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the-secret-formulaone · 1 hour ago

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GIRL OMG I SCREAMED AT THE UPSIDE DOWN KISS!! THIS FIC IS PURE GOLD OMG I WISH I COULD READ IT AGAIN FOR THE FIRST TIME!

➤ THE COSTUME | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader

summary: your son wants nothing more than to have spiderman at his birthday, and when a certain neighbour finds out, he decides to take matters into his own hands to make it happen.

wc: 4.2 k

warnings: none!

➤ MASTERLIST

"Mr. Norris?" Lando had a soft spot for kids. That much was obvious, especially when they were fans. Maybe it's that he remembers being that age, what it felt like to meet someone he thought was a celebrity. Maybe it was the little McLaren merch, or baby fever, or something, but Lando had a soft spot for kids.

Milo, however?

Milo could probably tell Lando to crash during a race and he'd do it.

"You alright?" He finds himself saying, immediately squatting to Milo's level by the elevator. In the boy's hands are a stack of red and blue envelopes, with names written twice: once in neat, formal writing, and the other in Milo's. "What've you got there?"

"It's for my birthday party." Milo says quietly, extending the envelopes. "It's spider-man."

"No way!" Lando says, smiling down at the papers. "That's so cool! How old are you turning?"

Rather than answering, Milo holds up four fingers, the coordination making the envelopes spill from his hands. Lando's quick to pick them up, neatly sorting them into a stack, when he realizes one has his name on it. "Is this for me? Do I get to come to your birthday party?"

"Oh, you're the guest of honour." Your voice says from above, and Lando counts another reason he has a soft spot specifically for Milo:

You.

His mother.

You couldn't be much older than him, soft spoken and so kind when you moved in next door, offering sweet treats and texting apologies, laughing at his jokes, taking care of Milo. It was the sort of infatuation that Lando wasn't used to, at least with normal people in real life. You were perfect, he was pretty sure, except that was an insane thing to say to someone, let alone your neighbour. "I'm so honoured."

The elevator doors ding open and Lando rises to let Milo and you past, and despite the fact that he had just gone up the elevator, he gets back on to waste a moment with you. "Is spider-man coming?" Milo asks up at you, and you gently card your hand through the boy's hair, and Lando wonders how that would feel if you did it to him.

"No, sweetheart. I'm afraid Spider-Man is busy in New York!" Maybe it was the little British accents, too, that really got him. Lando rented an apartment, back home, for whenever he needed to escape from the chaos that was Monaco and just be normal. You, he thinks, are the perfect embodiment of that normal.

Just a normal person, leading a normal life, telling your kid Spider-Man can't come to his birthday. Only, as Lando stares down at the envelope in hand, Spider-Man could technically come to the birthday. He might not be able to do a flip, but Lando's pretty sure he still has an old Spider-Man costume hung up in a closet somewhere, and has a cheery enough voice for it.

"Well, I will definitely be coming." The elevator doors ding open to the first floor as you lead Milo out by the hand, and he reaches up to take Lando's, dragging him along towards the main doors of the building. "Oh, am I joining you today?"

"You're going to take us in your car," Milo states firmly. "Your fast car."

"I don't think we'd all fit," You offer with a soft laugh, the kind of noise that has Lando dreaming of a domesticity he's never even thought of before. "And I think Mr. Norris has more important things to be doing today."

Mr. Norris. It was a sweet thing, for Milo to call him, but whenever you said it, Lando always considered what it would be like to call you Mrs. Norris.

Not that he would ever, ever voice that thought aloud. "And if you're busy the day of the party, no worries." You add quietly back to him, stopping at the door. "Milo just wanted to make sure you got an invite."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world!" He responds honestly. "Do you need me to bring anything? Snacks? Presents?"

"I think just bringing yourself would be enough. I'm sure the other kids will be very, very excited a professional race car driver is at the party." Well, an F1 Driver AND Spider-Man, but he decides to leave you out of those plans. "Say goodbye to Mr. Norris, Milo!"

"Bye, Mr. Norris," Milo says, waving happily. "See you at the party."

Lando watches the two of you go, happily walking down the street, and he waits in the doorway until you're gone before he's sprinting back to the elevators. He needed to test out that Spider-Man costume, and find the best possible gift he's ever given in roughly a week.

Manageable, he thinks.

Surely that's manageable.

The knock on the door is the only unexpected part of Milo's birthday party. So far, everything had gone off without a hitch - all the decorations were perfect, the cake had arrived, the kids were somewhat behaving themselves for a room of four year olds, hyped up on sugar.

Milo, ever the little copycat, was trying to show them how to play Mario Kart, because when Mr. Norris arrived, Milo wanted to show off how he could beat him at the game.

Lando threw every game, but Milo didn't need to know that. The thought of the racer next door then clicks to the knock on your door, and you quickly spare a glance in the mirror in the hall before answering. It was a stupid, stupid, childish crush to have on the man, but you couldn't help it.

Maybe it was the way he played with Milo, offered to babysit, raced around the world and somehow kept a level head, maybe it was how he looked, and how he spoke, and how he dressed, and how he acted, or maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought you were paying attention to Milo.

Whatever it was, you were starting to get a bit embarrassed of how much you looked forward to seeing Lando today, until you open the door, and Lando was not standing there.

Instead, there's Spider-Man, with a stack of boxes tucked under his arm. "Hey there!" He says, with an accent most certainly British but trying not to be. "I heard there's a me-themed birthday party?"

Slowly, without alerting the kids, you peer around the door and into the living room, where they are still glued to the television, and the parents are watching and conversing nearby. "Spider-Man," You say quietly, "How did you get my address?"

"A friend of mine told me," He says, accent slipping, "He drives fast cars, and lets me borrow them for my missions."

"Oh, does he now?" You step aside to hold open the door, and you turn toward the kids. "Milo, your special guest is here!"

"Mr. Norris?" Then, as Milo turns, you watch the greatest shock you think you've ever seen wash over his face as his jaw drops, clinging to the back of the couch as he stares at Spider-Lando, who offers a cheesy wave.

And really, maybe you liked Lando because of how much Milo loved him. Watching him now, sprinting full-tilt at the driver, it almost makes you emotional. He had never run like that towards any man, only ever you. Well, you suppose he doesn't know it's Lando, but maybe it's the fact that Lando does stuff like this when he really doesn't need to.

Lando lets the presents drop to scoop up the boy, who's been spouting questions faster than any human, or any superhuman, could answer them. You join Lando's side to gently take Milo's hand, who finally sucks in a breath to look at you. "Mom," He whispers dramatically, "Spider-Man came."

"Well, you're a very special kid." You answer, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Of course he'd come."

Four years old. You remember when he was just a thought, a terrifying realization, and now, he was your world, dressed up like Spider-Man himself and in Spider-Man's arms. "Is that Mario Kart?"

"We have to wait to play with Mr. Norris." Milo says, looking at the TV and the other kids, who are now circling Lando. "He's coming soon."

"Why don't we do something else then?" Lando offers, voice cracking. You can tell he's smiling under that stupid mask at the thought of Milo waiting for him to play the game.

"We could do cake." You say, and the crowd erupts with chants for cake. Lando gets Milo to his spot at the head of the table and helps pull out chairs for the others as parents snap photos, offering you strange looks. You had told them, outright, you hadn't been able to afford someone to play Spider Man.

And now, here he was. You take the cake from its box on the counter, and stick in the large 4 candle and light them, as the kids begin singing. You had been so worried, once, about Milo making friends, about being a single mother, but watching now as you set the cake down in front of him, as he blows out the candles and everyone cheers, as other parents offer to help with plates and knives and forks, you realize you might actually be good at this parenting thing, even if the situation wasn't the best.

"Can you take off your mask to eat some?" Milo says, awkwardly grabbing at Spider-Lando's cheek, who happily moves the boy's hand away.

"I have to keep my identity a secret!" Lando says, before carefully rolling up the edge of his mask. "So I'll do it like this, yeah?"

"That's silly," Milo says with a giggle, and you cut out a slice for him, which he immediately hands off to Lando. "For you!"

"No, muppet, birthday boys get the first slice!" Lando has fully abandoned the accent by now, but no one really cares. The rest of the cake gets distributed and smeared across faces, Milo included. He gets one streak of blue icing far up on his cheek, and you grab a napkin to wipe it off. "Do I have any?" Lando asks, and without thinking, you reach over to gently wipe some icing from the corner of his mouth.

No one seems to notice the action, too absorbed with eating and celebrating, but you feel your cheeks burn, quickly turning back to watch Milo as he finishes up. By the time the cake is done, and Lando hasn't arrived, Milo decides to turn from Mario Kart to a game called 'Spider Man Tag', where everyone chases Lando around the apartment, and you take videos of the whole thing, laughing.

When that's done, and the kids stop climbing on him, and just when he looks like he might faint, one of the girls suggests hide and seek, and Milo immediately volunteers to be the seeker. "Go hide," He says to you, before clapping his hands over his eyes. "Spider-Man too."

You're quick to help the other kids find their spots, throwing blankets over them and tucking them behind curtains until finally, Milo is down to 1, and you realize you haven't hidden. Luckily, you don't seem to be the only one alone in this, because Lando grabs your hand and pulls you into the front hall closet, just as Milo pulls his hands away from his eyes.

"Hold the door," Lando says, and you put your hand together on the sliding doors to keep them from moving, and Lando pulls off his mask with a gasp. He's flushed, hair slick with sweat, and you can imagine this is what he must look like after a race. Hell, you've seen what he looks like after a race - he might honestly look worse.

Cramped together, he doesn't have much room to wipe over his face, arm bumping into you. "You okay there, Spider-Man?"

"I worked out this morning!" He groans softly. "That was so stupid."

"Language," You chide softly, and he offers an amused scowl. "There are little ears nearby."

"They can't hear us," Lando says, intercut by a scream of a child found as Milo happily laughs. "Right?"

"We'll just have to whisper," You say, as the predicament you're in slowly dawns on you.

You're chest to chest with Lando Norris, in a spider-man costume, in your closet, as he pants against you.

There are a lot of not age-appropriate thoughts that occur, so you shift quickly into something you can talk about. "You really didn't have to do all this," You say, and Lando cracks a smile. "You've made his year, I think. This is too much."

"Well, he said he wanted Spider-Man, so he gets Spider-Man." Lando says, eyes skimming down your face before snapping up to your eyes. "How much longer do you think we have in here?"

The world slows a little bit at the question. "Not much longer," You say, as Lando somehow manages to shift closer. "Breath while you can."

"The mask is awful," He says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "Think it's constricting my airways."

Well, if you need CPR... "You can say you need to get going to stop a villain or something, and then come back as Lando. He'd be just as excited."

"No, no, I'm committing to the Spider-Man thing." He says, tugging the mask on, but stopping before his mouth. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?"

"Trust me, Lando, there's little you could do to make me hate you."

"I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thi-" The door to the closet yanks open as Lando fumbles to get the last of his mask down, and Milo cackles in delight.

"FOUND YOU!" He grabs both your hands and drags you back to the living room, and you try to take as many deep breaths as possible.

He always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing.

Did he...with you? "Why don't we do presents?" You say, trying to find anything to distract you, and also give Lando a break. "Go sit on the couch, Milo."

You gather up the few gifts the children brought, and Lando grabs the ones he abandoned by the door. Like any little kid, Milo rips through each package excitedly, showing off cars and Spider-Man toys and a new bubble-blower, until finally, he gets to Lando's presents, who you're sure didn't wrap them himself.

Or, if he did, you might just love him more, considering the Spider-Man wrapping paper that's wrapped neater than you could ever manage, bow included. Milo, for some reason, takes his time opening them, and the first two are Lego sets, one of a Spider-Man scene, the second a McLaren car.

Oh, Lando. "Mr. Norris still isn't here!" Milo says, distraught. "This is his car!"

"Mr. Norris invited me!" Lando says, gesturing to the gift. "He told me what to get you! Maybe he'll build it with you when he gets back."

Then, Milo carefully opens the third box, and discovers his very own webshooters. "No way!" He immediately hands the box off to you to open, which is basically the equivalent of silly string, strapped to his wrists. The moment he gets them on, he begins spraying, and in a matter of mere minutes, the room is covered in string as the kids all giggle in unison. At some point, Lando squats beside him to help him aim and shoot, carefully gesturing to things that will be easier to clean up, and your heart clenches at the image.

Because as much as you were good at this parenting thing, as much as you had mastered being a single mother, it was something new to see a man in Milo's life who wanted to be there, who cared for him, who bought him gifts and came dressed as Spider-Man and who just...adored him, like you adored him.

You're not sure how long you just stare at the chaos unfolding, but it's long enough you think you might genuinely have feelings for Lando, cheesy Spider-Man suit be damned. It's the sort of messy, perfect ending to a messy, perfect day. As much as Milo really doesn't want to end the party, considering Mr. Norris hasn't shown up, he's yawning and trying to fight off the inevitable crash that comes after this.

The kids get their party favours, which include pictures with Spider-Man, and Milo says goodbye to everyone, perched on Spider-Man's shoulders, and Lando carefully dumps the boy on the couch with a huff. "I think you need to get cleaned up!" He says, gesturing to the cake and silly string staining the boy's clothes. "Heroes have to stay clean!"

The moment Milo disappears into the washroom, Lando collapses onto the couch, head hanging back off the back of it to look at you. You step forward and gently uncurl the mask, and with as much bravery as you can muster, you speak. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?" Lando's lips part as he swallows, before he nods. "I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing."

"Yeah?" Lando breathes out, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Well, Mary Jane, now's your chance."

Kissing Lando upside down is not how you originally planned on doing it, but it's sort of everything you wanted it to be and more. It's soft and sweet and patient, the kind of loving you need after everything you've gone through, that's just hot and heavy enough that when you hear the tap turn off in the bathroom, you're quick to pull away.

"Can Spider-Man stay the night?" Milo asks, running up as Lando pulls down his mask again, and he lets out a soft sort of laugh that does something to your stomach.

"I've got to get home! Maybe another time," Lando says as he rises from the couch, and Milo's bottom lip trembles. "Just think, you still have your guest of honour that needs to visit."

"I don't want to see Mr. Norris," Milo mumbles, "I want you to stay."

You watch Lando hesitate then, about pulling off his mask and revealing himself, but for the sake of the magic, he chooses not to, and you intervene to let the poor man go home. "There's lots of people Spider-Man has to go save," You say, crouching down to his level and brushing the hair from his face. "And you never know, he might come back soon. But for right now, let's thank him for coming." Milo pushes away from you to wrap around Lando's leg, and Lando kneels down to give him a proper hug.

"Thanks," Milo mumbles into his shoulder. "You can come back whenever you want."

"Thank you for having me!" Lando tries to say cheerfully. "But your mom is right, I have to get going back to New York! It's a long plane ride."

"Say goodbye, Milo." Milo finally lets go, and helps walks Spider-Man to the door.

"Bye, Spider-Man." He says, offering a small wave.

"Bye, Milo. Hope you had a great birthday."

Lando strips the moment he gets home.

Fireproofs were hot, the race suits were hot, but the Spider-Man suit?

Wrangling that many kids?

With you kissing him?

He's practically a sauna. And yet, as soon as he's done showering and gets changed, he'd back at your door, knocking and hoping it's not too late, and that Milo's already gone to bed. There's a shuffling noise behind the door before you open it, and he's discovered in the time it took him to shower and get back here, both you and Milo had changed into pyjamas, and were eating dinner at the table. "Mr. Norris!" Milo says, mouthful of pasta falling into his bowl. "You missed Spider-Man!"

"What? Spider-Man came?" You let Lando in with a soft smile, and all he can think of is your lips on his, how you repeated his line back to him like it was nothing, how right it had felt. Kissing you right-side up probably felt better, but he was just riding off the high that you kissed him at all. He was pretty sure, all things considered, that you had to like him, as much as his brain tried to convince him otherwise.

