mrspiastri - Tumblr blog

mrspiastri · 12 days ago

Text

✩ please, stay 💬

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

cw: angst, like a lot more than normal, cyber bullying, eventual fluff

wc: 8.6k words

an: clubbed 2 reqs together, thank u anons 😘😘 also this hasn’t been proofread sorry okay it’s 1:33 am

The Shanghai paddock buzzed with energy on Thursday, the air slightly heavy with the morning mist and the promise of a competitive weekend. Oscar, despite running on fumes and four hours of sleep, had his game face on as he stepped out of the McLaren hospitality alongside Lando and Y/N.

His grip on the McLaren media backpack bag was tight, jaw clenched as they approached the long line of journalists eagerly waiting behind the barrier ropes.

He hated media day. Especially after a bad weekend. But he knew the drill: keep it professional, answer the tough questions, and spin it positively. His thoughts were partly with Y/N, who was chatting with one of the engineers. She always grounded him, even in the chaos of a race weekend.

Her hand in his was the only part of the morning that felt even remotely tolerable. The cameras clicked around them, media whispering and murmuring as they passed. Y/N didn’t particularly dislike the attention, but she certainly didn’t enjoy being under the spotlight all the time.

She and Oscar had always kept their relationship mostly private. A few photos on social media here and there. A quick kiss after a good race. A hug when emotions were high. That was it.

She had insisted on coming to China with him. Not just because she missed him, but because she had seen the way he carried the weight of Melbourne.

Back home, after finishing ninth, Oscar had come back to the garage a shadow of himself. She remembered how he had sat on the edge of the couch, still in his racing suit, staring at nothing. She had knelt in front of him, placing her hands gently on his knees, and waited until his eyes finally met hers.

“I messed it up,” he had said in a voice so quiet it barely counted as speech.

“You didn’t,” she had replied softly. “You did everything you could. It was just one of those races.”

He had shaken his head, shoulders tight with frustration. “It was my home race. I wanted to do better. For the fans. For the team. For me.”

“For me too?” She asked with a small, teasing smile, hoping to soften him.

That finally cracked something in him. A tired, crooked smile appeared as he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against her shoulder. “Especially for you.”

She had held him then, arms wrapped tight around his neck, and whispered over and over again that one race did not define him. That no matter what happened on the track, she was proud. Always proud.

It was that moment that convinced her. He wasn’t going to carry that weight to China alone. She booked the flights the same night, packed her bags, and told him she’d be by his side the entire weekend.

Now, in Shanghai, she kept to the background as he peeled away to join Lando for media day. She stayed behind in hospitality, chatting with a few friends on the team, hoping to keep things light. But as always, the world outside was not so kind.

🪻🪻🪻

The first few interviews were easy enough, with questions about Shanghai’s new surface, expectations for the weekend, and how the car would be during FP1 tomorrow. He was hitting autopilot responses now. But then came a smug, grinning reporter from a lesser-known tabloid outlet, known more for drama than actual journalism.

“Piastri,” the man said, microphone up. “Tough result in Melbourne. 9th place at home. That must’ve stung.”

Oscar nodded politely. “Yeah, not the result we were aiming for. We had the pace but just couldn’t get back after I went onto the grass. But that’s racing.”

The reporter raised an eyebrow and then added, “You think… maybe distractions had something to do with it?”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t respond right away.

“I mean, your girlfriend flew in, right?” The man continued, voice oily with insinuation. “She’s been showing up more and more lately. Some fans are starting to think it’s not helping. Maybe taking your focus off the job.”

Oscar’s jaw flexed. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

The reporter chuckled. “I’m just saying, she’s a pretty thing to look at. Sure. But is she worth all the bad results?”

For a second, everything froze.

Oscar’s mouth tightened. His eyes darkened like storm clouds, and the calm, media-trained exterior shattered.

“Excuse me?” He snapped, stepping slightly forward.

The reporter held up his mic again, clearly fishing for a reaction. “I mean, pretty girls at the track are never great for drivers trying to keep their head in the game—”

“Say that again,” Oscar interrupted, voice low and sharp. Lando instinctively stepped to the side, sensing where this was going. A few other drivers nearby turned their heads.

“You’re implying that because my girlfriend came to support me at my home race, I underperformed?” Oscar’s tone was controlled, but there was fire under it now.

The reporter started to speak, but Oscar cut him off. “Let me tell you something—Y/N has been nothing but supportive since the day I met her. She knows this sport. She respects it. And she respects me. She’s not a distraction; she’s a damn anchor when I need one.

He was properly heated now, stepping forward again, voice raised enough that a couple of PR people from the team began edging closer, unsure if they needed to intervene.

“She came halfway across the world to be there for me, and you’ve got the audacity to sit there and suggest that her presence is a problem?” Oscar shook his head, scoffing bitterly. “Maybe if you spent more time reporting on racing and less time gossiping like a tabloid, you'd know what you're talking about.”

The reporter, clearly not expecting that level of pushback, looked momentarily stunned. Oscar gave him a last disgusted look before backing off.

“We’re done here,” he said curtly and handed the microphone back to the media coordinator. “Get someone with actual respect for the sport next time.”

