#@formula1

[luminyra]

mindset rn

[theereboseffect]

aus + shanghai summarized

[suliigwp]

HIII omg i love your writings!! got this idea while i was in the bathroom blasting alchemy by taylor swift and you were the first writer i thought of that i know would slay this! Reader is a known singer but she doesnt really write love songs which charles is completely fine about. His friends ask and tease him about it and he brushes it off then one night on one of her tours she sings alchemy for the first time while charles is watching from the crowd. His whole world stops and maybe even tears up then he just goes on for days bragging about it. HUMOUR AND FLUFFF WHATEVER U WANT THANK YOU SO MUCH

WHERES THE TROPHY?

Charles Leclerc x Singer! Reader | fluff

SULI: hiii omg you have no idea how much it means remembering me first🥹 thank you soooo much!!!!! — very cool because I actually do have a singer!readers series coming up but none of the love interests is Charles sadly— but I really love singer au's and this was so much fun to write! Thank you so much for requesting, love you, hope you enjoy🫶

I'm absolutely obsessed with this song — stream "The alchemy" now!!!

Warnings: none, short and sweet, Twitter post at the end

Charles liked to think he had you figured out.

At least, the version of you the world didn’t get to see — the quiet one, the tired one after long studio nights, the version that wore his hoodie to bed and snuck kisses onto his shoulder when you thought he was sleeping.

He liked being the silent inspiration, the person behind the curtain. You were his in private — that was more than enough.

"She doesn't write love songs."

That was the line Charles Leclerc had come to know and love. He’d heard it in interviews, read it in headlines, and smiled through every late-night talk show where someone inevitably asked, “So, do you really not write about him?”

The camera would zoom in, the crowd would laugh, and you’d flash that sly little grin. “Don't worry, if I wrote a love song,” you always said, “you’d know it.”

Charles didn’t mind. In fact, he was fine with it.

You were his.

Even if the rest of the world liked to think you belonged to them.

The fans, the cameras, the interviews — they all wanted pieces. But Charles had long made peace with being the part no one else got to hear in the songs.

Because you didn’t write love songs.

Everyone said so.

You said so.

And Charles believed it. Until the night you didn’t.

...

back, first year of dating

“You still haven’t written a song about me,” Charles teased from the couch, bare feet on the floor, one arm lazily slung around your waist. His eyes were half-lidded, lips curled into that soft smile he only gave you when the world was quiet.

You rolled your eyes, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You say that like you’re not already in every other one.”

“Yes, but I want the main character treatment,” he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “The standing ovation. The bridge that emotionally ruins people.”

You just laughed, kissed his cheek, and said, “Maybe when you win Monaco.”

He groaned. “Cruel woman.”

...

He hadn't told you he was coming.

You were in the middle of a sold-out run through Europe, and Charles was drowning in simulator sessions and car debriefs. But when he saw the gap in his schedule, he booked the ticket quietly, packed light, and told his engineers he was leaving for “something more important than tyre degradation.”

Barcelona was a quick flight from Monaco. Your show there had been sold out for months, and he knew better than to try and sneak in through backstage. So he did what no one expected:

He lined up like everyone else.

He didn’t tell you. You were always happiest on stage, and he wanted to be just another face in the crowd that night. Just a quiet, anonymous dot in a sea of lights and sweat and noise.

Hood up, cap low, a simple black tee that did nothing to hide how gorgeous he was. He bought a pit wristband from resale (triple the price, but whatever), pushed into the crowd, and waited.

His heart beat harder the closer it got to showtime.

He didn’t know why. He’d seen you perform dozens of times. Hell, he’d watched you rehearse in sweats with a tea bag hanging out of your mouth. He lived with you.

But something about tonight buzzed different.

The lights dimmed.

The crowd erupted.

And then you appeared.

...

You always had a certain way of standing still — calm, rooted, like you didn’t need fireworks to be the most magnetic person in the room. Charles felt the shift the second you stepped up to the mic.

“This one’s new,” you said softly.

The crowd stilled.

“I wasn’t planning to play it live yet, but…”

You paused, and smiled.

“He’s here tonight.”

The girls around Charles screamed.

He went still.

No.

You’re not—

The opening chords were simple, soft. A rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat.

"Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads, Champagne sticking to the floor"

The lyrics felt so close, so personal, Charles swore you were staring right at him, even though you couldn’t see him through the crowd.

"Cheers chanted, cause they said, There was no chance, trying to be The greatest in the league"

And then.

Then.

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.”

Charles’s knees nearly buckled.

The lyric struck him like a punch to the gut.

He didn’t even breathe for a second — chest tight, hands shaking, mouth parted in stunned silence.

You remembered.

Monaco.

That day.

The crowd, the flags, the win — his first home win. The one he had chased like a ghost for years.

He remembered the noise, the champagne, the cameras flashing. But more than anything, he remembered you, standing behind the barrier, tucked to the side — quiet and glowing and waiting.

He hadn’t even thought.

He just ran.

Straight to you. Through the crowd. Past everyone. Helmet barely off.

You caught him in your arms like you’d been waiting there your whole life.

“Where’s the trophy?” the reporter had asked him after.

And he’d smiled before glancing over at you.

...

By the time you hit the final chorus, Charles had completely given up pretending he was okay.

His eyes were glassy. His cheeks were damp.

A teenage girl next to him elbowed her friend and whispered, “That guy is, like, sobbing.”

He didn’t even notice.

When you sang the last line and let the guitar fall quiet, Charles couldn’t move.

The stadium exploded in sound.

You bowed.

The lights went out.

And he just stood there — one hand pressed over his heart, whispering the lyric under his breath like a prayer.

...

Backstage, everything felt like static.

You were mid-change when a tech knocked on the greenroom door.

“Uh… sorry, there’s a guy trying to come back here. He says he’s your boyfriend? Hoodie, cap, extremely beautiful—kind of panicked?”

You laughed, heart already racing.

“Let him in.”

Charles barrelled into the room like a man possessed.

“You—” he said, voice raw.

You turned, makeup still smudged, hair frizzing from sweat, and barely had time to open your arms before he was there — pulling you into him like he hadn’t seen you in years.

“Monaco?” he whispered.

You nodded against his chest.

He pulled back just slightly, hands cupping your face, eyes red-rimmed and earnest. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

“You wrote about it.”

A breathless laugh. “You wrote about me.”

You shrugged playfully, nose brushing his. “Guess you’re the main character now.”

His grin cracked wide and helpless, and then he kissed you. Soft, slow, deep — the kind of kiss that says thank you and I love you and I’m never letting this go.

“You’re screwed now,” he whispered, grinning against your mouth.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to brag about this forever.”

...

And he did.

The next morning:

And for the rest of the season, no matter how many podiums he earned, Charles had one answer to every post-race interview:

“Where’s the trophy, Charles?”

“She’s probably watching from home.”

Taglist, comment to be added;

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot

Make sure you can be tagged!

[sturniluvr]

Record breaker

Lando Norris x Fem!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: none I don’t think apart from maybe a few spelling mistakes 😭

Summary: Lando’s girlfriend and parents watch him win in Monaco for the first time, and break the record for the fastest track time in Monaco

A/N: Feels like I forgot how to write writing this😭

❗️semi-proof read❗️

It’s the Monaco Grand Prix weekend. Y/N and Lando make their way through the paddock towards the McLaren garage alongside Lando’s parents, Adam and Cisca. Before parting ways, she glances at Lando. 

“Be careful, okay? I love you” she says softly, looking at the curly hair man, who smiles and plants a quick kiss to her forehead. 

“I’ll be fine baby. I love you too. See you after quali” Lando replies before making his way into the garage, tapping the bar as he walks through as he always does. 

Y/N, Cisca and Adam head into the McLaren hospitality and onto the balcony hovering above the pitlane. She glances down at the bustling pitlane, thriving with team mechanics preparing the cars for qualifying, a few sky sports presenters and camera crews. Before q1 starts, she grabs a headset and puts it on, adjusting it slightly. The light goes green at the end of the pitlane, and the first qualifying session gets started, Y/N, Cisca and Adam watching intently. 