Having you actually kiss him and prove it? He was still struggling to wrap his mind around that. "And he brought me webs!"

"Webs that are going to be tricky to clean up." You say, shooting a grin his way as you move to the stove. "Dinner?"

"Actually, that sounds great." He had a single slice of cake after being the personal play-place for kids all afternoon. It might not be the most gentlemanly thing he's ever done, but he's not turning down a bowl. He finds his place at the table, and you take your place across from him, and for a moment, Lando thinks he can see into the future. "Did you get anything else?"

"Bubbles, a book," Then, as if remembering it all over again, "He got me your Lego car! He said we can build it together." Then, as if remembering what Spider-Lando said, "You know Spider-Man? And you didn't tell me?"

"It's top secret," Lando says around a mouthful of noodles, and you grin down at your own bowl. Dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and fuzzy pyjama pants, it gives a certainly warm glow that has Lando wondering what man could ever give this up. "But, I still haven't given you my gift."

Milo perks up as your head shoots up to look at him, confusion furrowed between your brows. "Lando, that's not-"

"I want you to come to a race." He couldn't really think of some big gift to get Milo, besides a full-paid trip to a race. Silverstone was soon, anyways. It would be fun, for Milo to see him race, for you to see him win. At least, Lando really hopes he'll win, because then that's one more reason to kiss you. "All expenses paid."

"Lando!" You exclaim, fork clattering to your bowl. "No, no that's too much-"

"Really?" Milo cuts you off, leaping out of his chair to throw himself at Lando. "Thank you thank you thank you-"

"Okay, okay," Lando says, trying to calm both of you. "But you have to promise to be on your best behaviour for it, okay Milo?"

Milo nods furiously against Lando's leg, and Lando scoops him up to hold him in his lap. "I promise. Can I drive your car?"

"Wait another eleven-ish years for that one, mate." He continues eating his pasta as Milo drags his bowl over, content to finish his dinner sitting with Lando, and he catches you staring. You do that a lot, especially when Lando and Milo interact, and he doesn't blame you. He's a strange man playing with your kid, who wouldn't want to be checking in?

But there's always something more in the way you look at him, like you're not used to someone being there. He doesn't know the full story, and he doesn't need to, but he has a feeling that, if he pursues this, he's filling in a spot that never really was occupied before.

"Thank you, Lando." You finally say, finishing up the last of your dinner. "That means a lot."

"What else would I do for my favourite neighbour?" Milo, also now finished eating, yawns into his hands. "Bedtime, buddy?"

"Come on," You say, pulling Milo from his lap. "Let's get you changed and ready for bed. Lando can read you a bedtime story." Then, back towards him, "Finish up your dinner first. No rush."

And then, like it's the most normal thing in the world, Lando finishes the last of his food and gathers up all the dishes on the table and puts them in the sink, and finds you and Milo already on Milo's bed, a Spider-Man storybook laid out on Milo's Lap. Lando takes the other side of you, and as guest of honour, Milo explains, he gets to read tonight. If he had really been prepared for how tonight was going to go, Lando would've brought his own pyjamas, but instead, he just cozies further into his hoodie, and flips open to the first page.

"This is Spider-Man," He begins as Milo crawls over you to splay over your lap. "He's a superhero."

"You're a superhero," You whisper quietly with a yawn, and Lando is pretty sure he turns as red as Spider-man's suit.

"Spider-Man shoots webs," Lando continues, moving to the next page, and he decides to focus all his energy into the book, rather than you pressed up beside him. However, he finds that as he finishes up the last page, he might've let his attention wander to far.

You're asleep beside him, head tilted back as you doze, and Milo is the same in your lap, tuckered out from the party. Honestly, if Lando could, he'd fall right asleep beside you, but that's for another time, another date, so instead, he presses a kiss to your temple, closes the book, and turns off the light.

It's how he hopes he can spend every night for the rest of his life.

a/n: baby fever is in full swing. tell me he wouldn't be a fantastic dad.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris fic #lando norris fluff #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one fluff #landos girl #landos girl rec #ln4

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 hours ago

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this one’s for you, babe! ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you don’t usually believe in jinxes, but the track record is damning. every time he says it—this one’s for you—something goes horribly, comically wrong. like the universe is actively penalizing him for being besotted in public.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, tooth-rotting fluff. established relationship, piastri siblings cameo!!!, oscar is a loser (affectionately). ꔮ commentary box: there’s something i have to be writing instead of this, but i’ve opted to procrastinate productively. there’s already like a dozen tweets about this, but. we ball. enjoy this little drabble of our favorite loser/loverboy 🍊 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Babe, this one’s for you.”

That’s the line. The cursed prelude. The verbal equivalent of knocking over a salt shaker and refusing to throw it over your shoulder.

You’re leaning against a barricade by the paddock, sunglasses on, arms crossed, fully braced for the impending disaster. There’s a camera crew lingering nearby. A branded football sits in front of Oscar, who’s doing that thing with his shoulders—a little roll, a tiny shake—like he thinks swagger is a warm-up. Lando stands off to the side, already giggling.

He knows how this ends. You know how this ends.

Oscar takes a step back, eyes the goal. And then, with all the self-assured grace of a golden retriever at a chess match, he kicks.

The ball soars. High. Too high. It clears the goal entirely and smacks the side of a hospitality tent with a sound that echoes.

Lando folds instantly, bent double with laughter. “That one’s for who, mate?”

Oscar stares after the ball, hands on hips. The very picture of a man trying to style out failure with dignity. Which is impressive, considering he just overshot the net by what could only be measured in bus lengths.

You raise a single eyebrow over your shades. “I feel so honored,” you call out.

He points a finger at you, mock-stern. “That was a warm-up.”

“Sure it was.”

Here’s the thing: this isn’t new.

You’ve seen this movie. It has sequels. A whole franchise.

There was the time he tried to serve in beach volleyball, yelled the same cursed phrase, and launched the ball directly into a stranger’s mojito. The time he attempted a trick shot in pool, declared it was for you, and managed to ricochet the cue ball off three sides of the table and straight into his own shin.

There’s the karaoke incident, too. “This one’s for you, babe,” he had said, confidently selecting a power ballad two octaves above his range. He made it three lines in before his voice cracked like a haunted door and he started laughing too hard to finish. You still have the video. He lives in fear of it.

Oscar jogs over now, slightly pink-faced but trying to act like he isn’t two teasing comments away from sulking. Lando’s still wheezing behind him.

“I slipped,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“On what?” you tease. “Delusion?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but it’s all for show. You know the truth. He could hit the perfect shot—textbook form, stunning execution—and it still wouldn’t mean as much as making you laugh. He’d trip over his own ego just to see you smile. He’s not actually trying to impress you. He’s trying to entertain you.

And he is.

Tragically. Consistently. Impressively.

He hooks a finger into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you close enough for a forehead bump. “Next one’s going in,” he promises.

“I believe in you,” you say, even though you absolutely do not.

But that’s not the point. The point is that he tries. That he grins like he’s invincible until physics tells him otherwise. That he turns every botched attempt into another inside joke, another story to retell when the season ends and the world slows down.

“Hey,” he huffs, nose brushing yours. “Still proud of me?”

You pretend to think, just to make him squirm. Then you kiss his cheek and whisper, “Always.”

He lights up like he scored anyway. Lando, unhelpfully, shouts, “Maybe dedicate the next one to your mechanic, see if that changes your luck!”

Oscar flips him off without looking. You laugh. He grins wider.

You already know what he’ll say before he turns back toward the ball, legs braced, ridiculous confidence intact. “This one’s for you, babe.”

He misses a second time.

You should’ve known the chaos wouldn’t end with one rogue football.

Then again, you’re dating Oscar Piastri. Chaos is less of an occasional guest and more of a live-in roommate who drinks all the oat milk and never refills the Brita.

The transition is seamless: one minute, you’re dodging Lando’s post-barbecue puns. The next, you’re in a sunny backyard in Melbourne, surrounded by rose bushes, folding chairs, and three women who share Oscar’s nose, his eyebrows, and his absolute inability to do anything halfway.

Hattie, Edie, and Mae are a trio straight out of an Austen novel if Austen novels included mimosas and a group chat titled oz’s life choices (questionable). You’re holding a cup of lemonade that someone handed you out of politeness and mild fear, while Oscar stands several feet away, lining up what appears to be a croquet shot. He does it with the solemnity of a man about to launch a rocket into orbit.

He glances over his shoulder. Winks. “For you, babe.”

Hattie audibly groans. Edie buries her face in her hands. Mae mutters, “Christ, he said the line.”

You barely have time to brace.

The mallet swings. The ball sails.

Directly into a flowerbed.

“Incredible,” Hattie declares, clapping once like it’s a Broadway flop. “Is he aiming for symbolic failure now?”

Mae yells, “Mum’s gonna kill you! Those were her prize roses!”

Oscar lifts both hands in a grand shrug, as if to say, Was it me? Can we ever truly know anything?

You want to laugh—you almost do—but there’s a strange thrum under your ribs. A quiet beat of doubt, soft and silly but persistent.

What if it's you?

You don’t usually believe in jinxes, but the track record is damning. Every time he says it—this one’s for you—something goes horribly, comically wrong. Like the universe is actively penalizing him for being besotted in public.

You’re still stewing in that thought when Hattie plops down beside you, stealing half your lemonade without asking. “Hey,” she says, tone gentler now.

You pull on a smile. “Hey.”

She gestures vaguely toward Oscar, who’s currently inspecting the croquet ball as if it might have been tampered with. “You’re spiraling, aren’t you?” she accuses.

A laugh almost escapes you. Damn the Piastris and their perceptiveness. “A little,” you admit.

Edie joins, draping her arm over the back of your chair. “You’re not the curse, love. Oscar’s just been dramatic since birth. The man got kicked out of ballet at age six for excessive flair.”

“He curtsied after every jump,” Mae chimes in, emerging from the bush with a ruined rose and no remorse. “And once bowed to a pigeon that flew into his scooter path.”

You laugh, and it breaks the tension in your chest.

Hattie squeezes your arm. “He’s always been a mess. You’re just the audience he wants to impress.”

It helps. More than you want to admit. Enough that you start teasing him again, casually ruthless, when he tries to re-line the shot with disastrous optimism.

Later, after the sisters have retreated indoors with threats of blackmail via group chat, Oscar sidles up beside you like a teenager approaching his crush. He takes one look at your expression before grimacing. “They told you, didn’t they?”

You sip your drink, eyes on the horizon. “About ballet? Or the pigeon? Or the part where you once cried watching a butter commercial?”

He groans. “All of it, then.”

You turn to face him. He’s flushed, slightly winded from chasing the ball into a bush, and possibly still emotionally recovering from Mae calling him a ‘walking rom-com montage.’

You offer a half-smile. “It’s not me, right?” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “Like, have I cursed you by being with you?”

He stills. Then, he gently takes the cup from your hand, sets it aside, and reaches for your fingers like they’re the last steady thing in a very wobbly world.

“Babe,” he says, entirely sincere for once, “if you think for a second that you’re the reason I trip over my own feet, or miss goals, or accidentally decapitate a garden gnome with a frisbee, you’re giving yourself way too much credit.”

Your eye roll aborts when you realize there’s some Attempt to Comfort in his words. “That was oddly romantic,” you say wryly.

He leans in. Kisses your forehead. “You’re not the curse,” he says against the crown of your head. “You’re the prize.”

From inside, you hear one of his sisters gag. Probably Mae.

It makes you laugh. And that makes Oscar smile.

And you know, with a warm, ridiculous certainty, that he’ll absolutely say it again the next time.

It turns out, Oscar takes public theatrics very seriously.

You'd think the croquet incident, complete with airborne mallet shame and a rose bush eulogy, would’ve scratched the itch. But no. That was merely rehearsal.

Because the next time he says it, he says it on live television.

You’re in the McLaren garage, pretending not to be a ball of nerves wrapped in fire-retardant denim. There’s the usual hum of mechanics and telemetry and a dozen people pretending this isn’t their Roman Empire. The broadcast plays overhead, mostly background noise. Until it isn’t.

Because Oscar—sweet, mildly unhinged Oscar—is actively waving down a camera.

He’s standing in full race suit, helmet under one arm, expression one part cheeky and two parts wait for it. The moment the camera zooms in like the universe had conspired to indulge him, he mouths it.

You see it. Clear as sky, sharp as sin.

This one’s for you, babe.

The world might need a second to register. The broadcasters are scrambling to interpret it, probably scrambling to subtitle.

But you? You’ve kissed that mouth enough times to know every vowel, every curve. You know exactly what he said.

And oh, you are horrified. And hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

Of course he would do that. Of course he would take your whispered insecurities and lob them into the stratosphere, daring the universe to do its worst. Of course he’d drag your inside joke into the spotlight just to prove that it’s not cursed, not broken, not unlucky.

You duck your head. Cover your face with your hands. Feel your heart tap-dancing somewhere near your ears.

The race starts. Oscar drives like he’s been possessed by something divine and deeply caffeinated. Every corner is poetry. Every overtake is vengeance. He roars through the grid like this is personal.

You stop breathing somewhere around Lap 43. By Lap 57, you’re leaning so far over the pit wall you’re basically a wind sock. When he crosses the finish line in P1, the garage erupts. Mechanics cheer. Engineers high-five.

Oscar finds you after the podium, still in his race suit, smelling like victory and sweat and audacity. There’s confetti in his hair and his smile is unfair, too bright, too much.

“Did you see?” he asks, already grinning like he knows.

You don’t answer.

You just kiss him. Hard. The kind of kiss that answers everything. That thanks him for the chaos and the clarity. That forgives him for being a lunatic with a platform and a plan.

You pull back to wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder. He holds you back like you’re better than any trophy on the grid.

Oscar may not be good at a lot of things outside of racing.

But he’s stupidly, spectacularly good at loving you. ⛐

#landos girl rec #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fluff #oscar piastri x you #love me some oscar #oscar piastri x reader #op81 x reader #oscar piastri fluff

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 hours ago

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F1 Rainbow Illustrations

All the rainbow illustrations I did between last year and this year! :D Always super satisfying to put them all together lol

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the-secret-formulaone · 2 days ago

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This might be the best thing i’ve read today! I loved reading every second of it 😂

Fur, Fangs, and Formula 1

lando norris x fem!reader

Lando had only been to Y/N’s apartment once before—and that was just for a quick post-dinner goodnight kiss at the door. So when she invited him over for a proper movie night, he said yes without hesitation. It was domestic. It was casual. It was…safe.

Or so he thought.

She was in the kitchen, humming softly as she poured two glasses of wine. “Red okay?” she called.

“Perfect,” Lando called back from the living room, already sinking into her plush couch and flicking through Netflix with the remote.

That’s when he heard it.

Scuffling.

Something fast. Something alive.

He blinked and looked down—and saw a blur of beige fur sprint across the hardwood floor. Then another. One turned abruptly, made a sharp left, and headed straight for the couch.

Straight for him.

Lando shot up like the furniture had been electrified.

“BABE!” he shouted, tripping over the blanket at his feet. “YOU’VE GOT WILD ANIMALS IN YOUR LIVING ROOM!”

There was a crashing sound in the kitchen. “WHAT?!” she yelled, bolting out with wine still in hand.

He was standing on the couch now, socked feet planted on the cushions, eyes wide in horror.

“They’re like—rodents or something! They just ran under the table! I think one’s coming back for round two—”

Y/N paused, took one look at the chaos, then doubled over laughing.

“Oh! Those are my ferrets!”

“Your what?”

She moved calmly across the room and crouched, scooping up the two small, fuzzy bodies now bouncing excitedly around her ankles. “These are my boys—Rocket and Groot.”

Lando blinked at her like she’d lost her mind. “You named them after the Marvel raccoon and tree.”

She smiled proudly, cradling both ferrets in her arms as they squirmed and chirped in delight. “They’re a team. Just like us.”

“They look like slinkies with teeth.”

“They’re ferrets! They’re smart and sweet and very clean.”

