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thelovehypothesis · 1 month ago

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Lights, Camera, Flirt

Carlos Sainz x Fem!actress!reader

From this request!

Summary: On set, Carlos flirts endlessly, and sparks fly—both on camera and off...

a/n’s: This is a recent request!

warning: fluff, fluff, fluff!

The soft hum of the studio lights buzzed as you stood in front of the mirror, fidgeting with the hem of your leather jacket. It was a polished but casual look—a perfect fit for today’s shoot promoting Formula 1, a new venture for you. Being an actress, you were used to long hours on set, but working in a sports-adjacent environment like this felt different. The idea was to bring more eyes to the sport—broaden its viewership—and someone thought it was a good idea to pair you with one of F1's top drivers, Carlos Sainz.

You weren’t entirely sure what to expect from him. From what you’d heard, Carlos was a total charmer. And while a little flirtation could be fun, you were determined to be as professional as possible. The last thing you needed was to get flustered in front of cameras.

The crew buzzed around you, adjusting lights and preparing equipment as you tried to focus. The director had explained that today’s work would involve some casual interviews, behind-the-scenes shots, and some promo clips where you'd playfully interact with Carlos to showcase the fun side of the sport.

“Alright, ready to go?” the assistant director asked, snapping you out of your thoughts. You nodded, taking a breath. Just a job, you reminded yourself.

Then, Carlos walked in.

He was every bit the picture of a star athlete. Dressed in his red Ferrari team kit, dark hair perfectly tousled, and a confident smile that tugged at the corners of his lips, he exuded a kind of effortless charisma that made it hard to look anywhere else. The energy in the room seemed to shift the moment he stepped on set, all eyes automatically drawn to him.

“Hola,” he greeted warmly, walking over to you, his brown eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You must be the one and only Y/N Y/LN I’ve been hearing so much about.”

You smiled, offering your hand. “That’s me. I hope I can keep up with a star like you.”

His hand was firm but gentle as he shook yours, holding it just a second longer than necessary.

“I think I’m the one who’ll need to keep up with you,” he said, his voice a low murmur, his accent making the words seem smoother than they had any right to be.

You let out a polite laugh, already sensing that keeping things professional around him was going to be a challenge. But you were here to do a job, and so was he.

The crew gathered around, making final adjustments as the director explained the shots they'd be filming. The first segment was an interview where you and Carlos would chat about the upcoming F1 season, his team switch,, the thrill of the races, and how someone new to the sport—like you—could get into it.

“So,” Carlos started once the cameras were rolling, “how much do you know about Formula 1?”

You leaned in slightly, a smile tugging at your lips. “I know enough to know you’ve got a pretty packed season ahead of you.”

He raised a brow. “And enough to know I’m probably your favourite driver now, sí?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the flirtatious tone in his voice. But instead of letting it throw you, you tilted your head playfully. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to see how today goes before I make any declarations.”

Carlos grinned, leaning back in his chair, clearly amused by your deflection. “Challenge accepted.”

Throughout the interview, he kept up a steady stream of light banter, occasionally throwing in a playful comment that made it nearly impossible for you to keep a straight face. Every time you tried to steer the conversation back on track, he’d toss in something cheeky, making the crew laugh as you struggled not to break character.

“So, what about driving?” he asked at one point, his expression a little more serious. “Do you like fast cars?”

“I think I could get used to them,” you replied smoothly, knowing full well where he was taking this conversation.

Carlos’ eyes sparkled with a playful glint. “Maybe I’ll take you for a spin sometime. Show you how a real professional handles a car.”

You bit back a laugh, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I’ll hold you to that,” you said, shooting him a knowing look, to which he winked—an actual wink.

The director called cut, giving the crew a short break while the cameras reset for the next segment. As you stood to stretch, Carlos approached you again, his tone a little softer but no less playful.

“You’re good at this,” he said, nodding toward the cameras. “I almost believed you weren’t enjoying my flirting.”

“I’m trying to stay professional,” you teased. “You’re making that a little hard.”

He chuckled, looking far too pleased with himself. “I think you’re doing a fantastic job. It’s not my fault I’m irresistibly charming.”

“Modest, too.”

He grinned, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. “I’ve been told it’s one of my better qualities.”

Before you could respond, the director called everyone back to set for the next shoot—a light-hearted promo bit where the two of you would be doing some silly races with miniature cars. As you both knelt on the floor, lining up your tiny cars for the race, Carlos was back to his antics.

“Loser has to buy dinner,” he quipped, positioning his car.

You raised a brow, not missing the suggestiveness in his tone. “What makes you think I’ll lose?”

He flashed that infamous grin again. “Just a feeling.”

“Don’t count me out just yet, Sainz,” you said, focusing on the little car in front of you. “I’m competitive too, you know.”

As the mini-race began, the room was filled with laughter and cheers, the silly nature of the task making it easy to relax and have fun. Carlos, of course, managed to sneak in more playful comments as you battled for first place. Despite your best efforts to ignore him, you found yourself smiling more than you probably should have.

In the end, you did lose by a fraction of an inch.

“So,” Carlos said, standing up and offering you his hand to pull you off the floor. “Where are we going for dinner?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help grinning as you took his hand. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Si,” he said, laughing softly. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s a night you won’t forget.”

His tone was teasing, but there was a warmth in his gaze that made you wonder if there was more behind his playful flirting. It was clear that Carlos wasn’t just charming for the sake of the cameras—there was something genuine in the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to enjoy your company.

As the shoot wrapped up, you found yourself lingering on set, chatting with Carlos long after the cameras had stopped rolling. You couldn’t deny it anymore—Carlos Sainz was more than just a flirt. He was kind, funny, and had a way of making you feel completely at ease, even as he teased you relentlessly.

“So,” he said, his voice soft as the two of you walked toward the exit. “About that dinner…”

You smiled up at him, finally giving in to the undeniable chemistry that had been building between you all day. “I think I might be free tonight after all.”

----

Hope you liked it! and let me know if you want to know how take dinner went.....

-Lots of love, Em.

#tlhcarlossainz #carlos sainz x female reader #carlos sainz fic recs #Carlos sainz

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thelovehypothesis · 1 month ago

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hii lovely💕💕 i was the anon that sent the ask about promises of us and idk if you got my other ask but i’ll send it again, i’m so so happy that you decided to post another chapter promises and patterns was so devastatingly beautiful i loovvveedddd ittttt😭🤍🤍 also as for the rude anon that was so unnecessary firstly it’s your fic you can do it however you like and if you choose to not follow the normal pattern for fics and do it a little differently that’s your choice (i honestly prefer knowing the ending cause i don’t wanna read a fanfic just for them to not end up together!!) secondly i’m so sorry that you felt discouraged normally im a silent reader but ill try my best to fill your inbox with love so you feel motivated to keep writing just know i stalk your blog everyday for updates💕💕 lots of love xx

Hi loveeee, I’m so SO sorry for the wait I got drowned in finals, the took a break from my phone to cure the burnout hehe

And I did get all your asks 🫶🏼 and thank youuuu for them I really appreciate it and I’d love for you to continue to send them 🥹(If you ever want to read something specific for this little fam I’ll be sure to write it!)

Also I promise promise to be much more consistent cuz I’m officially on vacation.