As he stalked off toward the garage, Lando caught up beside him, raising an eyebrow. “Well, remind me never to insult Y/N.”

Oscar didn’t reply immediately, but his jaw was still tight.

“That guy was out of line,” Lando added more seriously. “Good on you for saying something.”

Oscar sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m just tired of it. She doesn’t deserve that kind of crap. Not from fans, not from the media.”

Back in hospitality, word of the confrontation was already making the rounds. When Y/N heard about it from a comms intern, her stomach sank a little. But she wasn’t surprised. She knew Oscar; he didn’t explode often, but when he did, it was always for a reason.

🪻🪻🪻

Y/N could hear Oscar’s voice rising, defending her, angry now, but her mind had already spiralled. The rest of the world faded. The murmuring voices blurred. She couldn’t even process what Oscar was saying back. All she could think was, Oh my god… what if he’s right? What if I’m hurting his career just by being here?

By the time Oscar ended the interview, storming off in a fury, she had already turned around and started walking. Fast. Her vision blurred as she walked blindly past the garages, past staff and crew and mechanics, not even registering when someone from McLaren called her name. Her steps quickened, heart hammering in her ears.

She needed to get away. Now.

The hotel room was dim and quiet when she finally stumbled in. She barely managed to close the door behind her before her knees gave out and she collapsed onto the edge of the bed. Her hands were shaking. Her thoughts came in waves, harsh and cruel and unforgiving.

What if they were right?

She had seen the tweets. Read the comments. “She’s just a distraction.” “Why does she need to travel with him all the time?” “He was better off before she started showing up every weekend.” She had brushed them off, of course. Told herself the internet didn’t matter.

But hearing it out loud, from an actual reporter, in front of other journalists, other drivers, it was different.

She curled in on herself, tugging her knees to her chest, burying her face in her arms. Her mind raced with memories of Melbourne, how she had been there in the paddock, how she had hugged him after the race, and how she’d posted a photo of them with a soft caption trying to cheer him up. Had that made it worse? Had she taken the spotlight off him, even for a second?

Her heart cracked.

You’re just a pretty thing to look at. But are you worth all the bad results?

The words echoed like poison in her skull.

Tears spilt down her cheeks before she could stop them. She sat there in silence, sobbing into her sleeves, her breaths turning uneven and shaky. Guilt and shame wrapped around her like a storm.

What if she really was a liability? What if her presence made the team doubt Oscar’s focus? What if sponsors noticed? What if it snowballed into something bigger?

She didn’t want to be the reason he struggled.

She had come to China to support him, not to become a talking point or to become blame.

Biting down on her trembling lip, she reached for her phone with unsteady fingers and unlocked it. The screen was full of unread notifications, mentions, news alerts, and a few messages from McLaren people probably wondering where she went. She ignored them all.

Her fingers hovered over Oscar’s name in her contacts. She wanted to call him. She wanted him to tell her the reporter was wrong, that none of this was her fault.

But some cruel voice inside her whispered, And what if he doesn’t? What if part of him thinks the same thing and just won’t say it?

She dropped the phone onto the bed and curled into herself again, face buried in the pillow now, muffling her cries.

She felt like she was drowning in doubt.

Was she really right for someone like Oscar?

Or was she just the pretty girl in the background, taking up space in a place she didn’t belong?

The tears didn’t stop for a long time.

🪻🪻🪻

Media day wrapped later than expected.

The sun had started to dip over the Shanghai skyline, casting long shadows across the paddock. Oscar’s jaw still ached from how tightly he had been clenching it. Every step away from that interview felt heavier than the last. He’d done his duties. Answered the rest of the questions. Forced a few half-hearted smiles. But all he could think about was Y/N.

She hadn’t been in the crowd when he walked off. Not in hospitality either. He scanned the usual corners she liked to hang around, by the coffee machine and near the engineers' table, curled up in a chair scrolling through strategy sheets for fun. But she was nowhere.

“Hey,” he asked one of the McLaren comms managers. “Have you seen Y/N?”

The woman blinked. “She was near the media pen for a while. But… I think she left.”

“Left?” His stomach twisted.

“Yeah. I think she went back to the hotel. She looked pretty upset.”

Oscar didn’t wait for anything else.

He was already moving, phone in his hand, unanswered texts lined up on the screen, the car waiting at the paddock exit. His chest was burning, not from exhaustion anymore, but from fear.

The hotel room door was unlocked. That was the first sign something was wrong.

Oscar stepped in quietly, scanning the space. The lights were dimmed, curtains pulled tight, the air still and heavy. His heart sank the moment he saw her by the closet.

Y/N stood barefoot in one of his shirts and a pair of shorts, her hair pulled back messily, suitcase open on the bed. Her hands moved quickly, folding clothes with frantic precision, like the act of packing fast enough might drown out everything else.

“Y/N?” he said softly.

She flinched like she hadn’t heard him come in. Then she straightened slowly, her back still turned.

“What are you doing?” he asked, stepping closer.

“I’m going home,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar’s blood ran cold. “What? Why?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper on her bag. “Because I need to. This… us… It’s not working.”