Time skip to end of qualifying

A huge grin breaks out on Y/N’s face as she watches Lando storm across the finish line, taking pole position for the race tomorrow and setting a new track record of 1.09.954. We make our way down to parc ferme and spot Lando, getting weighed. After he’s been weighed, Y/N wastes no time in wrapping her arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder as Lando wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground slightly.  

“Well done, my love. I knew you could do it” The Y/H/C haired girl mumbles softly, Lando’s smile growing wider under his helmet at his girlfriend’s praise 

After a moment, he gently places her back down and wraps an arm around each of his parents, Adam and Cisca also whispering words of praise to their son. Y/N smiles as she watches the three share this sweet moment. After a moment, Y/N hears a member of McLaren’s PR team call Lando over for his media duties. She gives his hand a soft squeeze. 

“I’ll wait for you in your drivers room” she says softly. Lando nods, giving her hand a gentle squeeze back before reluctantly letting go of her hand. 

“Okay, I shouldn’t be too long” he heads off to the media pen to do his post quali interviews.  

Y/N heads through the garage and across the paddock towards the McLaren motorhome. She heads to Lando’s drivers room and sits down on the sofa and pulls her phone out of her pocket, scrolling through social media. 

She opens Instagram and repost a few posts about Lando’s pole on her story, and presses the small ‘+’ button by her profile.

Y/user added to her story

—————

Mclaren

Liked by: y/user, lando, ln4, maxfewtrell and others

Mclaren: IT'S POLE FOR LANDO! 🏁

Sensational work by LN4🧡

comments:

y/user: never a doubt🧡🧡

lnfour: THATS OUR DRIVER

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—————

Lando

Liked by: quadrant, maxfewtrell, y/user and others

Lando: monaco pole. bam.

comments:

Y/user: so so proud my love!🧡🧡

quadrant: he’s him💪

lnfour: I’m gonna watch that lap on repeat all night

maxfewtrell: never doubted, onto tomorrow 🔥💪

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—————

After Lando finishes doing his media duties, he heads to his drivers room. He opens the door and immediately smiles at the sight of Y/N. He walks in and sits next to her, a small, tired sigh leaving his lips. Y/N puts her phone down and reaches a hand up and runs her fingers through his damp curls, Lando's eyes fluttering shut in contentment being back by her side after his tiring quali session and media duties. 

“You done for today now?” she asks softly, tilting her head down slightly to look at him. Lando nods silently, finally lifting his head up and looking at her. 

“Yeah, jus’ wanna go home and shower and go to bed” he mumbles, a tired chuckling escaping his lips. She chuckles softly and nods, patting his leg, silently gesturing for him to get up. He rubs his eyes and stands up and changes out of his race suit, his movements sluggish. 

Once he's ready and changed, he grabs his bag and holds his hand out for her to take, which she does and intertwines their fingers together as the couple leave his drivers room. They call out a goodnight to the remaining members of the team that were still in the garage and make their way through to the paddock. Lando and Y/N meet up with Lando’s parents and the four of them make their way through the paddock and towards his Lamborghini Urus and begin the short drive back to Lando and Y/N’s shared apartment. 

Once they're back at their penthouse apartment, Lando and Y/N bid goodnight to his parents as they make their way the guest bedroom. Y/N grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, always making sure she has one for bed. 

Y/N makes her way to the bedroom after getting her glass of water, the sound of the shower running hitting her ears, knowing Lando’s having a quick shower before bed. She gets her pyjamas on and does her usual nighttime routine before getting under the covers and reaching for her phone charger and putting her phone on charge. She scrolls through her phone for a bit while she waits for Lando to finish in the shower. 

Lando finishes in the shower and turns off the water, wrapping a towel around his waist and stepping out the shower. He quickly brushes his teeth and changes into a clean pair of boxers before making his way into the bedroom, smiling softly at the sight of Y/N under the covers, even in her most natural state, he can't help but think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. 

Lando climbs under the covers and gently tugs Y/N towards him, her head coming to rest on his bare chest. He reaches a hand up and gently runs his fingers through her hair, a movement he’s learnt after many years, helps soothe the freckled girl in his arms. He plants a soft kiss to the top of her head. She lets out a soft yawn, feeling completely at ease in the familiar embrace of the blue eyed man she was lucky enough to call her boyfriend. 

“Tired, baby?” he murmurs softly, his fingers continuing their soft ministrations through her hair. 

She nods softly, her eyes getting heavier by the moment. Lando smiles fondly at her, planting a soft kiss to her forehead. 

“Mmm, love you, Lan” Y/N murmurs, her eyes half shut as she sluggishly drapes an arm over his torso, his heartbeat steadily beating against her ear. 

“I love you too, my love. Let’s get some sleep” he smiles, his own eyes shutting as the couple drift off to sleep, safe and happy in the embrace of one another. 

The next day

Lando and Y/N arrive at the paddock, Lando occasionally signing stuff or taking photos with fans as they make their way to the Mclaren motorhome, a small smile on Y/N’s face as she watches Lando with his fans. Once he’s done, the couple make their way into the Mclaren motorhome and head towards Lando’s drivers room so he can get into his fireproofs and race suit. Lando changes into his race suit, a determined look on his face, determined to win the race later today. 

The couple make their way over to the garage. Y/N holds Lando’s helmet for him while he pulls on his gloves and balaclava. 

“be careful please” the Y/E/C eyed girl says softly, knowing how dangerous Monaco can be. Lando smiles softly as he takes his helmet from her. 

“i promise I'll be careful. I'll bring that trophy home, Y/N/N” He grins, pulling his helmet on. Y/N plants a soft kiss to his helmet where his lips would be a small tradition they've always had since he's been in formula 1. 

Y/N grabs a headset as Lando leaves the garage to head to the grid and slips the headset over her ears so she can listen in on his team radio. 

The race gets underway with a smooth start for Lando, successfully holding off Leclerc in p2. 

End of the race

Y/N cheers loudly as she watches Lando cross the finish line in p1 alongside Lando’s parents, tears of joy filling her eyes. The three of them make their way down to parc ferme as Lando, Chares and Oscar parks their race cars behind their respective stands. Y/N watches, smiling widely as Lando stands on the front wing, cheering and jumps off, running towards the Mclaren crew who congratulate with words of praise and pats on the back. 

Lando celebrates with his team, his smile wider than ever. He then moves to hug his parents, the two elders praising him and kissing his cheek. Lando’s eyes lock with Y/N’s, his smile growing wider if that's even possible at the sight of her smile and happiness, her smile just as bright as his, making her look as beautiful as ever. He gently pulls her forward and immediately wraps his arms around her waist and hugging her tightly. Y/N reciprocates his hug, wrapping her arms around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. 

“You won Monaco! I'm so so proud of you” she mumbles into his shoulder. Lando hugs her tighter, holding her closer. 

“I did, baby, I did” he responds, a small chuckle escaping his lips, his hand coming up to rest on her waist, looking down at her, taking in her features, his heart bursting with love for the girl in his arms. 

He leans down and presses a kiss to her lips, not caring about the cameras and people surrounding the couple. He gently nuzzles his nose against hers as he speaks, his voice soft and low, just for her to hear. 

“I love you so much” she smiles softly at his words, a stray tear of happiness falling down her cheek 

“I love you too, so so much” 

Lando plants another quick kiss to her cheek before reluctantly letting go of her to head to the podium. Everyone all turns their attention up to the podium as the podium celebrations start. Y/N pulls her phone out as Lando walks out onto the top step of the podium and takes photos and videos, unapologetically proud of him 

Lando grins when he sees Y/N recording, throwing a quick, cheeky wink her way. He does his champagne pop and Lando, Charles and Oscar, all spray each other with the champagne. 

Once the podium celebrations are over, Y/N waits for Lando in the Mclaren motorhome with his parents, the three chatting amongst themselves as they wait for the racer. 