Anywayyyy here’s the next chapter to pieces of us

A growing promise

I have the next few chapters almost ready 🙂‍↕️just need to polish them and I think I post one each day 😉

Thank for the love and patience

-Lots of love, Em

#tlhpiecesofus #tlhharrystyles

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thelovehypothesis · 1 month ago

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A growing promise

Pieces of us -masterlist

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summary: When a late period and a quiet hotel bathroom spark a spiral of fear, hope, and questions too big to answer alone, you find yourself facing a moment that might change everything.

march 2022

You’d felt off for days now.

At first, you chalked it up to the chaos of touring—jet lag, the endless stream of different foods, strange hotel beds, the exhaustion of chasing city after city with Harry. You told yourself it was the stress, the lack of routine. Your body was just tired, that was all.

But when your phone buzzed that morning, displaying a notification from your period tracker—“Have you gotten your period yet?”—something twisted in your stomach. You froze, staring at the screen. You hadn’t. And it was late.

Your breath caught. Surely not.

Still, the thought started whispering its way through your mind, insistent and unrelenting. Could it be?

You didn’t want to believe it. You couldn’t be pregnant. You were careful. Always. And yet, a tiny voice inside you insisted on one thing: take the test. Just to rule it out. Just to shut up the “what if.”

You slipped on sunglasses, grabbed your coat, and headed out into the gray morning. The pharmacy was only a block away, but each step felt heavier than the last. You didn’t let yourself think as you walked through the aisles, grabbed the test, and paid in silence.

Back in the hotel bathroom, you ripped open the box with shaking hands, still convinced this was nothing. Still holding onto denial like a life raft.

You took the test. You set a timer.

Three minutes.

That was all it would take to know. And those three minutes were the longest of your life.

You sank down onto the cool tile floor, arms wrapped around your knees, staring at the test you’d placed on the counter. You tried to breathe evenly, but it was impossible. Your thoughts raced.

What if it’s positive?

What would you say to Harry?

Would you keep it?

Would he want to have a baby with you?

Would it even matter?

Would this change everything—or ruin it all?

Tears blurred your vision before you even realized they’d started falling. Silent, uninvited, they streamed down your cheeks as panic took hold. Your stomach twisted, your chest tight.

Then—beep.

The timer on your phone buzzed.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the test. You turned it over slowly, afraid of what you’d see.

Two pink lines.

You stopped breathing.

The world tilted slightly on its axis. Your vision tunneled as the realization hit you: you were pregnant.

You sat there for what felt like forever, staring at those lines. Your heart thudded in your chest. You’d always wanted a family. A part of you had dreamed of this. But not like this. Not now, not with things so uncertain. Not with a partner whose life was a whirlwind of rehearsals, travel, and expectations.

Would Harry want this? Could he handle it?

Could you?

The questions flooded in with no answers in sight. But one thing was certain—you had to tell him. And soon.

You didn’t move until you heard the familiar sound of the hotel door open hours later.

“Love?” Harry called softly, setting down his bag. You heard the shuffle of his boots as he walked in. “You here?”

You stepped out of the bathroom, the test still hidden away, but the weight of the truth visible on your face. “Hey,” you said quietly.

He paused when he saw you. “Everything okay?” he asked, concern already clouding his features. He took a step closer. “You look pale—did something happen?”

You nodded slowly, your eyes glistening. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I need to tell you something.”

His hand reached for yours instinctively, thumb brushing your knuckles. “You’re scaring me a bit.”

“I’m pregnant,” you said, the words barely audible, your voice breaking as more tears spilled down your cheeks.

Silence.

For one, two, three seconds, neither of you breathed.

Then, Harry blinked. “You’re serious?” he whispered, voice choked with disbelief. His eyes searched yours, waiting for a sign that this was a joke.

You nodded, laughing through your tears. “Yeah. I’m serious.”

And just like that, something shifted in him. His eyes widened with wonder, and then, slowly, a smile broke across his face. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “Oh my God.” He pulled you into his arms, cradling your head as he held you tight.

“I didn’t know how you’d feel,” you murmured into his chest, clutching his shirt. “I was scared, Harry. You’re always so busy, and I didn’t know if…”

He pulled back enough to look at you. “Hey, hey,” he said softly, brushing the hair from your face. “I know I haven’t been… the most present. And I know the timing’s wild. But this? You? A baby? It’s not scary to me. It’s amazing.”

“I just don’t want to do this alone,” you admitted. “I don’t want our baby to grow up wondering if their dad’s ever coming home.”

He cupped your face gently. “You won’t do this alone,” he promised. “I’m here. I’m in this. Completely.”

Later that night, you lay curled against him in bed, your head on his chest, his hand protectively over your stomach. The room was quiet, bathed in the golden glow of the bedside lamp.

Then, to your surprise, Harry leaned down and whispered against your belly.

“Hi, bubba,” he said softly, smiling like a kid on Christmas. “I’m your daddy.”

You laughed, wiping your eyes again.

“I’m already so desperate to meet you,” he added, his voice full of awe and affection. “And I promise, we’re gonna have the best life. I’ll read you all my favorite books, and your mum’s gonna teach you how to outsmart everyone…”

You reached out and threaded your fingers through his curls, heart full.

Maybe this wasn’t the plan. Maybe the timing was imperfect. But as Harry layed there, talking to a baby that wasn’t even the size of a grape yet, you realized something:

This was the beginning of everything all over again.

—The End—

a/n’s: I’m so sorry for the wait 🫣 I had soooooo much to do but the good thing is I have the next few chapter ready!

-Lots of love, Em.

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thelovehypothesis · 1 month ago

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Okay if we're sticking with the single parent universe how about driver calls readers kid their son/daughter in an interview for the first time?

f1 text au — driver calls reader's kid their son/daughter in an interview

────────────

drivers: max, charles, oscar, lando

note¹: thank you so freaking much for this request you have absolutely no idea how much i loved coming up with it!!

note²: also it took me HOURS ok HOURS!! this is insane guys i mean i love it so much but oh god if there's one time i'll need to feel the love for a post, it's this one loll

note³: also... took me hours but only wanna do these kinds of posts now lollll

note⁴: also :( sorry I didn't add other drivers guys I'll add them next time I promise, sorry sorry

OKAY hope you enjoy 🫶

────────────

MAX!

────────────

CHARLES!

────────────

OSCAR!

────────────

LANDO!

────────────

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thelovehypothesis · 1 month ago

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Love it love it!

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

You and Harry fight at Anne’s house on Christmas.

regardless of whether you celebrate christmas or not, here’s a little fun, angsty fic as my gift to all of you for being so wonderful to me this year xx

“Y/N! You’re finally here! Come on in quickly dear, the snow’s getting bloody awful out there.”

Gemma and Anne hurry to grab your luggage to free up your hands, and you immediately shut the door behind you–preventing any more snow from drifting into the living room.

“It’s a miracle you got here in one piece,” your fiancé’s sister jokes as you shrug off your coat and hang it up by the front door. Bits of snow dirtied the entryway from where they came off of your boots, but before you can apologize, Anne’s already ushering you to sit down.

Your socks are wet and cold as you pad onto the fuzzy carpet. The mute television is turned onto the news channel, and you turn your head to the side to see the record player spinning with a Michael Bublé album.

Fairy lights line the walls, and the smell of green bean casserole and turkey fill the cozy Cheshire home. A cup of hot chocolate is set down on the coffee table in front of you.