One of them—he didn’t know which—stretched its neck toward Lando and let out a little warble noise.

He jumped back like it had just hissed. “It just made a demon sound. That’s not clean behavior.”

Y/N laughed again, walking over to the couch with both animals in tow. “Lando, they’re harmless. Rocket’s just curious. He probably wants to smell your hoodie.”

“I just bought this hoodie.”

“And now it smells like home,” she said sweetly, placing Rocket on the cushion next to him.

Lando immediately moved to the far end, staring at the ferret like it might explode. “If it touches my face, I’m out.”

Groot flopped over onto his side in her arms and yawned.

Lando pointed. “That one’s plotting something. He’s playing dead so we drop our guard.”

She giggled and kissed the top of Groot’s head. “He’s literally just a baby.”

Lando shook his head, jaw clenched like he was in a war zone. “I agreed to a movie night. Not a wildlife documentary.”

“You’ll get used to them,” she said, ruffling Rocket’s fur. “They’re part of the package deal.”

He groaned. “Next time, I’m picking the location.”

Rocket jumped into Lando’s lap.

Lando screamed.

Lando sat rigidly at the far end of the couch, arms crossed over his chest like the ferret beside him might lunge at any second.

Rocket blinked up at him, his tiny pink nose twitching with interest. Slowly, like a predator stalking prey, he crept closer. Lando’s eyes widened.

“Babe,” he said slowly, like talking to a hostage negotiator. “It’s advancing.”

Y/N, unfazed, was still standing by the armrest with Groot nestled in her elbow. “He just wants to say hi. He likes you.”

“No, he doesn’t. He wants my soul.”

Rocket stood up on his back legs and placed one paw on Lando’s knee.

Lando flinched. “BABE. BABE. HE’S TOUCHING ME.”

Y/N walked over, beaming. “He’s climbing you! That means he trusts you!”

“I don’t trust him!”

Rocket began scaling Lando’s pant leg like it was Everest. His tiny claws scratched at the fabric, making steady progress up his thigh. Lando froze, too horrified to move.

“Rocket. My guy. Let’s talk about this,” Lando begged.

“He’s just exploring!” Y/N said cheerfully. “Aren’t you, baby?”

Rocket poked his head under the edge of Lando’s hoodie. Lando SHRIEKED.

“GET HIM OUT. GET HIM OUT RIGHT NOW—BABE, I’M NOT KIDDING—HE’S IN MY SHIRT—”

Y/N was wheezing with laughter as Lando shot up from the couch, Rocket still half inside his hoodie.

“HE’S IN THE BACK OF MY HOODIE—HE’S IN MY SPINE—”

“Hold still!” she giggled, carefully lifting the ferret out like he was stuck in a claw machine.

Rocket, smug, dangled lazily from her hand, then made a dramatic leap onto the armrest like a tiny parkour expert.

Lando collapsed back onto the couch, panting like he’d just survived a war.

“This is abuse,” he muttered, clutching his chest.

“Welcome to the family,” Y/N grinned.

Groot, sensing the energy shift, stretched from her arms and dove onto Lando’s stomach.

“OH MY GOD—THERE’S ANOTHER—”

“That’s Groot.”

“He’s heavier!”

“He’s solid muscle, babe. He works out.”

Lando looked down at the ferret sprawled across him like a sleepy neck pillow and groaned. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“You love it.”

“I love you. They’re just… aggressively attached to you.”

Rocket hopped back into Lando’s lap.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t even scream.

Y/N raised a brow.

Lando looked at her like a man accepting his fate. “If I don’t move, maybe he’ll think I’m one of them.”

She giggled and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Rocket licked his arm.

Groot sighed against his stomach.

And Lando—still and defeated—muttered under his breath:

“I swear to God if either of them poops on me, I’m breaking up with you.”

It was late when they finally shuffled into her bedroom—Lando yawning and rubbing at his face, Y/N carrying both Rocket and Groot like prized teddy bears.

“I thought they slept in their cage,” he muttered, watching the ferrets squirm in her arms.

“They do,” she said. “Usually.”

“Usually,” he repeated flatly, like that was a betrayal in itself.

She dropped them gently onto the bed and turned to grab her phone charger. The second her back was turned, Rocket took off like a bullet and dove under the blankets. Groot waddled casually to the pillows and made himself at home… right in the middle of Lando’s side.

Lando froze in the doorway.

Groot flopped over. Let out a little sigh. Closed his eyes.

Y/N turned around and saw it. “Oh my God,” she whispered, trying not to laugh.

Lando pointed, jaw slack. “He’s on my pillow. My side. My sacred sleeping territory.”

She grinned. “He’s a cuddler.”

“So am I!” Lando snapped. “That’s why I came here! To cuddle you! Not to get booted by a glorified worm with fur!”

She walked over, scooped Rocket off the mattress, and placed him in his cozy hammock on the floor. But Groot stayed. Groot didn’t move.

Lando stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the lump of smug ferret laying where his head should be.

“He knows exactly what he’s doing,” Lando muttered. “This is a dominance play. He’s challenging me.”

“You could share the pillow.”

“With a thief who sheds? No thanks.”

“Thief?”

“He stole my dignity the second he climbed my chest and licked my ear.”

Y/N bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “Baby, just get in. He’s already asleep.”

Lando glared at Groot.

Groot yawned.

Slowly, reluctantly, Lando climbed into bed. He laid stiffly on his back with half a pillow under his head while Groot curled into the other half and tucked himself into Lando’s neck like he belonged there.

“Don’t you dare purr,” Lando warned.

Groot purred.

Y/N kissed Lando’s cheek. “Goodnight, love.”

“This is a hostage situation.”

“You’re the cutest hostage I’ve ever seen.”

Groot was still curled into Lando’s neck like he’d paid rent to be there.

Lando laid stiffly on his back, arms pinned to his sides, staring up at the ceiling with the dead eyes of a man who had lost the battle for his own bed.

“Are you going to help me?” he asked, voice strained.

Y/N was on her side, propped up on one elbow, watching the scene unfold like it was the best entertainment she’d had all month.

“I mean… he looks cozy.”

“He’s touching my jugular.”

“He trusts you,” she said sweetly.

“He’s testing me.”

Groot gave a tiny snore. Lando twitched.

“Alright,” Y/N said, grinning. “Fine, I’ll help. But I’m gonna need something in return.”

“Freedom?” he offered.

“Nope. I want a kiss.”

He turned his head toward her—only to bump noses with Groot.

“…You meant you, not him, right?”

“I don’t know,” she teased, pretending to think. “Groot did claim your pillow first. Might be my new boyfriend.”

“Unbelievable.”

Y/N leaned over him and kissed his lips softly. “Don’t worry, babe. You’re still my favorite mammal in the bed.”

“That means nothing right now.”

With a chuckle, she gently scooped Groot off the pillow. He let out a high-pitched protest chirp but didn’t fight her. She placed him in his fluffy hammock beside Rocket, who was already snuggled up and passed out in a pretzel shape.

“I usually let them sleep with me,” she said as she clicked the cage door shut. “But since it’s your first night here, I figured I’d be nice. Didn’t want you to roll over and accidentally crush my children.”

Lando sat up slightly. “Children?”

“Fur-children. Same thing.”

He stared at the cage like it might burst open at any moment. “How do they sleep through the night? What if they wake up and want to start… tunneling or something?”

“They’re not moles, Lando.”

“Rocket bit my sock earlier.”

“He nibbled it.”

“I watched him drag it under the couch.”

Y/N giggled and flipped off the bedside lamp, settling under the blanket beside him.

“They’re asleep. You’re safe. Stop being dramatic.”

He turned toward her and grumbled, “I still feel like Groot’s watching me.”

———

Sunlight streamed softly through the curtains, and for once, Lando was actually comfortable.

The bed was warm. Y/N was curled into his side, hair messy against the pillow, breathing slow and even. Peaceful. Domestic.

He smiled a little to himself.

Maybe the night hadn’t been so bad. Maybe Rocket and Groot weren’t completely evil. Maybe—

CHOMP.

Lando shot upright in bed like someone had lit a fire under him.

“OW—WHAT THE—BABE. BABE!”

Y/N groaned and flopped onto her stomach, muffling her voice against the pillow. “Wha’ now…”

Lando frantically kicked the blankets off—and there, at the end of the bed, stood Rocket.

Puffed up.

Triumphant.

With Lando’s toe in his mouth.

Lando yanked his foot back like it had been electrocuted. “HE BIT ME. HE BIT MY ACTUAL BODY.”

Rocket chirped proudly and dove into the sheets.

Y/N sat up now, rubbing her eyes. “It wasn’t a bite. That’s just how he grooms.”

“I am not his sibling! I don’t want to be part of his weird ferret cult!”

She tried not to laugh. “He missed you.”

“Oh, he missed me? So he came to gnaw off my toes in the middle of the night like some weird rodent love language?”

Y/N peeked over the side of the bed. Groot was still in the cage, dozing peacefully in a pile of blankets. Rocket had clearly staged a solo prison break.

She reached down and scooped him up as he made another beeline for Lando’s foot.

“No, no, no,” she scolded gently. “We don’t nibble the boy. We love the boy.”

“He doesn’t know the difference,” Lando grumbled, inspecting his poor bitten toe like it had been maimed. “I’m gonna need tetanus shots.”

Y/N plopped Rocket onto her chest and leaned against the headboard, smirking. “He just wanted to wake you up.”

“There’s a thing called an alarm clock, babe.”

“Alarm clocks don’t snuggle.”

“Alarm clocks don’t bite.”

Y/N cooed at Rocket as he curled up on her chest and sighed. “I think you’re his new favorite.”

Lando blinked. “…You’re telling me he bit me out of affection?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m never coming over again.”

Y/N looked at him, completely deadpan. “Lando, you let me fall asleep drooling on your shoulder and you woke up to my ferret chewing on your foot. Congratulations. You’re domesticated now.”

Rocket let out a happy little snore.

Lando stared at him. Then sighed.

“…Tell him next time to aim for Oscar.”

———

Lando was focused. He was dialed in. He was ready for FP2.

Until he saw them.

Or more specifically—them in matching custom McLaren jackets.

Y/N strolled into the paddock with a tote bag that wriggled.

From the bag poked two tiny, smug faces. Rocket and Groot. Wearing orange zip-ups with little black accents and stitched name patches like they were team personnel.

“Absolutely not,” Lando muttered, already storming toward her.

Y/N grinned like a Disney villain. “Good morning, sunshine.”

He pointed at the bag. “You brought the rats to work.”

“They’re not rats, they’re McLaren’s new mascots. Aren’t they handsome?”

Rocket chirped and tried to jump out. Groot yawned and waved his paw lazily in Lando’s direction.

Lando stared at them like they’d personally insulted his entire bloodline. “They can’t be here. There are rules. There are sponsors. There are people filming, babe!”

“They have media passes.”

He blinked. “What?”

She pulled two laminated tags from her back pocket—complete with headshots and barcodes that read:

ROCKET NORRIS – Emotional Support

GROOT NORRIS – Pit Lane Liaison

Lando dragged a hand down his face. “You forged badges.”

“I used Canva.”

“And no one stopped you?”

“The lady at security said Groot was cute.”

Just then, Zak Brown walked by, holding a coffee and nodding at the ferrets with genuine approval. “Nice gear, boys.”

Lando spun around. “ZAK?!”

Zak shrugged. “They’ve got team spirit.”

Y/N kissed Lando’s cheek sweetly. “It’s good PR, babe.”

“They’re ferrets in track jackets!”

As if on cue, Rocket wriggled out of the tote and made a break for it—darting under the folding table of McLaren’s catering spread. Groot followed like a silent missile.

“NO—NO NO NO—” Lando took off running. “SECURITY!!”

Back in the motorhome, Lando slumps onto the couch, defeated, while Rocket is curled in his lap like he owns him.

“Do you enjoy humiliating me?” he mutters to Y/N.

“You looked hot chasing them around.”

“I almost fell into a tire wall.”

“Still hot.”

He sighs.

Groot curls up on his shoulder and licks his jaw.

Y/N smiles at the sight.

“You know,” she says gently, “they really do love you.”

He glances at her.

Then down at Rocket.

Then back at Groot.

He exhales, long and loud. “…I swear, if I catch either of them in my race suit, we’re breaking up.”

Rocket licks his thumb.

Lando groans into his hands.

———

It was around 1:43 AM when Lando sat up in bed, unable to sleep.

The apartment was too quiet.

Y/N was already passed out next to him, curled under the duvet like a burrito. The ferrets hadn’t made a single noise since they went in the cage for the night.

No rustling. No climbing. No squeaking.

Suspicious.

He rubbed his eyes and whispered, “Where are your rats? They’re not gonna attack me, right?”

Y/N mumbled sleepily into her pillow. “They’re in the cage… chill.”

He slid out of bed anyway. “Yeah, okay, but like… what if they escaped? What if they’re in the vents? What if they’re waiting to pounce the second I pee?”

She didn’t answer.

So he tiptoed to the cage, phone flashlight in hand. Rocket and Groot were curled up together in their hammock like angelic little demons, completely still.

Too still.

He squinted.

Did Rocket just move?

He poked the cage gently.

Nothing.

He leaned closer.

Still nothing.

And then… the intrusive thought hit him.

What if they’re dead?

Lando’s heart plummeted.

He froze, breath catching in his throat. “No,” he whispered. “No no no—”

He opened the cage door.

Groot flopped slightly from the hammock edge. His body went limp.

Lando choked. “OH MY GOD.”

He dropped to his knees and began frantically poking Rocket with the end of a sock.

“Wake up, man. Wake up. Don’t do this to me. You bit my toe yesterday, you can’t just DIE.”

Rocket remained limp. Floppy. Motionless.

Lando let out a strangled wheeze. “BAAAAABE?!”

From the bedroom: a sleepy, concerned voice. “What?”

“YOUR RATS ARE DEAD.”

Silence.

Then a thud and rapid footsteps.

Y/N sprinted out, hair wild, shirt slipping off one shoulder. “What?! WHAT?!”

“They’re not moving!” Lando cried. “I poked Rocket five times! He’s not responding! He’s gone, babe. They’re gone. They’re gone and I was alonewith them and I’ll never forgive myself—”

She shoved past him, reached into the cage, and scratched Rocket’s ear.

The ferret blinked, stretched, made a grumpy noise, and promptly rolled back over into Groot.

“…They were sleeping,” she said.

Lando collapsed backwards on the floor.

“They were in dead sleep mode,” she added, yawning. “Ferrets do that. It’s called ferret REM. They sleep like corpses. It’s their thing.”

“WHY WOULD THAT BE THEIR THING?”

“They’re dramatic.”

“So am I! But I don’t pretend to DIE in my SLEEP.”

Y/N chuckled and crouched beside him. “You okay, babe?”

“No. I had a heart attack. I thought I was gonna have to tell people I lost your kids in the middle of the night.”

“You panicked.”

“I cried a little.”

“You love them.”

He paused.

Long silence.

Then, defeated:

“…Just a little.”

———

It started small.

Every now and then, when Y/N was in the shower or folding laundry, she’d peek around the corner and find Lando sprawled out on the couch—blanket over his legs, both ferrets curled on his chest.

Rocket was often tucked into the crook of his neck. Groot, snoring softly, laid over Lando’s stomach like a weighted bean bag.

Lando never said a word about it.

But he always had his phone out, pretending to scroll like he wasn’t softly stroking their fur.

One time she caught him kissing Groot’s head.

She didn’t say anything.

She just smiled and took a mental screenshot of the moment she knew he was gone.

———

The morning started off peaceful.

Y/N was humming in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, wearing one of Lando’s shirts that barely covered her thighs. The scent of butter and maple syrup filled the apartment. Rocket and Groot were roaming free, their little claws tapping softly on the floor.

And Lando?

He was already on the kitchen floor.

Laying on his stomach like a sniper in position, hoodie sleeves pushed up, feet kicking lazily behind him. Groot was gnawing on a sock nearby.