McLaren

Liked by: maxfewtrell, y/user, lnfour and others

McLaren: LANDO’S FIRST WIN IN MONACO! 🇲🇨

LANDO NORRIS IS THE MONACO GRAND PRIX WINNER!🧡

comments:

Y/user: NEVER DOUBT A DOUBT!!🧡🧡

lnfour: FASTEST LAP ON THE LAST LAP🥵😮‍💨

davidbeckham: congratulations @/mclaren @/lando👏🏻🧡

Quadrant: huuge🔥

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—————

Y/user

Liked by: lando, McLaren, pietrapilao and others

Y/user: MY BOYS A MONACO GP WINNER!!!🧡🧡🧡Lando words cant describe how proud I am of you! I love you so so much🧡

tagged: Lando, McLaren

comments:

lando: my good luck charm🧡forever my biggest cheerleader 🫶🏻 ♥︎ by author

↪️ Y/user: forever and always🧡

maxfewtrell: never a doubt🧡well done mate👏🏻 ♥︎ by author

mclaren: our driver🧡 ♥︎ by author

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—————

lando

liked by: y/user, riabish, lnfour, maxfewtrell and others

lando: Monaco win. For you mum, dad and of course my biggest cheerleader, Y/N❤️

comments:

y/user: so endlessly proud of you baby🧡 ♥︎ by author

↪️lando: I love you🧡🧡

McLaren: 🧡🧡🧡

lnfour: never knew a post could make me more n more emosh with every slide😭

Riabish: 👏👏

francolapinto: well done landinioooo top weekend👌🏻

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[heyitspapayaontop]

But what about Oscar? (!)

Request: anon <3

Pairing: Brother!Max Verstappen x Sister!reader

Themes: max fluff is back my books

Warnings: favoritism (with a child okay chill)

Summary: Cheering for her brother? Nope! Oscar is so much better.

“Pole just means you go first,” she deadpanned, looking about as excited as someone waiting for a dentist appointment. Max honestly felt like he’d just been dunked on by a moody pre-teen in a Lightning McQueen tee.

He made another go at it, sounding a bit desperate. “But my car was the fastest.”

Y/N just shrugged, twirling the string of her Verstappen cap like it was the world’s most boring fidget toy. “Oscar’s cool.”

Savage. The brutality. Max started wondering if this was cosmic payback for every time he’d punted someone wide at turn one.

Lando wandered over, grinning like he’d just watched a cat fall off a table. “Yikes, mate. She’s ice cold.”

“Yeah, cheers, Lando. Super helpful.”

Later, in the drivers’ room, Oscar strolled in, halfway through a granola bar. Max gave him a look. Maybe a bit too much intensity there. Oscar froze, granola mid-chomp.

“Uh, you good?”

Max groaned and dragged his hands over his face. “She didn’t even care about pole. Just asked where you were.”

Oscar blinked, then smirked. “She’s got her favorites.”

“Yeah, and apparently, it’s not me. Betrayal.”

Oscar flopped into a chair, looking way too relaxed. “Would you rather she liked Lando?”

“God, no. He’d have her driving a golf cart into Lake Como.”

Oscar cracked up, and, honestly, Max couldn’t stay mad. Not at Oscar. The guy was like if a Labrador put on a bucket hat and learned to talk.

After the race, Y/N was waiting in the garage with a tiny McLaren plushie clutched in her hands. She didn’t even blink at Max’s champagne-soaked race suit—just bolted straight for Oscar, who scooped her up like it was the most normal thing ever.

“Good race, Y/N?” he asked.

She nodded so hard her hat nearly fell off. “You went so fast.”

Max, still dripping, threw his hands in the air. “I win at home and my little sister’s giving all the credit to Piastri. Unreal.”

Lando sidled over, smirking like a little gremlin. “Guess you’ll have to step up your game, champ.”

“Or just bribe her with cookies,” Max muttered.

Oscar glanced over, sheepish. “She, uh, gave me this.” He held up a crumpled, slightly sticky drawing. It was… probably him? Maybe? Hard to say.

Max squinted. “She’s never drawn me with that many hearts.”

Oscar tried not to look smug. He failed. Miserably.

Weeks ticked by. Max tried everything—matching socks, extra bedtime stories, even a sneaky turn in the Red Bull sim (Christian would actually combust if he found out). Didn’t matter. Oscar was still her sun, moon, and all the stars.

One night, after a long slog at the track, Max found Y/N crashed out next to Oscar in the hospitality lounge, mouth open, dead to the world. Oscar looked over, awkward but weirdly proud.

“Sorry, mate. Think she likes me more.”

Max just sighed, a little defeated but kinda okay with it. “Yeah. She’s got pretty solid taste.”

Oscar grinned. “Must run in the family.”

Max rolled his eyes, but his chest didn’t feel so tight.

Honestly? If his little sister was gonna worship someone, Oscar wasn’t the worst choice. Not even close.

And maybe Max could get used to sharing the spotlight—at least until Y/N decided Toto Wolff was her new obsession. At that point, all bets were off.

[fernandopiastri28]

Oscar “so, uhm, yeah” Piastri

[lazybatata]

rip Williams' remaining money

[shineonlux]

my driver side profile series is growing. with each one i find new things to improve on and i’ve been enjoying it a lot.

here’s Max, Lando, Oscar and Logan ✨

i’ve got my own meanings for their shining yellow accents but i’d love to hear any other interpretations 🫶

[ayyy-jaaay]

Jeddah 2025 podium basically

[osctwink]

lando working hard so his wife can enjoy a quick snack 😂

[theereboseffect]

art tut. hope it helpsss

[suliigwp]

Helloooooooo, how are you?? Love your work!!

So I got this idea for Oscar, where they have been dating for years now and everyone always teased him about when he’s popping the question. The fans pick up to it and reader finds it super funny so she posts a video with Oscar like full on sleeping on her chest with the song paper rings but like the soft part at the end. Fans go crazy and his mum Nicole actually urges him to pop the question. What do you think?? You can always change the plot a bit, it’s just an idea, hope you have a great week!!

-(cal me) rudolf or 🐢 anon (if it’s free)

Paper Rings

Oscar Piastri x Reader

SULI:Hii thank you so much for the request! Yes 🐢 anon is free— welcome to the family! I loved writing this, so sweet and ugh I just love this man— hope you enjoy! This ended up wayyyyy longer than what I imagined I would write (this is my fav gif of Oscar I had to use it)

Also this is not proofread so forgive any mistakes lmao

Warnings: talk of dangers of f1

Oscar and Y/N had been together since high school. Their story wasn’t one of wild romance or instant fireworks, but a slow-burning, steady kind of love that grew from shy smiles in crowded hallways and whispered secrets beneath the bleachers. They had been the kind of couple everyone expected to last forever — the golden pair who fit so perfectly it was like they’d been made for each other from the start. And for years, they had been inseparable.

Despite the many years and countless memories they shared, there was one thing everyone around them kept teasing Oscar about — when was he finally going to pop the question?

It started with their close friends and family. At the racing team’s gatherings, Oscar’s teammates couldn’t help but poke fun. Lando would smirk and nudge him during strategy talks, “Mate, been years. When’s the ring going on her finger?” Carlos, never one to miss a chance to tease, joked about how Oscar’s mum was already asking if he needed help picking out the perfect ring. Even Y/N’s best friends would text him with sly messages about the “big question” everyone was waiting for.

Oscar laughed along with it, but deep down, the teasing pressed on him in ways no one could see.

The fans were no different. Social media buzzed with excitement and speculation, creating a frenzy over the couple that had grown up before their eyes. Screenshots of their old photos surfaced alongside edits set to romantic songs, and forums debated which race weekend would finally see Oscar get down on one knee. The pressure wasn’t just from the people closest to him — it was everywhere, loud and relentless.

But what no one really understood was what was holding Oscar back.

It wasn’t a lack of love. Oscar loved Y/N with every fiber of his being. He’d dreamed of forever with her since they were teenagers, and his heart raced faster than any car on the track every time he thought about their future. But there was something else — a weight he carried quietly.

