#Oscar Piastri

[norrisleclercf1]

They laugh at our trauma

[thundress]

Everyone get sat for Absolute Cinema tomorrow.

[ef-1]

George watching Oscar and Lando race: why didnt you T-bone him?

Lando: [chokes]

Help!!!!!!!!

[deadpoets]

OSCAR PIASTRI One Year On

[mrsfancyferrari]

Sleeping Medicine

Summary: Oscar always gets the maximum sleep needed, thanks to his warm and cuddly girlfriend but what happens when you go back to uni?

Song: Thinkin Bout You ‧ Frank Ocean

Taglist: @dtsyoongs

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.2k

MASTERLIST - F1

The hushed hum of the McLaren Technology Centre was a familiar symphony to Oscar Piastri, a backdrop to endless hours of simulation, debriefs, and training.

Yet, no matter how demanding his days, he always returned to a sanctuary where sleep came as naturally as breathing. That sanctuary was you, his unbelievably warm, astonishingly cuddly girlfriend.

You were his human weighted blanket, his personal white noise machine, his ergonomic pillow all rolled into one. Your presence beside him in bed wasn’t just comfort; it was a physical manifestation of peace.

Your arm draped across his chest, the soft rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo – these were the lullabies that lulled Oscar into the deepest, most restorative sleep of his life.

He’d wake most mornings before you, the sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across your face. He’d lie there, just watching you, the quiet contentment settling deep in his chest.

Your hair splayed across the pillow, a soft exhaled sigh from your lips. Sometimes, he’d gently untangle a strand of hair from your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, feeling the steady beat of his own heart, grateful for this quiet, uncomplicated peace.

Because of you, Oscar always clocked his maximum eight, sometimes nine, hours. He’d bounce into the MTC each morning, alert and focused, his mind a steel trap, his reflexes sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.

His engineers often remarked on his consistent energy, his uncanny ability to absorb complex data even after gruelling race weekends.

He just smiled, knowing his secret weapon wasn't some cutting-edge sports science or a special diet, but the soft, warm body curled beside him each night.

But then, the summer break ended. Your university called, pulling you away from the quiet suburban house you shared, back to the bustling campus life, the shared kitchen, and the towering piles of textbooks.

The goodbye had been bittersweet, a lingering hug at the train station, a promise to call every night, to visit whenever possible.

You’d tried to sound strong, to reassure him, but a strange tremor in his hand as he squeezed yours had hinted at something deeper.

The first night alone was a rude awakening. Oscar had tried to replicate the conditions. He’d stolen one of your favourite hoodies from the laundry basket, pulling it close, inhaling its faint, lingering scent.

He’d even tried to arrange the pillows around himself in a way that mimicked your presence. It was futile. The bed felt vast, cold, empty.

He tossed and turned, his mind racing, replaying scenarios from the last race, drafting strategies for the next. The silence of the house, usually a comfort, now felt oppressive, amplifying every tick of the clock.

He finally drifted off sometime after 3 AM, only to wake feeling heavy-lidded and sluggish. The usual morning energy was absent, replaced by a dull ache behind his eyes.

He poured himself a strong coffee, dismissing it as a one-off.

The next few days didn't improve. He was irritable in debriefs, his concentration wavering during simulator sessions.

He found himself hitting the wrong buttons on the steering wheel more than once, his reaction times noticeably slower. His engineers, typically stoic, exchanged concerned glances.

"Everything alright, Oscar?" his race engineer, Tom, asked after a particularly sloppy sim run where he’d spun out on a virtual Silverstone. "You seem… a bit off your game."

Oscar forced a smile. "Just a bit of jet lag, mate. Long week." He knew it was a lie. He hadn't left the country in days.

Weeks blurred into a hazy succession of sleepless nights and draining days. Oscar tried everything. Blackout blinds transformed his bedroom into a cave.

He meticulously followed a wind-down routine: no screens an hour before bed, a warm bath, herbal tea. He even tried listening to ambient noise tracks – rain sounds, forest sounds – but they only made him miss the soft cadence of your breathing more acutely.

The cumulative sleep deficit began to wreak havoc not only on his performance but on his entire demeanour. He was perpetually tired, a dark smudge under his eyes that no amount of concealer could truly hide.

He’d snap at his trainer for minor things, his usual patience worn thin. The media, ever watchful, started to pick up on it. Whispers circulated about a "sophomore slump," a loss of confidence.

During a Thursday press conference before the Singapore Grand Prix, a journalist, emboldened by the speculative buzz, aimed a direct question.

"Oscar, you've had a strong rookie season, but your recent performances seem to have dipped. Is there a particular issue you're struggling with, perhaps outside the car?"

Oscar felt a flush creep up his neck. He stammered, searching for an answer. "No, not at all. Just… navigating a tough patch. We're working hard internally." Inside, a desperate voice screamed, It's because I can't sleep! She’s not here!

He called you every night, of course. Your voice was a balm, a temporary comfort. But he censored his struggles, always painting a picture of competence and control.

"Yeah, practice was good, just a few tweaks for tomorrow," he’d lie, when in reality he’d nearly binned the car twice. You, however, had a sixth sense. "You sound tired, Oscar. Are you sure you're getting enough rest?" you'd ask, your concern palpable even through the phone line. He’d brush it off, promising to catch up on sleep.

The breaking point arrived after the Japanese Grand Prix. It had been a disaster. He’d qualified poorly, struggled with pace in the race, and finished outside the points, a truly uncharacteristic performance.

Back in his hotel room, the adrenaline of the race slowly draining, he felt a crushing exhaustion like never before. He lay on the crisp, white hotel sheets, staring at the ceiling, the room spinning slightly from fatigue.

He tried to close his eyes, but his mind refused to shut down. Hours passed. The sun began to peek through the curtains, casting a sickly grey light.