Oscar's heart dropped into his stomach. “What are you talking about?” he repeated, louder this time. “Y/N, where the hell is this coming from? You’ve been fine all week—this morning, we were—don’t do this.”

“I can’t stay,” she whispered, eyes on her hands.

“No. No, you don’t get to just decide that. Not like this. Not without an explanation.”

She paused. Swallowed hard.

And then, her eyes lifted to meet his.

“I cheated on you.”

Oscar’s body went still.

For a moment, there was no air in the room. No noise. Just the hum of electricity and the thunderous sound of his heart slamming into his ribs.

“What?” His voice came out like a rasp.

“I cheated,” she said again, more firmly this time. “A few weeks ago. When you were in the factory and I was—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked. “Don’t say it again.”

She dropped her gaze, lips pressed tightly together.

Oscar stepped back like he’d been shoved. His throat burnt. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” she said quietly.

“You are,” he snapped. “You’re lying to my face. I know you. And I know that’s not true.”

Her eyes flickered, pain breaking through her careful mask for a second.

“You’re trying to push me away,” he said, voice rising. “You think if you hurt me enough, I’ll let you go without a fight.”

Her silence told him everything.

He exhaled sharply, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “Jesus, Y/N. Why would you do that? Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s easier this way!” she yelled suddenly, her voice strained and desperate. “It’s easier if you hate me! If you think I’m the villain, maybe you won’t come after me. Maybe you’ll move on and forget I ever—”

“Ever what?” Oscar shot back, his voice cracking.

She couldn’t finish the sentence.

She turned around then, and the sight of her face knocked the wind out of him. Her eyes were red, lashes damp, cheeks splotchy. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

“You shouldn’t have to clean up after me,” she said quietly.

“Y/N—”

She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. “I shouldn’t have come. I thought I was helping, but I’m not. And today proved that.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Yes, it did!” she cried suddenly, her voice cracking under the weight of everything she’d bottled up. “I heard what that reporter said. I heard it all, Oscar. I was standing right there. And you—God, you shouldn’t have had to defend me like that. You shouldn’t have to fight people on my behalf when you have enough pressure on your shoulders.”

Oscar’s chest tightened. “I don’t have to. I want to.”

“But that’s the problem,” she whispered, turning away again. “You’re too good to me. Too loyal. And one day it’s going to cost you.”

“No,” he said, his voice sharper now, cracking at the edges. “No, you don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to stand here and tell me that being with you is some kind of liability. I don’t care what people say.”

“You should!” she shouted, shoving clothes harder into her bag. “You should care! Because they’re right! You’ve worked your whole life for this career, and I am just— I am just some girl who showed up and started taking up space in your world.”

Oscar’s eyes flashed. “You are not just some girl, Y/N.”

She exhaled harshly, dragging her hands through her hair in frustration. “I am the thing people point to when things go wrong for no reason. I am the excuse they reach for when you don’t get the result you deserve. I didn’t come here to make your life harder. I came here because I love you and I wanted to support you. But maybe that was a mistake.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Oscar’s voice was low, angry, barely under control. “You think this is about results? You think I’d trade you for a few extra points on a race weekend?”

“You should!” she snapped. “Because this is your dream, Oscar. This is what you’ve fought for your whole life. I will not be the reason you lose it.”

His voice broke as he stepped closer. “You’re not. Y/N, please. You’re not any of those things.”

She shook her head, blinking hard as her tears began to fall again. “You’ve worked your whole life for this. You’ve sacrificed so much. I can’t be the reason you lose any of it.”

Oscar stood in front of her now, chest rising and falling fast. His hands shook as he cupped her face, forcing her eyes to meet his.

“You are the only person in my life worth fighting for,” he said, voice raw with emotion. “Do you understand that? You—you—are the reason I get through the shit days. The reason I don’t spiral. The reason I feel something when everything else gets too heavy. You ground me. You make me better. Not worse.”

She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks, her hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt.

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” he whispered, tears now burning in his eyes too. “You’re not the thing pulling me down. You’re the only thing keeping me standing.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you fall apart,” she whispered.

“You never have been,” he said. “Not once.”

She was crying openly now, fists clenched around the handle of the suitcase, shoulders shaking. “I love you, Oscar. But I have to do this.”

“No,” he said, voice cracking. “You don’t. Please don’t.”

“It’s the truth.”

“God,” he muttered, tears forming fast now, stinging his eyes. “I would’ve done anything for you. I have done everything for you. And now you’re standing here, lying to my face just so you can walk away and feel better about it?”

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’m so sorry, Oscar. But I can’t be the reason your career goes down. I can’t be the weight that drags you under.”

“You were never the weight,” he snapped, tears slipping free. “You were the only fucking thing keeping me afloat.”

She stood there, trembling, her face crumpling.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “That’s why I have to go.”

“Bullshit,” he spat, breath catching in his chest. “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t leave.”

“I have to,” she said, backing toward the door, eyes spilling over. “Goodbye, Oscar.”

“Don’t,” he pleaded, barely able to breathe now. “Don’t do this. Please.”

But she was already pulling the door open.

And as it shut behind her, Oscar stood there in the middle of the room, gasping for air, eyes burning, heart breaking, feeling like the one thing that made everything else worth it had just been ripped away and taken the light with her.