“So, sweetie,” Anne smiles softly at you through the faint light from the fireplace. “Where’s Harry?”

There it was. The question that you had been dreading to hear. The question that you, frankly, didn’t know the answer to. You can practically feel the weight of the unused plane ticket heavy in your coat pocket.

“Buy the ticket for me, angel.”

Harry’s voice had sounded so sincere over the phone, and it made you hesitant. “Haz,” you say.

He interrupts you before you can continue. “I’ll be home for Christmas, I promise.”

That conversation took place a few weeks ago. You had called Harry up again this morning to make sure one last time that he remembered his promise. “I’ll be there,” he had said.

You waited at the airport for him until the very last second before the plane was about to take off. It wasn’t until you were seated down and the plane had taken off that you realized Harry had failed to come through.

Instead of coming up with excuses to explain his absence, you tell her the honest truth. “I don’t know where he is,” you sigh, taking a sip of the cocoa. As if to keep her from worrying, you add, “I heard from him this morning, though. I think he’s on his way.”

Gemma lets out a little chuckle as she sinks into the sofa next to you and props her feet up on the coffee table. Anne frowns, “And when was the last time you saw him?”

This one didn’t leave much room for interpretation. Averting your eyes from hers, you reply, “A few months ago.”

“That damned man and his love affair with Los Angeles!” Gemma curses while absent-mindedly scrolling through her phone. “Leaving you at home alone. That fucker doesn’t even come home for Christmas.”

You part your lips to respond with an attempted defence, but before any of you can say anything, the doorknob is jingling.

The three of you are on your feet in an instant. The front door opens with a rush of the winter air and a dark black trench coat. A thud of heavy bags and the kicking of boots to the side. The scent of home.

“Harry.” His name leaves your lips, or Anne’s, or Gemma’s–you aren’t quite sure. All you know is that he’s here. And he’s smiling.

“Hi,” Harry greets cheerfully, pulling his sister into a hug. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all in ages.”

Gemma is too surprised to respond with the sarcastic comment that you were thinking: because it has been ages, Harry.

“Mommy!” Harry practically leaps into the older woman’s arms. Anne has to take a few steps back to keep her balance. “Check my bag later,” he murmurs into her ear, “I got you a present. More than one, actually. Maybe even more than two.”

And then it was your turn. Sensing the tension in the air, Anne lies about something burning in the kitchen and drags Gemma out of the room, leaving you and Harry alone.

He coughs, “Chilly weather out–”

“Where have you been, Harry?”

Your fiancé runs a hand through his much shorter hair and sighs exasperatedly, “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“You’re what? You exclaim, throwing your hands up in the air. “I’m not asking you where you are now, I’m asking you where you’ve been.”

Harry tries to approach you, but you are backing up away from him. “Kitten,” he tries grabbing your arm but you pull away. “Kitten, listen to me. C’mere.”

“Not until you’ve told me what you’ve been up to!��

“Why are you yelling, darling, just calm down a bit.”

“I’m not yelling!” You back into a wall in that moment, and Harry seizes the opportunity to close the space between the two of you. You were angry and upset at him…and yet seeing him up close…

You raise a hand to trace his jawline all the way up to the back of his neck. Harry’s hands snake their way around your waist as he whispers, “I missed you.”

And just like that, you push him away again. Your voice is quieter now, but nonetheless intense. “Where the hell have you been, Harry?”

You watch as his tongue runs over his bottom lip. His emerald-green eyes dance all over your face before finally landing on the wall behind you. “I’ve been in L.A..”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you resist the urge to snap at him again. “I know you’ve been in L.A.,” you say, as gently as you can muster, “but why? And don’t tell me it’s for work, because I’ve been in contact with Jeff and–”

“You’ve been in contact with Jeff?” Harry bolts upright and stares at you with something resembling betrayal.

But you’re not having any of it. “Yes, I’ve been in contact with Jeff!” You watch as he paces to the other side of the room and back, with his hands resting on top of his head. “What did you expect me to do? You weren’t telling me anything! If it wasn’t for TMZ, I would’ve assumed you were dead!”

Harry chuckles sarcastically and murmurs, “So now you care about me.”

You rest your head in your hands. “What?” You were tired of that word. Frankly, you were tired of all the questions. “What are you on about now?”

Harry raises his voice to cry, “You know! Don’t play dumb, Y/N. You know what I’m talking about. You know why I left!”

“I DON’T!” You scream, standing up now to face him head-on. You didn’t know why you exploded the way you did, but it was too late to take it back now. “Please enlighten me, Harry!”

Your fiancé squints down at you condescendingly. “You want me to enlighten you, huh?”

“Please!”

“You really want me to spell it out for you?”

“I’m begging you!”

And then Harry reaches into his pocket and chucks something small at the wall at lightning speed. He looks in the opposite direction of where he had thrown it and coughs, as if gesturing for you to pick it up.

Face heated with anger, you make your way to the corner of the room. You murmur, mostly to yourself, “What the fuck did you throw–?”

Your silence was enough of an answer for Harry, who says over your shoulder, “Don’t tell me you still don’t remember.”

“No,” you breathe, picking up the diamond engagement ring from the floor. “I remember.” The ring felt heavy in your hand as you walk back to where Harry was now seated on the sofa. You rest it down on the coffee table in front of the both of you. “But you never told me there was a ring.”

Harry eyes the piece of jewelry. “I asked you to marry me,” he remarks smoothly. “Before I could even get down on one knee, you said no.”

“I didn’t say no. I said not now.”

He looks at you with a sharp grin. “Same thing, ain’t it?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head from side to side. One of your hands sneak around to interlace your fingers with his. “No they’re not. Do you remember your proposal?”

Harry frowns, “Of course I do.”

“Really?” You frown, “Because you were quite quite drunk. I had just gotten you in the shower when you asked me to marry you.”

Harry turns his body to face you and he grips your hand tightly. “I don’t remember being hammered. I had a few drinks, yeah, but I was being genuine.”

You can’t help but smile. “You could barely even get your shirt off, much less mumble anything other than Marry me now.”

"And you said–”

“And I said not now, Harry,” you recall, “Ask me again when you’re sober and sensible.”

“Oh.” Your fiancé sits there with his lips parted and a confused expression plastered on his face. “I do not remember that half of that sentence.”

You cock your head to the side and ask, “You thought I didn’t want to marry you? Is that why you ran off to L.A.?”

“I needed some time alone,” Harry confesses, moving closer to you so that you can feel the heat of his breath against your face as he speaks. “I thought the love of my life had just refused to marry me. My ego was hurt. In fact, my ego was practically blown to smithereens by the time you were done with me.”

“Well,” you slyly wrap your leg around his torso so that you are now situated on his lap, “how is it to your ego to know that I would love to marry you?”

Harry’s lips curl up at the edges as you start pressing kisses all the way down the side of his neck. “Quite restored, thank you very much. But I’m gonna need a little more encouragement, angel.”

You pull away from him for a second to whisper, “Don’t forget you’ve just ignored me for a good few months now. There’s a lot that you still need to make up to me.”

“Oh yeah? Show me what I can do, then.”

Anne’s voice vibrates throughout the entire living room as she yells, “Not in my living room!”

