piastrri

[piastrri]

the loml

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Quick Oscar sketch

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we need oscar and seb to face off in grill the grid

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Monaco Grand Prix 2000. Michael Schumacher and Rubens Barrichello. Circuit de Monaco, Monaco. Sunday, June 04, 2000. Ph.: Ercole Colombo.

[piastrri]

Just read parfait and was beyond excited to read more of your works and was flabbergasted to realize that’s the only one?? When I clicked the tag for your writing it’s all the showed?? So good, I can’t believe it’s the only one on your account. I hope you write more. You’re so talented!!

ayyyy thank you legend! that’s so sweet. i did actually write a couple fics on an old blog, so while parfait was my first fic under this url, it’s for sure not my first f1 fic rodeo 🤠

i appreciate you checking it out!

[piastrri]

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭 charles leclerc x f!reader / 1.6k

summary: after a tough race in hungary, you and charles escape for summer break.

warnings: like, none. lots of fluff. some arthur leclerc. no leo because i forgot, but definitely imagine him there.

a/n: tough day to be a cl16 girl, right? i wrote this to feel better about it.

Nine on the dot, the door swings open.

You’re dozing, sprawled across the bed. Rolling between awake and asleep since you got in four hours ago, scrolling on your phone, flicking through channels on TV. Watching the sunset stretch golden across the walls before the motorhome faded into a dull dusk.

That golden is replaced by artificial floodlight from outside, before a sharp slam snuffs it completely. You’re plunged back into darkness.

“Bébé?”

You respond with a grunt. It sounds too depressing – shit, you feel depressed, but you can’t let him hear that – so you correct it with something more pleasant, bending the sound upward.

He takes up the entire doorway, the narrow passage close around his red clothes. Red like blood; sweat and tears still damp on his cheeks.

You wait for him to say something. Wait for him to turn the light on, let you get a good look at him. His eyes are too dark like this, unreadable. He’s just a shadow in the shape of someone you love.

Instead, he hurries by, careful hands reaching for your jaw. He dips and presses a swift, sweet kiss to your lips. As quickly as you taste him, he’s gone, reaching into the closet for a duffel bag emblazoned with the prancing horse. He flings it on the mattress at your side.

You stare from the yellow crest up to the man cramming in shirt after shirt, jeans and boxer briefs. He barely blinks, barely breathes, just folds another pair of socks in on themselves and stuffs them in a zip compartment.

When he hoists the bag and disappears through to the living room, you follow after him.

He drops it atop the tiny case you brought. “Is this all you had?” he asks. “The rest is at the hotel?”

You nod.

So does he. He runs a hand through his hair, drags his fingers down his flushed face.

“Charles.”

“Hm.” He paces over to a recliner and grabs your hoodie, folding it over his arm.

“Charles.”

He looks up.

Your mouth moves around a few voiceless words, trying each out for size. Is he okay? No, clearly not. What is he doing? Packing. What happened? Did you see the race?

He wanders over, slower now, gentler in his approach. He cups your cheek and presses a kiss to the other. His eyelashes flutter against yours, foreheads together like he’s trying to push the words from his mind into yours.

He doesn’t have to. You know him well enough by now.

“What a shit day,” you whisper.

The corner of his mouth twitches. He breathes something of a laugh, more a sigh over your lips. “I just want to forget about it. For now.”

You nod again, this time more surely. “Let’s not talk about it. We’re leaving in a couple days, and then we can –”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I changed the flights.”

“You what?”

He shrugs. “We fly out tonight. The car will be here any minute.”

“Tonight?”

“Yep.” He’s already off again, unplugging your phone charger and wrapping it around his fist. He slips by to the bedroom again, dipping into the bathroom to scan the counter. “They picked up our luggage from the hotel already. Flight is at ten thirty.”

“Is the yacht ready?”

He scoffs. Answer enough. Sometimes even you underestimate the social status of the man you’re dating.

“Can you just…” you halt him in the hallway, standing in the wash of light from the bathroom, “…wait? Just one second.”

“Bébé,” Charles laughs, “we’re going to be late.”

“We’re not, I swear.” Your hands find his chest, seek out the beat of his heart. They surf across the sponsorship logos, around the collar and over his warm skin. You breathe him in, that fresh, rich scent. All citrus and spice.

He melts into you, tucking his lips behind your ear. His weight presses you against the wall of the motorhome. He wraps his arms around your waist and nuzzles even closer.

“Just tell me you’re okay,” you mutter into his skin. “You know how much I worry about you.”

He chuckles, dragging his lips along your jawline. When he straightens, his hair is tousled, eyes glossy with sleep and love. Softer, edges blurred, the shape you’ve always known him as.

“I’m okay,” he promises. He kisses you again, rolling his tongue against yours. His teeth graze your bottom lip, pull it into his mouth, then release it with a sweet, slick pop.

He smirks. “Car’s here.”

You groan as he tugs on your wrist. “Five more minutes,” you whine.

Charles hooks his bag over one shoulder, yours over the other. He wheels your case over to the door and nudges it open.

“Soon. Promise.”

Mallorca’s coast shines in the morning.

Jagged-tooth mountains and luscious beds of green pines, the speckled terracotta town lined by a twinkling blue sea. Boats dot the shoreline like tictacs floating on the surface of the water, so small and insignificant from this far out.

Everything feels insignificant from this far out. The boats, the shore, the race.