"That's it," he muttered to the empty room, pushing himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He couldn't go on like this.

His career, the very thing he'd dedicated his life to, was suffering. And it all came down to one simple, undeniable fact: he couldn't sleep without you.

He called Mark Webber, his manager, early that morning. Mark, usually calm and composed, listened intently as Oscar, voice cracking, laid bare his predicament. "I… I just can't sleep, Mark. Not properly. Not without her. Everything feels wrong."

There was a long silence on the other end. Then, Mark’s voice, surprisingly gentle. "I understand, mate. It happens. We all have our anchors. What do you need to do?"

"I need to see her," Oscar said, the words a desperate plea. "I need to go to her. Just for a night, or two. Before the next race. I don't care, I just need to sleep."

Mark, ever the pragmatist, was already thinking logistics. "Alright. There's a short break before Qatar. We can get you on a private jet. Tell me where she is."

It felt absurd, flying across a continent just for a good night's sleep. But as the jet touched down in the UK later that week, Oscar felt a flicker of hope he hadn't experienced in weeks.

He grabbed a taxi, clutching a small duffel bag, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Your university accommodation was an uninspired brick building, row upon row of identical windows. He found your flat number, his throat suddenly dry. He knocked, a soft, tentative rap.

The door swung open, and there you were, a surprised gasp on your lips, a textbook clutched in one hand.

Your eyes widened, then filled with a mixture of disbelief and pure joy. "Oscar? What – what are you doing here?"

Before you could finish the sentence, he pulled you into a desperate hug, burying his face in your neck, inhaling your familiar scent. "I missed you," he mumbled into your hair, the words heavier with unsaid meaning. "I really, really missed you."

Behind you, a figure emerged from the small kitchen area, mug in hand. Your roommate, Chloe, a whirlwind of vibrant hair and sardonic wit.

She stopped dead, her eyes going from your tear-filled eyes to the internationally recognised face of Oscar Piastri.

"Well, well, well," Chloe drawled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, what the Piastri couldn't sleep without."

You pulled back, a blush creeping up your cheeks. "Chloe! This is—"

"Oscar Piastri, yes, I gathered," Chloe interrupted, a smirk playing on her lips. "Welcome to our humble abode, champion. Heard you’ve been having some trouble in the sack." She winked at you.

Oscar, despite his exhaustion, managed a sheepish smile. "Something like that," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

The dorm room was small, certainly not the sprawling master bedroom he was used to. Your single bed looked impossibly tiny.

Chloe's bed was directly opposite yours, separated by a flimsy curtain she sometimes pulled for privacy.

There was a desk overflowing with books, a makeshift wardrobe of hanging clothes, and the distinct scent of instant noodles.

"So," Chloe said, gesturing to your bed, "I gather you're here to... resolve some sleep issues?"

Oscar nodded, his gaze fixed on you. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all, mate," Chloe said, practically vibrating with suppressed amusement. "Always happy to facilitate a good night's rest. Especially when it involves a Formula 1 driver. Just try not to snore too loud, my beauty sleep is precious."

You shot her a warning glare, but a small smile was playing on your lips. You knew how much this meant to him.

Later, after a quick, slightly awkward dinner in the communal kitchen (where Chloe made sure to introduce Oscar to every single person she encountered, much to his chagrin and your mortification), Oscar finally found himself alone with you in your tiny room.

He sat on the edge of your bed, feeling the soft springs, the familiar texture of your duvet. You turned to him, your eyes full of concern. "Oscar, you look absolutely shattered."

He lay down, almost collapsing, pulling you down with him. You curled into him instantly, your body slotting against his as if you were two perfectly shaped puzzle pieces.

Your arm draped over his chest, your head tucked under his chin. He felt the familiar weight of your leg thrown over his. The subtle scent of your skin, the warmth of your body radiating against his, it was like coming home after a long, arduous journey.

A profound sigh escaped his lips, a release of weeks of pent-up tension. He felt the rapid beat of his heart begin to slow, the frantic thoughts in his mind gradually quiet.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his body relaxed. He didn't have to try to sleep; it just came. The world outside the small dorm room faded away, replaced by the comforting cocoon of your embrace.

He was asleep before you could even finish whispering, "Good night, love." Deep, utterly peaceful sleep, the kind he hadn't experienced since you left.

You lay awake for a while, just listening to his steady, even breathing, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

It broke your heart that he’d been struggling so much, yet a part of you swelled with a peculiar kind of pride that your presence meant so much to him.

The next morning, the sun streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Oscar stirred, a slow, languid stretch, before his eyes fluttered open.

He blinked, the room slowly coming into focus, then he turned his head to look at you. You were already watching him, a soft smile on your face.

A genuine, unburdened smile spread across his face, the first one you'd seen in weeks. "Morning," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep. "That was… the best sleep I've had in forever." He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. "Thank you. Seriously."

Just then, Chloe's voice cut through the quiet, ridiculously loud from her side of the room, though you hadn't even heard her wake up. "Well, well, well, Sleeping Beauty has awoken!"

She pulled back her flimsy curtain, a wide grin plastered across her face. "Looks like someone finally got their beauty sleep. Did you snore, Oscar? I could have sworn I heard a McLaren engine revving at 4 AM."

You groaned, pulling the duvet over your head, mortified. Oscar chuckled, a genuine, joyful sound that made your heart sing.

"Aw, don't be shy, lovebirds!" Chloe chirped, getting out of bed and stretching. "It's rather sweet, actually. The mighty Formula 1 driver, brought to his knees by a lack of cuddles."

She turned to Oscar, a mock-serious expression on her face. "So, is this going to be a regular thing? You just pop over whenever you need a human sedative?"

