “Leaning in is free press. Might as well aim the chaos.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and looked out the window like he couldn’t believe he was entertaining this. Like he hadn’t already signed the waiver on your mutual derangement months ago.
You reached for your phone, unlocked it, and began tapping with purpose.
“What are you doing?” he asked, already wary.
“Drafting the caption.”
Oscar blinked. “Caption for what?”
You tilted the screen so he could see. It was a photo of them. A selfie of the two of them on a winter trip and slapped it into an Instagram post draft with an empty caption field waiting to be filled.
“Absolutely not,” he said, immediately. “No way. You’re not posting that.”
“Too late,” you said, fingers still moving. “I’m in the zone now. Give me five seconds and a Taylor Swift lyric and I’ll have your fanbase in emotional shambles.”
He tried to lunge for your phone, but you pulled it back with an expert lean and stuck your leg out under the table, using his own race instincts against him.
“Let me help,” he said, giving up on the grab and narrowing his eyes. “If we’re actually doing this—hypothetically—we’re doing it right.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You have a caption in mind?”
Oscar hesitated. Then said, cool as hell: “Strategic alliance. Signed in fries.”
You nearly dropped the phone.
“Jesus,” you muttered, “you’re so lucky I’m already in love with you.”
He froze for half a second too long.
“…Hypothetically,” you added, voice softer this time. Less teasing. Still playful, but—
Oscar’s gaze didn’t move.
And then: “You’re not gonna delete that from the caption now, are you.”
You grinned like a fox. “Absolutely not.”
He rolled his eyes again—out of habit more than irritation—but didn’t say anything when you tapped Post.
Just sat there while the likes rolled in, fast and furious. Notifications lighting up both your phones like warning lights on a failing engine.
Oscar’s phone vibrated its way halfway across the table like it was trying to escape the consequences of your mutual recklessness.
He didn’t stop it.
Instead, he reached for your iced tea and took a sip like the situation demanded hydration and not, say, a fire extinguisher.
You checked the post again. Already at 43,000 likes and climbing. Comments rolling in like a live reaction thread to a Netflix drop.
@ gridwivesclub
if this is PR, it deserves an Emmy. if it’s real, i need a moment. like. to scream into a pillow. or twelve.
@ f1femslashfic
THEY’RE EITHER DATING OR THIS IS THE MOST ELABORATE METHOD ACTING SINCE THE BEAR
@ lando_n_is_crying
lando’s gonna be so annoying about this i just KNOW it
You refreshed. The top comment had changed.
@ girlmathpitwall
They posted a couple trip photo with a cryptic caption and didn’t clarify anything. That's a HARD launch. full send. DRS wide open. God bless.
Oscar stared at the screen like it owed him money.
You looked up from your phone with a wolfish grin. “So. Should we go dark now?”
“What, like drop this and disappear?”
“Exactly. Let the internet spiral.”
“That's evil,” Oscar said flatly.
You nodded. “That’s the vibe.”
He didn’t say no.
Instead, he reached for the last fry, held it up between two fingers like an offering. “If this ends in a press conference where Emma has a breakdown on live TV, I’m blaming you.”
“She already yells in bullet points,” you said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
He raised both brows. “You really want me to answer that?”
“Nope,” you replied, snatching the fry from his hand and popping it in your mouth. “Not when I’m winning.”
Your phone buzzed again—this time, with texts from Lando.
Lando Norris 🧃
bro. Bro. BRO. What the ACTUAL hell did i just witness Are you both INSANE My timeline is BLEEDING vibes and I was NOT emotionally prepared
Oscar read it, sighed like a man personally victimized by his teammate, and locked his phone.
“He’s spiraling,” he said.
You looked up, unbothered. “He always spirals. It’s his brand.”
Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he was physically restraining the urge to agree too enthusiastically.
“I bet he’s already screenshotting it for his private story with the caption ‘i hate them but like...i get it.’”
Oscar winced. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Your phone buzzed again.
Lando Norris 🧃
If Emma calls me for backup i’m faking a concussion tell Oscar his future children owe me a karting scholarship for the stress i endure
You showed him the message.
Oscar blinked. “Children?”
“Oh, he’s spiraling deep.”
Oscar took a breath. “Okay, but we should text Emma. Just to get ahead of it.”
You made a pfft noise. “She’s already looped into twelve crisis meetings and a damage-control email thread with Zak, the FIA, and possibly the Pope.”
He gave you a look.
You grinned. “Fine. I’ll text her something reassuring.”
You didn’t.
Instead, you sent:
Don’t worry we didn’t say technically that we’re dating just, you know, emotionally, spiritually, and via fries Tell Zak he still gets his good boy points for Oscar not swearing in public mostly
Oscar leaned over to see the screen. “You’re going to give her a heart attack.”
“She’s survived Lando in a bucket hat phase. She’s strong.”
Another buzz.
Emma - PR Queen 👑
Do not speak to me unless it’s through your lawyers or a shared Google calendar invite I swear to god if either of you go on TikTok tonight I will drive to Monaco and cut the wifi myself also how the hell did this post hit 60k in under 5 minutes Stop being hot in public
Oscar blinked. “Did she just call us hot?”
“She did. She’s broken,” you said solemnly. “We’ve broken Emma.”