You run your hand along the railing as you wander to the back of the yacht. The steel is sunbaked, warm. It’s set to be another scorcher, so say the crew. Nothing to do but melt.

You collapse on the sofa and stretch out. Your bikini is still damp from yesterday. The pages of your book are crisp and curled. You’re thumbing through them when Arthur pads upstairs.

Sea water glistens on his skin and drips from his shorts. He strides over, leaving a wet trail of footprints, and stands between the sun and you.

You shield your eyes and squint up at him. “Do you mind?”

He beams back. “Not at all,” he says, and shakes his head like a dog. He sprays water all over you and flops down in a sodden heap against your shoulder.

“Thanks, dick,” you hiss.

“Good morning to you, too.”

You fan your book and toss it across the sofa. “Water nice?”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, picking at a handful of grapes. He doesn’t protest when you pinch one and toss it in your mouth. “Charles still in bed?”

“Mhm,” you echo. “I let him off with it the first couple days. Tomorrow, he’s up when I’m up.”

“He sleeps like a log.”

“Guess he needs it.”

Arthur pouts. He shakes his head. “He is just lazy.”

“Who is?”

Your attention is snapped to the walkway.

He walks over, breakfast bowl in hand, swim shorts low on his hips. Dapple of chest hair, more trailing from his naval below his waistband. The sight of him jumpstarts the blood in your veins, sends a flurry of butterflies through your stomach.

He stops by your knees and motions for Arthur to move.

“I got here first,” his little brother argues.

Charles’s eyes narrow. “Who is just lazy?”

Arthur blinks. He clears his throat and pushes up from the sofa. “I’m going for another swim.”

“Thought so,” Charles mutters, and sits back in his place. He lifts his arm for you to curl into him, kissing the crown of your head when you rest it on his chest. “Morning,” he says into your hair.

“Hi,” you reply. You sit up and kiss the corner of his lips. He smells like toothpaste and suncream.

He passes you a spoon and uses his own to mix the bowl – fruit and yoghurt with a sprinkling of oats.

“You didn’t feel like pancakes? Bacon?” you quip.

Charles smiles. “Meal plan.”

“I know,” you sigh, and flump back on his chest. His heart beats steadily in your ear, skin warm under your cheek. He runs his hand over your hair while you pick at his breakfast, leaving most of it for him.

He feels more peaceful. Calm. The waves of his loss at Hungary rocked him, that’s for sure – gave him one hell of a storm to sail through – but they’ve stilled now.

You know that in a couple weeks’ time, you’ll start gearing up to face that storm again. Those dark clouds can roll in out of nowhere.

For now, though, it’s clear skies all the way to the horizon. It’s sweet wines that dizzy your head, sweet nothings from a man who does much the same. It’s spending all day in a swimsuit, all night in lavish dresses. It’s waking up still tangled in his body, forgetting where he ends and you begin.

It’s card games that end in a brotherly argument. It’s waiting for Charles’s tap on your shoulder before you can turn the page of your book. It’s throwing yourself off the deck of the yacht and into his arms, floating in the Mediterranean until the sun melts across the surface.

It’s no wonder he moved the flights at all.

Once he’s finished eating, Charles slides the bowl across the coffee table. He leans back, pulling you against his body again, and props his legs up. “What are we doing today?”

“Hmm. I vote nothing.”

“Ah, parfait,” he whispers.

You look up at him.

Stubble along his jawline, freckles across his cheeks. Eyes the color of the sea with glimmers of gold like the sun. He sinks deeper into the sofa and tilts his head skyward, humming to himself.

“Yeah,” you smile, “Parfait.”

[piastrri]

there is not one win of n*rris' this year that is earned on merit and didn't have a shit ton of luck involved in my opinion.

australia - his main challenger told to hold position during the only real overtaking opportunity, then lucks out by somehow not going off track even though he made the same mistake

monaco - "where's oscar, I need him to pressure charles" not to mention how oscar's own race was sacrificed when he could've undercut charles for P2

austria - lucks out in qualifying and in the race with c*lapinto throwing oscar off the track, plus mclaren neutralizes any threat from oscar by messing up his strategy

silverstone - "is he just faster everywhere?", got out qualified, didn't even overtake for the lead and still got handed the win from the FIA

and now hungary - once again qualifies behind, pulls a classic turn 1 bottle and ends up p5, runs through the gravel under zero pressure, then mclaren once again decide to half-ass oscar's strategy and hand him the win

if he somehow ends up getting the championship at the end of this, it will be the literal personification of his own words - "it's not talent, just luck"

i have nothing to add to this, you're right anon. it's not even just luck, it will be handed to him on a silver platter courtesy of Zak Brown himself.

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Oscar Piastri - Vienna by Billy Joel

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why he so side profile

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charles sounding exactly like my anxiety. PANIC!!!!!! but i won’t tell you what for. but YOU SHOULD PANIC!!!!!!!!!!

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Oh okay

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THE CERTAINTY OF SEPARATION — (insp.)

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OSCAR PIASTRI & MARK WEBBER Belgian Grand Prix 2025

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In Q2 Max only did 1 lap, then he just sit in his car and watched the live broadcast alone for about 10min. Super super cute 🥺

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Good use of the camera's time while waiting for rain to stop.

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Max Verstappen 🤝 Charles Leclerc overtaking McLarens with the exact same move.