The click of the latch was the loudest sound Oscar had ever heard.

🪻🪻🪻

The room was silent, but Oscar's thoughts were anything but. He hadn’t moved since the door shut.

Y/N’s scent still lingered in the air. Her hair tie was still on the bed. The mug she drank tea from that morning was still sitting on the nightstand. And the echo of her words—“I cheated on you”—still rang in his head like a cruel joke.

Because she hadn’t.

He knew she hadn’t. He saw right through it, and still, she left anyway. She meant to leave. And what hurt most wasn’t that she’d lied to his face. It was that she’d been hurting and never said a word.

He dropped down heavily onto the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor. He tried to retrace it. The last few weeks. The looks she gave him. The way she clutched his hand after Melbourne, like she didn’t want to let go. The way she smiled for the cameras but looked tired when they were alone.

Why hadn’t he seen it?

Why hadn’t he asked?

Guilt crawled up his spine, sharp and bitter.

He reached for his phone, absently opening Instagram. Her profile was still there, untouched. He tapped on her most recent photo—one of them together in the paddock a few weeks ago, laughing under the sun.

The comments were brutal.

“She’s so fake.”

“Oscar needs to focus on racing and not on his little girlfriend.”

“No wonder he’s underperforming.”

“She’s just using him for the clout & fame.”

“What an attention whore.”

He sat there, reading them all, his stomach twisting. He scrolled further, then switched apps. Searched for her name on Twitter.

And that’s when the true weight of it hit him.

Edits. Threads. Memes. Tweets with tens of thousands of likes tearing her apart for being “a distraction”. People joking that every time she was in the paddock, Oscar qualified worse. People dissecting her outfits and her facial expressions, accusing her of being cold, calculating, and selfish.

One tweet read, “Y/N is singlehandedly ruining his career and smiling through it. What a bitch.”

Oscar felt sick.

He checked TikTok. Searched her name again.

More videos. More hate. People filming her in the paddock, zooming in on her while overlaying sad or ominous music. One video had the caption: “Oscar’s downfall has a name, and it starts with Y.”

And she had never shown him any of it.

Not one word. Not one complaint.

She’d stood next to him, smiled beside him, held his hand and told him he’d be okay, and all the while, the internet was ripping her apart, and she kept her pain buried deep so he wouldn’t have to carry it.

His vision blurred with tears.

She hadn’t left him because she didn’t love him. She’d left because she loved him too much. Because she thought she was protecting him.

Oscar tossed the phone on the bed and ran a hand through his hair, his breath shallow and sharp.

God, he should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve noticed the way she flinched when cameras lingered too long. The way she shrank whenever a reporter turned to her. The way she smiled less and less as the weeks passed.

She had been drowning in hate, and instead of reaching for him, she dove under and let herself sink just so he wouldn’t have to tread water with her.

He rubbed at his face furiously.

He would’ve fought every single one of them. Every nameless troll. Every cruel headline. Every ignorant fan who dared call the person he loved a burden.

But she never let him.

She left instead.

Because in her mind, that was love. Sacrifice.

He stood up abruptly, pacing the room, fists clenched. His heart was screaming. He didn’t know where she’d gone or what she was doing. But he knew she was out there, alone, scared, and convinced she had to carry this pain by herself.

And he hated that. Hated that he’d let her walk out thinking she was a problem he had to escape instead of the person he wanted to build everything around.

He pulled out his phone again, opened his contacts, thumb hovering over her name.

His chest ached.

And then, he texted her:

"I saw everything. I'm so sorry. Please talk to me. Please don’t go through this alone."

No response.

But he knew her. And he would wait.

Oscar sat in the corner of his hotel room, laptop open, his hands trembling over the keyboard.

He couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t even tried. Not after seeing the mess online. Not after watching the love of his life walk away believing she was the villain in a story she didn’t even write.

So he typed.

Over and over again, deleting and rewriting a single statement that had started to form in his head the moment he saw the hate Y/N had been hiding from him:

“To the people who claim to support me and still think it’s okay to attack someone I love, know this: your words have consequences. I’ve seen the comments, the videos, and the baseless accusations. And I’ve seen the damage they’ve caused. Y/N has done nothing but love and support me, quietly, without asking for anything in return. If my performance is affected, it’s not because of her. It’s because I’m human, and watching someone you care about get torn apart by strangers is enough to break anyone. If you really support me, then respect the people I care about. If you can’t do that, then you’re not my fan. Full stop.”

He stared at the blinking cursor, breathing hard, teeth clenched. It still didn’t feel like enough. Nothing he wrote could undo the hurt, but silence was worse.

He was done staying silent.

Just as he was about to send the draft to his PR manager, there was a knock on the door.

It was Kate from McLaren PR, flanked by two members of the communications team, phones and folders in hand.

“Oscar”, Kate began, her tone cautious, “we got your email. About the statement.”

He stood up. “Yeah. And?”

She glanced at the others and took a breath. “We appreciate how you feel. But we think it’s best not to make it public right now. There’s a risk of blowing things up even more.”

Oscar blinked. “You think protecting her is going to blow things up?”

