i hope this doesn’t find you
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being teammates with oscar piastri is not easy. not when you’ve hated each other since you were children. though, the secret of staying out of drama is writing all your petty frustrations into email drafts. most of the aggressive emails are targeted to the one and only teammate, oscar piastri. nothing is held back in the emails, because nobody will ever read them… that is, until someone sends them out.
starring 𖦹 oscarpiastri x mclarendriver!reader
warnings 𖦹 reader misinterpreting advice, fluff/crack-ish
word count 𖦹 4.1k+ & social media au
oscarszn radio 𖦹 this is a looooooong one… enjoy!! my first smau! lowk never doing it again… unless i have enough time on my hands.
masterlist
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zandvoort 2025, round fifteen
drafts (103)
from: [email protected]
subject: i hope this doesn’t find you #79
dear oscar,
i hope this doesn’t find you. but on the off chance it does somehow reach your inbox, i need you to know that your behavior in the garage today was absolutely UNACCEPTABLE. honestly, i hope you rot along with this in my drafts folder until the end of time.
you sit there at the engineering table with that completely blank, smug face acting like you didn't purposely squeeze me toward the pit wall during the restart. you knew exactly what you were doing. you ruined my race, you ruined my mood, and then you had the audacity to ask if i wanted to share the telemetry data.
with absolute hatred,
y/n
stepping out of the air-conditioned motorhome and into the damp zandvoort air, your expression was practically thunderous.
to the passing photographers and the fans leaning over the paddock barriers, it was easy to assume you were just furious about the race. you were in your second season in f1, still fighting to establish yourself as a permanent threat, while oscar, now in his third season, was carrying himself with the calm, immovable confidence of a driver who had already secured his place at the top.
but as you rounded the corner toward the media pen, you spotted him.
oscar was already standing against the advertising board, smoothly answering a dutch reporter's question. he looked entirely unbothered, his hair slightly damp from the post-race sweat, his mclaren cap tilted perfectly.
as if sensing your glare, his eyes drifted over the reporter's shoulder. he caught your gaze.
instead of looking away, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was the exact same look he used to give you on the f2 podiums when he’d managed to finish one step higher. this time, he was mother-freaking first.
your grip tightened on your water bottle. email number eighty was going to be a long one.
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the week leading up to monza had been blissfully uneventful. between traveling and keeping your head down, you’d mostly spent your time hanging out with alexandra. and charles… but the second you stepped into the paddock on friday morning before free practice one, the vibe shifted instantly.
as you walked toward the mclaren motorhome, you realised with a creeping sense of dread that everyone, from the mechanics to the hospitality staff, was actively avoiding your gaze. mechanics suddenly found the floor incredibly interesting, and engineers turned on their heels the moment you neared.
this is bizarre, you thought, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of your neck
you hurried into your driver’s room to drop off your kit bag, but before you could even unzip it, the door swung open. zak walked in, his expression a mix of profound exhaustion and deep concern.
he didn't waste time with small talk, confirming the absolute worst of your suspicions before you could even ask.
“i think we need a meeting... in light of recent events,” zak began, crossing his arms. he looked at you with a heavy sigh. “specifically, a meeting regarding how one should conduct oneself through digital communication channels.”
you were utterly, in the nicest way possible, fucked.
your stomach didn't just drop; it felt like it had plummeted straight through the floor of the motorhome and into the monza tarmac.
zak didn’t look angry, which was almost worse. he just looked like a principal who was incredibly tired of dealing with high school drama. gesturing toward the engineering office at the back of the building, he said, “take a seat. oscar’s already inside.”
oscar. you walked into the room on autopilot, your knees feeling like jelly. sitting at the table was oscar, looking entirely too calm for someone who had presumably just read eighty manifestos detailing exactly how much you loathed his breathing patterns. he was twirling a team-branded pen between his fingers, his eyes tracking you as you slipped into the chair opposite him.
zak shut the door, sealing the three of you in suffocating silence. he walked over to the main monitor on the wall, tapped his tablet, and brought up the screen.
there it was. subject line: zak, you suck. in all its formatting glory.