Oscar pushed himself up on one elbow, a sheepish grin still on his face. "If it means not crashing out of Q1, then yes, Chloe, it might have to be."

He looked at you, his eyes full of gratitude and a depth of affection that made your stomach flutter. "I really needed this, you know."

He left later that day, visibly re-energised, the dark smudges under his eyes noticeably lighter, his shoulders less hunched.

His team, utterly bewildered but relieved, noticed the immediate change. His performance curve started to climb again, his lap times dropping, his focus sharper than ever.

Chloe, however, never let you forget it. "So, when's your personal teddy bear visiting next?" she'd tease, or "Heard Oscar had a great race. Must be all that extra snuggle time!"

You'd blush, of course, but deep down, you knew she was right. Oscar Piastri, the fiercely independent, ruthlessly competitive F1 driver, needed his warm, cuddly girlfriend more than anyone knew.

And the best part? He wasn't ashamed to admit it anymore. He'd found his unique secret to success, and it was nestled right beside him, heart to heart. . . .

The initial surge of energy Oscar had gained from his secret university visit had been phenomenal. For weeks, he’d felt sharper, more focused, the familiar dark circles replaced by genuine sparkle in his eyes.

His team, utterly mystified but endlessly grateful, had seen the results: consistent points, a podium finish, even a pole position.

Chloe’s teasing had been relentless, a constant reminder of his “human sedative,” but you’d both laughed, knowing how much truth there was in her jests.

But Formula 1 was a demanding mistress, relentless and unforgiving. The jet lag, the constant travel, the media obligations, the intense pressure – it all chipped away at even the most robust constitution.

Slowly, insidiously, the sleep began to elude him again. The dreamless, profound slumber you provided was replaced by fitful tossing and turning, his mind racing with data points and cornering speeds even in the fleeting moments of rest.

The dark smudges returned, deeper this time, a perpetual shadow beneath his blue eyes. His shoulders started to slump, his usual quick wit dulled by a pervasive weariness.

Phone calls became shorter, his voice laced with an exhaustion that tore at your heart. You were still diligently pursuing your degree, buried in textbooks and assignments, but a part of you was always tuned to Oscar, sensing his struggle from thousands of miles away.

You tried everything you could from afar: late-night calls filled with whispered reassurances, sending him comforting playlists, even compiling a "good sleep" care package with lavender oil and a weighted blanket, knowing full well it was a poor substitute for the real thing.

He’d dutifully tried them all, grateful for your efforts, but the fundamental problem remained. He just couldn’t switch off without you.

The tipping point came during a particularly brutal triple-header. Three races in three consecutive weekends, spanning continents. By the third race, in a humid, bustling Asian city, Oscar was running on fumes.

You watched the qualifying session from your dorm room, a knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach. He was quick, undeniably, but there was a ragged edge to his driving, a lack of that fluid precision that defined him at his best.

He qualified P4, a strong result for anyone else, but for Oscar, who was always striving for perfection, it felt like a concession to his fatigue.

You called him that night, your voice soft with concern. He sounded distant, almost hollow. “I just… I can’t sleep, love,” he’d confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “My brain won’t stop. I lie there and I just feel… wired. And then angry that I’m not sleeping. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“I know, Oscar,” you’d murmured, tears pricking your eyes. “I wish I could be there.”

“Me too,” he’d said, and the profound sadness in that simple phrase had shattered your resolve.

The next morning, driven by an impulse you couldn’t ignore, you booked the first available flight. It was reckless, unplanned, and would certainly mean missing lectures and scrambling to catch up on assignments, but you knew, with a certainty that resonated deep in your bones, that you had to go.

He needed you. He was more than a celebrated athlete; he was your Oscar, and he was hurting.

The journey was a blur of cramped airplane seats, stale air, and a frantic race against time. You landed just hours before the race, bypassed your own exhaustion, and navigated the sprawling, security-heavy paddock with a mix of sheer determination and a little help from a sympathetic McLaren team member you’d often chatted with on FaceTime.

You found yourself waiting, heart pounding, outside his driver’s room. The roar of the engines, the electric energy of the crowd, the frantic pace of the pit lane – it was all a cacophony you barely registered. All that mattered was the man inside.

The race itself was a testament to his grit. He fought tooth and nail, pushing the car, and himself, to their absolute limits. He lost a position early but clawed his way back, making daring overtakes, his focus a laser beam despite his underlying fatigue.

In the final laps, a rival suffered an engine issue, elevating Oscar to second place. A podium finish. A fantastic result for the team.

But as the cheers erupted, as the commentators lauded his resilience, you knew. You knew he wasn’t celebrating. He was just tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

You stood there, your hands balled into fists, watching the telemetry screens, until the race ended.

As the immediate post-race chaos began – the parc fermé, the cool-down room, the media obligations – you saw his engineer, an older, kind man named Mark, direct him away from the immediate media scrum.

Oscar, head down, shoulders noticeably slumping, was guided towards his driver’s room.

This was it.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. You’d arranged it with Mark; he would ensure Oscar came directly here.

And then, the door swung open. He stepped in, his racing suit still damp with sweat, his eyes glazed with the fatigue of the race and the emotional turmoil of the last few days.

He saw you, and the shock hit him like a sledgehammer. You raised your hands up to hug him, and for a split second, he froze, as if you were a mirage, a figment of his desperate imagination.

Then, reality crashed over him like a wave, and his eyes lit up with a joy that seemed almost painful in its intensity.

Oscar didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He just moved. His arms snapped around you, pulling you into a crushing embrace. You melted into his touch, feeling the tremble in his muscles, the racing beat of his heart.

He held you so tightly it was almost painful, but you didn’t mind. It was the first time in weeks you’d felt truly safe. The smell of him – the faint hint of sweat and burning rubber and something uniquely Oscar – filled your nose, and you felt your own heart start to slow.