Kate raised her hands gently. “I’m not saying that. But the best course is usually to keep things private. Address it internally, quietly. Focus on your racing. Let the noise die down on its own.”

Oscar laughed, but there was no humour in it, just disbelief. “Right. So I let them keep ripping her apart until she disappears from their radar. Is that the plan?”

“We just don’t think you should feed the trolls—”

“No. No. You don’t get to tell me to stay quiet while the girl I love gets blamed for things she had nothing to do with,” Oscar snapped. “She’s not even here anymore. She left because of all of this.”

Kate tried to keep her voice level. “Oscar, we understand this is emotional for you—”

“I’m not doing interviews,” he interrupted. “Not a single media session. No press conferences, no post-qualifying chats, nothing. And if that gets me a grid penalty or a fine, so be it.”

There was a stunned silence in the room.

Kate’s brows shot up. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious,” Oscar said, his voice tight with fury and heartbreak. “Until I see actual action taken against the online abuse she’s been getting, until I see the team speak up, or the FIA, or someone with power do something, I’m not giving them any more of me. They don’t get my words while she’s out there hurting alone.”

But Oscar didn’t care. He was done playing the quiet good guy if it meant watching the person he loved be torn apart just to keep the peace.

After they left, murmuring worriedly amongst themselves, Oscar slumped back into the chair and picked up his phone.

Still no response.

He tried texting again.

“Please, just tell me where you are. I’ll come to you. I’ll explain everything. You don’t have to hide from me.”

Nothing.

He called.

It rang once, twice, then went to voicemail.

He didn’t even know if she was reading his messages anymore.

So he tried again.

“I don’t care what the internet says. I don’t care what anyone says. I love you. And I will spend every second proving that, even if you never answer me. Just please know that I see it now. I see what you went through. I see you. I’m so, so sorry.”

Still nothing.

He set the phone down and let his head fall into his hands. Tears pooled in his eyes again. But this time, they didn’t fall. They just sat there, heavy and burning.

🪻🪻🪻

Friday passed in a blur.

Saturday felt like sleepwalking through a storm.

Oscar arrived at the paddock with his usual focus, but there was a visible shift in him in a way that unsettled everyone around him. He was dressed, prepared, and laser-focused during practice, but the moment the sessions ended, he walked straight past the line of waiting reporters, sunglasses shielding his red-rimmed eyes, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

“Post-practice interview?” his comms officer asked, gently tapping his arm.

“No.”

“Just a quick—”

“I said no.”

There was no room for discussion.

The PR team exchanged looks but said nothing. He hadn’t smiled once since Thursday. Hadn’t done any of the casual social media content. No behind-the-scenes videos, no paddock walk interviews, no pre-FP2 banter with Lando, nothing. The usual lightness was gone, and in its place was a man quietly raging.

The media noticed. And fast.

Tweets began popping up.

“Oscar Piastri walks past all media today. First driver to skip all PR appearances post-practice. Something’s definitely up.”

“McLaren’s PR team looks stressed. Oscar isn’t playing ball this weekend.”

“Confirmed: Oscar Piastri has refused all media obligations until online abuse is addressed.”

Clips surfaced of Oscar walking past reporters without a glance, ignoring shouts of his name, even brushing past a camera lens with a muttered, “Not until someone says something that matters.” The story caught fire.

And Y/N saw it all.

She hadn’t meant to. She’d deleted Twitter, muted her name on Instagram, and logged out of TikTok. But social media was a machine, and she was still part of the algorithm.

She opened YouTube to watch a movie and instead saw her name in the recommended videos.

“Oscar Piastri Breaks Silence—Defends Girlfriend Amid Hate.”

“Piastri REFUSES PR Until Y/N Is Protected.”

“McLaren’s Own Aussie Declines Interviews Till Girlfriend Receives Due Support.”

At first, her chest tightened. She thought he’d moved on. That maybe he was angry, resentful. That maybe he hated her.

But he wasn’t running away from her.

He was fighting for her.

Despite everything she had said, despite the hurt she had tried to cause, despite the lie she forced herself to tell just to get him to let her go, he wasn’t letting go.

Not even a little.

She sat on the edge of her bed in the dim hotel room, the screen lighting up her face as she watched the clip again: Oscar pushing a reporter’s mic aside after FP2 with the words, “There are more important things than lap times right now.”

Y/N’s chest cracked open.

Tears welled up as she pulled her knees to her chest. She had tried so hard to protect him by leaving, but he was out there choosing her anyway, day after day, even when she wasn’t there to see it.

She couldn’t give up on him. Not now. Not ever.

Even if the whole world was against her, even if every comment section roared with hate, even if the paddock stared at her like she didn’t belong, she would walk back in.

Because he was the love of her life.

And he was still standing in the fire for her.

She opened her phone. Hands trembling.

Pulled up his messages.

She had read every one.

“I saw everything. I’m so sorry. Please talk to me. Please don’t go through this alone.” “I don’t care what the internet says. I don’t care what anyone says. I love you.” “I’ll spend every second proving that, even if you never answer me.”

She inhaled shakily and booked her second ticket to Shanghai in a week.