“so,” zak started, leaning against the edge of the table. “it has come to my attention that a series of rather…” zak cleared his throat. “aggressively worded emails have been circulating. is that correct?”
you stared at the floor, wishing the floorboards would part and swallow you whole. you couldn't even look at oscar.
“zak, i can explain,” you stammered, the heat radiating from your face so intensely you were sure it was registering on the team's telemetry. “it was just a draft folder. a venting mechanism. i never, ever intended to actually send them to anyone. especially not... him.”
zak raised a hand to calm you down, letting out a soft chuckle. “first things first, breathe. your archive is safe. our IT department has already locked down the local servers, scrubbed the backup loop, and deleted the files permanently. i want to reassure you that none of these emails or the internal drama is ever going to be leaked to the media. i’ve personally ensured it. your secret is safe with us.”
you let out a massive breath of relief, but zak wasn't finished.
“however,” zak continued, his voice taking on a firmer, authoritative edge. “we cannot have this level of underlying friction in our garage. it's unhealthy, and it's going to cost us on track. so, to ensure we get past this, i am instituting mandatory, structured bonding sessions for the two of you. from next race until the season finale in abu dhabi, you will be doing everything and anything with each other, to make sure you’re ‘properly’ bonded. am i clear?”
the roll of a pair of eyes and a sigh was all zak received as a response.
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the first mandatory bonding dinner in monza was a masterpiece of heavy, suffocating silence. you sat across from oscar in a quiet Italian restaurant, both of you staring at your plates of carbonara. “so,” oscar finally spoke up, a dry, classic deadpan in his voice. “did you write an email about how much you hate the way i breathe, or should i expect that in the sequel?” you rolled your eyes, but the ice was officially cracked. after a grueling race where he finished p3 and you took p2, you actually managed to debrief with him without wanting to throw a carbon fiber wing at his head.
baku 2025, round seventeen
singapore 2025, round eighteen
yourusername thank you singapore!!
liked by mclarenf1, oscarpiastri, and others
oscarpiastri You pushed me hard out there today 🫡
yourusername Just keeping ya honest, Piastri
mclarenf1 Good job team 💪💪
formulaone A 1-2 PODIUM FOR MCLAREN
oscarszn im terrible at comments bro
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austin 2025, round nineteen
but the time the paddock arrived in texas, the awkwardness had evolved into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm, until zak decided to intervene with a new teammate-bonding exercise.
“okay, wait. repeat that again… this is what kind of yoga?”
zak had come up with the brilliant idea of couples yoga. you and oscar were both shaking your heads profusely, staring down at the twin foam mats laid out in the center of the motorhome.
“isn’t this absolutely fantastic!” zak muttered, his hands clasped together with a level of enthusiasm that was entirely, undeniably fake.
“trust me, i’m just as thrilled,” you said, pulling off your team hoodie and tossing it onto the bench beside the mats.
oscar let out a long, heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “genuinely though, zak, out of all things… why couples yoga?”
“this program is designed to build trust, balance, and alignment between two bodies,” a serene, digitised voice suddenly chimed in, echoing from a video projected onto the far wall. zak flashed you both a quick, unapologetic thumbs-up before slipping out of the room, leaving the two of you alone with the screen.
“let us begin in an easy position facing your partner,” the instructor on the video directed.
“wow,” you deadpanned, dropping cross-legged onto your mat. “zak really went all out for this.”
oscar sat down opposite you, his face a picture of pure, stoic suffering.
the video continued, its soothing background music swelling. “look into your partner's eyes. inhale together for a count of four…”
you locked eyes with oscar. for three seconds, the silence was intense; the kind of hyper-focused staring you usually only saved for the starting grid. then, you smirked.
“you blinked first,” you yelled, in triumph. “i win.”
oscar stared at you, his expression utterly blank. “i regret agreeing to this.”