You could feel the tension bleeding out of him, the tightness in his shoulders loosening as he held you closer, as if you were the anchor keeping him tethered to the world.

He buried his face in your hair, and for a moment, you could almost hear him inhale, as if he was trying to suck in every part of you, as if he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

His breath was hot on your neck, and his fingers dug into your back, leaving little half-moons that you knew would fade into nothingness in a matter of minutes.

The silence between you was profound, filled with unspoken words of love and fear and frustration. The only sounds were the distant murmur of the paddock outside and the steady throb of his heart, which seemed to sync with yours.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, but it felt like an eternity. A beautiful, perfect, endless moment where the world didn’t exist, and it was just the two of you, holding on for dear life.

Finally, Oscar’s grip on you loosened, and he leaned back, his eyes searching your face as if he was afraid of what he’d find.

You gave him a gentle smile, the kind that reached your eyes and promised him everything would be okay. “I’m here, Oscar,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

The relief in his expression was palpable. He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you so much for coming.”

You didn’t respond with words. Instead, you reached up and stroked his cheek, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the coarse stubble.

You felt the shiver that ran through him, the way his body responded to your touch. It was like you were speaking a language that didn’t need words, a conversation that was all about comfort and care.

With a gentle nod, he scooped you up into his arms, as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. You wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling the heat of his body, the solidness of his muscles beneath the fireproof suit.

He carried you to the sofa that was pushed against the far wall of the driver’s room, and you felt the world shift as he laid you down.

The plush cushions enveloped you, and for a moment, you were suspended, floating in the warm embrace of Oscar’s arms.

He sat next to you, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline from the race. You leaned into him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath the layers of fabric.

The room was a blur around you, the only focal point the steady beat that matched your own erratic pulse.

Gently, you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent that was uniquely his – a potent mix of sweat, burning rubber, and Oscar. His skin was warm, the pulse at his throat a comforting metronome to the symphony of his emotions.

His arms tightened around you, one hand moving to stroke your hair, his fingertips tracing the line of your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You sighed contentedly, the sound lost against the thunderous applause from the distant grandstands.

Oscar’s eyes searched yours, a question lingering in the depths of his gaze. "You should take a shower," you whispered, your breath a soft caress against his skin, "but I'm letting you off until after."

A smirk played on your lips, the tension in the room shifting from one of painful longing to one of playfulness. The unspoken understanding passed between you, and his expression relaxed, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a hint of amusement.

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, resonating through his chest and into yours.

He leaned back, his eyes tracing the contours of your face, the smudged mascara, the flushed cheeks. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, catching the slight tremor there. "Until after what?" he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

You leaned in closer, your breath warming his neck, and whispered, "After I make sure you're relaxed enough to sleep." You felt the tension coil in him, the anticipation thick and palpable.

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand cupped the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

His gaze dropped to your lips, hungrily, as if parched. “Promise?” he breathed, his voice a low rumble against your ear, already tilting his head.

“Promise,” you whispered back, a smile spreading across your face, your own heart quickening in anticipation.

Then his lips were on yours, tentative at first, a soft brush, as if he was still testing the reality of your presence. But then, as you responded, as your own lips parted beneath his, the kiss deepened, instantly.

It was hungry, desperate, a silent conversation of weeks of longing and separation compressed into one explosive moment. His mouth moved over yours with an intensity that bordered on ferocity, a beautiful, overwhelming demand for connection.

You met him with equal fervor, your hands finding purchase on his damp racing suit, gripping the thick fabric, pulling him closer even though there was no space left between you.

The kiss went on, and on, a ceaseless exploration. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, then dipped inside, a slow, sensual dance that sent shivers of pleasure cascading through you.

You tasted the subtle salt of his sweat, the lingering metallic tang of adrenaline, and underneath it all, the familiar, intoxicating taste of him.

His hands left your hair, roaming down your back, pressing you tighter, then slipping under your shirt, his warm fingers splaying against your bare skin. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat, absorbed by his lips. Every nerve ending in your body sang.

He broke the kiss for a moment, just long enough to drag in a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed. His chest rose and fell rapidly against yours.

“God, I missed you,” he rasped, the words thick with emotion, a raw confession that tore at your heart.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he found your lips again, the kissing resuming a more frantic pace, as if he worried this moment might vanish.

You kissed him back with everything you had, your hands tangling in his short, damp hair, pulling gently. The world outside the small room faded completely, replaced by the intoxicating sensations of his lips, his hands, the beat of his heart.

The passion was a balm, a powerful antidote to the disappointment and pressure that had been crushing him. With every kiss, every touch, you felt him relax a little more, the deep-seated tension in his body slowly unwinding.

It wasn’t just physical; it was soul-deep, a profound emotional release that you were both desperate for.

He shifted, his body pressing down on yours, as he deepened the kiss, his leg sliding between yours, the bulk of his racing suit a comforting weight.

You whimpered softly, a sound of pure pleasure and relief, fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders. Time ceased to exist.

You moved together instinctively, a rhythm building between you, a silent conversation of need and reassurance. It was a symphony of soft moans, ragged breaths, and the insistent press of bodies seeking solace and connection.

He kissed your jawline, your neck, then returned to your mouth, each kiss deeper, more consuming than the last. You felt utterly consumed by him, by the intensity of his presence, the profound love that flowed between you.

Eventually, the initial fire began to ebb, replaced by a profound sense of peace and exhaustion. The kissing slowed, growing softer, laced with tenderness.

His lips trailed across your cheek, then settled on your temple. He pulled you even closer, tucking your head under his chin, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other cradling your head. Your legs were still tangled together, his heavy against yours.