🪻🪻🪻

Saturday afternoon in Shanghai was a blur of roaring engines and tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

The paddock was alive with energy. Mechanics scrambled. Engineers barked numbers into radios. Fans screamed from the stands. Cameras panned from car to car, trying to capture the pulse of a qualifying session that felt like it carried more emotional weight than any race before.

And yet, for Y/N, none of that registered.

She was sprinting.

From the second the wheels of her flight hit the tarmac, she hadn’t stopped moving. The car that picked her up from the airport barely had time to stop before she jumped out in front of the Hilton. Her heart pounded as she took the elevator up to his floor, rehearsing her apology a hundred times.

But when she knocked, no one answered.

She knocked again. Nothing.

Her voice cracked when she asked the concierge if Oscar was still in the building. “No, ma’am,” the man replied. “He left for the circuit an hour ago. Qualifying’s today, right?”

Of course. She had lost track of the weekend entirely. Her hands shook as she thanked him, bolted back outside, and rushed into a car headed straight for the track.

Security tried to stop her at the paddock gate until one of the McLaren hospitality staff recognised her and waved her through. The look on their face said everything. Everyone had seen what was going on. Everyone had watched Oscar shut the world out since the moment she left.

Her chest squeezed.

She asked where he was, and someone told her qualifying had just started.

She wasn’t allowed in the garage. So she waited.

Hospitality was quiet. Muted voices in the corner. No one approached her. She sat at the edge of the room, fingers tangled in the sleeves of her jumper, eyes glued to the monitor showing live timing.

Q1. Q2. Q3.

And then— P1. Oscar Piastri. Shanghai Grand Prix. On pole. His first pole.

The hospitality tent let out a quiet cheer. A few mechanics clapped in the distance. But Oscar wasn’t on camera celebrating. He didn’t even do the typical radio whoop. Just a quiet “Copy”. That was it.

Then came the announcement.

Oscar Piastri had refused to attend the post-qualifying press conference. Again.

Y/N stood up slowly, heart hammering. She asked where he’d gone.

Someone told her they’d seen him heading toward the driver’s rooms.

And she didn’t wait.

She walked through the narrow halls of the paddock, past the bustle and the noise, until she reached the McLaren motorhome and found the familiar door.

She hesitated for a moment, then gently pushed it open.

What she saw made her heart crack clean in two.

Oscar was sitting on the floor, still in his race suit, his back pressed to the wall and his knees drawn up. His helmet was lying nearby, forgotten. His phone was in his hand, screen dim, her contact still open. He looked so small, so tired, so heartbreakingly alone. His head was bowed low and his shoulders sagged, like he had been holding in a world of weight with no one to help carry it.

Y/N stepped inside without saying a word.

The moment he sensed someone there, Oscar lifted his head. His eyes met hers.

For a beat, neither of them moved.

Then Oscar dropped the phone like it burnt him, pushed up off the floor with shaking arms, and crossed the room in three long strides before pulling her into him like his life depended on it.

Y/N collided with his chest, her arms wrapping around him so tightly it hurt.

He buried his face in her shoulder, and the dam inside him finally broke. His body trembled with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. She felt his tears hot against her skin, his fingers digging into the back of her shirt like he was terrified she’d disappear again.

Her arms flew around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as her face pressed into his shoulder. He was shaking. She could feel it in his grip, in the way his breath hitched against her ear, and in the warmth of the tears that began to fall against her skin.

“You’re here,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Oh my god, you’re really here.”

“I’m here,” she said back, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Oscar. I never should have left. I thought I was doing the right thing; I thought if I left, the noise would stop and you could focus. But all I did was hurt you.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, his hands cradling her cheeks with the softest touch, like he was scared she might vanish again if he let go.

“I don’t care about any of that,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care what people say or what they think. I don’t care about pole or points or interviews. None of it means anything without you.”

A sob escaped her lips, and she nodded, pressing her forehead against his. “I saw the way you were fighting for me. Even when I wasn’t there. You didn’t give up on me.”

“I never will,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You’re not a distraction. You’re my peace. You’re the reason I can even do this.”

“I love you,” she said, the words slipping out like a breath of truth she had been holding in for far too long.

His eyes shone. “I love you too. So much.”

And there, in the quiet of the driver’s room, with the rest of the world still reeling from the news of his pole position, Oscar’s gaze dropped to her lips, flicked back to her eyes, and his breath hitched. A soft, broken sound escaped his throat, part relief, part desperation, and before she could say another word, he kissed her.

He surged forward, crashing his mouth onto hers with a force that startled them both. It wasn’t neat or perfect. It was messy and aching and full of pain and love and the unbearable weight of the days they had spent apart. His hands slid from her cheeks to the back of her neck, holding her like he didn’t trust the universe not to rip her away again.

Y/N gasped into the kiss, tears mixing with the intensity of it as she clutched him tighter. She felt his entire body pressing against hers, like he needed every part of him to touch every part of her just to believe this wasn’t another dream or memory.

Her back hit the wall behind her, and he didn’t let up. His mouth moved against hers with bruising desperation, like he was trying to say everything he hadn’t had the chance to. His hands were in her hair now, tangled and shaking, his body practically folding over hers.