#tlhharrystyles

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thelovehypothesis · 2 months ago

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blowing smoke | s.r.

in which Spencer asks you out on a date, but you know better

[next]

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: maeve and that fucking book. mutual pining but with avoidant reader. this fic lowkey could've been titled waiting room because reader knows it's for the better. word count: 1.96k a/n: hey does this thing still work? hello?

The hand hovering over the small of your back didn’t go unnoticed. In fact, you were hyperaware of every movement that Spencer made. Every hitched breath, each time he shifted his weight, the way he guided you through the halls put you on edge. He herded you through your apartment complex as if it were a maze he’d scrawled on the back of his hand.

His apartment was in the opposite direction of yours, but he still offered to take the red line with you, citing a need to make sure you got home safely. “Did you have a good time tonight?” He asked, his voice breaching the painful silence that had coagulated between you, his hand remained above your back, skimming the fabric of your jean jacket as you stepped onto the elevator together, trapping you in a metal box together.

You nodded once, keeping your eyes focused on the muddled reflection of the two of you in the elevator door instead of looking back at him. “I can’t complain about good company,” you answered, curling your toes in your shoes, using the texture of your socks to stop yourself from abandoning your resolve.

Spencer hummed in response, “We should do it again sometime,” he told you, letting you get off of the elevator first before he trailed you to your front door.

“As long as Penelope’s around, I don’t think we’ll be in danger of losing team bonding nights.” Tonight had been dinner at a new restaurant in the district, a place that you’d never heard of but Garcia had found on social media. Of course, the restaurant served exclusively Italian cuisine, and Rossi—who you’d been sat next to—went around the table and explained what he’d change about everyone’s meals to make them more authentic.

He was quiet as you rummaged through your purse for your apartment key, zeroed in on the way you rifled through pens and chapsticks to find the right carabiner. “Oh,” he responded, following you into the apartment. “I meant maybe you and I could do something. Get dinner together sometime.”

You faltered, your hand resting on a hanger in your coat closet, “I think Penelope would take it personally if we started hanging out without her.”

“Bringing Penelope with us on a date might send people the wrong message,” Spencer countered, a soft chuckle carrying through his tone.

Closing the closet door, you waited until the latch clicked to turn around and face him, “Spencer,” you started, tilting your head to the side but refraining from moving any closer to him. “We can’t,” you stated plainly, shaking your head in disbelief—both at the fact that he was asking you out and at the fact that you were turning him down.

His golden-brown irises studied your face in abject disappointment; he searched your expression for the smallest sign that you were joking. Turning him down to mess with him only to quickly turn around and tell him you’d love to get dinner together. “Sure, we can, there’s no regulation that says two members of the BAU can’t be together. There won’t be as long as Rossi’s around.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up, “That’s not why.” You wracked your brain for a simple explanation. A little white lie would be easier than the messy truth, but every lie eventually circled back to the same thing—to the same person. You’d been so patient in waiting for this moment, living your life on the sidelines while you watched Spencer crush on coworkers and bartenders and waiting for the universe to put you on the same playing field.

Here he was, offering to pull you from the bench, but you weren’t interested. He shifted his weight from left to right, “Then why?”

Naming your issue would require bringing up a subject that had become taboo in the BAU. You found yourself wishing you still had your jean jacket on, the cold in your apartment brought on by freezing Spencer out, “Maeve.” Your one-word answer floated off of your tongue easily, a topic you had wanted to bring up since she died but had avoided for nearly a year now.

You found a spot on the floor and focused on it, desperately needing something to look at other than Spencer’s face as each stage of grief flashed across it. “I want to move on,” he assured you, “It’s time, don’t you think?”

A scoff escaped your throat before you had the chance to reel it in, “I don’t want to be a task to you. There’s no point in me being a checkbox on your therapist’s list.” It broke your heart to turn him down. It killed you to hurt him. It killed you to hurt the bright-eyed girl who fell in love with him on her first day on the job.

“You aren’t,” he insisted. “You wouldn’t be. I’m not doing this for anyone except for myself,” he took a determined step forward and you stumbled backward, and just like that, he had a final answer.

All of the words in the English language, and you couldn’t form a sentence that would concisely explain why you couldn’t go on a date with the love of your life. You shrugged helplessly, allowing yourself to look up at him, trying to unsee the haunted look in his eye that you’d grown accustomed to. It’d been there since the day she died, and you weren’t entirely sure he’d ever be rid of it. “You called her the most beautiful girl in the world,” you reminded him, unsure of why you chose this reason.

He frowned, the crease between his brows so endearing that you nearly forgot about the cracks forming around your heart. “What?”

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you considered your next words carefully, “That’s what you said to Blake, I heard you.”

Spencer looked pained, “She… I didn’t—”

“And you’d never seen her before,” you cut off his explanation. “You called her the most beautiful girl in the world without having any idea what she looked like,” you reminded him of the odd circumstances encircling his relationship with Maeve. Phone booth girl.

“She was my girlfriend,” he offered as if that was explanation enough. It wasn’t lost on you. People had a tendency to speak in hyperbole when they were in love, and despite his excessive rationality, Spencer was no exception.

Running your tongue over your molars, you hummed, “Look, all I know is that if you felt that way about someone you’d never laid eyes on, there’s no room for you to feel that way about me.” You weren’t trying to be brave or considerate, you were frantically trying to build a brick wall between you and Spencer that should’ve been erected years ago.

He shook his head, taking another step toward you, leaving you to back into the kitchen counter, “You don’t mean that.”

Tears started to line your eyes, silver wisps blurring the visage of everything you’ve ever wanted, “You have to understand, Spencer.” The determination in your voice slowly morphed into a plea. You found yourself begging him for mercy, “In my head, we’ve already dated, fallen in love, and broken up. I don’t need to relive that sequence of events.”

“You don’t think we even deserve a chance? Because of Maeve?” He continued to push, poking and prodding at you until you felt like you were going to break apart.

You couldn’t do it. You could no longer allow yourself the luxury of fantasizing about being with him while the skeleton in his closet was pushed up against the door, threatening to break it from its hinges. Your tears slipped down your cheeks, moving in a steady stream as your lips parted to respond, “Because you called her the most beautiful girl in the world, and I’ve been in front of you for eight years waiting for you to notice me.”

It wasn’t that you considered yourself a jealous person. At least, not in the sense that you were jealous of Maeve. You couldn’t be in a relationship where you were always cognizant of the fact that someone else always came first. In the past year, you’d seen the way her death followed Spencer’s every action firsthand, and you couldn’t let her haunt you too.

“Let’s say you mean this and want to be with me; I’ll never live up to her,” you explained yourself to him, hoping to fill the gaping wound in your chest with words that would never be able to repair the damage that was being done to you. “I will never be able to reach the standard that she set,” you told him.

Spencer held a hand up, trying to get you to stop speaking, “That’s not true.”

You waved it off, “Of course it is. Spencer, if not her, then someone else will always come first to you. I’d spend half of our relationship wondering if you’re being forthcoming in your feelings about me, and I refuse to use what’s left of my dignity to stand in front of you and beg for your love.”

“You won’t have to,” he insisted. “I have absolutely no intention of using you as some sort of placeholder.”

Spencer was always good with words. You’ve watched him bend truths and manipulate UnSubs into giving him exactly what he wants. That was what he was doing right now, as surely as you were holding a knife to your own throat, he was asking you to lay down your arms. He didn’t want to hear you out, everything you said to him went unprocessed by that beautiful brain of his, and a feeling of helplessness filled the void. “Do you still carry the book around with you?”