You could feel the profound exhaustion radiating from him now, the adrenaline finally giving way to bone-deep fatigue. He was practically asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, his breathing evening out to a slow, steady rhythm.

You lay there, on top of him, feeling the comfortable weight of his body, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. The faint scent of racing fuel and rubber still clung to his suit, but it was now mixed with something else, something soft and warm and uniquely him.

You drifted off to sleep to the steady thrum of his heart, feeling utterly safe, utterly loved.

Hours later, you stirred, a soft groan escaping your lips as you stretched. Oscar shifted beneath you, a low murmur in his throat, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

You blinked, slowly taking in the dim light filtering through the drawn blinds of the driver’s room. You were still on the sofa, tangled together, your heads pillowed on each other, his racing suit still on.

You felt sticky with sweat – your own, and his – and the lingering scent of the race.

Oscar’s eyes fluttered open, a sleepy, contented haze in their depths. He blinked at you, a slow smile spreading across his face, a stark contrast to the despair you’d seen there hours ago.

"Afternoon, sleepyhead," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

You giggled, a soft, happy sound. "Or evening, more like. We're both incredibly sweaty now."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I suppose that means the shower is no longer optional." His eyes held a playful glint, a silent invitation.

You nudged him gently with your elbow. "Definitely not. But for once, I think we both need it. Together."

He didn't need any more convincing. With a groan of protest, more from the discomfort of his suit than from reluctance, he slowly untangled himself from you, then reached out a hand, pulling you up.

You both stretched, limbs stiff, but a profound calm had settled between you. The disappointment of the race lingered in the background, a faint echo, but it was overshadowed by the warmth and comfort of your shared intimacy.

He led the way, his hand taking yours, his stride still a little heavy with fatigue but now imbued with a quiet strength. The small en-suite bathroom was just a few steps away.

The door opened to reveal a simple, functional space, but right now, it felt like another sanctuary. You stepped in together, the humid air of the small shower stall already welcoming.

As the warm water began to stream down, washing away the sweat, the lingering tension, and the last vestiges of the day's disappointment, you leaned into him, feeling the last knots of stress unravel.

His arms wrapped around you under the spray, and you pressed your face into his wet shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of soap and fresh skin.

Here, in the quiet intimacy of the shower, with his arms around you, everything felt right again. The world could wait. . . .

[princemick]

[OSCAR] belgian grand prix 2025 // pre race

[foxxear]

Charles Leclerc: [Gets pole] The grid: [Dies]

[ablogtocheck]

Their expressions...hahaha...

Source: Alamy

[joeyfromthetrack]

Soft Spot- OP⁸¹

Oscar Piastri x reader

Summary: Oscar and his girlfriend both find themselves experiencing some intense baby fever.

Contains: long time established relationship, intense baby fever, fluff

The moment she cradled her newborn niece in her arms, Oscar knew he was in trouble.

He watched from the other end of the sofa, arm stretched out lazily across the backrest, pretending to scroll through his phone while his eyes stayed locked on her. The way she smiled, that slow, warm one that only came out when she was truly full of joy , it lit something up in him. Something soft. Something that ached in the nicest way.

“You want to hold her?” she whispered, rocking the tiny bundle gently.

Oscar sat up. “She looks cozy right where she is.”

She laughed, and his heart thudded. “That’s code for ‘I’m scared I’ll drop her.’”

He gave a half-smile. “A little. She’s so small. Like, impossibly small.”

“Babies tend to be.”

She returned her attention to the sleepy infant, carefully brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead. Oscar leaned in just slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he watched. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes said everything.

The baby fever hit them like a freight train, though neither dared to bring it up.

A week later, at the Dutch Grand Prix, it got worse.

Oscar had qualified second, right behind Lando, and the energy in the paddock buzzed with anticipation. She’d flown in that morning coming from a trip with her friends, and he lit up the second he spotted her by his driver room, hood up, travel-worn but glowing.

"Look who made it," he grinned, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Just in time to see you on the podium," she replied, eyes gleaming.

"Manifesting?"

"Manifesting."

They didn’t have long together before he had to focus again, but she stayed close, slipping through the crowd with the ease of someone who'd been in the paddock a hundred times before. She stopped by to see Lando too, who introduced her to his brother and his baby boy, not more than a few months old.

And just like that, the freight train rolled through again.

Lando's brother handed the baby off with practiced ease, and there she was again, arms full of softness, cooing in that gentle voice Oscar had heard before, the one that made him feel like the whole world was slowing down. The baby fussed a little, then melted into her chest like she was the safest place on Earth.

Oscar, in full race suit and holding his helmet under one arm, watched from the background. His face said nothing. His eyes said everything.

Later that afternoon, Oscar passed by on his way back from briefing and saw her. There it was again, that look on her face, all softness and instinct. She rocked the baby with a natural rhythm, one hand behind his little head, her mouth moving gently as she said something only he could hear.

Oscar slowed.

She glanced up and saw him. Her eyes lit up, but she didn’t say anything. Just smiled.

He offered a crooked grin and a small wave, then disappeared into the garage, his heart tapping at the walls of his ribs like it wanted out.

After the race, he finished third, not his best but that's okay. They all gathered in the paddock lounge. She was there again, baby in her arms, legs tucked beneath her on the outdoor couch. She looked like she belonged that way.

Oscar walked over, pulling off his cap, sweat-slick hair sticking to his forehead. “You and him again?”

She looked up, amused. “We’re bonded now.” She grinned up at him. “You say that like you don’t want a turn.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So you do want a turn?”

Oscar hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck like he was calculating the risks of being emotionally compromised in public.

“I mean... if he’s in a good mood…”

Lando’s brother looked up from where he sat with his wife and gave a knowing smile. “He’s in a great mood. Just fed, just burped. It’s prime baby time.”