Since those early days, his life had been a constant race, both on and off the track. The world of Formula 1 was unforgiving, full of unpredictability and risks that could change everything in an instant. He wanted more than anything to be the man she deserved — stable, strong, able to give her a future without fear or doubt. But how do you promise forever when tomorrow is so uncertain? When every race could bring glory or heartbreak?

The truth was, Oscar was terrified of failing her. Of not being enough.

Late at night, he would lie awake, clutching the small ring box hidden beneath his pillow — polished and perfect, a silent promise waiting to be made. But every time he imagined getting down on one knee, doubt crept in, filling his chest with cold hesitation.

His mum, Nicole, saw through the cracks, even when he tried to hide them. On video calls, her voice was gentle but firm, “Oscar, darling, you’ve been dating Y/N since you were kids. Isn’t it time you made it official?” She teased and encouraged, reminding him how much they all loved Y/N and wanted to see them take the next step. Oscar would laugh nervously, promising he was thinking about it. But he wasn’t ready to say more.

Y/N, too, sensed the tension beneath his smiles. She wasn’t in a rush, never had been. Their love wasn’t about grand gestures or deadlines. It lived in quiet moments — Oscar’s hand slipping into hers during long waits at airports, her sketching his tired face after races, the way they’d curl up together on their couch, wrapped in blankets and the comfort of simply being with each other.

But she knew. She knew he was scared. Not of her, but of the weight of forever.

It was late — the kind of still night when the rest of the world felt like it had slowed down just for them. Oscar was completely exhausted, his body finally surrendering after a long day of training and travel. He’d collapsed onto the couch beside her, and before she could even say a word, he had rested his head gently on her chest, eyes closing as his breathing deepened into slow, even rhythms.

Y/N sat perfectly still, careful not to disturb him. She looked down at him with a tenderness that made her chest ache in the best way. His hair was soft and messy from the day, falling loosely over his forehead and around his ears, and she couldn’t resist the impulse to reach out.

Her fingers moved slowly, as if not wanting to break the spell, threading gently through the dark curls above his temple. The warmth of his skin beneath her palm made her heart flutter — quiet and steady, like the steady beat beneath it.

Oscar shifted just slightly, his breath hitching for a moment before he relaxed again. Encouraged by the calmness of the moment, Y/N let her hand trace a gentle path from his hair down to the curve of his cheek, brushing softly against the smooth skin there.

Almost immediately, Oscar nuzzled closer, pressing his face deeper into her palm and the warmth of her touch. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes — a silent conversation of comfort and trust that had grown between them over the years.

She smiled softly, the kind of smile that didn’t need words, just the pure knowing that this moment — this quiet, unguarded closeness — was everything.

She took out her phone and started recording.

The soft, fading notes of Paper Rings drifted in the background, delicate and warm, wrapping around them like a gentle promise.

Y/N shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and continued to stroke his hair, her heart full in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

There was no rush, no grand declaration needed right then. Just this — Oscar asleep in her arms, safe and at peace, and the world reduced to the simple rhythm of their shared breath.

Morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. The world outside was waking up slowly, but inside, time seemed to have paused just a little longer.

Y/N lay still, feeling the steady rise and fall of Oscar’s chest against her side. His head was still resting on her, the faint warmth of his skin seeping into hers. For a moment, she just let herself soak in the quiet — the kind of quiet that feels like home.

Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, now softer in the early light, and when he shifted just enough to nuzzle into her again, a sleepy smile tugged at her lips. He wasn’t fully awake yet — just caught in that beautiful space between dreams and reality.

Careful not to disturb him, Y/N reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen as she scrolled through the overnight notifications. The video from last night had exploded in views — thousands upon thousands of hearts, comments filled with love and excitement, and ring emojis flooding the feed.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly, texts lighting up the screen. Friends teasing, fans gushing, and then — a message from Nicole, Oscar’s mum, flashing bright and urgent: “When’s my boy gonna put that ring on your finger?!”

Y/N laughed quietly to herself, the sound soft but filled with warmth. She brushed a stray lock of hair from Oscar’s forehead.

Oscar’s eyes fluttered open slowly, the morning light warm and soft against his face. For a moment, he didn’t move — just took in the weight of Y/N’s body beneath his head, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat grounding him in a way nothing else could.

His fingers twitched, still tangled lightly in her hair as he blinked up at the ceiling, feeling the peaceful calm of the moment wrap around him like a blanket.

Then, ever so gently, he shifted—nuzzling deeper into her, burying his face just a little more against her skin, as if trying to hold onto that feeling of safety and quiet a little longer.

A soft smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he whispered, barely louder than a breath, “Morning.”

He opened his eyes fully then and glanced down, catching sight of Y/N’s smile. His heart swelled — that little smile she wore, the way her eyes lit up even first thing in the morning, it made everything feel like home.

Oscar let his hand cup her cheek softly, thumb brushing over her skin in the gentlest of touches, before he spoke again, voice still thick with sleep, “I’m never waking up from this.”

The moment Oscar and Y/N’s little video went viral, it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly, no one—friends, family, even fans—could stop teasing him about the one thing everyone had been quietly (or not so quietly) waiting for: when was he finally going to propose?

It started small. At training sessions, his teammates would nudge him with raised eyebrows. Lando, always the cheeky one, smirked and said, “Mate, it’s been years. You planning on popping the question before you retire, or should we start a countdown clock?”

Oscar just laughed, brushing it off, but the grin never quite reached his eyes. Y/N caught it too—the way he’d glance at her sometimes when the teasing started, half-amused, half-worried.

At the paddock, journalists began picking up on the hints, asking the question slyly during interviews. “So, Oscar, fans are dying to know—when’s the big moment?” they’d press, flashing that knowing smile.

And then came the texts and calls from family. His mum, Nicole, was the worst. She didn’t hold back. “Honestly, Oscar, what are you waiting for? You have a beautiful girlfriend, you love her—do the right thing, darling.”

Oscar would groan every time. “Mum, I’m not ignoring you, I just want it to be perfect.”

“But you’ve been saying that for three years!” she shot back, totally unfazed.

Y/N watched it all from the sidelines, amused and affectionate. The whole world seemed to be in on this joke except Oscar himself.

One night, at a small gathering with their closest friends, the teasing hit peak levels.

“Come on, Oscar,” Hattie teased, eyes twinkling mischievously. “You’re not getting any younger, and neither are we. You planning on letting Y/N keep stealing your hoodies forever or are you gonna make it official?”

Lando chimed in, “Yeah, I’m starting to think you’re scared of the big question. What’s holding you back?”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off. “I’m just making sure it’s the right moment, alright?”

Y/N leaned over and whispered, “Or maybe you’re just nervous.”

That made the room burst into laughter, and Oscar’s cheeks flushed.

Despite the teasing, Y/N knew what was really going on. It wasn’t fear or doubt holding him back—it was the weight of the promise he wanted to make. The years they’d spent together, the ups and downs, the quiet moments and the big ones.

Still, every joke, every question, every nudge only made the anticipation grow, and somewhere deep inside, Y/N knew their perfect moment was coming—she just didn’t know when.

...

The house was quiet that afternoon, sunlight slanting through the curtains in golden strips. The buzz of the earlier crowd—friends coming and going, family lingering over coffee and conversation—had finally faded, leaving just Oscar and his mum in the kitchen.

He was standing by the sink, rolling a glass of water between his palms, while Nicole sat at the kitchen table, watching him with that look only a mother could give. Patient. Knowing. Unapologetically nosy.

“I’m surprised you stayed behind,” Oscar said, glancing at her. “Thought you’d be the first to head back to the hotel.”

Nicole shrugged, sipping from her cup. “Wanted to see you. Just you. Just my son.”

He gave her a small smile, one she didn’t miss was a little tight around the edges. She set her cup down.

“Oscar.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Just tired.”

She let that settle for a moment before asking, gently, “Is it about the proposal?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to—his silence said enough.

Nicole stood and crossed the kitchen, resting a hand lightly on his back. “Can we sit for a minute?”