But Rocket was his focus.

“Alright, Rocket,” Lando whispered, lifting the ferret to eye level. “You know the mission. The enemy is distracted. Vision impaired. Weaponless.”

Rocket stared blankly.

“She has no socks on,” Lando added slowly, like it was top-tier classified intel. “Her ankles are vulnerable. We strike now. Quick in, quick out. You bite. You run. I’ll cover extraction.”

Rocket blinked.

Lando pointed a single finger toward the kitchen island. “Go.”

Rocket ran.

Lando propped himself up to watch.

Y/N flipped another pancake with a proud little hum.

Then—CHOMP.

“OW—WHAT THE—”

She jolted and whipped around, staring down at her ankle.

Rocket was already fleeing, paws skittering across the tile like a tiny fuzzy missile, back toward Lando at full speed.

Lando was wheezing.

“LAN—DO.”

He didn’t respond. He was already cackling, arms open wide like Rocket had just scored a game-winning goal.

“THAT’S MY BOY!” he howled.

Rocket launched into his arms and Lando scooped him up mid-sprint like they’d rehearsed this a hundred times. “GO GO GO—”

“YOU SENT HIM AFTER ME?!” she shouted, chasing after them.

Lando turned and ran for the bedroom, Rocket under one arm like a football, both of them giggling in their own ways—Lando out loud, Rocket with wild chirps of glee.

“YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE!” she yelled from behind, still holding the spatula.

“IT WAS HIS IDEA!” Lando laughed, skidding around the corner. “I’M JUST SUPPORTING HIS DREAMS!”

The bedroom door slammed.

She stood in the hallway, blinking at the chaos trail: her ankle still stinging, Rocket’s fur on the floor, and Lando’s socks abandoned mid-escape.

From inside the room, muffled laughter.

And then Lando’s voice:

“Operation Ankle Snap was a success, Commander Rocket. You’re promoted.”

———

Dinner was warm and loud—Oscar and Lily had come over for a little double date night at home. The table was full of pasta, wine, garlic bread, and half-finished stories.

Lando and Oscar were bickering about karting stories from God knows when.

Y/N was laughing so hard she almost choked on her drink.

That’s when Oscar looked around and went, “Hey, where are the little rats?”

Lily blinked. “The what?”

Oscar smirked. “The ferrets. You know—Rocket and Groot. Furry sausages with teeth.”

Lando, without missing a beat, reached for his drink and said casually,

“You mean my kids? They’re in their room.”

Y/N froze.

Oscar paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Wait. What did you just say?”

Lando looked up, deadpan. “My kids. They’re sleeping. I fed them earlier.”

Lily snorted into her wine. “You have kids now?”

“Apparently,” Oscar said, grinning. “You’ve gone soft, mate.”

Lando shrugged. “They wear matching hoodies. Groot licks my face. What do you want from me?”

Y/N smiled across the table, eyes shining.

Lando looked at her, then down at his plate, hiding the way his ears turned pink.

The room fell quiet for a second, warm and golden.

Until—

From down the hall:

CRASH.

CHIRP.

A door creaked.

Something shattered.

Lando sighed and stood up slowly. “…They’re awake.”

Oscar cackled. “Your kids sound like a full-blown riot.”

Lando smiled as he walked toward the hallway.

“Yeah. And I love them.”

#landos girl rec #landos girl #lando x reader #lando norris #lando imagine #lando fanfic #ln4 #lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #formula one #formula 1 #formula one fanfiction

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the-secret-formulaone · 2 days ago

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someone hold me back!

can we just talk about how like his hair is longer and so messy since he finished a race. but the stubble? i’m kicking my feet omg honestly hot. i would smash in the past and i would smash now. i’m going crazy. that’s my man right there

omg his hair

#HOLD ME BACK #IM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE THINGS ILL DO #max verstappen #formula 1 #british gp 2025 #landos girl #ignore my lando tag…and my whole profile #IM LOYAL TO MY MEN #formula one

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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This is my new favorite thing, no joke. I’ve never read a fanfic involving swapping places to minutes at a time but it was perfect. I can’t even express how much i i loved this oneshot. it left me craving more!

➤ YOU ARE HERE | OSCAR PIASTRI

pairing: oscar piastri x soulmate!reader

summary: you and oscar discover that you're soulmates when randomly, once a year, you trade places for five minutes. it goes about as well as you expect for an f1 driver.

wc: 6.1 k

warnings: angst with a happy ending! mentions of minor injuries and hospitalization

➤ MASTERLIST

2019

Waiting to figure out how you're going to meet your soulmate can be exhausting.

For some people, it's simple: a red string around their pinky, a timer on their wrist, not seeing colour until you finally lock eyes, but for you? Since you've turned eighteen, there have been no signs at all. No magically appearing footprints, no mystery injuries to match your soulmate.

Nothing.

You had tried to figure out what strange, hidden thing it could possibly be, but nothing made sense. Perhaps your soulmate would be someone else with no symptoms; perhaps you didn't have one at all.

That's why, when you wake up in a strangers bed, your first thought isn't about soulmates. It's the middle of the night, or at least it should be, yet the sun faintly shines through the curtains, an unfamiliar alarm clock blaring on a nightstand, which, rolling over to look at, is not your night stand, and is not your alarm clock, and this most certainly isn't your childhood bedroom.

It takes a moment to realize that you haven't been kidnapped, whipping off the covers and standing in the middle of the rather messy room, and rather, you've been transported...somewhere. The notepad on the bedside table explains that it's a Hilton hotel, and slowly, picking up the few pieces of dirty laundry scattered about, you realize you must have traded places with your soulmate.

Swapping locations wasn’t exactly uncommon, but it was a strange thing to wake up to in the night. You quickly move through the drawers of the tables and desks, trying to find something to write down your personal information with before you return to normal. You're not sure if it was a permanent thing, or a matter of minutes, but you're also a bit too tired to care right now. Instead, you write down your name, begin to write the first digits of your phone number, and in a blink, you're standing before your own bathroom mirror.

Well, at least your soulmate would know your name. Considering the whole swapping thing, your soulmate must have woken up in your room too, luckily much tidier than his hotel room was, but it's still an embarrassing thought, the stuffed animals nearby, the old posters on your walls. Finally recognizing why you're standing in front of your mirror, you realize whoever your soulmate is has tried their best to get a message across, lipstick smeared on your mirror in what you realize are words:

Oscar Pi

Seems he got cut off by the timing the swap, the lipstick now laying open in your sink, but with a growing smile, you find that you don't really care, because your soulmate does exist.

Oscar.

It's a good name, you think.

2020

The second time it happens, Oscar is on vacation, and he's not really prepared for it. He'd biked up a cliffside trail, overlooking the small, coastal Australian town where he and his family were staying. He'd stopped to take a break when suddenly, he was standing in the middle of a grocery store in nothing but his bike gear.

At least, he thinks, you hadn't been standing in the freezer section.

Ever since your first swap, Oscar had tried everything in his power to recreate it, the way he had fallen asleep, everything he had done that same day, but he was starting to think your swapping was a once-a-year type of ordeal, or maybe you were in charge of it. If he could ask, maybe he could know, but it had been difficult trying to figure out how to contact you, considering all he got was a name, and he was travelling so often. At least you'd have a nice view, when you teleport to where he was. If his parents are quick enough up the trail, you might even meet them.

Oscar stares down at the basket in hand, a rather strange mix of mostly junk food, and without thinking, he turns to the nearby fruit stand and places a few oranges and apples in for good measure. Then, as he moves towards a banana, he realizes he should be trying to get his number to you in some way. There's even less nearby for him to possibly write with than your room, and considering the few people staring at him, he can't exactly walk up to someone to relay the message.

Everyone had told him he had time to meet you, to get your number, but knowing you existed after questioning it for so long meant that Oscar wanted forever to start now. Finally, an old woman takes pity and offers him a smile, and with a deep breath, he approaches her. "Excuse me?"

"Riding? In this weather?" The woman says, eyeing him up and down. "You're a brave one, dear."

"I've just swapped places with my soulmate," He manages to get out, "Could you take a message?"

"Oh, how sweet! You know, it took me four years to find my soulmate after I turned eighteen. We shared reflections in mirrors, made it pretty tricky to get ready for the day!" Oscar nods along as happily as he can, trying not to rush the poor woman, but also desperately needing to get his message out. "Sorry, what did you want to say?"

"Tell them I'm from Australia, and my phone number is-" He blinks, and finds himself back on the trail, and he curses so loudly that when his sister rides up to him, she looks rather shocked.

Hattie pauses, lowering her bike as Oscar forces himself to sit on the ground, bringing his knees to his chest. "What, you crash your bike?"

"I traded places with my soulmate, and couldn't tell them my phone number, again." Then, he finds his phone in the grass beside him, and for a joyful moment, he thinks you might have left a message, and finds something only marginally better: a photo. You're pretty in a way that shocks him to his core, that you're his, that you're supposed to be together. You're turned to show the distance in the background, a thumbs up as if to show you approve of his vacation location. Then, in the sand beside the path, he finds your number scrawled, only for it to be blown away in the wind.

When you return to the grocery store, you find yourself in front of an old woman, and far more fruit in your basket than a human should need.

2023

For the next two years, it goes on about the same. You end up outside some racing track in Barcelona, and the workers don't understand what you're drunkenly asking, and Oscar ends up at a bar where everyone's too gone to relay the message. You end up walking dogs in Australia in a snowsuit while Oscar ends up in the middle of a ski hill, wiping out before he can even think of giving out his number.

You've sort of given up hope, at least for now, that you and Oscar could finally coordinate it. You carry sharpies wherever you go, just in case you end up somewhere you can actually write it down. All that preparation doesn't help, however, when it happens again in the middle of the night.

You end up in some orange room with nothing but a massage table, and when you step out into the hall, you find yourself among people dressed in orange who look just as surprised to see you as you are surprised to see them.

"What are you doing back here?" It doesn't help, you realize, that you're just in an oversized t-shirt. "Get out!"

"I'm Oscar's soulmate!" You quickly try to explain, though the few people around don't seem to believe it.

"Sure, you're Oscar Piastri's soulmate, and you're here like that?"

Piastri. You should probably be more worried about what's about to happen, but you can't really focus on that.

You have a last name. "We trade places. That's our thing. You have to give him my number-"

"Can we get security to escort them out? I don't buy it." Someone says, snapping their fingers at a guard. "I've never heard Oscar mention trading places with a soulmate before." A security guard, larger than any human you've ever seen before, tries to corral you backwards as you helplessly explain, over and over, but it's not use.

You're shoved out an emergency door, and with a blink, you're standing in your bedroom.

Oscar Piastri.

Never mentioned trading places with a soulmate. You slowly sink onto the edge of your bed, trying to figure out why he'd never say anything, and all the answers don't seem right. Maybe he was just a private person, but still, trading places with your soulmate, potentially at any time, is the kind of thing you mention to people.

Oscar Piastri. You grab your phone, before realizing that Oscar must have been in your room, must have left something behind, but despite the way you tear your room apart, you find no note, see no number, not even a selfie on your phone.

Never mentioned you, never tried to give you his number.

Maybe all this time, he was avoiding you on purpose, and sinking back into your bed, you finally google his name.

Oscar Piastri, F1 driver.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need a soulmate.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need you.

2025

Oscar's pretty sure, after his security team threw you out in 2023, that you had to hate him. He hadn't been able to leave behind a number yet, hadn't been able to find you on any social media, but you must've been able to search for him by now. That night, when he blinked back to stare at a very confused security guard through tears, he realized he'd sobbed his way through your last swap, unable to do anything but stand there.

It was pretty pathetic, all things considered. 2024 wasn't any better, another hotel room swap as Oscar ended up in the bathroom of some university, surrounded by women who screamed and chased him out and ruined his chance of leaving his number, again. You hadn't left a number or anything on your end, but you had finished folding his laundry, which is the only sign that you might still want to find him.

This year, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be any better. In fact, ever since extending his contract with McLaren, he's had this deep-seated fear that refused to go away. If it was possible to trade places in beds, on bikes, and when skiing, then it would be possible in cars. Not just any cars, either.

In his racing car.

And you might die in a fiery wreck before Oscar even gets the chance to meet you, to give you his number, anything. You'll die hating him, and he'll have to go throughout life soulmate-less.

"You alright, mate?" Lando says quietly beside him from the driver's parade. "You're just...tense."

"I have a bad feeling today," He says, and maybe because he said it, maybe because he always knew, maybe because the universe hates him, it happens. He's just pushing out into a straight when he blinks and finds himself in all his gear at the front of a lecture hall, and the world goes silent for a moment.

You're in his car. For what Oscar can gather about you, you're most certainly not trained, you're not wearing any protective gear, and you are in one of the fastest cars on the planet, hurling toward your death at any second. "Well, I can't say I've seen this before." Someone he assumes to be your professor says, "An adventurous soulmate swap."

Four minutes. He rips off his helmet and the sleeve under it, and trying to calm his breathing, all he can think to say is, "You need to call an ambulance."

"What?" The professor looks at him in shock, and Oscar gestures to himself.

"I'm an F1 driver, a racecar driver." What could he possibly say? That a potentially mangled corpse is about to teleport into this room? "My soulmate...oh god, they've been swapped with me, in my car, without protection. If they can't control the car, they're going to crash and end up back here." Finally, what he's waited for his whole life is before him: a pen and paper. He scribbles his information down quickly, phone number, name, address, social media handles, anything and everything. "I need you to be prepared for it to be bad."

“I need everyone out of the room, now.” Immediately, the students are up and out of their seats, and Oscar pulls his helmet back on and waits.

You’re a student. He has no way of knowing if you can even drive, and he’s just chucked you into an F1 race, broadcast for everyone to see, and he has no idea what to do with himself. How does he possibly apologize for this? For maybe ruining your life? Who wants a soulmate who kills them before their first date? Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop it, and vaguely, he recognizes a phone being shown before his face.

“They seem to be okay?” A student says, extending a phone to him as he watches his own car choppily slow down, but it's not enough. You could hit a barrier, you could hit another car, and you'd be dead.

Instantly.

"What...what university is this?" He says, muffled by the helmet.

"University of Oxford, England. This is a conference, to showcase student work." Oxford.

You must be smart, then.

And he's the reason your brain is going to break.

You knew Oscar was an F1 driver, but it had never occurred to you that you might swap during a race. For a moment, when you open your eyes, you don't really believe it. The steering wheel in hand, feet on the gas, it's like a dream, and then every sense hits you at once that this is not what you're supposed to be doing.

You try to slow down, but the car isn't like a normal car, the force of it pressing you back into the seat as you force your eyes shut, the sound of it deafening, the weight, the car, the movement, it all spirals into a sensation that you can't control. The gas pedal itself is the hardest thing it feels to push, but you grunt your way through it as the car slows, the feeling of the ground underneath it changing, but you still can't bear to open your eyes, can't stand the thought that you're about to die without even meeting the stupid owner of this car, who probably doesn't even want to meet you.

You're not sure how long it takes, but finally, the car stops. The world stops. Your chest heaves, your head rolls, but the car is not moving, and you are alive, albeit unable to move, or hear, or function at all, really. Your eyes blink up to stare at a helmet peering over you, your own reflection staring back from its visor. If the driver is saying something, you can't hear. They take off their helmet, revealing a head of curly hair and a very, very concerned expression.

It's Oscar's teammate.

Lando, you think. He's quick to try and get you up out of the car, arms coming to undo the clasps keeping you in, and your arms very loosely manage to work their way around his neck.

As he tries to get you up, however, the world spins and you think you might be sick. He's saying something, you can tell he must be saying something, but it doesn't register. All you see is the dread on his face as you slip back down, hitting the lecture hall floor before you pass out.

Oscar comes to hugging Lando.