She kissed him back just as hard, just as desperately, her hands roaming from his chest to his shoulders to his face, not knowing where to hold him because she wanted to hold him everywhere at once. Her tears slipped down her cheeks and into their kiss, and she tasted his too.

He broke away only for a second, breathing heavily, their foreheads touching again.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked. “I thought I’d never get to touch you like this again.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping a tear from under his eye. “I was so scared… But I’m here now. I’m not leaving you again, Oscar. I promise.”

He kissed her again, slower this time but no less intense, his hands cradling her like she was fragile and precious and the most important thing in the world.

“You’re it for me,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re everything. Don’t you ever, ever try to protect me by walking away again. I don’t need protection. I need you.”

She nodded through the tears, wrapping her arms around him so tightly it nearly hurt. “I love you”, she said between kisses, “so much.”

And with that, he kissed her again, sealing the words with every ounce of love he had left in him.

When they finally pulled apart, they stayed close, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed.

“I’m not going anywhere again,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said with a tiny smile. “Because I think I’ve cried enough for one lifetime.”

She laughed through her tears, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “Same.”

🪻🪻🪻

The morning light poured into the room gently, golden and warm against the chilled air of the hotel suite. But inside the bed, tangled in a sea of white sheets and each other, the world felt like it had narrowed down to just the two of them.

Oscar lay on his back, eyes still heavy with sleep, his hair an adorable mess from the way Y/N had run her fingers through it all night. She was draped across him, head resting against his chest, her bare legs tangled with his under the covers. Her fingers were moving lazily across his skin, mapping out the contours of his face like she needed to memorise every inch all over again.

“Your nose is kind of weird,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over it.

Oscar cracked one eye open. “Wow. And here I was thinking this was a tender moment.”

She giggled, trailing her fingertip down to his lips, then his jaw, then his chin. “Tender and honest.”

“Alright, critic,” he mumbled sleepily, tugging her hand away and kissing her knuckles softly. “I’ll remember that next time you ask if your eyeliner's even.”

She laughed again and nestled into his chest, only to shiver slightly. “Ugh. Why is it so cold in here?”

Oscar’s lips curled into a lazy grin as he pulled her flush against him. “Maybe next time you’ll agree to sleep in something. You know, like actual clothes.”

She scoffed. “Please. You’re the one who looked at me like a deer in headlights when I wore a shirt.”

He chuckled, voice still heavy with sleep. “Yeah, because you were wearing my shirt and nothing else and then climbed on top of me like you had a mission.”

“I did have a mission,” she said smugly, pressing a kiss just below his jaw. “And I succeeded.”

Oscar groaned, dragging a hand down his face as she giggled against his neck. “You’re killing me.”

“And you’re very lucky I’m cold,” she whispered, wrapping herself tighter around him, “because otherwise I’d be all the way over there and not pressed up against your very warm, very touchable body.”

“Touchable, huh?” He murmured, sliding a hand down her back. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

She smirked against his skin. “Don’t act like you’re not obsessed.”

“Guilty,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut again as she trailed a finger lazily down his chest.

Then, without warning, she reached up and gave his nipple a playful pinch.

Oscar yelped, his whole body jerking. “Oi! What the hell?!”

Y/N burst out laughing, completely unbothered as she tucked her face back into the crook of his neck. “Sorry, sorry! You were being too smug. I had to bring you back down.”

He rolled them over without warning, pinning her underneath him as she squealed, her laughter still echoing through the room. “You wanna play that game, huh?” he asked, smirking down at her. “Because I can be very annoying when provoked.”

“Is that what you call it?” she shot back, grinning. “Because I call it foreplay.”

Oscar groaned, flopping on top of her dramatically as she shrieked, still giggling. “You’re the worst,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“But I’m your worst,” she whispered, turning her head to kiss him softly.

He melted into the kiss instantly, one hand curling around the back of her neck, the other resting on her waist. When they pulled apart, he just looked at her, like he couldn’t believe she was real, that she had come back, and that she was still his.

“I could stay like this all day,” he said quietly.

“You would,” she teased. “But you’ve got a race to win, Mr Pole Sitter.”

He groaned, burying his face in her neck again. “Can’t I just skip it and warm the bed with you all morning?”

“As tempting as that sounds, the world needs to see that stupidly fast car of yours. And your stupidly good hair.”

Oscar lifted his head just enough to give her a crooked grin. “So you admit the hair’s good?”

“I admit nothing,” she said, smirking.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then her nose, then the corner of her mouth, pulling her closer as if needing to confirm all over again that she was really there.

“I thought I dreamed you came back,” he mumbled against her hair. “I kept waking up last night just to make sure you were still here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised, brushing her thumb along his cheek. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Oscar let out a quiet, relieved chuckle, nuzzling into her palm before reluctantly rolling onto his back. He stretched one arm out and grabbed his phone off the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lit up.

There were dozens of notifications.

But one in particular made him freeze.

He blinked, then sat up straighter. “Y/N”, he said, nudging her slightly and turning the screen to her. “Look.”

It was a post from McLaren’s official account, timestamped just thirty minutes ago. The bolded headline read: Statement Regarding Online Abuse Directed Toward Oscar Piastri and Y/N.