“now, sit back to back,” the virtual instructor cooed. “interlace your arms and twist gently, each taking turns to deepen the stretch.”
you both shifted, pressing your backs together. shuffling around until your spines aligned, you reached back and threaded your elbows through his.
as oscar leaned forward to give you the first stretch, you braced yourself. “this sounds like a setup to a wrestling move.”
the virtual instructor's voice drifted back over the speakers, entirely unbothered by your commentary. “now, transition smoothly into a partner double plank. one partner lies down, while the other places their hands on their partner's ankles and extends into a plank directly above them.”
you unlinked your arms and looked at the screen, then at oscar. “absolutely not. I am not letting you hover over me like a human drone.”
“i’m the one with the higher podium percentage this season,” oscar pointed out, his voice returning to that flat, competitive cadence. “logivally, I should be the base.”
“fine. get down there, piastri.”
oscar rolled his eyes but got into position, gripping your ankles as you carefully stepped into a plank over him. it required a ridiculous amount of core strength and stability, and within ten seconds, your muscles were trembling. your face was inches from his, the sheer absurdity of the situation catching up to you.
“don’t drop your hips,” oscar warned, though his own voice sounded slightly strained.
“i’m trying! you’re shaking!” you laughed, your core completely collapsing under the weight of the giggles.
with a sudden loss of balance, you tumbled sideways off him, landing in a tangled heap of limbs on the foam mats. rolling onto your back, you clutched your stomach as you laughed at the ceiling. oscar stayed flat on his back, staring up, but his face had gone completely flushed, a faint hint of panic darting across his eyes.
“you okay?” you asked, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him.
“yep. brilliant,” oscar said quickly, his voice a full octave higher than usual. He didn't move an inch, keeping his arms rigidly at his sides. “just... experiencing the ultimate alignment of body and mind. like we’re supposed to.”
“why are you sitting so stiffly?” you frowned, watching him carefully adjust his posture while remaining pinned to the mat. “did you pull a muscle?”
“no. everything is entirely functioning. too functioning,” he muttered under his breath, clearing his throat awkwardly as he stared straight ahead, completely avoiding your gaze.
“oscar, you look like a statue. did your back lock up?” you reached out to pat his arm, but he flinched away slightly.
“i am completely fine,” he insisted, his deadpan delivery cracking under the weight of sheer embarrassment. “i just think... the session is over. I need to go... clean up and whatever. immediately.”
you blinked, utterly confused as he practically scrambled backward off the mat, grabbing his team hoodie and wrapping it tightly around his waist before making a swift, remarkably rigid exit out the door.
it took a solid three seconds of staring at the empty doorway for you to realise what had just happened. a slow, mischievous grin spread across your face.
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las vegas 2025, round twenty two
you fought hard to a double-podium finish that night.
the neon lights and freezing midnight temperatures of las vegas felt surreal, but the bond between you and oscar was becoming the most grounded part of your weekend.
standing on the podium for the australian national anthem, shivering in your race suit, oscar stepped slightly closer to block the wind.
"don’t get used to it," he whispered, but he didn't move away.
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abu dhabi 2025, round twenty four
the season finale under the yas marina floodlights brought a heavy sense of finality. on sunday night, after the post-race debriefs and the end-of-season team photos were wrapped up, you and oscar found yourselves sitting on the roof of the mclaren hospitality unit. the yachts in the harbour gleamed against the dark, warm water.
"we actually survived the mandatory bonding," you said, dangling your legs over the edge.
"barely," oscar replied, though there was a soft smile on his face. he leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. "you know... my parents had sent me to europe to support everything. my karting career and my dreams of reaching f1. i was twelve, living in a boarding school in england, not knowing if i’d ever make it or see my family again."
you looked over at him, surprised by the sudden vulnerability. "i know how that feels," you murmured. "i was thirteen. i remember crying in a tiny hotel room in italy after a terrible karting weekend, wondering why i was sacrificing my entire childhood for a sport that might never love me back. it’s a lonely way to grow up."
"it is," oscar agreed softly, turning his head to look at you. "i think that's why i was always so difficult with you. you were the only one who kept up. you made me feel like i had to be perfect, because if i wasn't, you'd take my place."