They moved to the small couch in the sunroom, where the late afternoon light painted everything in a soft, fading warmth. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glass still in his hands.

“I know everyone’s been teasing you,” she said carefully. “I’ve done it too.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. You and literally everyone I know.”

Nicole tilted her head. “And I know you, sweetheart. When something means a lot to you, you overthink it.”

Oscar was quiet, his thumb moving over the rim of his glass.

“I want to do it right,” he said softly. “Y/N... she’s everything. We’ve been together since we were kids. She knows me better than anyone. She’s been patient through it all—through the races, the travel, the constant being away. I come home exhausted, sometimes barely there at all, and she never makes me feel guilty for it.”

Nicole listened, eyes soft, waiting.

He sighed, deeper this time. “And I think that’s part of what scares me.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“I’m always gone,” he continued, his voice low. “Race to race, country to country, time zones and airports and hotel rooms. And when I’m not away, I’m still not really... here. My head’s always somewhere else—on the next turn, the next performance, the next interview.”

His throat tightened. “It’s not fair to her. It hasn’t been for years. I’m in this career that asks for everything—my time, my focus, even my body. It’s dangerous, Mum. I know I don’t talk about it, but it is. One crash, one wrong move, and everything could change. Or end.”

Nicole reached for his hand, wrapping hers around his.

“She never complains,” he said, a little brokenly. “She just waits. Supports. Smiles and makes it easier. And I just keep taking and taking, and what if marrying her—what if making her my wife—means she gives up even more of herself?”

Nicole’s heart ached at the way he said it, like he was carrying guilt for simply being loved too well.

“Oscar,” she said gently, “you don’t protect someone by keeping them at arm’s length.”

He looked at her, eyes glinting with emotion.

“She already chose you,” Nicole continued. “Every day. Every race. Every long-distance call, every night she watched you on a screen instead of next to her. That’s not changing if she’s your girlfriend or your wife. She knows what she signed up for—and she signed up for you.”

“But what if something happens?”

“Then she’ll grieve with your name on her heart,” Nicole said, voice strong despite the crack in it. “Just like you would for her. That’s what love is. Not running from the risk—choosing each other anyway.”

Oscar swallowed hard.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she added, “or wait for the perfect moment. You just have to be honest. And if what’s holding you back is fear—then let her be the one to hold you through it. Like she always has.”

Silence stretched for a beat.

And then Oscar leaned back on the couch, eyes burning, head gently tilted toward his mum’s shoulder.

“I’m just scared.”

“I know,” she whispered, resting her cheek against his hair. “That means you care.”

...

Oscar hadn’t told anyone about the ring.

Not at first. Not even when he bought it two years ago, alone in Monaco during a break between back-to-back races, standing in a quiet little boutique with too much white and too many mirrors. He remembered the way the glass counter reflected the tiny gold band, delicate and simple, with a solitaire diamond — exactly how you would’ve wanted it. He remembered the way his thumb had hovered just slightly before he nodded at the jeweler, heart racing harder than it ever did in a car going 300km/h.

He hadn’t told anyone because the moment had been his. Just his.

Because even though the teasing had started back then — from his mum, from his friends, from half the bloody paddock — something in him wasn’t ready yet. Not because of you. Never because of you.

Because of his job. His life. The travel, the danger, the days he spent exhausted and strung out from back-to-back flights. Because being a racing driver meant sometimes being absent, and you had never asked for anything more than his presence, even when he could barely give you that.

And part of him — some quiet, scared part of him — had convinced himself that maybe you deserved better than a boy who left more often than he came home.

So the ring stayed in a drawer. Wrapped in its velvet box, tucked away in a zippered pouch behind spare cables and old credentials. He’d check on it sometimes — carefully, reverently — opening the lid and staring at the soft glint in the light. Sometimes, after particularly long races or lonely nights, he’d whisper things to it.

“She’s still it. Still everything.”

But he never moved.

Not until a month ago.

It started with that video — the one you posted without thinking. Oscar dead asleep, face smooshed against your chest, hand curled around your wrist like he’d found the only thing worth holding in the world.

He’d woken up to chaos.

Hundreds of thousands of likes. Comments. Reposts. TikToks dissecting the lighting. Tweets demanding a proposal. Memes of him asleep with “husband material” scrawled over his forehead.

You were so sweet about it, always scrolling past quickly when you were scrolling on your phone together about him proposing, to not give him any pressure.

And that was what made it impossible to wait anymore.

So, for the first time in two years, he pulled the ring out — hands slightly trembling, breath caught in his throat.

And then he did something he never thought he’d do.

He showed your best friend.

You weren’t home — you were out running errands, and he’d texted her on a whim, asking if she could stop by, not giving any context. She arrived with suspicious eyes and a grin, teasing him instantly.

“She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“What—no! Jesus—just come in.”

She barely had time to take her shoes off before he was pulling the little velvet box from behind the fruit bowl, practically hiding it in his palm like it was some illicit secret.

And when he opened it —

She gasped.

Hand to her mouth, eyes already shining.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed, nerves kicking in hard and fast. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“She’s going to sob,” she whispered, voice thick. “Are you kidding me? You’ve had this for how long?”

“A while.”

Then, softer: “I just didn’t know if I deserved her yet.”

That was all it took.

Suddenly, your best friend was crying. Not loud, but that quiet, overwhelmed kind — blinking fast and biting back a full sob. Oscar froze, unsure.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” she said quickly, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug. “No. You idiot. She’s going to marry you in ten seconds if you ask.”

He held onto her, feeling something heavy shake loose in his chest.

“She waited for you,” she murmured into his shoulder. “She always would have.”

Oscar didn’t cry. Not then. But something welled in his throat as he looked down at the little box in his hand — the one that had sat in the dark for too long.

Now it was time to let it see light.

He was ready. Finally.

To ask.

To hope.

To begin.

...

Oscar sat on the couch with his laptop open, not racing footage or telemetry data for once, but a blank Notes page titled in all caps:

THE PLAN.

It felt so serious typed out like that. He almost laughed — almost. But his heart was beating a bit too fast for that.

Because it was real now. He was going to ask you to marry him.

And if there was one thing he wasn’t going to do, it was wing it.

He rubbed at his jaw, glanced at the velvet box beside him, and typed the first bullet.

1. Location.

He wanted it to be somewhere meaningful. Not over-the-top. Not something grand or wildly public. It had to feel like you. Like the two of you, in your quiet little world where love lived in the silences and shared glances.

Your high school back garden where you had your first kiss? No, too far.

The rooftop where you watched fireworks two years ago on New Year’s Eve? Maybe.

But then he paused. Thought harder.

He ended up circling back to the simplest answer.

Home.

Your shared apartment. The one filled with plants you insisted weren’t dying (even when they definitely were), the kitchen that still had “his and hers” mugs from high school, the faint dent in the hallway wall from when he crashed into it during a Mario Kart race.

Home, where he had found the softest version of himself because you’d made space for it.

He typed:

→ Living room. Candles. Dim lighting. Quiet. Just us.

2. Time.

She’s always busiest on Thursdays. I’ll do it on a Sunday evening, when she’s sleepy and soft and doesn’t expect anything. Maybe after a movie, or her favourite dinner.

His fingers hesitated before typing:

→ Sunday. 8PM. Movie first — something she loves. Then dinner. Then quiet.

3. Distraction plan.

He needed help setting up. Someone to make sure the candles weren’t setting off the smoke alarm, that the lights were dimmed, the playlist queued.

He’d already talked to your best friend. After the ring reveal, she’d sworn a blood oath of secrecy and offered to help with anything. He sent her a text while typing the next point:

→ Best friend will take her out earlier in the day. Mani-pedi + coffee excuse. Gives me time to set up.

4. Ring placement.

Not in his pocket. Too risky. He had a history of losing things in couch cushions.

He considered the idea of hiding it in something — a dessert, a coffee cup — but then physically recoiled.

No.

You’d murder him if he accidentally made you swallow the engagement ring. Rightfully.