"No no no-" Lando's voice is shrill, obviously scared, and Oscar doesn't want to think of how hurt you must've been for Lando to stop racing and try to pull you out of the car. "Oscar? Your soulmate! Why the fuck wouldn't you tell us you swap places-"

"Are they alive?" Oscar shouts, ripping off his helmet as he manages to get out of the car, and Lando nods. "They didn't...they didn't crash?"

"Mate, they fucking steered the thing eyes closed." Lando and him stand on the grass for a minute, just taking in the moment before Oscar realizes you're back in Oxford, probably collapsed, injured, heaven forbid dying, and it doesn't take him long to get moving.

No one really knows what to do, and Oscar doesn't blame them. He never told anyone, until that fateful day, that he and his soulmate swapped places. It would be a hazard, something that would hold him back from F1. He refused to allow anything to stop him from what he'd dreamt of his whole life, but today, all that advice makes perfect sense. Because of him, because he wanted to go farther, to do more, he put his one true love in harm's way, and if you die, he's not sure how he's going to live with himself.

Passing flashing cameras, he finds that he doesn't care what the headlines say, doesn't care that he just threw the race for McLaren, he needs to be on the first plane to England as soon as possible, because he truly has no way of knowing if you're alive.

He's not waiting another year to find out.

For the past two hours, you'd folded the paper Oscar left you perhaps a hundred times, carefully into a perfect square before unwrapping it again. It was on the back of your script for your presentation, the contents of it now long forgotten for the frantic writing.

It begins with I'm so sorry.

It lists his full name, his phone number, his mother's phone number, a man named 'Mark Webber's phone number, his instagram, his twitter, both of which you'd already found. His address in Melbourne, his address in Monaco. Everything to identify himself with, finally in the palm of your hands, but you had yet to contact him. He was probably still racing, you found yourself arguing. Probably busy. It's all excuses that hold you back, but you wouldn't know what to say if you tried in the first place.

Hi, it's your soulmate you almost killed?

"How's the dizziness, darling?" A nurse asks over you, and you're broken from your intense folding of the paper to look up at her, and the room only spins a tiny bit.

"Better than before, still a little...woozy." She hums, writes something down.

"I think you might take the cake for patients today. Teleported into an F1 car by your soulmate," She muses, "What a world we live in. And your leg?"

"Sore, but survivable." Apparently, F1 cars' braking systems take a ridiculous amount of force to push, and while the adrenaline had let you brake, the aftereffect was that your whole left leg hurt, from hip to the tips of your toes. "Are you sure I'm fine to just leave? I'm not going to collapse on the street?"

The nurse flips through your papers. "You have no concussions, no ear damage from the car, no sprains or tears, I think it was just a mix of exhaustion, adrenaline crashing, and shock that made you pass out. Does anything still feel wrong? Anything out of the ordinary?"

The paper in your hands folds itself into a neat little square as you think. The world just sort of feels slow, or maybe suddenly too fast for things to make sense, that you were in that car, that Oscar had told them to call an ambulance for you, that you survived it all. That you were barely even hurt.

"There's a madman running through the parking lot." The room of patients turns to look at the elderly man in the bed closest to the window. His pain medication had made him quite the entertainment for the two hours you've been in and out of scans and tests, but this time, he seemed adamant. "Someone stop him. Looks like he's set himself on fire."

"What?" The nurse is gone from your side in an instant, before quickly sighing and placing a hand over her heart. "He's just wearing orange, Paul. He's not on fire."

Just wearing orange.

For the first time unaided in two hours, you rise from your bed and join them at the window, dragging your left leg as you walk, and watch Oscar slide between cars like some sort of action star, standing out amongst the grey weather in a neon orange hoodie before he manages to sprint inside, and the paper in hand suddenly feels so overwhelming that you're not really sure what to do.

He's here.

For you.

You don't know where he was racing, but considering he was here in two hours, it couldn't have been that far, or maybe he had a private jet, or maybe the the world was both too slow and too fast for you to keep up. Without thinking, you move out the hall and into the central area with the nurses desk as the elevator dings open, and for the first time, you see Oscar.

He's surprisingly dishevelled, considering you're the one who just got transported into one of the world's fastest cars. His hoodie seems a bit too big on him, and taking him in as he quickly approaches the nurses' desk, so are his pants. If you didn't know better, you wouldn't think they were his, and you're not really sure what to do with that information.

He just grabbed the closest thing to get changed to get to you? "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying." One of the nurses says to him, "You need to slow down."

"Soulmate," He says between gasping breaths, "Not a car accident, but teleported into my car, hurt-"

"Oscar." You say before you can really stop yourself, approaching his side, and he just sort of waves a hand in your direction.

"I don't know if they're alive, or dead, or-"

"Oscar?" You realize he doesn't know the sound of your voice, like you do his. As gently as you can, you reach out and place a hand on the back of his neck, the closest exposed skin to you. The final step of a soulmate connection was touch, and you had heard so much about it: how sparks fly, how you've never felt more in love, how it changes the world, but it was just Oscar.

It was just you. Gently placing a hand on the back of his neck, to comfort him despite all that you had been through today, was just where you were meant to be. It was right, and it was normal, and you gently spread your fingers into the back of his hair as he slowly turned to you, your hand drifting now to hold his cheek. "I'm right here."

"You're here." Oscar breathes out slowly, quickly scanning you for any sign of injury, and without even knowing, his eyes settle on your sore leg, staring at it intently. "You are actually here."

"You're a hard person to track down, you know." Then, without much ceremony, Oscar slumps into you. It's as if all the weight he'd been carrying his entire life had been let go from his shoulders, practically folding over you. He buries his face into the side of your neck as his arms latch around you, pulling you tight to his chest. It's a desperate sort of thing that has you realizing how terrifying it must have been from his end of the swap, of hearing that you were in his car, knowing you would be hurt. You hold him back just as tight, hands gently smoothing against his broad shoulders as if to show that you're here, and you're safe.

"You have no idea." He grumbles softly, and you can feel the heat rise to your cheeks at the feeling of his lips so close to your skin, now pressed into a smile. "Worst soulmate trait ever." He pulls away slowly, and this close, you take in all the details you never could before. He's almost growing stubble, in need of a shave, a soft spattering of freckles across his face and neck. You find yourself stuck on the fact that he's yours, that he's staring at you, that he's real. "I'm so sorry," He tries to say, and you rush to cut him off.

"You didn't have any control over this." That's the sort of thing, with soulmates. It's meant to be, but you have no control over who it is, how far they are, what you have to do to find each other. The most important thing is that you did find each other, and if you get a ridiculous story to tell out of it, then you don't mind the hardships it took to get him here. Despite it all, however, there is one question that remains in your mind. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Doubt comes creeping back in, so ingrained in your mind that even when holding your soulmate, you couldn't quite let go of it. "Seems important for an F1 Driver to mention someone else might swap into his car."

Oscar's eyes don't quite meet yours, returning to stare at your leg. Maybe it's a special soulmate ability to tell when the other is hurt. Maybe he just needs someone else to look at besides your eyes. "I didn't want them to think it was a liability. Not that you are a liability, it's just...you can see why they might not let me race if they knew this would happen." Then, without so much as taking a breath, he begins again. "I'm so sorry-"

"Oscar." His name feels right, on your tongue, and based on the way his eyes light up, it sounds right to him, too. "It's okay." You can understand why he'd do it. Not the smartest thing in the world, but then again, you didn't need some genius for a soulmate, you just needed Oscar. A small, perfect, ridiculous smile finally grows on his face, and you find yourself grinning up at him. You suppose it's your turn to apologize now for whatever damage you did to his car. "I'm sorry for making you lose the race."

"Lose?" Oscar echoes with a soft laugh, the kind of sound that makes you hate all the near misses before ten times over. "You didn't crash, you even got onto the grass safely. Ever considered a future in F1?"

"Well, I’ve considered a future with an f1 driver, does that count?"

Curled up in your hotel bed, Oscar begins trying to sort through the information he'd learned today. You were pursuing your masters, in a subject he can't really put his finger on currently, but he has the rest of his life to figure it out. Whatever it was, it was important enough that you were at Oxford presenting about it when you swapped into his car.

When you swapped back, you passed out, and woke up being brought into the ambulance. It was confusing, they ran a million tests, but you're okay, if just exhausted.

You were okay.

You were alive.

And you were currently taking a shower while Oscar sat on your hotel room bed and tried not to die himself. You had watched his races, kept tabs on him. Now that you weren't just passing by in the night, he had your number, every social media account. He had even introduced you to his mom, who tore a strip off of him over Facetime for not telling McLaren sooner about the soulmate-swapping thing, but that was all over now.

You were alive.

You were here. The shower turns off and Oscar stares intently down at Lando's pants, the closest thing he could find before rushing out, where the McLaren team let him use their private jet to get over to the closest airport in record time. He makes a mental note to thank Lando for his clothes, but that all goes down the drain when the door opens and you're standing in just an oversized t-shirt, haloed by the light of the bathroom, and Oscar rediscovers how attractive you are all over again.

You were staying the night together, seeing as Oscar had time, and the jet had already left back to the race. He wouldn't have tried to leave anyway. You needed someone to be here after everything that happened, and Oscar needed to meet you.

You limp slightly as you approach the bed, the only sign of the day you'd had, and the way the left side of your shirt rides up unevenly with your step makes Oscar blush in a way he didn't know was possible. This must have been what you looked like when you swapped into his hotel room for the first time, his. brain supplements as he forces himself to look back down at his lap. He remembers waking up to your childhood bedroom, the soft twinkling lights, the stuffed animals. It was so sweet, knowing you existed, and then he frantically tried to find a way to contact you, and ended up smearing make-up over your mirror.

Then, it was the grocery store, a bar, a ski hill. Always missing each other to lead to this moment now, and seeing how you're looking at him when you kneel on the bed, Oscar can't even be mad it took so long.

Because you're here.

You're alive. "How do you think they pick?"

"What?"

"How do you think the universe picks soulmates?" You ask, curling up next to him. Despite the fact he basically refused to let go of you when you first met, he's now hesitant to touch. After all, you were still just getting to meet each other. You hadn't even had a date yet. "Like what makes you my soulmate? How does the universe even pull off the swap?"

"No one knows." One of life's great mysteries, unfortunately. Oscar's pretty sure there's a science that goes into it, but right now, it doesn't feel like science: it feels like fate. "I suppose the universe just has a way of tying people together who are meant to be."

You yawn in response, leaning back against the headboard and kicking your legs out, and Oscar's hands rest on the edge of Lando's hoodie. You just sort of nod at him and he pulls it off, not quite able to meet your eye, and you can't seem to do the same, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "I have another sleep shirt, if you want. But you have to promise not to be weird about it."

"Weird about it?" You slip from the bed to root through your suitcase, and Oscar quickly takes off his pants before he can think too much about sitting in front of you in his underwear. You toss something at him, and Oscar catches it midair, unravelling it to reveal one of his own shirt designs for the Austin Grand Prix, and his brain sort of breaks.

You bought one of his shirts.

You sleep in it.

And he hadn't even heard your voice until earlier. "Couldn't afford to go to a race to see you," You say softly, standing awkwardly in the dim light of the hotel room. "Got the next best thing."

"I think," He answers dryly, letting the shirt fall to his lap, "The next best thing is actually right here."

"Wow," You say, a laugh bubbling out of you that makes Oscar thinks that maybe, just maybe the universe really knows what they're doing. "Really?"

"All I'm saying," He says as he pulls the oversized shirt over his head, "Is that who needs an Oscar Piastri shirt when you have Oscar Piastri?"

"That's the last time I spend money on your merch," You answer resolutely. "I get free stuff for the rest of time."

Then, with a soft glint to your eye, you launch yourself onto the bed, falling backward with another laugh, and Oscar looms over you, giddier than he thinks he's ever felt before. You were all his, and you were right here. You weren't going to teleport away, weren't going to disappear. He had your phone number, and he was debating getting it tattooed on his forearm for good measure. "You can have whatever you want after what I've put you through."

"That's a dangerous declaration, Oscar." Your voice saying his name still seems so strange, but it's right. He's just going to have to get you to say it a few more times to get used to it. Your hand gently smooths up his chest, waiting right over his pounding heart, and your eyes flicker up to his at the feeling of how fast it's racing.

It should be weird, really, for two strangers to be suddenly soulmates. There's an adjustment period everyone has to go through, the first dates, the first hundred questions needing to be asked about favourite colours, about life goals, but all of that stress, that awkwardness, slips away with your hand on his chest, your eyes on his, because the chase is finally over. Oscar might be good at racing, but going slow, with you, with the rest of his life, doesn't seem so bad.

"I think," He finally says, "The universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way."

"And what do you need?" Then, as cheesy as it is, as much as he knows the others will groan about it when he tells them every vivid detail, he very gently says,

"You. Here." Then, to be more serious, "Someone to keep me calm. What do you need?"

You don't answer him, but rather lean up to gently press your lips to his, and Oscar tries to thank every individual star, every planet, every galaxy that makes up the universe for putting you here, for him, forever. It's soft and sweet and hesitant, the kind of thing Oscar needed this to be. It's you, here, with him, and it's every mile over the speed limit Oscar's ever driven, and it's slow and it's steady like everything Oscar didn't realize he needed in his life.

2025, Again

It was a very different experience, being on this side of the race.

You had only seen it from screens, and then the grass, but being in the paddock was like its own little world. If you were alone, you're sure you could exist here on your own without anyone noticing, but considering you were walking in beside Oscar, hand in hand, people were starting to pick up on who you were very quickly.

"You know, that's a first in F1 History," Someone with a camera says, pointing at you and Oscar. "A soulmate swap into an F1 car! We're quite happy you turned out okay, but have you considered ever getting into a car again? Maybe following in Oscar's footsteps?"

Oscar looks at you, checking to see if you want to answer, and you smile up at him. "I am happy to never set foot in a race car again, actually. I don't know how you do it, or how anyone does it."

"You didn't do that bad," Oscar says, shaking his head. "You just need the right protection and the right training."

"The closest I am ever going to get to a race car is here," You joke softly, offering a small wave to the camera operator. "I'm happy to enjoy the comforts of the paddock."

"Your loss," Oscar says before pressing a kiss to your temple, and it hasn't gotten any less thrilling since your first kiss. It had been four months since you'd finally met, and it had been a lot of strange negotiations to get you here, date nights spent with Oscar flying out to you to get to know you, and in return, Oscar flying you out to get to know him, and see Monaco, and finally, now, his races.

You were worried it would bring back some sort of traumatic memory, but if anything, it was exciting. You were here with no threat of being shoved in a car or crashing, but rather to watch Oscar in his element. He guides you through the day, stopping into hospitality, meeting people, meeting Lando again. You'd already sort of met, considering he was trying to haul you out of the car, but now you could actually talk and thank him without a racecar in the way.

Oscar suits up eventually, about to start the race, and he corners you just before he goes out. "If it gets too overwhelming, just let someone know, okay?"

"Oscar, I'll be fine. I want to see you race." He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, and you choose to grab the front of his fireproofs, pulling him down to kiss him properly. "Now go win so I can finally hold a trophy."

"That's what you want? A trophy?" He asks with a laugh, putting his helmet on. "Not me getting the points?"

"After my race? I want my participation trophy." Then, because you can't ever truly ignore him, "And obviously I want you to win to do well too. Trophy just comes first." He shakes his head, moving away from you, and thought muffled, you can make out him saying three words neither of you had said yet, something you hadn't known how to. You freeze in the hallway of the paddock, watching him go, and it's a blur as people try to find you a headset and a monitor to look at, but it doesn't last very long.

You were soulmates. You knew that, obviously, but it still felt strange to think about what it really meant, how you really felt, what the future held.

Your mind drifts to those thoughts as easily as Oscar makes his rounds. He's got a second-place start, which is good, but watching the cars goes around and around on the screen isn't what you came here for. You could do that anytime, any place.