"i was just trying to survive, oscar."
"me too," he said quietly, his eyes lingering on yours.
that night, something had definitely shifted.
yourusername McLaren 🔛🔝
Thank you for an incredible year! Big thanks to the papaya family and everyone supporting me. See you all next year 💪
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author has restricted comments
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off-season 2025-2026
the transition from the warmth of abu dhabi to the cold reality of the winter break was jarring. on the flight back from the final race, you couldn't stop replaying that night on the roof of the mclaren hospitality unit.
the vulnerability oscar had shown; sharing how lonely it was growing up in a boarding school in england, admitting that his competitiveness came from a place of survival, had completely rewired how you saw him.
for seasons, he had been the stoic, unreadable rival. now, he was just... oscar. and that made things incredibly complicated.
back home, you spent the first week of the off-season staring at your phone, opening your chat with him only to close it again. the easy, comfortable rhythm you’d built during the mandatory bonding sessions felt fragile, like a temporary truce that might dissolve the moment the pressure of a new season began. you wanted to reach out, but every time you drafted a text, it felt too vulnerable, too soft.
you needed to text alexandra.
the team-bonding winter retreat rolled around faster than you would have liked. taking her advice, you arrived at the swiss alps determined to change your approach. but your sudden shift from sharp-tongued rival to incredibly sweet teammate threw oscar completely off guard.
when you complimented his ski jacket and its matching pants, he simply blinked, offering a tense, hesitant “thanks.” the confusion in his eyes was obvious, but you kept pushing, determined to change things.
the breaking point arrived mid-week. zak had organised a team excursion up the mountain, but due to a massive logistical mix-up at the base station, you and oscar ended up shoved into a small, enclosed gondola lift alone together, suspended high above the snowy pines.
the silence inside the cabin was deafening. You swallowed your nerves, deciding this was the perfect, quiet moment to finally confess your feelings.
“why are you doing this?” oscar said, as he finally broke the silence. his voice uncharacteristically sharp as he leaned against the glass, looking right at you. the calm, cool driver was gone, replaced by someone who looked deeply defensive.
you blinked. “doing what?”
“being... overly nice,” he said, shaking his head. “it’s jarring. you’re bringing me coffee, you're constantly checking in on me, you're complimenting me and the things i wear. i know what you're doing, and i want you to stop."
“i’m just trying to be a good teammate, oscar. i wanted to—”
“no, you're pitying me,” he snapped, his jaw clenched as he stared you down. “because of what i told you in abu dhabi. you think because i grew up lonely and i struggled to get here, i need you to be soft on me. or worse—” he let out a harsh, dry laugh, “you're acting like this because you think i have some pathetic crush on you and you're trying to let me down easy. i don't need your charity. i don't need you to feel sorry for me.”
the accusation hit you like a physical blow. the vulnerability you had spent weeks building up instantly hardened into pure, white-hot anger.
“pitying you?” you yelled, your voice echoing in the small cabin.
“are you actually serious? i have been trying so hard to show you that i care, and you turn it into something ugly! you always assume the absolute worst of my intentions because your own ego can't handle someone genuinely trying to be nice to you!”
“i’m being realistic!” he retorted, his voice rising.
“no, you're being a jerk!” you snapped, crossing your arms and turning your back to him, staring furiously out the opposite window. “don’t worry. i won't bother with you ever again.”
when the gondola finally clicked into the top station, you pushed past him the second the doors slid open. for the rest of the winter, the silence between you was absolute. no texts, no calls, and certainly no emails.