Her hands were already outstretched. “Here. Support under the arms. He likes to lean into your chest.”

Oscar looked at his girlfriend like is this happening? and then carefully stepped forward.

She passed the baby over with practiced confidence, and Oscar took him with the same caution he brought into Eau Rouge. The baby settled in quickly, face smooshed gently against Oscar’s chest, one tiny fist resting on the black fireproof material.

He looked stunned.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Wow. He’s so… warm.”

She let out a quiet laugh beside him. “That’s the first thing you notice?”

“Well, yeah. He’s just... alive, you know?”

She smiled and moved closer, watching Oscar instinctively rock side to side like she had earlier. His hands were gentle but steady, one tucked beneath the baby’s back, the other resting protectively near his head.

“I think he likes you,” she murmured.

Oscar looked down at the baby again. The little guy blinked up sleepily, then promptly closed his eyes, clearly at peace.

“I think I like him too,” Oscar said. His voice was quieter now. Almost reverent.

She watched him, heart caught somewhere between awe and ache. He looked different like this. Not in a dramatic way, still Oscar, still hers, but... softer. A little stunned by what he was holding, by how natural it felt. His fingers traced small, careful patterns along the edge of the baby’s onesie. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“You’re really good with him,” she said.

He looked up. “You think?”

“I know.”

He smiled, slow and unguarded.

Then Lando returned with a smirk. “Alright, alright, give my nephew back before you imprint on him.”

Oscar snorted but didn’t move right away. “Can’t I keep him for one more minute?”

"No mate, I want my nephew back." Oscar reluctantly handed the baby back over, his girlfriend beside him with a little pout on her face.

Later that night back in their hotel room, laying in bed together he asks: “Do you want kids?” he asked, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

She blinked, then looked over at him. “Wow. You’re really going in.”

He gave a soft laugh. “You don’t have to answer. I just—”

“No,” she said gently, “I do.” She shifted so she was facing him more fully. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Oscar’s expression flickered, relief? Gratitude? Something like wonder.

“I always figured I did,” she went on, “but lately... watching my sister's baby. Holding your friend’s nephew. Watching you today...”

He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Baby, your face when you were holding that baby. You looked like you were already thinking about building a crib in your garage.”

Oscar laughed, flushing slightly. “I wasn’t that obvious.”

She tilted her head, smiling. “You kind of were.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about it more lately too. Not just today. Or last week. Just… in general.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, the weight of honesty comfortable between them.

“I liked seeing you with them,” he said finally. “You looked so natural. It made something in me go… yeah, I want that.”

She nudged her knee against his. “You would be a really good dad, you know.”

His smile faltered for a second, but only because it was softening. “You really think so?”

“I do.”

Oscar leaned back, letting out a breath like he hadn’t realized he was holding it. “We don’t have to rush into anything.”

“No,” she agreed, “but it’s good to know we’re… somewhere on the same page.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Same page sounds good.”

There was another pause. Not awkward. Just full.

Then she reached over, took his hand, and threaded her fingers through his.

“You should probably practice diaper changes first,” she teased.

He groaned dramatically. “Deal breaker. I’m out.”

She squeezed his hand. “Too late.”

He glanced sideways at her, eyes warm. “Yeah. It is.”

They didn’t map out timelines. They didn’t start throwing around baby names or imagining nurseries or texting their families. But there was something solid now, something certain. A quiet kind of knowing.

And that night, as they curled into each other in their hotel room, no race buzz, no baby nearby, just the sound of city traffic humming faintly outside. Oscar wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and said into the dark:

“I’d like that someday. With you. You'd be the best mum baby.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered, “I love you.”

That was enough.

For now.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

[chromemclaren]

oscar in those viaplay interviews about him qualifying p2

[papayasector]

q: i know the conditions changed; oscar's just told me that it affected him. how did they affect you? lando: the same! i was on track at the same time... in the same car

[angelanddeanmon]

if my team fucked me over with strategy in imola and Hungary, thereby having my teammate and direct competition place higher than me, and my team didn’t defend me to get a smaller penalty in silverstone when they fought tooth and nail to get a nothing penalty for said teammate who crashed into me in Canada, all while I was the championship leader, I simply would torch the mtc to the ground

[pppuri]

hungary race week

[pucksandpower]

Fallen Angel

⟡ Chapter 4

⟡ Oscar Piastri x Sainz!Reader

You were supposed to be a good girl, a quiet wife, a family secret. Instead, you ran straight into the arms of the one man they loathe — and he’s not letting you go.

Warnings: religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, purity culture, and possessive behavior

Series Masterlist

In Madrid, the Sainz estate is quiet in the way hurricanes are quiet before they start tearing tile off rooftops. It’s 7:42 a.m., and the kitchen smells like espresso and dread.

Carlos Jr. stands with one hand braced on the marble counter, the other holding his phone to his ear. His jaw ticks. His eyes are fixed on the garden, where the staff are pretending not to notice that the youngest Sainz sibling hasn’t been seen in nearly three days.

“She’s not at the university,” he says flatly into the phone. “They don’t know anything. And I checked with the friends she is allowed to have. Nothing.”

There’s a long pause. Then a low, commanding voice on the other end of the line — your father.

“Check again,” he says.

Carlos’s tone tightens. “We’re past that.”

Another pause. Then a sigh. A heavy one. The kind only Carlos Sainz Sr. can produce — weighted down with rage and righteousness.

“I will not be humiliated,” he says. “Not by her. Not like this.”

Carlos exhales slowly through his nose.

The door to the study opens. One of the estate’s assistants, red-faced and visibly shaken, walks in with a tablet clutched to her chest. She hesitates. Then swallows and holds it out.

“There’s something … circulating online,” she says.

Carlos takes it.