So, against all better judgment, you don't stay put with the thoughts of what might be, what to do, what to say. Instead, you make for the stands, and sit and listen to the cars whip by, feel the force and the wind, and it's everything you thought a race would be before you had accidentally partaken in one. It's fast, it's loud, and it's distracting, but it's good, intoxicating as the fans cheer, the cars almost too quick to make out their movements.

At some point, Oscar gets the lead, and you think you and the McLaren fans around you lose your voices as you scream for him, and despite how hard you try, you find yourself wondering why the universe picks soulmates like it does. Why it would in the first place? Love can be so many things, loving sports, loving family, but with Oscar, it's something so wholly new that makes you think the universe was onto something.

Because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way. That's what Oscar had said.

When the race ends, and you're ambling down the stands and back to the paddock, it's the universe guiding you. When you get to where they park the cars, and Oscar is standing on top of his, he keeps looking around, helmet already off as he's squinting at the crowd forming nearby of McLaren workers, because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way.

And Oscar needs to find you, in the crowd, to know you're there, to know it's real.

And you need Oscar, who's rushing to you like a man on a mission, like how he was that day at the hospital, and without thinking, your hand finds the back of his neck, pulling him in for an indentical hug as his face presses into your neck, and the universe congratulates itself for putting two pieces back together again.

"I was watching in the stands," Is what you mean to say to Oscar, and you do, but maybe it's the universe, maybe it's him, maybe it's the adrenaline still pumping, but you find yourself adding something to the end before you can stop yourself. "I love you."

And though you can't hear it, over the sound of the crowd screaming around him, the sound of your own heart, the sound of the fireworks, you feel the way he says the words back to you, and what it really means.

I love you.

You are here.

a/n: returning to my fanfic roots with a soulmate au + my first time writing for oscar!!

#landos girl rec #oscar piastri x reader #formula one fanfic #formula 1 fluff #formula one fanfiction #favorites

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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IM SCREAMING WHY CANT S MAN TELL ME I SMELL LIKE DESSERT. BETTER YET WHY ISNT OSCAR!

vanilla and strawberries

synopsis: you switched your perfume, and suddenly Oscar has the sniffles.

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

not proof read! this one’s like mega short

Your day followed its usual standard routine. You showed up to the track later than he did. Found him sitting in the back of the garage, cooling down, getting his head level before qualifying.

He hugged you briefly, too conscious of the cameras pointed in your direction. But he hovered near, his face inches from your neck. And then a sniff reached your ears. When he noticed your amused and questioning look, he pulled away, resuming a normal posture beside you. “Are you coming down with a cold?” You asked.

“No.” He dismissed quickly.

You were willing to brush it off until it happened again. After qualifying, when he hugged you again, he lingered longer. And you swore you heard another sniff.

And again, when he took your hand on the way back to the hotel and kissed your palm. Your hand lingered around his mouth far longer than typical.

And again, when he kissed you later that night. He paid extra attention to your neck.

That’s when he finally spoke up. “Did you change your perfume or lotion or something?” He asked, nose nudging against your neck. Another sniff, this one more pronounced.

You nodded, fingers threading through his hair. “Yeah, why?” Your question was pushed to the back of his mind, as it was too busy being plagued by the smell of vanilla and strawberries. “Do you not like it?”

He nodded quickly. “God, no. I love it.” He sucked on your neck, drawing a gasp out of you. “You smell like a dessert.” Breath fanning over your skin, tongue laying flat on the spot he’d just sucked a hickey onto. “So sweet.”

You hummed and pulled away. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

#landos girl rec #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #fluff

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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bloody brilliant 👏🏽

autumn leaves ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar loves you through the seasons. (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff, angst -ish. mentions of food. established/long-distance relationship, oscar is down bad :(, just a lot of sweetness all around. ꔮ commentary box: cold coffee is one of the fics i've gotten the most love about, and so it feels apt to roll this out today! this can be read as a standalone. birthday podium for the birthday boy, lfg <𝟑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ autumn leaves, ed sheeran. home, new west. please don't change your mind, lizzie no. can this morning never end, david kingston. thumb war, ande estrella. something tells me, bailen. falling in love at a coffee shop, landon pigg.

Oscar spends winter in your café.

It’s technically the circuit’s summer break. A two-week reprieve, but it’s smack dab in what Melbourne considers to be its gripping cold spell. And so he calls it what it is— a winter spent with you.

A few mornings a week, he shows up at the café with no real reason other than the excuse of needing a warm drink. He always says he’ll only stay a little while, but you notice how often his mug lingers empty on the table long after he’s finished drinking. He picks the seat near the corner window, lets the sunlight stretch across his arms, and listens as you hum to the tune of whatever’s playing over the speakers.

“You like being here,” you say once. It’s not a question.

Oscar looks up from the crossword puzzle you left by his cup. He blinks, caught, then shrugs. “It’s peaceful.”

You raise a brow. “You travel the world, but you call my dinky little café peaceful?”

“Exactly,” he says without missing a beat.

Sometimes, he helps behind the counter. Especially on slower days. You hand him an apron once, mostly as a joke, but he ties it on with alarming sincerity. It turns into a bit, the two of you inventing fake menu items while you refill the pastry case.

He gets flour on his cheek once and you don’t tell him until you’ve stared at it long enough to memorize the curve of his jaw. You saw his hand away every time he tries to steal a bit of chocolate for himself, and his touch lingers on your fingers like it physically pains him to pull away.

At night, after you lock up, he walks you home. You don’t invite him in; the act seems a little too intimate, and he seems happy to just see that you’re safe at the end of your shift.

It becomes routine. The world outside the café might be spinning on a faster axis, but here, with the two of you, time is gentle.

You learn why he doesn’t like to drink coffee. He finds out why you can’t function until your second cup. He tells you about his sisters; you show him photos of your kindergarten self. He watches you pour latte art with the same reverence he gives to telemetry data.

And then, one night, it snows.

It’s a treat. Whenever it snowed in Melbourne, it was mostly in High Country. You’re more well-versed with grey clouds and frost on the sidewalk.

That evening, the two of you linger on the front step of the café as the snow falls— sure but steady. A snowflake lands in your hair. Oscar brushes it away gently, but not without a small voice in the back of his mind murmuring Beautiful.

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and rocks back on his heels like he’s working up to something. “You ever get scared it won’t last?” he asks suddenly. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

You glance at him. “What won’t?”

“This.” He motions between the two of you. “Us. This… whatever we’re figuring out.”

As it is, the two of you are still an open-ended question. This was the wait-and-see part of dating, the carnage of you giving Oscar your number after he’d supposedly pined over you for years.

You think about it. About how he has a plane ticket waiting and a team counting on him. About how your days are measured in regulars and espresso shots, while his are measured in laps and podiums.

Two entirely different lives. You, staying in place; him, always leaving one way or another.

Are you scared it won’t last?

“Yeah,” you admit. “Sometimes. But it also feels worth it.”

Oscar’s gaze finds yours in the soft glow of the streetlight. “It does, doesn’t it?”

You nod, and before you can overthink it, you reach for his hand. He meets you halfway.

Fingers laced, cold breath between you, Oscar leans in until his forehead rests gently against yours. “Thank you,” he says out of the blue.

“For what?”

“Letting me be a person here. Not a driver.”

It feels like such a small thing, a small grace, and you don’t realize the gravity of it. He’s a renown racecar driver, sure, but he’s also the same guy who came in with his sisters; the guy who saved the café when he contracted you as a race caterer that one prix. In that moment, you’re only thinking of the way your fingers slot together as you gently squeeze his hand. “Always.”

Under the hush of falling snow and the hum of something unspoken, Oscar lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, winter could last a little longer.

You fall into something softer after that. There are no declarations, no explicit conversations about what it all means. But he lingers longer. He clings to you in the back room when no one’s around. He texts you from his parents’ place late at night, asking if you’re still up, if you want to go for a walk, if you’re cold and want to borrow his scarf.

You tease him about being a romantic. He rolls his eyes. Tells you to hush. (But he smiles every time.)

And then, there’s that unassuming Saturday— one where you’re baking early, radio humming in the background. Oscar is seated at the counter, still warm from sleep, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he peels an orange.

Your friend from the shop next door pops her head in. “Hey, your boyfriend’s blocking the cream cheese again.”

Oscar snorts, standing to move. “Sorry, sorry— didn’t mean to keep your resources hostage.”

You laugh, shooting your friend a look before turning back to your tray. But it isn’t until she’s gone that you register what had happened.

She had referred to Oscar as your boyfriend. And he didn’t even flinch, had taken it in stride. Whether or not he realized it is yet to be seen.

The thing is, you want to see. And so you glance at him, brows lifted. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Oscar pauses mid-peel. It seems to dawn on him, then, as he mumbles a soft cuss of shit. He looks struck, like he hadn’t realized it much either. This was the impression the two of you were giving people— that you were in a relationship. And he hadn’t corrected her.

“You liked that,” you tease.

“Don’t be mean,” he groans, covering his face with his fruit-stained hands.

“Well, boyfriend,” you say, savoring the word, “do you want to help me with the frosting or just hide behind your orange?”

Oscar lowers his hands. There’s a kind of wonder in his expression, the kind that’s not just embarrassment. Something rawer, gentler.

“You’re not mad?”

“I doubled down, didn’t I?”

And that’s when it happens— he makes a noise so flustered, so delighted and overwhelmed that he knocks his elbow into the tray of clean spoons. They clatter to the floor in a chorus of chaos.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”

Oscar is red to the tips of his ears, bending to pick them up with a muttered, “That’s fine. Totally fine. Not at all indicative of how much I’ve wanted to call you that.”

You crouch beside him, brushing your shoulder against his. “You can call me that whenever you want,” you say, trying to hide just how giddy you are at the prospect.

Oscar isn’t faring any better. He chews his lower lip as if he’s biting back a smile, but you can see in the glint in his eyes that he’s just as happy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then. Girlfriend.”

The title bursts out of him like it’s something he can’t hold himself back from saying. The moment the word has escaped him, he gives up on his facade of nonchalance. He laughs, disbelieving and low— and with a courage he could almost applaud himself for— he leans in.

In that kitchen, surrounded by cinnamon and sugar and the soft drip of rain outside, Oscar kisses you like he’s been waiting for winter his whole life.

Spring is strange when you’re chasing it across time zones.

Some race weekends, Oscar lands in cities where it’s still snowing. Others, it’s already sweltering— sticky with heat and the sharp scent of tarmac. But somewhere between Melbourne and Monaco, in the blur of media days and debriefs, he realizes it feels like spring anyway.

Because of you.

In between sessions and flights, there are your texts. Photos of latte art attempts gone wrong. Updates on which flowers you’ve planted outside the café. A blurry snapshot of your handwritten specials board with a cheeky text of Guess who forgot how to spell ‘mocha.’

He lives for them. For the quick selfies of you squinting into the sun. For the way your good morning texts come in while he’s wrapping up his day. It grounds him, makes the whirlwind feel a little more like a rhythm.

He doesn’t expect you to watch his races live. You’re busy, and he knows the café doesn’t run itself. Still, he catches glimpses of your support— the congratulatory messages, the carefully curated playlists you send before back-to-back races. One time, you mail him a tiny good luck charm, and he tucks it into the lining of his travel bag without telling a soul.

It’s late in Japan when it happens. The call starts as usual: You in your flat, him in a hotel room with his hair damp from the shower and exhaustion clinging to his voice. He props his phone against the pillow and lies on his side, just watching you talk.

You’re rambling about a new barista who can’t steam milk properly, and Oscar is smiling like an idiot. He could listen to you talk for hours, he’s sure. But then somewhere in the middle of your story, your words slow, your eyelids start to droop.

“You tired?” he asks gently.

You blink, shake your head. “No, I’m— still talking, just…”

Your voice trails off. A beat passes.

Then another.

And then you’re out, cheek squished against your pillow, the phone still in your hand. Mid-sentence, mid-reassurance, mid-call.

Oscar doesn’t hang up. He watches the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch every now and then. There’s a soft crease between your brows that he wants to smooth out with his thumb.

His chest aches.

It’s a new kind of ache. Tender, full. A knot of something warm that tightens when he realizes you fell asleep with him on the line. That you let him be there, even if only in pixels and soft light.

He takes a screenshot before the screen dims. Not to tease you with later (though he probably will). But to remember this. The quiet intimacy of it. The small, gentle trust of falling asleep.

“Sleep well,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear it.

Then he closes his eyes, the echo of your voice still playing in his head, and lets himself pretend— just for a little while— that he’s wherever you are.

Melbourne’s spring is a finicky thing.

It’s sunny one minute, rain-lashed the next. The mornings might begin clear and bright only for the wind to pick up by midday, scattering leaves down the laneway and making the café's front windows rattle.

You keep a spare jacket hung by the espresso machine, switch the fans off and on at least twice a day, and have long given up trying to guess if you’ll need an umbrella.

Some things don’t change, though.

Like the way your chest tightens when you see Oscar on the television screen. The way the café hushes when he’s announced on the grid, your regulars quietly cheering for him with their cappuccinos in hand.

Race Sundays are sacred in your café. You mute the usual playlist and flip on Sky Sports. The regulars know better than to ask you questions during qualifying. You serve flat whites on autopilot, one eye always on the TV. And when Oscar’s car crosses the finish line— when he clinches another win— you’re already reaching for your phone.

The messages aren’t elaborate. Just a few words, sometimes a stupid emoji. Nice one, champ. Or: Still faster than you talk. Once, just a GIF of a trophy and a smug-looking penguin. You send something every time, whether he finished on the podium or in the points or neither.

He doesn’t always respond right away. Sometimes it’s hours. Sometimes it's the middle of your night when your phone buzzes against your bedside table.

But he always replies.

Couldn’t have done it without the world’s best barista, he texted once, followed by a rare selfie. His champagne-drenched face, a peace sign, and a smile that he reserves fro you.

You had laughed. Saved the photo, too.

That’s the thing about Oscar. He’s everywhere, all the time— jetting from country to country, circuit to circuit. And yet, he still finds a way to feel near. Like springtime warmth breaking through the clouds. Like a small, bright constant in a city that never quite decides what weather it wants.

You watch him during post-race interviews, grinning at how he deflects praise with the same awkward charm you first met him with. You listen for the jokes he doesn’t quite finish. You catalogue the curve of his grin, the way his eyes crinkle when he knows he's done well.

And always, always, you keep your phone nearby.

Just in case he replies with something that makes you blush in front of the espresso machine.

Just in case he reminds you that no matter how far he is, you’re still a part of his every win.

Summer in Melbourne means winter break for the racing world; whatever it is, it also means Oscar is yours again for a couple of weeks.

He returns during the off-season like he never left, easing back into routine with a kind of softness you wouldn’t expect from a man who spends most of the year under pressure. He doesn’t text to say he’s coming. He just shows up— like clockwork— pushing open the café door with his usual boyish grin and an apologetic wave if the bell above the door startles you.

He slides into the same seat near the corner window. Orders the same drink. Teases you the same way he always does when you write his name wrong on the cup.

And when the regulars begin to whisper— recognizing him in quiet awe— he keeps his head down and eyes on you, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

On some days, when it’s slow and the air conditioning hums lazily against the heat outside, Oscar hops behind the counter. He doesn’t ask. He just washes his hands and starts helping. Restocking cups, organizing the pastry shelf, sneaking samples of cookies when he thinks you’re not looking.

People talk. Of course they do.

Oscar Piastri has a girlfriend. Oscar Piastri, McLaren F1 driver, hometown hero— is in love with you.

Strangers whisper when he wipes down tables. When he brings you a drink before you can ask for one. When he laughs too loudly at something only you could’ve said. Someone snaps a photo once, subtle but unmistakable. You pretend not to see it. He pretends not to care.

But later, when you’re in the back room counting inventory, you let the anxiety creep in.

“You know, they’re starting to figure it out,” you say, not looking at him.

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Figure what out?”

You glance over your shoulder. “Us.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Good.”

“Good?” You set the clipboard down. “Oscar, I don’t want this to hurt your image. Or make things harder for you.”