It was like you’d pressed a reset button, his demeanor completely changed when you brought up the book, “What?” He straightened up, pulling his shoulders back as he eyed you nervously.

“The Narrative of John Smith, is it in your bag right now?” You asked him. Spencer’s kinship with books was a trait that had previously fed your fantasy, but for the last year it had only ever been one book. You wanted to scream at him, to tell him off for having the audacity to ask you out while he had that book in his bag. As if the inscription didn’t imply that Spencer and Maeve were destined to be together.

Slowly, Spencer opened his bag, reaching in and pulling out the eerily familiar book. One-hundred and twenty pages of your precarious and unending heartbreak. There was a bookmark placed about halfway through, indicating he was in the middle of his umpteenth reread.

Something about it made you feel so pathetic that you weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or cry. There was no escaping her, even now. You’d never be able to fully leave her in the past, there would always be the question of whether or not they’d be together had she not died.

Maybe he’d shelve the book someday. Maybe he’d read a book by your favorite author instead of clinging to Arthur Conan Doyle. Maybe he’d stop quoting E.E. Cummings on a daily basis. He just hadn’t reached that stage of grief yet, and part of you thought he’d remain in a permanent state of bargaining. You weren’t willing to be part of the bargain. You weren’t willing to be the one he defaults to just because you have a pulse.

Shaking your head, you walked around him and opened the front door, leaning against it and fidgeting with the deadbolt while you waited for him to get the message, “I can’t take being the last choice.”

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another." - Thomas Merton

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thelovehypothesis · 2 months ago

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Ouch 🥺

how do we carry on?

pairing: hotch x bau!reader

rating: m

word count: 4.8k

genre: angst, hurt no comfort

summary: emily was your confidant, your best friend. when she dies at the hands of ian doyle, you find comfort in your boyfriend, aaron. when you find out that she’s alive and that hotch had known all along, your world falls out from under you. can you and hotch come back from the decision he made for the good of the team?

*if this gains enough traction i might follow up with a pt.2 to give it a happy ending*

The criss-crossed lines of the tile floor blur together as you stare blankly between your feet. The tops of your thighs have gone numb from digging your elbows into them, using your cradled hands as a pillow for your forehead. You couldn’t go home, not until you knew.

Rossi had offered to go on a walk and get a coffee, but shitty lukewarm hospital coffee was the last thing you needed. You hadn’t meant to write him off, you just couldn’t justify doing anything to distract from the fact that she was on that operating table, that Emily’s life was literally hanging in the balance.

The rest of the team was no better off than you are right now. Penelope’s knitting needles clack relentlessly, the scarf inside of her purse growing as her hands keep busy so her mind doesn’t focus on how hard she’s trying not to cry. The last time you’d poked your head up, Derek hadn’t moved from the waiting room windowsill where he’d been standing still as a statue staring out at the cityscape. If Spencer didn’t stop shaking his leg, you feared he would wear a hole straight through the tile. JJ exits the waiting room as often as she returns, her liaising days quickly coming back, making her their only link to the operating room. Hotch’s behavior is no different. His cell rings every ten to fifteen minutes, no doubt the Bureau wanting to know how the hell this could happen. It’s the only sign that time is actually passing and you’re forced to accept that you’re not stuck in some fucked up purgatory-esque hellscape where time stands still, torturing you as your dear friend’s life teeters between worlds.

What you wanted, what you needed was for him to hold you; to place a kiss against your temple and tell you that everything would be alright. It had to be alright.

He couldn’t show favor to you though, not now. The team didn’t know about your relationship with him, though you believe a few have their suspicions. You’re all too observant for your own good. Not much goes unnoticed by anyone. So when JJ walks back into the waiting room, everyone shifts toward her to try and get a glimpse into her facial expression and body language for any sign of an update regarding Emily’s condition.

Instantly, you know something is wrong. JJ’s eyes flit from one person to the next, not lingering very long on anyone. Spencer is the first to stand and you follow suit. You close in, forming a small half circle. Behind JJ, Hotch stands in the doorway, brow straight as he folds his arms across his chest.

“JJ?” Her name is an anxious plea on Penelope’s lips.

JJ’s eyes drop to the floor as she presses her lips together. She takes a deep breath and lifts her eyes, yours the ones they land on as she speaks. “She never made it off the table.”

A choked sob echoes from Garcia as she falls into Derek’s arms, his features fixed as he stares ahead though his knuckles flush white as he holds tightly onto Penelope. Rossi pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as he mutters something to himself; a prayer, maybe. Spencer envelopes JJ in a desperate embrace, as if clinging to her will somehow make her words any less true. Afterall, how can they be? Emily can’t go down, not like this; not after all she’s survived.

Someone says your name. Your brow dips, but you don’t respond. You need to see Emily. Your feet move of their own accord, guiding you through the waiting room. Someone grabs your arm and you tug away from their grasp, set on pushing onward and finding the OR.

Someone repeats your name, and you can’t help but latch on to the deep tenor that belongs to Hotch. You halt in your tracks and close your eyes, tears leaking over your eyelids and down your cheeks.

“I need to talk to Emily,” you say, your voice small.

The way Hotch says your name is laced with pity and you hate the way it sounds on his tongue. He pulls gently on your arm in an attempt to reel you into him, but you resist. You bite your lip to still its trembling. Yanking your arm free, you press on into the hallway and stumble toward the double doors that read in bold letters: Authorized Personnel Only. Fuck that. You’ve got a badge, that’s authority enough. Before you can push through, firm hands twist around your arms.

You push back, but their grip tightens. “Stop,” Hotch urges authoritatively. You turn into him and pound your fist against his chest, a sob cracking free from your mouth. “She’s not gone,” you cry. “She’s not gone. She’s not—” Your legs tremble with the wave of grief that crashes over you and you can’t hold your weight as it does so. Falling to your knees, Hotch reacts. His arms fold around your waist, catching you as you collapse into the wide plane of his chest. Your ribs ache as your lungs inflate with each rapid, sobbing breath. Your vision turns fuzzy at the edges as you try and fail to slow your breathing. It feels like you’re dying as the waves of grief assail you over and over again, battering you, body and mind, in an unrelenting tumultuous current of sorrow and pain as the wicked reality sets in. Emily is dead. You barely feel Hotch’s hand in your hair cradling you against him. As he murmurs apologies and sympathies in your ear, you don’t see the weighted look he exchanges with JJ.

•

The funeral comes and goes. The day is too beautiful for Emily not to be there to see it. You sit on the porch at Hotch’s house, breathing in and out as you watch the daffodils dance in the afternoon breeze. You smooth the fabric of your dress down over your knees, the satin wrinkled from the way you clenched it during the service.

Your phone buzzes in your purse. The number of messages and phone calls you’d ignored continues to rise, but you can’t bring yourself to express any gratitude for their condolences. You can’t bring yourself to feel anything except the crushing weight of grief.

You picture Emily sitting beside you on the wooden porch swing. Last Summer, you’d sat here with her as the team gathered for a Fourth of July Barbecue. Jack had made invitations and delivered them to the team at the office. He’d been so excited and so were you. It was around then that you and Hotch had begun to toe the line between colleagues and something more; a morning coffee dropped off at your desk here, an extra visit to his office there. You’d sat here with Emily watching as Rossi backseat barbecued Hotch on the grill. She’d caught you smiling at him alongside the fondness in your gaze. She’d clocked you from a mile away.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad.” Her laugh had tinkled from lips, ringing like a morning bell.