He opened it, and they both read in silence.

McLaren Racing stands firmly against any form of online harassment or abuse directed at our drivers, their families, and their partners. Y/N has always been a respected and loved member of our extended team, both professionally and personally. We condemn the recent wave of harmful messages and baseless accusations circulating online. The wellbeing of our people is our top priority. We appreciate the support of fans who continue to champion respect, empathy, and kindness in motorsport and beyond. Let’s remember: behind every helmet, and behind every headline, there are human beings. Let’s treat them that way.

— McLaren Racing

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she read it again, her fingers tightening around Oscar’s.

“They… they didn’t have to do that,” she said softly, her eyes glassy with emotion.

Oscar looked at her, his voice tender but firm. “Yes, they did. And they should’ve sooner.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

There were thousands of replies, and for once, most of them were kind. Fans thanking the team. Others apologising for turning a blind eye. Even some of the more critical accounts had gone quiet.

“Finally”, Oscar said, locking his phone. “Finally someone said it.”

He turned to her again, cradling her jaw with one hand. “I fought because I had to. Because you didn’t deserve any of what they said. And I’ll keep fighting, okay? But now, I think we can breathe a little.”

Y/N nodded, resting her forehead against his. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to be beside you. Through all of it.”

Oscar smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Then you’d better get dressed. Because I think I owe the media a few words.”

She pulled back in surprise. “You’re actually going to talk to them?”

He smirked, flopping dramatically back onto the pillows. “Yeah. I figured pole position deserves a few minutes of glory, right?”

She laughed, tackling him gently and peppering his face with kisses. “That, and maybe you just want to show them that I’m still here.”

He grinned, once again flipping her onto the mattress and hovering over her. “Damn right.”

Y/N walked beside him, the pair of them a striking duo as they made their way through the paddock. Heads turned, some in admiration, some in curiosity, but neither of them paid any attention. They didn’t need to. For once, it was easy to tune everything else out.

Oscar glanced sideways, eyes flicking to her face like he couldn’t help it. “Are you sure you’re ready for the chaos again?”

She smiled, fingers tightening around his. “I can take the heat. Especially if I’m standing next to you.”

He grinned that soft, boyish smile she loved so much. “You’re the best.”

“I’m aware,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder.

They reached the McLaren garage, and the pre-race buzz was well underway. Mechanics in orange overalls darted around, tyres were being rolled out, and engineers fine-tuned last-minute settings. But in the middle of all the madness, Oscar turned to her, now in his race suit, helmet under his arm.

“Come here,” he murmured, tugging her gently into him. “For good luck.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She reached up on her toes and kissed his cheek, then his forehead, then tapped a kiss on the side of his helmet as he slid it on. “You’ve got this, Piastri. Show them what you’re made of.”

He was smiling under the visor now, even as his engineer motioned for him to head to the car. “Catch you on the other side, pretty girl.”

She laughed. “Only if you win.”

Oscar slid into the car with a renewed sense of focus, but it wasn’t just adrenaline. It was her. She was back. She believed in him. And that meant everything.

The race was chaos for everyone behind Oscar. Somehow everything that went down managed to embolden him in an unexplainable way, holding onto P1 like his life depended on it. And when he crossed the finish line, taking the win in Shanghai, his radio exploded with cheers.

“OSCAR PIASTRI. YOU ARE A THREE-TIME RACE WINNER!”

He didn’t even respond to the engineers shouting in his ear. He was already unstrapping the belts, already climbing out of the car in Parc Fermé. The second his feet hit the ground, he tore off the helmet and balaclava, his eyes scanning past the cameras and team crew.

And there she was.

Y/N stood just behind the barrier, wide-eyed, the hugest smile on her face, barely believing it. He didn’t hesitate. Sprinting like nothing else mattered, he reached the barrier, his arms already outstretched.

The marshal barely got a word in before he leaned over, wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her effortlessly over the metal railing. She gasped, clinging to him as he spun her around in pure joy, the orange of his race suit standing out like fire in the crowd.

“You did it!” She squealed, breathless with laughter and tears.

“No, we did,” Oscar said into her hair, burying his face in her shoulder. “You came back. And everything finally fell into place.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing sweaty hair off his forehead. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.

And then he kissed her, full of every ounce of adrenaline, relief, and love that had built up for weeks. The paddock erupted. The cameras went wild. But Oscar didn’t care. He kissed her like the world was watching, and he wanted them to.

“You’re not going anywhere again,” he said against her lips, voice still shaky from emotion. “I mean it. You’re mine.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised, her fingers curling into the back of his suit. “I’m yours.”

Soon after, they had to separate so he could get weighed before the podium sitters' interview. But he made sure to sign his bottle of champagne before that with his autograph. And right above that; scrawled in big, bold, golden letters: To my pretty girl.

my girl y/n can’t catch a break, hope ya’ll liked this!

#f1 fluff #f1 x reader #f1 driver x reader #op81 #f1 fanfic #f1 requests #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x y/n #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri f1 #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #op81 fluff #op81 x reader #op81 imagine

286 notes · View notes