He crosses the rooms and slip an arm around your waist. “You think I care what strangers on the internet think?”

You give him a look. “You should.”

“I care what you think,” he says firmly. “And if the whole world knows I’m crazy about you, then great. Saves me the trouble of saying it myself.”

Your heart skips, because he says it like a fact. Like gravity. Like the sun rising in the summer sky.

“I mean it,” he adds, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “I’m not hiding from anyone. Not from this. Not from you.”

You lean into him before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Outside, the sun blazes. Inside, he kisses you like this part of your relationship is going to last forever. Being private but not a secret. Stealing quiet moments with each other as an invisible timer hangs overhead, every second nearing the moment when he has to go again.

And then, summer, like all good things, comes to its inevitable end.

But before it does, Oscar makes a point of being the boyfriend he doesn’t always have the time to be. He borrows his mum’s car and convinces you to shut the café down for two days. Just two, he promises, hands wrapped around your wrists and lips pressed to the side of your neck. You give in. Of course you do.

You leave before sunrise, the windows down, the wind teasing your hair as Melbourne fades behind you. The Great Ocean Road stretches ahead like something out of a film. The sea is to your left, wild and endless. The radio plays a messy mix of whatever stations come through clearly.

Oscar sings along, because you once said it’s your favorite thing in the world— having things of him that he doesn’t give to anybody else. There’s not a lot that he can give, so he grants you this. His belting, his hand on your thigh, his eyes on the road even though he wants so badly to look at you with the little time he has left.

“You know you’re tone-deaf, right?” you tease, glancing at him from behind your sunglasses.

Oscar, entirely unbothered, turns up the volume. “And yet you stay,” he screeches over the pop song and the waves and the thrum of your heart.

“Regretting it now.”

“Liar.”

You grin and lean your head against the window, the salty breeze kissing your skin. The road winds and weaves, dipping into forests and sweeping along cliffs. You stop for coffee at tiny beach towns, for photos near the Twelve Apostles, for stretches where you do nothing but exist side by side in easy silence.

Eventually, you find a quiet cliffside lookout. The sea churns below, sun low on the horizon, casting everything in golden light. Oscar spreads a blanket on the grass, and you sit with your knees drawn up, the wind cooler here but not unwelcome.

He joins you, shoulder to shoulder, gaze fixed on the water. For a while, it’s just the rhythmic crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

Then, softly, Oscar says, “I’m going to miss you.”

You turn to him. He’s not looking at you, but his jaw is tight, eyes glassy with unsaid things.

“I know it’s not forever,” he continues, voice low, “but every time I leave, it feels like I’m putting us on pause. And I hate that. I hate that I can’t stay.”

Your heart clenches.

You reach for his hand.

“You’re not putting anything on pause. We’re still us, even when you’re away,” you remind him.

It’s true, at least on your end. His papaya car can take him from the starting line to the chequered flag, can put him in countries all across the world. At the end of it all, he’s still the same Oscar you’d do anything and everything for.

He doesn’t say anything much after that. You can only hope he agrees, that he’s reassured. It comforts you that Oscar has always been a man of action, not so much of words.

When he leans in, when he kisses you there with the sun dipping behind you and the ocean singing below, it feels like summer is bending into something softer. Something that might just last.

Autumn comes quietly, almost unnoticeably. One moment i’'s late summer— your hand in his as you both watch waves kiss the Great Ocean Road— and the next, Oscar is gone again.

Back in a race suit, back on the grid, back to being the driver the world demands him to be.

The season restarts with a rush: Press events, simulator work, endless travel. Countries blur into each other. Time zones fracture his routine. He wakes up jet-lagged more often than not, sometimes unsure of what day it is until he checks his calendar.

In one city, it's humid and bright; in another, the rain feels like hurricanes. But somewhere in his chest, it feels like autumn. Like something has started to drift.

He still texts you. Still calls when he can. But the gaps between your conversations stretch, elastic and fragile. Sometimes he sends voice notes— quick, clipped, often in between meetings or on the way to a track. Sometimes you hear the edge in his voice, exhaustion making his tone heavier.

He apologizes more than he used to.

Sorry, I meant to reply last night.

Sorry, my flight got delayed.

Sorry, I missed our call.

And you’re kind. Always so, so kind.

You tell him you understand. That you’re proud of him. That you’ll just be here.

But Oscar starts to worry that your kindness is a finite resource. That even the gentlest patience has an expiration date.

He watches you through his screen most days. Watches the way you smile softly when he asks how you are. Watches your fingers cradle your mug, the steam curling between your knuckles. It hurts, in ways he never expected, to see you pixelated after having you differently.

Because yesterday— what feels like yesterday— you were with him. And today, you’re miles away.

And none of it feels simple anymore.

In the end, he doesn’t mean to wake you.

It’s late in Japan, or early, depending on how you look at it. The hotel room is dim, lit only by the glow of his phone screen and the occasional blink of city lights beyond the window. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, thumb hesitating over the screen.

You answer on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Osc?”

“Hey,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d actually pick up.”

“You called.”

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “I just... I needed to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then the rustle of blankets, the sound of you shifting closer to the mic.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “What’s up?”

He closes his eyes, lets the words settle. His hands fidget with the edge of the hotel duvet, reminding him of the worn, well-loved comforter you have back at your own place. His mind is louder than it should be at this hour, cycling through worries like laps on a circuit.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” he admits. “It’s just... everything’s so fast right now. The races, the media, the pressure. And I keep thinking— what if I drop the ball with you? What if you get tired of waiting for the person I keep promising to be?”

You’re quiet for a moment.

Then: “Oscar, listen to me.”

He does.

“You don’t have to earn my patience. You don’t have to prove yourself to me every time the world starts spinning too fast,” you say. “I know who you are, even when you’re tired and stressed and a thousand kilometers away.”

His throat tightens. He stares at the carpet, blinking back something heavy.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” you say gently. “You love me. I love you. That’s the whole thing.”

Oscar swallows hard. He’s never been good at this sort of thing; he’s honest when he has to be, sure, but the emotional part of everything has never been his forte.

He sticks to his honesty. “I wish I was there,” he says.

“I know.”

“It’s autumn now.”

“I know.”

“I’d hold you so tight you’d forget I ever left.”

You chuckle, sleepy but fond. “I don’t forget. But I forgive.”

He presses the phone closer to his ear, like proximity might make the distance easier to bear. And in that quiet, in your breath and your heartbeat slowed by sleep, he finds a thread of calm to hold onto.

“I’ll come home soon,” he promises, quiet but certain.

And when you say “You always do,” he wants so, so badly to give you everything he has.

It’s why he fulfills his promise sooner than what was probably expected.

After a brutal triple-header weekend, the kind that chews drivers up and spits them back out in time zones that blur together, Oscar finds himself on a red-eye to Melbourne before he can talk himself out of it.

He’s running on less than four hours of sleep, still in his team hoodie and airport sneakers when he finally gets to your door. The flowers in his hand are half-crushed, stolen from the bushes just outside your café— he knows he should’ve stopped somewhere proper, but he just couldn’t wait any longer.

He rings the doorbell. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.

You answer groggily in an oversized McLaren jersey, hair a mess, blinking at him like you’re not sure if he’s real.

“I know, I know,” he starts before you can say anything. “They’re from outside the shop. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan this well. I just— I had to come home. I couldn’t stop thinking. I missed you. I’ve been shit at this, haven’t I? I mean, not just the flowers— everything.”

You take one look at him, wild-haired and a little breathless, with dirt on his cuffs and sincerity in his eyes, and your heart cracks open in the quietest, softest way.

You step forward and kiss him, then. Still sleepy, still barefoot. It’s not hurried or desperate. It’s grounding. Like you’re reminding him he’s here now. Like you’re saying, It’s okay, I’ve got you.

He kisses you back with a gentleness that belies the hoops he had to go through to get here. He could be more desperate, urgent, but it’s not something he wants to push while you’re half-awake. While you’re soft, practically melting in his arms. He settles on kissing you as if it’s an apology, a confession, and a promise all rolled into one.

You take the flowers from his hand and pull him gently inside.

“Welcome home,” you murmur against his lips, and Oscar exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

It’s not complicated, not really. Not when love looks like showing up, like late flights and half-crushed flowers, like a kiss in the early morning and a place to rest your heart.

The apartment is quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the early morning birdsong outside your window. The light through the curtains is soft, golden— the kind that makes you pause and breathe a little deeper. After the flowers have been put in a vase and Oscar has changed into more comfortable clothes, you pad into the kitchen.

You start the coffee, the motions muscle memory by now. As it drips into your mug, you lean against the counter, waiting for Oscar to inevitably follow suit.

You don’t hear his footsteps, but you feel him. The way his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder like it belongs there. There’s probably an alternate universe where this could be your reality. Lazy mornings with Oscar, where he doesn’t have to fret over return flights and race strategy and all that.

It’s not something you yearn for. You’re happy with the cards you’ve been dealt, with the Oscar you have right now.

He hums lowly, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Can I have some too?”

You blink, startled. “You? Want coffee?”

“Might as well learn to like it,” he murmurs into the side of your neck. “Means I get to be awake with you longer.”

You turn in his arms, eyebrows raised. “Oscar... you don't have to change yourself for us.”

He shrugs, a lazy, boyish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know. But maybe I want to anyway.”

With half an eye roll, you hand him your mug instead. It’s exactly how you like it, and— to no one’s surprise— it’s everything he hates. He takes a sip and immediately grimaces.

“Still tastes like regret, huh?” you joke as your arms find purchase around his middle.

“Worse,” he says, and then pulls you in for a kiss before you can say anything more.

It’s a little coffee, a little toothpaste, and all you. There’s a little more of an edge to this, a promise of something more later, but it’s also just a reminder in itself. This is what the two of you had. This is what the two of you could work with. And it would last, would go on for as long as the two of you put in the work.

Oscar pulls back only when he absolutely has to, forehead against yours, breath warm.

Outside, the trees rustle in the breeze, gold and red and fading brown. The autumn leaves fall slowly, drifting one by one in a soundless, unhurried dance.

Oscar falls in love like that, too— quietly, fully, with every part of him.

He falls in love with you again, right then, in the middle of the kitchen, with bitter coffee on his tongue and your smile against his. ⛐

#love me some oscar #formula 1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #landos girl rec

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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I wanted to quote so many parts of this fic but O think I’d just end up copy and pasting the entirety of it.

I’ll just add this one:

You claim you’re not predictable, but he’s learned your patterns like racetracks—memorized them turn for turn, heartbeat for heartbeat.

Ma’am this is poetry. This is a masterpiece.

Oscar girlies for the fucking win! I adore the oscar girlies i swear y’all are superior when writing fics. You always get me and I end up like:

Thank you for your contribution to the fandom 🫡

IN THE DETAILS

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "Don't you think that maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?" - Lady Bird (2017)

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.6K ᝰ GENRE: a case study: to be loved is to be known ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: requested by @princesspiastri007 ꨄ babe you have given me so many phenomenal ideas but this one.... grabbed my by the neck and didn't let go. sometimes, love is in the details...

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Oscar knows you’re having a bad day before you do.

It’s not in the way you sigh or shut your laptop a little too hard, not even in the bite of your voice when you say you’re fine—though he catches all of that too. It’s in the way you make your tea.

Usually, you let it steep for three minutes. He’s timed it—curiosity at first, then just habit. You add just a little honey, enough to coat the spoon but not drip. Oat milk, two swirls, no more. But today, you dunk the teabag three times and toss it. No honey. Milk straight from the carton like it doesn’t matter.

Oscar watches all of it from the kitchen doorframe, shoulder leaned against the wood, still in his hoodie from media day, the one you stole two nights ago and returned this morning with a yawn and a kiss.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re too busy staring into the mug like it holds some kind of answer.

He doesn’t say anything. Just slips past you and pulls out the jar of honey, the spoon, the milk from the fridge that’s been open too long. You let him take the mug. You don’t ask questions when he remakes it properly. Three minutes on the clock. He hands it back to you warm and right, and that’s when you finally breathe.

“Thanks,” you mumble, curling into the corner of the couch.

He sits across from you, ankles brushing yours, arms folded loosely. He doesn’t press. You’ll talk when you’re ready. You always do.

Oscar has learned to read you in the quiet.

You chew your lip when you’re solving something. You bite your straw when you’re bored. You fiddle with your ring when you're overthinking, and you wear his hoodie when you miss him but don’t want to say it out loud.

He keeps an eye on how your playlist changes depending on your mood. Bon Iver when you’re homesick. That one ridiculously long Taylor Swift mashup when you need a cry. You claim you’re not predictable, but he’s learned your patterns like racetracks—memorized them turn for turn, heartbeat for heartbeat.

Oscar knows you hate crowds but love airports. You like being picked up from arrivals because it makes you feel chosen. He shows up every time, even when you insist you’ll get an Uber. He gets there early, waits with a sign that always says something different—once it said “Hot Person I Missed a Lot.” You blushed the whole ride home.

He watches how you always tuck your left foot under your right thigh when you're cold. How you pull your sleeves over your hands when you're overwhelmed. He carries spare hair ties in his pocket just in case. Buys extra lemon sherbets because you get weirdly nostalgic for them once every few months. He keeps your favorite lip balm in the glovebox of his car because you once forgot it before a long drive and sulked for two hours.

Oscar knows when you’re happy because your whole face goes quiet. Not loud like the movies say. Not bright and grinning and explosive. No, your happiness is softer. It's in how your shoulders drop a little, like you’ve let the day go. It's in the way you hum under your breath, off-key and careless, usually something stupid like the jingle from that grocery ad you hate but sing anyway.

He hears it before he sees it—that little tune trailing from the bathroom while you brush your teeth or fold laundry. It always makes him smile, even if he doesn’t know the words.

When you’re happy, you talk to things. The cat that always sits on your windowsill even though it isn’t yours. The kettle. The plants you insist are thriving, even though they’re mostly brown.

“Don’t give me that look,” you’ll mutter to a cactus, and Oscar will peek over the rim of his book, just to watch you argue with a plant. That’s when he’s sure: you’re okay.

But when you’re mad—

Oh, he knows.

There’s a difference between being mad and being mad at him, and Oscar has mapped that line like a tightrope.

When you're just mad, everything gets fast. You clean like it’s an Olympic sport. You open drawers like you’re trying to win a fight against gravity. You text your group chat aggressively and then toss your phone face-down, muttering “Ugh, whatever,” as if that clears the air.

Oscar stays out of your way on those days. He keeps your favorite snack stocked and says things like, “Want to yell into a pillow?” which you’ve actually taken him up on more than once.

But when you're mad at him? That’s different. That’s colder.

You go quiet—not calm, but too still. You answer questions with one word. You say “Oscar” like it’s just a name, not his. And you do this thing where you don’t close doors all the way—just enough to not be open. That’s the part that kills him.

He’ll sit with it. With the silence and the space and the ache. He’s not someone who pushes. But later, when the worst of it has thawed, he’ll crawl into your space and bump his nose against yours and whisper, “Still mad?” like a secret, like an offering.

(He always lets you win, even when you're not keeping score.)

And when you’re getting sick—

God. He catches it before you do.

You get stubborn about it, like your body could be tricked. You’ll insist you're just tired or cold or definitely not getting a sore throat, while Oscar is already grabbing the lemon and the cough drops and setting your favorite blanket out on the couch.

You get clumsy when you’re coming down with something—drop your phone, bump into corners, forget where you put your glasses. Your nose twitches when you sniff, and your voice gets this quiet rasp to it, like you’re speaking from underwater.

He never says I told you so.

He just bundles you up like you’re made of paper, presses a kiss to your forehead, and says, “You always get like this right before the rain,” even if there’s not a cloud in sight.

He reads you in the way people read their favorite novels—by heart, by instinct, by the dog-eared pages and the parts where the spine is softest.

Because you don't need to say it out loud.

You never really have.

He knows.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? Love isn’t in the big declarations. It's in the noticing. The remembering.