“What are you talking about?” you’d asked, trying and failing to school your features into a mask of indifference.

“I’ll tell ya, it’s a big swing, but if you hit it, that’s a home run for sure.”

You’d nearly choked on your lemonade, coughing and gasping; drawing the attention of the others.

“Wrong pipe!” Emily had called while pointing at you and clapping a hand against your back. “She’s good!” In a low voice she’d added, “Though I’m sure with him, it’d be just the right pipe.”

You’d elbowed her in the ribs and bust out laughing together. For the longest time after that, she’d been the only person that you’d confided in about your burgeoning feelings and relationship with Aaron. Through that, she’d quickly become your closest friend on the team.

A couple of kids shout at one another, laughing, as they ride past the house on their bicycles; shattering the memory. You dip into your purse and withdraw your phone, pressing a button and powering it down. The screen door creaks on its hinges and Hotch steps down onto the porch, the planks shifting beneath his weight. He sits beside you and offers you a mug. The scent of coffee reaches your nose and you accept it, thanking him quietly. Aaron had taken his suit jacket off and loosened his tie. He stretches an arm around your shoulder and draws closer to you. He kisses the side of your face and stares out at the yard.

“It was a beautiful service,” he offers.

“Aaron, don’t.” You close your eyes and take a breath. You hold the coffee with both hands, rubbing your thumbs up and down the warm ceramic. “Please don’t make small talk with me about this like it’s all so fucking normal.”

He sighs and apologizes. “I just wish I could make all of your hurt go away.”

A shudder runs through you and you nestle in closer to him, taking a sip of your coffee as you do so. “I don’t think it’ll ever go away.”

•

Her brown eyes stare back at you, though the photo paper could never capture the light that flared within them when she was alive. Of all the faces you could have seen up on this wall, you’d never anticipated hers being one of them.

Every day you stop by her portrait on the wall of fallen heroes. People talk about her less and less around the office. The team doesn’t stop, though your conversations are stilted and often end in awkward silences; no one really knowing how to carry on once the conversation slows to a natural end. You speak often with Spencer about the ways in which you’ve been grieving, the sleepless nights and early mornings. Derek is reserved. He’s angry above anything else. He feels betrayed by Emily and a part of you understands that. She’d not told any of you after all. You’d be remiss if you’d not also spent some of your time grieving in anger. Of all the times you’d stayed late after work, gotten together to hang out on weekends, or gone out for drinks, she had never indicated anything was wrong. You had told her everything, confided every one of your fears and hopes into her and you’d thought that the street had been going both ways. God, you’d never been so wrong.

“Conference room in fifteen,” Aaron says as he walks past you, hand grazing your back as he does so.

You smile tightly and nod, glancing once more at Emily’s photo before making your way to your desk in the bullpen, ignoring the fact hers still sits empty and unoccupied beside yours. How has it been three months already?

•

“Emily!”

Your eyes dart around the room frantically searching as your heart thunders in your ears. You feel the organ pounding against your ribcage, threatening to break free of it. It only takes a second for you to realize it had been a dream.

Aaron rolls over and sits up, threading an arm around your back and rubbing your hip with his fingers. “Another nightmare?” he asks, words tinged with sleepiness.

You nod, yawning as you rub your eyes. The dreams are further apart, but at least every other week her face haunts your subconscious. You can’t help but wonder if it’s some sort of self-punishment as life goes on and the days get easier.

In reality, you don’t know if it’s easier or if you’ve just forced yourself to become numb to it all, compartmentalizing the pain of losing your best friend because if you didn’t you don’t think you’d be able to leave the house and do what you do day after day.

“Are the appointments with the therapist helping?” he asks.

Another question you don’t know the answer to. On some level, yes. Talking to someone who knows nothing about you or her or anyone else on the team is good. You don’t have to walk on eggshells, worried you're going to dig open a wound the others are equally fighting to heal by talking about her or how much you miss her or wish she was here. On another level, you don’t open up fully to the doctor. There are some layers of this injury you don’t want to see heal and scar over. If you do that, it’s like you’re telling Emily that you’re over her death, as if it’s something as easy as that, something you just get over. No, some things need to stay fresh, to serve as a reminder that Ian Doyle is still out there. The man who took your best friend away from you and your BAU family is breathing and she’s not. You clench your fists, the sheets balling up in your hands as your resentment burns deep inside you. Yes, that’s it, the idea of him walking around thinking he’s gotten away with this is enough to stoke the flames simmering deep inside you.

You take a deep breath, mentally imagining the flames subsiding, and they do. They dial down, but they don’t disappear. You glance down at Aaron, who snores softly beside you. His fingers still curl around your hip and a faint smile graces your lips. He tries, you know he does, but this is exhausting for everyone. He bears the brunt of it at the office. He fought to be the one to meet with the team and conduct the grief interviews, not wanting a stranger to come in and sift through your friends’ and colleagues’ pain over what happened. God knows how much bureaucratic red tape he had gotten tangled in right after the fact, the higher ups demanding how such a blunder could occur right under their noses. Aaron had put out the fires though, as he always did. Reaching around his back, you withdraw his hand from your hip and tuck it by his side, not before pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

You glance at the clock before lying back down. 4:15AM blinks back at you on the digital clock face. In forty five minutes the alarm will go off and it’ll be another day at the office. Settling down into the pillows, you press your back into Aaron’s body, yours molding against the planes of his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His arms slinks around your waist and pulls you in as if you can get any closer than you already are. He tucks his chin over your shoulder and his lips brush against your jawline.

“I love you,” he whispers and you relax into the safety of his embrace.

“I love you, too, Aaron.”

•

Nights are hard when Aaron is gone. Pakistan is nine hours ahead and all Hotch has to communicate with anyone is a satellite phone, the number for which you don’t have access to. Whenever Hotch calls, the caller ID flashes the word ‘Unknown’ across your screen. There have been several times you’ve missed him due to being asleep or at work. Each call missed feels like being sucker punched. Every time you talk, a part of you worries it’ll be the last time. You didn’t use to have this fear, not until Emily. Despite staring death in the face on a week by week basis, most of the time playing Russian Roulette with the Grim Reaper himself in each unsub you cross paths with, somehow you never thought he’d actually take someone you love from you; that he’d take down one of the team. You never thought there’d be a last conversation with Emily, and now she’s dead.

Dead. The word is a heavy stone, sinking from the cusps of your mind to the pit of your stomach. It sits there, a persistent ache idling deep inside of you. It never relents and it never allows you to forget.

There are nights you dream that Aaron is dead too, that somewhere far away and beyond your control, he’s dying on the ground, bleeding out, and no one knows. You don’t even know what he’s working on and he can’t say; despite your relationship there are still levels in which Hotch’s clearance supersedes your own and the need-to-know red tape keeps you out. Afraid to close your eyes and dream of his unseeing, you stare at the blades of the ceiling fan whirling lazily overhead of the bed you usually share with him.

“I miss you,” you whisper to no one; and you don’t know who you’re talking to anymore.