One tap, and the screen fills with a low-resolution image: the unmistakable blur of you at an airport, shoulders hunched, scarf pulled tight around your head. Not enough to identify you outright, but enough for someone who knows what to look for.

@F1Tea2.0 Looks like Carlos Sainz’s little sister is trying to fly under the radar. 👀 Sources say she boarded a flight to Nice yesterday morning. Anyone in Monaco seen her? 64.1k likes. 9.2k reposts.

Carlos stares at the screen. Then closes the tab, jaw so tight it clicks.

“We have to get ahead of this,” he mutters.

Your father’s voice buzzes in his ear. “Has Álvaro seen it?”

“He’s already called me twice.”

“Well,” the elder Sainz says grimly, “call him back.”

***

He does.

Later that morning, in a private conference room above an immaculate law firm, Carlos and your father sit across from Don Álvaro de la Vega, the very wealthy, very furious thirty-eight-year-old businessman you were supposed to marry.

“Disgrace,” he says flatly. “This is a disgrace.”

He’s handsome in that shiny, soulless way some men learn from business school and expensive haircuts. His suit is double-breasted. His cufflinks glint.

“You’ll understand, of course, that I cannot go through with this union,” he says to your father. “Not after the rumors. Not after this public flight. What message does that send to my partners?”

“She’s not running from you,” Carlos snaps.

“Doesn’t matter,” Álvaro replies, smooth as oil. “The implication is there. I am a man of influence. My reputation is my currency.”

Carlos glances at your father, whose face is carved from stone.

“We’ll clean it up,” your father says.

“How?” Álvaro asks. “She’s already disappeared. I’ve already had clients calling, asking whether the story is true. My ex-wife saw the airport photo on Facebook.”

Carlos leans forward. “We’re preparing a statement.”

“You should have already released one.”

“We don’t rush.”

“I don’t care how you do things in your family,” Álvaro says coolly. “But my family does not tolerate public humiliation.”

Carlos bristles.

Your father raises a hand to calm him. Then turns to Álvaro with the smile of a man who has pulled bigger scandals out of tighter corners.

“We’re saying she’s on spiritual retreat,” he says. “Carmelite convent in Florence. Private. No press. She’ll be unreachable for weeks.”

Álvaro raises an eyebrow. “A nunnery.”

“Exactly,” your father replies. “Silence. Reparation. Chastity.”

Carlos speaks through his teeth. “We’ll say the engagement is postponed, not cancelled. That she was overwhelmed. That she asked for time to prepare her soul.”

Álvaro says nothing for a moment.

Then nods once, brisk and cold.

“You’ll say she begged for absolution.”

Carlos hesitates. “She didn’t-”

“She ran,” Álvaro snaps. “You want me to stick around, this is the story: she begged for forgiveness and went to purify herself. End of discussion.”

Your father leans back in his chair, face smooth. “We’ll make it work.”

Álvaro stands. “Do that.”

He adjusts his cufflinks. “And if she comes back and refuses to proceed, I expect compensation. Publicly. I won’t have my name dragged through the mud for a girl too naïve to understand her place.”

Carlos stands too. “Watch how you talk about my sister.”

Álvaro pauses.

Smiles.

“Maybe you should’ve taught her how to behave, then.”

Carlos lunges — only barely pulled back by your father’s hand.

“Not here,” he says under his breath.

Álvaro steps out the door without a backward glance.

***

Back at the estate, the spin begins.

The press release is drafted in your father’s office, reviewed by a crisis PR firm based in Barcelona. Your mother makes notes from the couch, rosary twined between her fingers like a worry stone.

Carlos sits behind your father’s desk, editing punctuation and muttering under his breath.

“‘Our beloved daughter, Y/N, has chosen to step back from her public duties to engage in a period of spiritual reflection in Florence.’ That’s vague enough.”

“Don’t name the convent,” your mother adds.

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

Carlos reads the next line aloud. “‘She is grateful for the support of her family and asks for privacy during this sacred time of discernment.’”

Your mother frowns. “Should we mention the engagement?”

“No,” your father says immediately. “Let them ask.”

Your mother nods. “If the world believes she’s praying, they’ll stop looking.”

Carlos’s phone buzzes again. Another DM. Another screenshot.

Another fan account speculating.

He tightens his grip on the phone.

He doesn’t tell your father what the fans are starting to suggest. Doesn’t say that the Monaco location tag has started to circle. That some people think they saw a flash of your face in a photo of a certain McLaren driver’s building, taken by a nosy paparazzo three nights ago.

He doesn’t say that Oscar Piastri’s name is now floating, dangerously, next to yours.

Not yet.

Instead, he looks up from his screen, voice quiet but sharp.

“When she comes back,” he says, “we take her phone. We lock everything down. We remind her who she is.”

Your father nods once.

“God is merciful,” your mother murmurs.

And the silence that follows is thick as incense.

***

It starts with a knock on Oscar’s front door. Not a loud one. No banging. Just a sharp, practiced knock — the kind that doesn’t ask, but expects.

Oscar’s barely pulled on a hoodie before he opens it.

Mark Webber stands on the other side, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, coffee in one hand and a look on his face that reads I’m trying not to lose it but you’re testing me, mate.

“Morning,” Oscar says cautiously.

“Can we talk?” Mark says, already pushing past him.

Oscar steps aside, rubbing at his eyes. “Sure. Let me just-”

“Don’t need an invitation,” Mark cuts in, already walking toward the living room.

You hear the voice first.

From the guest room, you freeze — half-dressed, hair wet from a shower. You creep toward the door, crack it open a centimeter. Just enough to see them.

Oscar trails behind the older man with a kind of weary acceptance.

“Is this about the new Quad Lock contract?” He asks, tone casual.