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australia 2026, round one
the paddock in melbourne was tense with the arrival of the brand-new car regulations. the silence between you and oscar in the garage was deafening. you didn't look at each other during the track walks, and the engineering meetings were conducted with a freezing professionalism that made the mechanics walk on eggshells. in free practice you finished p5; he finished p6. neither of you said a word.
qualifying did nothing to ease the tension. you qualified ahead of him, and during it, the team had to explicitly tell you both over the radio to maintain positions to avoid a collision. when oscar tried to speak to you in the media pen afterward, you simply walked past him, your jaw clenched tightly.
albert park was alive with the roaring home crowd, all of them chanting oscar’s name. but on lap fourteen, the cheers turned into a collective, horrified gasp.
going through the high-speed chicane of turn nine, oscar’s rear tire clipped the turf, sending his mclaren spinning violently into the concrete barrier at nearly two-hundred km/h.
the impact was deafening, showering the track with carbon fiber.
you were three cars behind him. the moment you saw the wreckage of his car, your heart stopped. the rivalry, the winter silence, the anger. it all vanished in a fraction of a second.
“is oscar okay?” you demanded over the radio, your voice cracking with a panic you couldn't suppress. “confirm. is he out of the car?”
“we’re checking. hold on,” your engineer replied.
seconds felt like agonizing hours. “is he okay?!” you yelled again, your vision blurring slightly as you drove past the debris under the double yellow flags.
“oscar is out of the car. he’s walking to the medical car. he’s okay.”
you let out a ragged breath, blinking away tears of pure relief.
after the race, you bypassed the media pen entirely, ignoring alexandra’s calls, and marched straight into your driver's room.
soon after you entered, a knock came on your door.
“come in!” you called out softly. through the crack, you saw oscar’s face make an appearance.
"you're an idiot," you said, your voice shaking as you shut the door behind you.
oscar looked down. the cool, unbothered facade he usually wore was completely gone. he looked tired, bruised, and strangely vulnerable. “i hear you asked about me on the radio.”
"of course i did," you snapped, crossing your arms to keep your hands from shaking.
"did you think i wanted you to die? what are you even doing here? shouldn’t you be in the medical centre?"
oscar sighed, lowering the ice pack. he looked down at his hands.
“because i wanted to talk to you,” he confessed quietly. “we spent years hating each other. it was easy. it was safe. but after abu dhabi... after we talked... i couldn't stop thinking about you. i never really, stop thinking about you. and when we started arguing during the trip, i thought...”
he paused, swallowing hard, before finally looking up to meet your eyes.
“i thought you only tolerated me because zak made you. i thought you pitied me because you, of all people, started being nice to me,” he let out a self-deprecating, quiet laugh. “i thought there was a chance you— nevermind, it’s quite stupid. but it seemed too unlikely. you’ve hated me since we were kids.”
you stared at him, completely stunned. the silence in the small driver’s room stretched between you, but the old, icy tension was gone. instead, the air felt warm, thick, and charged with a truth that had been quietly building up through eighty chaotic emails, endless flights, and seven long years of racing alongside each other.
“you really are a menace,” you whispered. a small, watery smile broke across your face, cutting through the heavy atmosphere.
you took a slow step forward, closing the distance between you on the narrow team-issued couch until you were standing right in front of him.
“i didn't pity you, oscar. and i definitely don't hate you.”
oscar looked up at you, the guarded look in his eyes melting away. a soft, genuine smile; the kind he rarely showed the cameras, finally returned to his face.
“so…” he murmured, his voice laced with a sudden, quiet hope. “do you like me?”
you rolled your eyes, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. instead of answering with words, you reached down, your fingers curling into the collar of his fireproof undershirt to pull him gently but firmly downward.
when your lips met his, the lingering doubts of the last seven years seemed to vanish. he let out a soft, relieved laugh against your mouth, reaching out with his uninjured arm to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him to close every remaining inch of space.
“i think that’s my answer.”
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inbox (1)
from: [email protected]
subject: i hope this does find you
dear y/n,
the truth is, i never actually hated you. it was quite the opposite.
back when we were in f3, i still remember the first time i ever saw you in the paddock. your energy, your demeanor, and honestly, just the sound of your voice completely captivated me from the very beginning. i was always too shy to say or do anything, but i was always paying attention.
the moment those eighty-something emails landed in my inbox, they became the absolute highlight of my week. i read every single one of them until i practically had them memorised. because that is what you do to me. how you see me and how you treat me affect my entire being. even back then, i was already completely in love with you. but i’m glad i have you now.
love,
oscar
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