•

“He’s back?” your heart flutters in your chest, equal parts excited and anxious at the prospect of Aaron’s sudden return. You push off your desk and swivel in your chair to stand, rushing down the hall and leaving Reid behind as you make your way hastily to the conference room.

The door is cracked and a gleeful sound eeks past your lips as his tall frame comes into view. You slip in before anyone else arrives and throw your arms around you. Inhaling deeply, his familiar teakwood scent envelopes you just as his arms do. You move to pull away, but his arms tighten around you.

“A second more,” he whispers, and there’s an edge to his voice.

You write it off to jet lag and sink into his embrace, though you notice how slight he feels against you. Finally, you pull back and cup his face in your hands. The scruff of his beard is prickly and you laugh as you take in his rugged appearance. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with this much facial hair.” You swipe your thumbs over the hair on his lip and he tilts his head, kissing the inside of your hand. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before lifting them to meet yours. It's then you realize how tired he looks. The bags under his eyes are puffy and purple, almost as if they’re bruised. His forehead is creased, brow furrowed; definitely not how you pictured him upon reuniting.

“Aaron is everything ok—”

“I need you to know I would never hurt you,” he says quickly, interrupting you.

You purse your lips, brow pinching at the sudden admission. As your lips part to speak he directs a pointed look at you, the depths of his brown eyes wavering. “I love you,” his voice cracks, “so much.” He swallows, his throat bobbing as he does so. “Please remember that.”

There’s a hollow feeling in your gut, a chasm opening wide where every anxious and painful thought that you’ve tried to keep buried since he’s been gone begins to claw their way out as a thousand different outcomes play out in front of you. “Aaron, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer your question as the rest of the team trickles into the room, sitting at the round table or standing as suspense fills the space. It’s tangible. Everyone’s posture is rigid and tense in anticipation of whatever it is he has to say.

“Seven months ago I made a decision that impacted everyone on this team,” he begins, eyes firm.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably beside you. Rossi leans forward, fingers steepled under his chin.

“As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood,” Hotch continues and your ears prick at the sound of her name. Why would he bring her up? No less, her condition the day you all lost her. You all know this.

“…the doctor’s were able to stabilize her.”

Your lips part but no sound comes out as you raise your eyes to meet his. They meet yours for the briefest of seconds before flitting on to the others.The next words to leave his mouth sound far away, interrupted by the blood now pounding in your eardrums. “She stayed there until she was well enough to travel…given identities…”

There’s a lump in your throat and you feel as though you may choke on it. Air doesn’t seem to be able to bypass it and you have to remind yourself that you can breathe even though it feels like all the oxygen has vacated your lungs.

Penelope is the first to speak. “She’s alive?”

Spencer’s brow quirks as he tries to rationalize what’s being said to him. “We buried her.”

You did. You helped carry the casket. You felt the weight of her dead body and watched it sink into the earth. If that wasn’t her, what the fuck or who the fuck did you actually put in the ground?”

“As I said I take full responsibility for this decision,” Hotch continues, eyes downcast. “If anyone has any issues they should be directed towards me.”

The blood pounding in your ears is deafening. When Hotch looks up, you search his eyes and can’t help wondering if you know him at all. All of the nights you literally made yourself sick from crying and he held your hair back as you dry heaved over the toilet and your body spasmed from the grief of losing your best friend, he’d known that she was alive. For a moment, you think you may be sick right there at the round table at the thought of it all. Derek is speaking, his voice tight with anger but you don’t hear him. Heads turn and the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as a haunting feeling creeps up the back of your spine.

Turning around in your chair, everyone else stands but not you. If you do, you know your knees will buckle and fall out from under you. Spencer and Penelope are on their feet, moving briskly to greet the ghost of Emily.

Except she’s not a ghost. Her skin is not the cold blue-gray pallor of death, but pink and bright, the blood beneath her flesh very much pumping through a heart that’s beating. Her dark brown hair is sleek and shining, her bangs grown out and styled; her part now to the right. You watch her arms fold around Spencer and the way he squeezes her in turn. Penelope follows suit, tears streaming down her cheeks as she smiles widely. Derek stares on, features fixed in a cross between anger and shock. Emily approaches him with apprehension. An apology leaves her lips as she draws him in for a hug and his arms tentatively wrap around her. When she turns to you, your muscles tense. Those deep brown irises flicker back and forth across your face, searching for a reaction. You don’t give her one. Instead, you push past her, avoiding any and all physical contact with her, and dip out of the conference room.

You hear Garcia call your name and Derek shouts about having a case. You don’t care. You bypass your desk, not even bothering to get your purse. Your keys are hanging on a carabiner on your belt loop. Ignoring the elevator, you shove your way through the entrance to the stairs and move down them so quickly you’re surprised you don’t lose your footing and tumble down them. Down and around you go, your footsteps echoing as your heart slams against your ribcage. You slap your badge against the keypad that lets you exit the building, ignoring the greeting from the security guard at the front. As you push through the front doors of the office building, you barely make it to the bushes before you fall to your knees and retch.

•

A car door slams followed by the double beep which locks them. You close your eyes and inhale deeply as you prepare to face him, hands clenching around the sweater you were packing. A tear slips free from your eye as you breathe out and look toward the ceiling, as if the answers to why all of this had to happen are written up there. This is not how your reunion is supposed to be. You’d pictured his homecoming for weeks; thought about the outfit you’d wear to dinner and the lingerie you’d bought to wear just for him when you both got home, opened a bottle of wine, and made up for all of the time lost while he was away. That is how tonight is supposed to go.

Now you’re leaving, and you don’t know if you’ll be coming back.

The lock on the front door jiggles before the gears click into place. It squeaks on its hinges as it swings open. Five beeps follow and you can picture his fingers pressing against each button on the alarm system. His keys clatter as he drops them on the table. As his footsteps edge closer to your bedroom, you count each one. The sound that usually means safety and security, now sends a shiver of anxiety throughout your body.

He appears in the doorway, eyes rife with exhaustion and the bags beneath them puffy and swollen. His cheeks are flushed and his nose is pink, as if he’d been crying. Maybe he had been, god knows you had. His eyes flit between you and the bag you’re packing. His lips part and a small sound of desperation slips past them.

“Baby, please—”

You hold up a hand, curling your fingers into a fist. Your lip curls as you speak. “Don’t,” you breathe. You swallow the lump that quickly forms in your throat as you drop your hand, zipping the bag shut.

The inner corners of his brow draw upward and you can hardly stand to look into his pleading gaze.

“You have to understand—”

“Understand, what? Aaron?” You ask sharply, struggling to hold back the thick hot tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

He places a hand on his hip, fingers tucking back the fold of his unbuttoned shirt as his thumb hooks into his belt; a gesture you’re all too familiar with as he does the same thing with all of his suits. His other hand rises to pinch the bridge of his nose. He pauses, inhaling as he tries to find the words. After a moment, he scrubs a hand over his face and turns his gaze to yours.

“I wanted to tell you so badly,” he says. When he looks at you there are tears in his eyes. “I hated myself, watching the agony this decision put you and the team through. I wanted to tell you and take away your hurt, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to the team. Just because you’re my girlfriend, I can’t—” He turns his hand and slams his hand against the doorframe causing you to flinch. “Dammit!”

Your voice is soft, but sure when you speak. “You can’t bend the rules.”