“No,” Mark replies coolly. “This is about the fact that you’ve gone completely fucking insane.”

Oscar sits down on the edge of the couch. “Great.”

Mark stays standing. “Want to explain why I got three separate messages from people in the building asking who the girl is in your elevator security footage?”

Oscar doesn’t blink. “That’s supposed to be private.”

“Nothing’s private when you’re you.”

Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “She’s a friend.”

Mark arches an eyebrow. “You don’t have friends, Oscar.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean that in the nicest way. You have teammates, engineers, rivals. You don’t do friends.”

Oscar doesn’t argue. He just watches him, quiet, like he’s waiting for something.

Mark sighs. Sits. Lowers his voice.

“You’re hiding someone in your penthouse. You’ve skipped sponsorship negotiation Zooms twice. You’re ignoring calls. And now you’re being talked about by some anonymous fan on an F1 gossip account.”

Oscar’s face twitches. “They don’t know anything.”

“They know enough.”

There’s a pause.

Then Mark tilts his head. “Is it true?”

Oscar doesn’t answer.

“That it’s Carlos Sainz’s sister?”

Still nothing.

“Jesus,” Mark mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “Tell me you haven’t completely lost the plot.”

Oscar sighs, slow and deep, then gets up and walks to the kitchen.

“Want coffee?”

Mark blinks. “Mate-”

“She showed up in the middle of the night,” Oscar says, voice quiet. “Panicked. No idea where to go. She barely even knows how to book a hotel room.”

“So you opened the door?”

“I almost didn’t.”

“But you did.”

Oscar pours two mugs. Slides one across the counter. “You would’ve too.”

Mark gives him a hard look. “She’s not some random girl. She’s a Sainz. That family? They eat people alive.”

Oscar leans on the counter. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

Oscar doesn’t respond.

Mark takes a slow sip of coffee. Watches him carefully. “What’s your plan here? You can’t keep her hidden forever.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“No? Because it sure looks like you’re harboring a runaway nun.”

Oscar smirks despite himself. “She’s not a nun.”

Mark squints. “Is that a smile?”

Oscar shrugs.

Mark leans forward. “Do you even like her?”

There’s a beat.

Oscar thinks about you sitting on his balcony at sunrise, praying with your fingers knotted in that rosary like a lifeline. About your wide eyes when you first saw the harbor. The way you move around his home like it might collapse if you breathe too loud.

He thinks about how soft your voice goes when you say his name.

And how hard it was to look away from you last night, fast asleep under the blanket he draped over your shoulders.

“She’s … different,” Oscar says finally.

Mark groans. “That’s what all of them want you to think.”

“She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, because she all but grew up in a fucking convent.”

Oscar gives him a look. “You’re really not helping.”

“Fine.” Mark puts his mug down. “Fine. Let’s say I believe you. That she’s not some rich girl playing games. Let’s say she really ran, and you’re the first door she found.”

Oscar nods.

“Then you need to understand what this looks like from the outside.”

“I do.”

“Do you?” Mark stands again, serious now. “Because you’ve got a brand. A very valuable one. The clean-cut golden boy. The quiet Aussie with discipline and class. You’re leading the championship. You’ve got sponsors fighting to slap their name on your car. You think they’re gonna love hearing you’re hiding the most conservative family in Spain’s baby girl in your penthouse?”

Oscar says nothing.

Mark lowers his voice. “You think they’ll believe she’s just a guest?”

Oscar meets his eyes. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

But Oscar’s already walking away, voice calm but steely. “She didn’t ask me for anything. She didn’t even want to stay. She just didn’t know where else to go.”

Mark stares.

Oscar turns. “She’s not stupid, Mark. She’s just … untouched.”

There’s a quiet pause as that word hangs between them.

Then Mark speaks, almost softly. “And what happens when she gets hurt?”

Oscar’s mouth tightens. “I won’t let her.”

Mark studies him for a long moment. Then sighs. “Okay.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“I’ll run interference. No names, no details. But this thing has an expiration date, you understand?”

Oscar nods.

“One week,” Mark says. “Then you figure out what the hell you’re doing.”

***

You hear the door close a few minutes later.

You tiptoe down the hallway, wrapped in another one of Oscar’s hoodies that hangs off your frame like a borrowed identity. When you find him, he’s sitting on the floor of the living room, back against the couch, eyes closed.

You hesitate. “Was that … your manager?”

Oscar nods without opening his eyes.

“He’s angry,” you say quietly.

“He’s always angry.”

You cross the room and sit beside him, hugging your knees. “Did I ruin something?”

Oscar finally opens his eyes. Looks at you.

“No,” he says.

“Are you sure?”

He nods again.

You stare out the window, where the sky is starting to bruise orange.

“I can leave,” you offer.

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know that too.”

Silence stretches for a while.

Then, softly, Oscar says, “He thinks I’m making a mistake.”

You glance at him. “Are you?”

Oscar looks at you for a long moment. Then smiles — barely. Just a twitch of the lips.

“Probably.”

You smile too, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You’re still scared. Still unsure if this is mercy or madness.

“Why are you being nice to me?” You ask.

Oscar shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You look down at your bare feet. “People usually want something in return.”

“I don’t.”

“You sure?”

He turns to you, serious now. “I’m not like them, remember?”

You nod. “You’re not.”

Oscar leans his head back against the couch. “I don’t believe in a lot. Not God. Not fate. Not all that family crap. But I believe in loyalty. And when someone shows up at your door, broken and scared …”

He trails off.

Then says, quietly, “You let them in.”

You blink fast, something tight clenching behind your ribs.

You don’t say thank you. It feels too small.

Instead, you ask, “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

He shakes his head.

You lean against the couch too. Let the silence settle around you.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in days, your heartbeat slows.

[osctwink]

lando’s girlfriend right there