Instead, he decided:

→ Box in drawer by the record player. I’ll go get it when it’s time.

5. Speech.

He hadn’t written it yet. But he knew the beats.

Talk about the first time he saw her — not the version everyone knew, not the cutesy “we were high school sweethearts” part — but the real moment.

The time she stayed after his karting practice with a juice box in her hand and said, “You looked miserable. Thought you might need sugar.”

The moment he knew: this girl was going to wreck him.

How she’d been the only thing constant, solid, and warm through years of jetlag, failure, podiums, and pressure.

How scared he’d been to ask — not because of her, but because of everything he wasn’t sure he could promise.

And how now… he was finally ready.

→ Just speak from the heart. Don’t fumble. Unless she laughs — then laugh too.

6. Playlist.

Because he knew her. Because he loved her.

Because if he didn’t pick the right songs, she’d tease him forever.

He opened Spotify and started a new list: “for us.”

First on the queue? “Paper Rings (Acoustic),” because she still hadn’t realized how much that one post meant to him.

Then a few of the songs they’d fallen asleep to on long flights. A bit of Hozier. A soft Japanese track she’d taught him how to pronounce.

→ “for us” playlist. Final check. No ads. No shuffle. Don’t mess this up.

7. Contingency plan.

Because Oscar Piastri was nothing if not prepared.

What if she cried too hard to answer?

What if he dropped the ring?

What if she thought it was a prank?

He typed quickly:

→ Hug her. Don’t rush. Let her answer on her own time. Don’t panic.

And then, finally:

8. The after.

He wasn’t going to post right away. He wanted it just for them — just for one night. Maybe they’d tell your best friend first. His mum next. Then the rest could come.

But he did have a folder of photos ready. All of them candid. All of them glowing. Like the one where she kissed his cheek while he was still brushing his teeth. Or the blurry one of her asleep on his chest with the sunlight painting her face gold.

→ Just us, first. Always.

Oscar leaned back.

Looked at the list.

And exhaled.

He was going to ask you to be his forever.

And for the first time in years, there wasn’t a single doubt in his heart.

But there had always been one thing lingering at the edge of it all — one thing he couldn’t skip, couldn’t avoid.

Asking your dad.

You and Oscar had been together since you were sixteen — practically grew up alongside each other. Your parents had seen every version of him: the awkward teenage boy with racing posters in his backpack, the one who nervously shook your dad’s hand at the front door in a too-big suit on your Year 12 formal night. The kid who once broke your mum’s favourite vase and nearly passed out apologizing.

They’d watched him grow.

Which somehow made this even more terrifying.

So when he texted your dad and asked if they could get coffee — “just the two of us, if that’s alright?” — Oscar already felt his palms getting clammy. Your dad replied almost instantly: “Of course. I’ve been waiting.”

That didn’t help.

The café was quiet, tucked into a leafy corner of your neighbourhood. A place your dad liked — Oscar knew because he’d driven past it on slow Sunday mornings with you in the passenger seat, talking about nothing.

He got there early. Sat at a corner table and fiddled with the coffee cup sleeve until it nearly tore.

And then your dad walked in, wearing the same calm, unreadable expression he always had. Friendly, but firm. Warm, but never too easy to crack. The kind of man who didn’t say much unless it meant something. Just like you.

“Hey, Oscar,” he said with a nod, sitting down across from him.

“Hi, sir,” Oscar replied, voice a little tight.

Your dad looked at him for a long second, then smiled, just a little. “Relax. You’re not here for a job interview.”

Oscar laughed — nervously — but still.

They chatted first. About racing. About travel. About the state of his car lately and how your dad had been watching from the sidelines and still yelling at the screen when strategy made no sense. It was easy. Familiar.

Until the conversation lulled.

And Oscar knew.

This was it.

He sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat.

“I… I wanted to ask you something,” he started, rubbing his palms against his jeans beneath the table. “Something important.”

Your dad leaned back slightly. Watching. Listening.

“I’ve loved Y/n since we were kids. And I know that sounds too young to be sure, but I’ve known every version of her — every birthday, every laugh, every bad day where she still managed to smile — and I’ve never once doubted her. Not once.”

He swallowed.

“And I know this job… it’s a lot. It takes me away. It’s dangerous. It’s unpredictable. But she’s never made me feel like it was too much. She’s stayed. She’s supported me. She’s been my home through all of it.”

Oscar paused. His voice softened.

“And I want to marry her. If… if you’re okay with that.”

The words hung in the air. He could hear the tiny café speaker humming something low and jazzy in the background. He hated how loud his heartbeat sounded in his own ears.

Your dad didn’t speak right away.

He looked down at his coffee. Then back at Oscar.

Then he nodded.

And said, “I’d be honoured to call you my son.”

Oscar blinked. “Really?”

“I’ve watched you love her for years,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “And I’ve never worried. Not once. That means something.”

And for the first time since Oscar sat down, he breathed — really breathed.

Your dad smiled and added, “Now, if you hurt her, I will kill you.”

Oscar’s laugh cracked through the nerves, shaky and full of affection. “That’s… fair.”

They clinked their coffee cups like glasses. Two men who had never needed many words — only trust. And now, they had it.

Later that night, Oscar drove home with both hands on the wheel and that velvet box sitting in the glove compartment like it had been waiting too.

He was ready now.

Really ready.

And you had no idea what was coming.

Say the word, bestie, and I’ll write your best friend seeing the ring again, and the moment Oscar stands in the living room, hand shaking, heart thundering, ready to ask.

...

The sun poured in soft and gold through the windows, spilling across your sheets like something out of a dream. You were still curled beneath the duvet, face warm against your pillow, when a knock came at your bedroom door — three soft taps and then a cheeky voice you knew too well.

“Get up, princess. We’ve got a date with some hair masks and overpriced lattes.”

You groaned, smiling into the pillow. “Do I have to?”

Your best friend poked her head in, already dressed in a flowy linen dress, sunnies on her head, and a grin that looked suspiciously like she was up to something.

“Yes, you have to,” she said. “I booked us the works — nails, hair, brows. I’m talking pampered-to-the-heavens kind of day.”

You blinked sleepily, pushing your hair out of your face. “Why?”

“Because,” she said, sauntering in and yanking your blanket off dramatically, “you’ve been an exhausted little marshmallow lately, and I need my best girl back. This is long overdue.”

You laughed, kicking your legs in protest before finally sitting up, stretching your arms over your head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I’m lucky you haven’t figured out this is all an elaborate ploy to get you glowing for a very specific reason.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She smiled too hard and practically dragged you into the bathroom.

The salon smelled like citrus and jasmine and felt like stepping into heaven. Everything was light and airy and crisp — soft music playing, staff already greeting you with cucumber water and complimenting your skin.

Your best friend leaned into the receptionist’s desk and said, “She’s the bride.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“I said ‘divine.’ She’s divine,” she corrected smoothly, elbowing you with a wink.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re acting so weird today.”

“I’m acting fabulous, babe. Relax and let me spoil you.”

And you did. The two of you sat side by side, heads tipped back over sinks as warm water ran through your hair and a stylist massaged your scalp with something that smelled like vanilla and orange blossoms. Your eyes fluttered shut. You let yourself drift.

Your best friend took secret photos of you with a soft smile on her face, heart clenching just a little because you have no idea. You have no idea that the love of your life has been texting her every twenty minutes asking “is she happy? is she relaxing? does she suspect anything?”

You were glowing.

After your nails were done (a pale blush pink she subtly nudged you into choosing), and your hair was blown out in soft waves, you sat in front of the mirror, blinking at your reflection.

“God,” you said, softly. “I feel like… I don’t know. Like I’m floating.”

Your best friend came up behind you, resting her hands on your shoulders.

“You look like magic.”

You turned to look at her, eyes soft. “Thanks for today.”

She swallowed, heart skipping. “You deserve the world.”

And when you leaned in to hug her, warm and sleepy and full of love, she had to blink away tears.

Because you still had no idea.

And Oscar Piastri was about to give you everything.

...

Oscar had been pacing.