It’s in all the things you don’t have to ask for.

And Oscar knows when you’re in love.

You don’t say it either. Not much, anyway. Not in so many words. But you do all the little things.

He notices. Of course he does.

You set your alarm ten minutes earlier when he’s home, just so you can make him tea the way he likes it. Something floral, but not overpowering. Strong, but not bitter. You pour it into the mug he always reaches for, the chipped one from Melbourne with the faded logo and the worn handle that fits his grip like it was made for him.

You let him ramble about tire degradation and strategy calls and wind tunnels, even when you have no idea what he’s talking about. You nod, lean in, ask questions. Sometimes you draw little race tracks on the corner of your grocery lists, and he finds them stuck to the fridge and stares at them longer than he should.

You pack snacks in his carry-on, even when he tells you not to fuss. Always the same ones: the protein bars he pretends not to like but always finishes. The mints he chews during press. The weird sour candy from your hometown that he claimed was “mid” the first time but now hoards in his glovebox.

He knows you always fold his hoodie and tuck it beside your pillow when he's away. You try to hide it, like you don’t want to seem too soft, but he’s seen the way you bury your face in it when you think he’s not looking.

And when he’s stressed—after a race that went sideways, after a flight delay or a wrong headline—you don’t ask if he’s okay. You just sit beside him, legs tangled up in his, and let him be quiet. You bring him orange slices, his favorite vinyl, your hand resting on his knee like a promise. Like I know. I’ve got you.

You kiss his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. You whisper things like “drive safe” and “text me when you land,” and you mean it like prayers.

You don’t say I love you every day.

But you wait up for him every time. You press kisses to the back of his neck when he’s brushing his teeth. You memorize his schedule. You ask how he’s really feeling, even when he’s trying to hide it behind a half-smile and a shrug.

Oscar knows you’re in love because you see him.

The way he sees you.

You once asked him what he thought love looked like.

He didn’t know then. Not really.

Now he thinks maybe it looks like remembering. Like paying attention. Like making tea the way someone likes it, even when they forget how to make it for themselves.

Oscar doesn’t say I love you often. He’s never been great with words. But he watches you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a loud, fast world.

And maybe that’s the same thing.

Maybe it always was.

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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am I the only one that read ur recent Oscar fic and during it immediately thought her nail colour coincidently matched his tip colour?

yes? Ok I’ll leave now

ma’am, don’t leave 🌚 you’re onto something haha, gotta say i love the way you think. it would be so mind boggling oscar would not be able to compute. its so cheeky the way no one would know what the color actually represents 😇 they can take a matching photo 👀

did anybody else think about it?

#landos girl #landos girl asks #darling hold my hand #darling hold my hand asks #formula one fanfiction #oscar piastri x reader

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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“you’re my favorite part of the day” i might actually cry 😭

Sunrise Kisses

Pairing: Alex Albon x Reader

---

The gentle warmth of the early morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, painting soft golden patterns on the walls. A faint hum of birdsong drifted in through the open window, mingling with the slow, steady rhythm of Alex’s breathing. His arm was draped lazily over your waist, his fingers twitching slightly against your skin as he slept.

You smiled sleepily, shifting just enough to take in the sight of him. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted, his usually unruly hair even more disheveled than usual. He looked so peaceful, so completely at ease in the quiet of your shared sanctuary.

Carefully, you reached up and traced a fingertip along the curve of his cheekbone. He stirred slightly, murmuring something unintelligible before tightening his grip around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Mmm, too early,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

You giggled softly, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “The sun’s already up.”

His arms locked around you as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s the sun’s problem, not mine.”

You let out a soft laugh, threading your fingers through his messy hair. “You have training today, Albono.”

“Cancel it,” he mumbled against your skin, his lips brushing against your collarbone.

“As if I have that kind of power.”

“You do,” he insisted, finally lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His brown eyes, still heavy with sleep, held a mischievous glint. “You just don’t know it yet.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but before you could say anything else, he tilted your chin up and pressed a kiss to your lips—slow, lingering, filled with the kind of warmth that made your heart swell.

Alex pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his lips curled into a sleepy smile. “See? How can I leave when you’re right here?”

You sighed dramatically. “You say that now, but as soon as you see your car, you’ll forget all about me.”

He gasped, mock-offended. “I would never.”

“You totally would.”

He grinned, his dimples making an appearance as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him so you were sprawled across his chest. “Okay, maybe for like… five minutes. But then I’d miss you too much and come straight back.”

You laughed, tucking your head beneath his chin. “You’re so full of it.”

His fingers traced absent patterns along your spine, his voice softer now. “I mean it. You’re my favorite part of the day, you know?”

Your breath caught slightly at the sincerity in his tone. Moments like this, when it was just the two of you tangled up in each other, the world outside still sleepy and quiet, were the ones you treasured the most.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him with a fond smile. “You’re my favorite part of the day too, Albono.”

He beamed, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing hug as he rolled you both over, sending a burst of laughter through the room.

“Okay, okay!” you gasped between giggles as he peppered kisses along your face.

“Too late,” he declared dramatically. “You said it. Now you’re stuck with me forever.”

You grinned up at him, heart full. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And as the sun continued to rise outside, bathing your little world in golden light, you knew that nothing could ever feel more perfect than waking up in Alex’s arms.

#landos girl rec

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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lol there’s a first time for everything. you know that the screeching of the blender is a sound of a tortured soul 😂

DARLING, HOLD MY HAND

prompt: your new manicure has oscar's brain short circuiting

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

word count: ~1.8k

warnings: 18+, cursing, handjob, very tame

a/n: this was purely impulsive and self-indulgent. i got my nails done today and this is how i feel about them and how i'd like my boyfriend (if i had one) to react.

this oneshot is very fluff and only a tinsy bit spicy. the smut is not the main point hence why it's not my best work but it's enjoyable! [and a bit nasty hehe]

this is my offering to the oscar girlies who constantly keep me fed with his fluffy fics. i owe the oscar girlies everything. they are some of the best writers in this platform. idk if it's them or oscar which have that secret ingredient.

enjoy!

You love to get your nails done. Every couple of weeks you make an appointment and go get your nails done without fault.

Oscar knew not to mess with that.

From the day he met you, you've had your nails done. He can't recall if he's ever seen you without nail polish and it's been a couple of years since you got together.

You often mention how having your nails bare makes you feel naked. It’s part of your identity it’s what makes you…you.

Oscar doesn't mind in the slightest. It's one of your quirks and he respects it. Whenever you come home with new nails you'll show him excitedly and he'll tell you they look good promptly returning to your lives.

You've taught him to always remind you if he has an important event to attend or a vacation planned so you can fit in your nail appointment before then. Yes, you cared about your hair and your makeup and your outfits but your nails where everything. A priority.

Oscar has been witness to the catastrophe that is breaking a nail. He will follow along your lead and nod at how it sucks and it’s the worst thing to ever happen.

He thinks it's cute how you will look at your hand and huff in annoyance at the mismatched length the days leading up to the appointment. The same one you bumped up on your schedule.

The one thing Oscar never counted on was his brain chemistry changing after one particular manicure.

He's home chilling watching TV. You've been gone for a couple of hours to get your nails done. He doesn't dare to make plans at that time knowing you'll chose to get your nails done over doing whatever with him.

You'd never cancel on your nail tech the same day, especially after browsing for new nail art for days in preparation. He doesn't argue with your routine lets you be. Oscar knows the drill already.

The door opening and your keys jingling tells him everything he needs to know. "Osc, I'm home," you call out to him, leaving your bag and coat by the door.

You pad down to the living room where he's sprawled out on the couch, grey sweatpants and hoodie covering his fit body. You smile at the sight, you have such a lovely boyfriend.

"Hey babe, how was your appointment?" He asks, looking away from the TV to spare you a glance.

"It was great. Look at my nails," you squeal, falling beside him on the couch and showing him your nails. You stretch your arms in front of you, putting your hands right on his eye line.

You finally bit the bullet and got the famous cat eye nails. Tired of the Pinterest girlies living their best lives with sparkly nails without you, you paid the extra fee to join them.

The nude color shimmered in magnetically designed patters with every move of your fingers. You spent the whole way home oohing and awing at how spectacular they looked. They say money can't buy happiness but you're pretty damn happy with your manicure.

Oscar stares blankly, watching the shimmering polish catch the light. He's never had an opinion on your choice of color or design, everything you picked suit you and was pretty even if you voiced your disappointment about how your idea panned didn’t pan out as you imagined.

But this manicure in particular made his brain short circuit. He felt like a magpie chasing after something shiny. The more you wiggled your fingers, the more tranced he was.

"Osc?"

"That's pretty neat. Is this the first time you do that color?" He asks, knowing the answer because there's no way he missed this before.

"Yeah, it's a fairly new popular type of polish. Had to pay extra though," you shrug, taking your varnished fingers away from his face. He almost had half a mind to pull your hands back to keep starring.

"Huh," he says, returning to the TV as you settle more comfortably beside him to scroll on your phone.

As the days go by he's hyper focused on your nails. Always observing the cute way the light hits them and how they make your hands look very attractive. In his eyes it's so classy and sexy. Oscar can't explain it properly.

It’s not like your hands changed or the shape of your nails. It’s the eye catching shimmer that has him in a trance. He panics on the inside about seemingly developing a new kink based on the color of your nails. It’s a new low even for him.

You and Oscar aren't the type to hold hands all the time, but ever since you changed your manicure he's been holding them non stop to watch the fine glitter shift with the angle of the light.

You're the type of person to talk with your hands so whenever you're having a conversation with your boyfriend you catch his eyes following your hands. He's obsessed and you love it.

You say nothing, letting him have his fun. You won't ever turn down your boy for admiring one of your favorite things. Your phone is filled with pictures of your new manicure so you understand him perfectly.

Oscar has half the mind to give you more money just so you can tip your nail tech extra. Hell, he'll send them to her with a small thank you note. He feels indebted.

One morning, the brightness of a new day wakes him up. Oscar forgot to shut the blinds the night before. You never do because you like to fall asleep looking at the night sky.

It's cheesy and Oscar teases you about it endlessly, but being the good boyfriend he is he takes on the responsibility of shutting them every night so the sun doesn’t disturb you in the morning.

You're asleep on your side, facing him. Your hand resting between the two of you. The promise ring he gave you glints with the sunlight along with your pretty nails.

He touches the varnish lightly with his finger tips, admiring it once more. Grabbing your hand, he kisses each one of your fingertips, following your hand, your wrist and up your arm.

He might as well take advantage of waking you from your peaceful state after you begged him to the day before. You wanted to see him before he left to work out and meet with his team.

He kisses your shoulder softly, before burying his head on your neck. "Wake up, love," he whispers into your ear. His voice heavy with sleep still.

"Hmm," you whine, throwing your arm around Oscar to hug him close. "Five more minutes," you groan as your nails come up to his head to scratch his head.

"I have to go," he laughs softly, but he relaxes in your arms, enjoying the feel of your nails on his scalp.

"Five more minutes." He can hear the pout on your voice so he stays in place, face on your neck and arm thrown around your waist. Oscar closes his eyes and enjoys the affection you're so freely offering.

Throughout it all, Oscar comes to realize that your nails look the best when your hand is wrapped around his cock with the flash of his phone shining down on them as he records the moment.

He records intimate moments between the two of you often for when he's away on a race and you can't join him. Sometimes the time zone difference don’t let you help him and he has to depend on these videos he has tucked away on a locked folder of his phone.

"Fuck, that's it baby," Oscar groans as your hand pumps his hard cock up and down. You're lying down next to him, kissing his neck while reminding yourself not to leave any hickeys.

Oscar has gotten in trouble for that before.

Your hands are shiny from the lube you applied all over his length to make your job easier. Other times, you'd have your mouth and hands all over him but he requested this so, who are you to say otherwise?

The nail polish and the shimmers pop with the harsh white light of the flash and Oscar knows this will be in his favorites folder for months to come. You swipe his tip with your thumb, stimulating the sensitive area.

Oscar's hips jerk against your hand and a groan spills from his lips. You whisper in his ear, praising him and talking dirty. Comments that will leave him blushing when he randomly remembers them in the middle of the day.

His cock was throbbing and leaking precum all over your palm. "I love it when you get messy, Osc," you brush your lips on the shell of his ear and feel him shiver.

Your teeth sink into his earlobe, making him groan. You're playing dirty, you know Oscar's sweet spot is in his ear.

Oscar moans your name, tearing his gaze from the phone on his hand to press his lips against yours in a wet kiss. He hisses into the kiss as you carefully grip his cock tighter.

"I'm gonna cum," he moans, shutting his eyes tightly as his head falls back. The phone falls on his stomach as he chooses to grasp at the crisp white bedsheets. You grab it with your free hand, finishing his job of recording as you speed up.

His cock is slick with lube and precum, his tip a bright pink as it swells up. You record as your hand slips up and down firmly, Oscar's hips stutter, chasing his release. One of his hands gripping your side tightly as the other joins yours on his cock.

In a matter of seconds, Oscar cums as his moans echo in the dark bedroom. Sticky, white covers his cock, his thighs, his stomach and your hands. You turn the phone in your direction, licking the cum off your fingers, savoring the taste of him. Nails glint mischievously at him. With a cheeky wink, you blow a kiss into the camera and wave, stopping the recording.

It's definitely being saved to his favorites.

Everyone typically hates Monday's unless it's a festive day but not Oscar. Oscar likes them because he can rest after a stressful race weekend.

That was until disaster struck on a Monday and then he understood everyone's hatred of the day.

"Oscar, I'm home," you sing, taking off your shoes and leaving your bag on the table by the door. You bounce into the kitchen excitedly finding him preparing a smoothie.

"Hey babe," Oscar greets you as he drops the fruit into the blender, leaning down when you tug his hoodie to drop a kiss on his cheek.

"Look at my new nails," you giggle, extending your hand in front of his face.

Oscar feels his face fall at the new color varnish. It's a pretty red that compliments your skin well but it's not the cat eye nail polish as he's come to learn it's called. Many men would love the sexy red color and he does like it but he much preferred the other one.

"What happened to the other color?" He lets slip as he holds in his horror.

"What do you mean? Osc, my nails were falling apart, you know I change them every couple of weeks," you say, tilting your head in question.

The polish was starting to lift at the edges and you hate when your hair gets stuck on it. Only Oscar was allowed to pull your hair.

"Oh," he says plainly, hiding his disappointment.

"You don't like them?" You ask him, inspecting the color yourself to see if there was something he noticed that you didn't, but the red color looked perfect.

"No, no," Oscar is quick to reply, grabbing hold of your hands and giving a kiss to the back of each one, "They look perfect as always. I just really liked that other color is all."

"Oh okay," you sigh, pecking his lips, "I'll keep that in mind for the future, Osc."

Something lights up in Oscars eyes. "So you'll get them done like that next time?"

"God no," you giggle, patting his cheek, "We'll be right in the middle of the summer. I was thinking about something bright, like orange!"

Oscar sighs in defeat but he smiles at you and nods. He lets you go do your own thing as he finishes his smoothie. The loud whirring of the blender a representation of how he's crying on the inside.

thoughts?? prayers?? complaints?? applause??

hope you liked it!!

#landos girl #formula one fanfiction #oscar piastri x reader

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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#my boys ❤️#lando norris #landos girl #oscar piastri #mclaren

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the-secret-formulaone · 3 months ago

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they adore each other, it’s the mclaren team in itself that fails them sometimes ☹️

LANDO'S SMILE AT OSCAR, OH MY GOD???????!!!!!!! THAT.IS.GENUINE, BRB I'M GONNA CRY IN THE CORNER THEY ARE SO DEAR TO ME

LOOK AT THEM! AND THE ANTIS TRYING TO ALWAYS SET THEM UP AGAINST EACH OTHER

#landos girl #formula 1 #mclaren #f1 #best fucking pair of teammates i swear #formula one

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the-secret-formulaone · 4 months ago