Not nervously — not exactly. Just that kind of buzzed, excited pacing that meant his heart wouldn’t quite stay calm. His socks were half sliding on the wooden floors as he moved around the flat, adjusting and readjusting the little details.

The living room looked like a scene out of a love song.

Candles — the expensive kind he knew you liked, the ones that smelled like fig and honey — were flickering gently across every surface. Your favorite flowers — not red roses, but the weird little white ones you always called “the ugly pretty ones” — were everywhere, tucked into vases and glasses and little jars like a secret garden had exploded in their apartment. The playlist had been curated to within an inch of its life, starting with the soft stuff you always hummed to in the car and slowly building toward the songs that felt like him and you — lazy days and road trips and the night you moved in together.

In the middle of the drawer beneath the record player. Waiting for the right time.

He hadn’t even opened it today — he didn’t need to. He knew exactly what it looked like. Simple, clean. The band was warm gold, nothing flashy, but the diamond was clear and bright. The kind of ring that didn’t try too hard. The kind that felt like you.

It sat there quietly, like it knew its moment was coming.

Oscar stepped back, hands on his hips, staring at the table like it might suddenly ask for his blessing.

“You ready, mate?” he muttered to himself, voice soft and full of something breathless.

Then came the knock on the door.

His breath caught.

He checked the time. Perfect. You were early.

He made it halfway down the hall before stopping, raking a hand through his hair. He turned around, sprinted back, and grabbed the tiny bouquet of baby’s breath he’d forgotten to put by the door — the one he wanted to give you the moment you walked in, for no reason at all. Just because.

Another knock. This one softer. Familiar.

His heart was pounding.

He opened the door.

And there you were.

Hair done, face glowing, a soft pink gloss on your lips and that look in your eyes — the one that always landed right in his chest. Your tote bag hung off one shoulder. You still had the little paper wristband from the salon tucked on your wrist like you forgot it was there. You were a little windblown from the walk up the stairs.

He couldn’t breathe.

You blinked at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said, voice cracking a little.

Your eyes narrowed. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I just missed you.”

You softened. “It’s only been a few hours.”

He stepped aside, holding out the little bouquet.

“For you.”

You blinked, smiling at the crinkled paper wrapping. “What’s this for?”

“Nothing. You just look really beautiful.”

You raised a brow. “Oscar Piastri, are you trying to distract me?”

He laughed, nervous and giddy and warm all over. “A little bit.”

You leaned in to kiss his cheek — something so casual and familiar it made his chest ache — and stepped inside.

You didn’t notice the candles at first.

Didn’t notice the playlist, or the flowers.

But he watched as it all slowly hit you.

Your steps slowed. Your eyes flicked around. Your mouth opened slightly.

“…What is this?”

He closed the door behind you and didn’t answer yet. He gave you time to take it in — to see the apartment the way he saw you. Soft and glowing and full of meaning.

He stepped up beside you, heart wild in his chest.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquet.

“Oscar?” you said again, barely above a whisper.

The air felt too heavy. Like your lungs had forgotten how to stretch all the way. Like the walls had inched closer without warning.

He looked at you gently, but you couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a second. Your eyes flitted around the room — the golden light, the candles, the record spinning something soft and slow in the corner, the colors that didn’t belong to an ordinary night.

You took one step inside, then stopped. The silence stretched too far.

“Oscar,” you said again, quieter this time, “what is this?”

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying yet. You were just still. Too still. Like your body was trying not to feel it.

Oscar’s voice came soft. “It’s okay.”

You shook your head, almost imperceptibly. “I wasn’t— I didn’t know—”

He stepped closer, slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to startle you. His hand reached for yours, fingers warm and familiar. “Hey. You’re okay. I promise. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

You tried. You really did. But your chest barely moved.

You blinked again, fast. “Why does it feel like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like something’s… about to change.”

His smile was soft, almost sad. “Because it is.”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. Your eyes were wide, your lips slightly parted, your hands shaking around the stems of the flowers.

He laughed quietly, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “God, you’re so quiet right now. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

He took a breath.

And then, still holding your hand, he began.

“There’s a ring in the drawer — wrapped up, hidden, waiting for the perfect day. But then last weekyou walked through the door in that new green dress and I saw you, so happy, and something inside me just said, Why are you waiting?”

You made a small sound, like a breath that didn’t land all the way.

He kept going.

“I’ve watched you walk into so many rooms, and every single time, I’ve fallen in love with you all over again. And I think—” his voice caught a little, “—I think part of me’s been falling since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t something to be afraid of.”

Your other hand had risen to your chest now, fingers pressed lightly against your collarbone.

Oscar stepped closer, his words steady even as his eyes grew glassy.

“You always say you’re too much. Too sharp, too complicated, too careful. But do you want to know what I see?”

You nodded, barely.

“I see a girl who laughs with her whole chest when she forgets to be scared. Who stays up late sending pictures of weird clouds. Who holds my hand like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered and still pretends she’s not the softest person in the room.”

A quiet laugh escaped you — wet, stunned — and you shook your head slightly, as if trying to keep yourself upright.

Oscar held your hand a little tighter, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin.

He exhaled slowly, voice a little steadier now. “You know, my job… it’s not easy. It’s demanding in ways I can’t always explain — the travel, the pressure, the constant chase for perfection. Some days I feel like I’m barely holding myself together, and other days I blink and another month’s passed.”

He paused, his voice going quiet again.

“But even in all of that — even when I’m jet-lagged or exhausted or reading strategy notes at 2 a.m. — I still find myself thinking about you. Wondering if you slept okay. If you ate. If something made you laugh.”

You looked down, your breath catching.

“I know I’m not always going to be around in the way you deserve. And I hate that. But I promise you… I’ll try. I’ll try with everything I have to be present, to be there in the moments that matter. I’ll call. I’ll write. I’ll show up — even if it’s in the smallest ways. Because loving you isn't something I want to fit in between races. It's something I want to build everything else around.”

He smiled, soft and sure.

“You’re not a break from my world. You are my world.”

He took a breath.

And that’s when he broke.

Not panicked. Not messy. But decisive.

Like he’d just made a choice in real time.

He turned.

Walked straight down the hallway.

Your heart tripped into your throat. “Oscar—wait, where are you going? What are you—”

But your voice died as soon as you saw it.

The little velvet box in his hand.

He returned slowly, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding this moment in for too long — too many days, too many almosts.

And when he met your eyes again, everything inside you lit up and collapsed at the same time.

“No,” you breathed. “No, you’re not—you’re not doing this—”

“I am,” he said, voice soft but steady. “I really am.”

Your hands were trembling now, bouquet forgotten and held too loosely, fingers clenched and released over and over again like your body was trying to keep pace with your heart.

“But—but you said not yet,” you whispered.

He looked down at the box in his hands. Then back up at you.

He opened it.

And your knees almost buckled.

The ring caught the candlelight in a quiet shimmer — not flashy, not huge, but perfect. Intimate. Him.

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” Oscar said, eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been holding onto this ring for three years. Always thinking there’d be a better time, a better way. But nothing feels more right than right now. You, standing here, losing your mind because I lit a candle and played our song.”

He laughed, but it was breathless. Full of adrenaline. Full of you.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much it hurts. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

You blinked rapidly, tears clinging to your lashes, one already streaking down your cheek.

“Oscar,” you whispered, but it came out like a plea.

He stepped forward. Got down on one knee.

Your breath caught, completely and entirely gone.

“Will you marry me?”

There were no theatrics.

No grand speeches.

Just him — knees to the floor, hands shaking, heart in his throat, ring in a box that had been waiting far too long.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until your hands covered your mouth and a little laugh bubbled out through the shock.

He smiled up at you — really smiled — like every part of him was in this.

“Yes,” you choked out. “Oh my god, yes.”

The moment hit like a wave.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands on his face, kissing him before he could even slide the ring onto your finger. You were crying and laughing and holding onto him like gravity stopped working.

“I thought I was going to pass out,” you whispered against his mouth, shaking.

He laughed into the kiss, forehead resting against yours. “Same.”

And when he finally did slide the ring on — slow, reverent, like it meant everything (because it did) — your hand trembled in his.

“Perfect,” he murmured, kissing your knuckles. “Finally.”

The music kept playing in the background.

But the room had never been so quiet.

Because nothing needed to be said.

Not anymore.

...

Liked by hattiepiastri, lando, f1, mclaren and 7.7M others.

oscarpiastri: perfect.

lando: HOLY SHIT CONGRATS

danielricciardoso: THIS is what all those mysterious “plans” were?? crying, shaking, throwing champagne 🥂

yourbestfriend: IM SORRY YOU DIDN’T EVEN TELL ME FIRST?? I FIND OUT WITH THE REST OF THE WORLD?? 😭😭😭 I HATE YOU (I LOVE YOU CONGRATS)

mclaren: Our team’s real winning moment 🧡

oscarpiastriupdates: I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT 😭 the candles, the playlist, the strawberries... WE CLOCKED IT MONTHS AGO

username1: not him captioning it like that and making me cry on a THURSDAY

username2: this is why I can’t have nice things. men like him are taken.

username3: the softest launch. the deadliest impact. RIP me.

username4: no press release, no video, just “perfect” and a RING??? be serious oscar we’re fragile

username5: tell me she said yes and then immediately started crying and making it his problem

username6: the “perfect” wasn’t about the photo. it was about her 😭😭😭

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu

[sturniluvr]

your camera roll dating Lando Norris

[meep-meep-richie]

Of course he recognizes him everywhere T_T

[slowpitstop]

Over my dead body – IH6

summary: in which you pick a fight at the club with a guy who won’t take no for an answer and your bf Isack has to step in

isack hadjar x reader

note: just a very short one, born in my head last night from the classic and cheesy fantasy of his stupidly big protective arms getting in the way ahhhhhhhhhhh this guy just looks so yummy I want to eat him

You don’t even know the girl but you’ve been watching her for five minutes now, being cornered by a random guy a little too insistent. Her drink is pressed against her chest like a shield as he leans in too close. You’re already pushing your way over before you can stop yourself.

You approach and put a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Hey, you okay?”

The guy looks at you and frowns.

“Mind your business.”

“I'm talking to her,” you say, eyes locked onto the girl’s.

She nods and whispers a thank you before slipping away into the crowd. The guy turns to you, furious.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

He steps closer, towering over you but before he can say anything else, a familiar muscular arm wraps protectively around your waist.

“Hey, back off,” Isack growls.

The guy laughs.

“What? That’s your bodyguard? If your girlfriend's got enough guts to come and ruin my plans then she should be able to defend herself on her own.”

He is going to put a finger on your chest to support his point but your reflexes kick in before you think and you push him hard. You freeze, terrified. Regaining balance, he goes to take a swing at you when his fist cracks against Isack’s cheekbone who stepped in front of you to shield your body with his.

“Isack!” you shout.

“She had it coming,” says the guy, smirking.

“Over my dead body,” declares Isack dramatically, then slams his fist into the guy’s face before he can flinch.

Security jumps in, dragging the guy out as Isack stumbles, holding his face. Blood runs across his jaw and his fist.

“Putain de merde,” he groans under his breath, spitting to the side like he needs to shake the pain out. “Putain, that hurt.”

Later, you are in a quiet staff room away from the music where the bartender sneaked you into. Isack is slouched on a bench, his head tilted back against the wall. He holds his jaw while cursing in French.

“You need ice,” you whisper, wrapping a few cubes in a towel. You kneel in front of him and press it gently to his skin.

He flinches.

“Aïe. Easy.”

“Sorry,” you say, quieter now. “Does it hurt a lot?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He looks at you, irritated and full of heat.

“Are you insane?” he snaps. “You pick fights with guys built like trucks now?”

“I didn’t know he was gonna hit someone!”

“You shoved him!”

You look down, guilt rising.

“I couldn’t just watch,” you murmur. “She looked scared.”

He exhales through his nose, wincing as he adjusts the ice.

“You’re lucky I was there.”

“I am,” you say softly as you sit next to him. You let a silence stretch between you before adding shyly: “At least now you look like a real MMA fighter.”

He looks at you, shaking his head like he cannot believe you are joking right now, but his bleeding hand not holding the ice finds its way to your bare thigh.

“You drive me fucking insane.”

You bury your head in the crook of his neck, seeking comfort in his warmth.

“I am sorry, I didn’t want you to get hurt,” you whisper “I just couldn’t let it go.”

He pulls your head up gently until you’re looking at him and you feel the anger has faded.

“It’s okay, I would have stepped in either way. But watching you stand there like you could take him alone… God, you have no idea what that did to me.”

The ice towel hangs from his hand now, drops trailing down his wrist.

“I could have taken him,” you smile.

Isack laughs and the anger on his face cracks into something softer.

“Yeah sure, you and your fifty kilos of rage.”

There’s barely any space left between you. Your fingers brush his shirt and the fabric near his stomach. You look at him, he is bruised and stupidly beautiful in the blue club lights.

His hand cups the back of your head and he kisses you softly at first. Then his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, hot and charged with adrenaline as if he needs to make sure you’re really there.

Pulling back to catch his breath, he murmurs:

“Okay, let’s get out of here, time to go home.”

[chxseversion]

HIS BLONDE|| The private account posts

summary: Kimi and the girl he always calls blondie

Warnings: reader is still in high school (same with Kimi), pre media training so it’s a bit crazy, ‘sweetest-heart’ is readers instagram name

MASTERLIST

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Kimi.backup • private account

liked by Sweetest-heart and others

Kimi.backup your monthly Blondie post as i’m back at school and get to see her for a few weeks…

tagged: @sweetest-heart

view all comments

sweetest-heart anyone would think i hate school (they think correct)

Kimi.backup yes they are pretty blondie

GeorgeRussel don’t have your phone out in class kid

mercedesamgf1 why are your on your phone in class?

OllieBearman you too are the cutest couple to ever grace this earth with your presence

Sweetest-heart thanks pookie

OllieBearman anytime blondes

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Kimi.backup • private account

liked by OllieBearman and others

Kimi.backup oh how i’m glad this girl was born. Happy 17th birthday to my precious blondie who makes me smile everyday without even knowing. Love you with my heart, soul and enough to give up racing if you asked

tagged: @sweetest-heart

view all comments

OllieBearman got me shedding a tear

GeorgeRussel this is quite cute ngl…

sweetest-heart AHHHH!!!!

sweetest-heart LOVE YOU TOO DRIVER

Kimi.backup 🫶

sweetest-heart you’ll find me sobbing in a corner

Kimi.backup no need to cry bella

meecedesamgf1 happy 17th. greatest wishes

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Kimi.backup • private account

liked by Sweetest-heart and more

Kimi.backup see you in two weeks Amore ❤️

view all comments

Sweetest-heart COME BACK!!!!!!!

Sweetest-heart i’m not going to school till you get back

Kimi.backup please go to school bella

❤️ liked by sweetest-heart

OllieBearman i’m too lonely for you guys

GeorgeRussel you’ll both live

sweetest-heart i know where you live…

GeorgeRussel …i’m sorry

Mercedesamgf1 her threatening george is the funniest thing

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Sweetest-heart • Private account

liked by KimiAntonelli and more

Sweetest-heart i remembered to post something guys…

view all comments

Kimi.backup glad your having fun at school amore

Sweetest-heart don’t even lie to yourself

❤️ liked by Kimi.backup

OllieBearman oh how i hate getting the notification you posted

Sweetest-heart i’ll block you

OllieBearman NO!!!! YOUR INTERESTING

YourMum stop flipping people off please

YourBFF glad i got photo credits for the last pic…

Sweetest-heart who eles takes photos of me?

YourBFF your boyfriend

Sweetest-heart don’t bring Ki into this

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

A/N: This will become a whole series about Kimi and His blonde girlfriend. Give me a little and i’ll be able to release a whole series with a bunch of random different posts