It’s what you’ve always worried about, both of you. You always knew the job could come first, especially with him being the Unit Chief. You always understood that that meant no preferential treatment and that is something you never would’ve asked him to do. You just never anticipated it happening like this, a complete and total life altering mind fuck.

Aaron drops his hand and it slaps against his thigh in defeat as it falls to his side. “What was I supposed to do?”

You cross your arms over your chest, fingers curling over your biceps to try and still your shaking hair. You hang your head and a curtain of hair falls across your face, “I don’t know, Aaron.”

He kicks off the doorway, moving towards you with his hands outstretched. It happens without thinking, the way you flinch away. Pain flashes in his eyes and you feel as though you’ve been punched in the stomach the way it’s suddenly hard to breathe.

His hip is close to yours, his body angled away from you. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your shoulder as he looks down. “Don’t do this,” he whispers.

Your lip quivers, chin wobbling in response to the tears you’re trying so desperately to hold back. “I have vacation I’d been saving.” You pick up your bag and throw it over your shoulder, not daring to look up at him because you know if you do you’ll shatter into a thousand shards of glass at his feet.

As you move toward the door, you pause. For a split second, you entertain the thought of dropping your bag, running across the room he’d chased you around so many times before, and throwing yourself around him. You consider all the things you want to say and scream and cry about; all of your anger, sadness, betrayal, grief, and love. You crave him so terribly in that moment because his have always been the arms you’ve run to when things become too much to bear.

Instead, your chin dips toward your shoulder as you speak, but you don’t raise your eyes to meet his. If you do, you don’t think you’ll be able to leave. “My gun and badge are in the safe.”

As you make your way down the hallway, you have to bite your knuckles to stifle a sob just as you hear one leave his lips from the bedroom.

You don’t turn back.

#tlhaaronhotch

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thelovehypothesis · 2 months ago

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super cute little fam!

The mysterious Mrs Piastri - Masterlist

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: The one where Oscar has been married since he was 18 years old and never bothered to tell most people.

Links:

In chronological order:

The Alpine-McLaren Fiasco

The Alpine - McLaren Fiasco…and Felicity Piastri’s hand in it. (Or: why multiple F1 team principals are terrified of Oscar’s wife.) Set in the Summer of 2022.

Supernova

Oscar Piastri realises that his daughter is more similiar to his wife than he thought. Set in Summer 2023.

The mysterious Mrs Piastri

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even. Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

Wait, What?

Oscar Piastri managed to keep his wife a secret on accident for nearly half a decade…

Come to think off, that was not the only one he kept a secret.

Home Sweet Home

Oscar Piastri is just happy to be home with his girls. Lando Norris meets Felicity and Bee Piastri.

Bribery remains effective

Oscar Piastri thought doing kindergarten drop-off for his daughter would be easy — until Bee negotiates like a Formula 1 strategist and declares that the chickens at home are better friends than her classmates.

That Kind of Love

The most attractive thing about Oscar Piastri wasn’t his appearance. Or his mind, even though he was brilliant. It’s the way he loves his daughter.

Lessons in Math (and Humility)

Kimi Antonelli thought he could handle anything — race cars, pressure, a wet track…but his math homework may destroy him. Enter Bee Piastri.

#tlhoscarpiastri

1K notes · View notes

thelovehypothesis · 2 months ago

Text

The mysterious Mrs. Piastri

We are interrupting our regularly scheduled programming for a Valentine's Day Treat. Remember that video where Oscar was asked "Get married or get a tattoo?" Well, it showed up on my FYP and I was like..:WAIT

Summary:

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even. Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

It had started innocently enough, just another fan stage, just another round of questions.

“Oscar, would you rather get married or get a tattoo?”

Easy. Straightforward. Oscar barely had to think before responding, “Well, I already did one of those things.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

Because one second later, Lando spat out his drink.

“YOU GOT A TATTOO?!”

Oscar turned, confused. “What? No.”

Lando, looking equal parts betrayed and horrified, pointed an accusing finger. “Mate, I’ve seen you in swim trunks. There’s no way you have a tattoo. Where is it?”

Oscar frowned. “I don’t have a tattoo.”

Lando’s face twisted in confusion. “But you just said—” He stopped. His eyes widened. Oscar could see the moment his brain caught up.

“WAIT. WAIT.” Lando practically jumped out of his seat. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!” Lando looked genuinely stunned, his mouth hanging open in shock.

Oscar nodded, calm as ever. “Yeah.”

Lando’s reaction was not calm. Lando let out a strangled, guttural noise, kind of sounding like an indignant cat.

“WHAT?!”

The interviewer, who had been mostly observing up until now, leaned forward, eyes shining with the excitement of a woman who had just stumbled upon the biggest scoop of the season. “Okay, hold on. You mean married married? Like, legally?”

Oscar frowned. “Is there another kind?”

Lando’s hands were now on his head, his entire world seemingly crumbling around him. “SINCE WHEN?!”

Oscar shrugged. “A while now.”

The crowd lost it. The interviewer looked like Christmas had come early. The McLaren PR team, wherever they were, was probably having a collective heart attack.

Lando’s jaw dropped. “I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU HAD A GIRLFRIEND.”

Oscar frowned. “You know that," he told Lando pointedly.

“I DO NOT KNOW THAT,” Lando shouted. “WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED A GIRLFRIEND—LET ALONE A WIFE?!”

Oh well. Oscar just shrugged. “Well. I do. She’s amazing. 10/10. Would always marry her again.”

Lando let out a hysterical laugh. “Wait, wait, wait. No, no. You’re telling me you have a freaking WIFE?!”

The interviewer seized the moment. “Okay, no, we need details. How long have you been together?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Since we were 15."

Lando made a strangled noise. “15?! YOU’VE BEEN WITH HER SINCE YOU WERE 15?!”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

The interviewer looked delighted. “How did you meet?”

Oscar tilted his head. “School?”

Lando groaned and turned to the audience. “Look at this guy. Look at him. Of course he’s been secretly married this whole time. Of course.”

The interviewer pressed on. “When did you get married?”

Oscar shrugged. “When I was 18.”

The entire crowd erupted. Fans were screaming, phones were recording, and McLaren PR was definitely hyperventilating somewhere.

Lando, meanwhile, looked like his whole world had just collapsed in real-time.

“You—you got MARRIED at EIGHTEEN?!” he wheezed. “WHY?!”

Oscar looked at him like he was stupid. “Because I wanted to? Because I love her?”

The interviewer cooed over the answer. Lando physically recoiled. “What, like straight out of high school?!”

Oscar frowned. “Not straight out of high school. We waited a bit.”

“HOW LONG IS A BIT?!” Lando demanded.

Oscar thought about it. “Like… three weeks after graduation?”

Lando let out a strangled noise. “THAT’S NOT A BIT, OSCAR. THAT’S BASICALLY IMMEDIATELY.”

Lando dramatically fell back in his chair. The interviewer, meanwhile, was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Okay, okay, follow-up question—how did you propose?”

Oscar thought about it. “I asked her to marry me.”

The interviewer stared. “…That’s it?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

Lando threw his hands in the air. “UNBELIEVABLE.”

The interviewer, trying desperately to salvage something remotely romantic, asked, “Where did you propose?”

Oscar, as if this were a perfectly reasonable answer, said, “Uh. At home?”

The interviewer looked at him. "...At home?"

"On the bed," Oscar added.

Lando looked like he was going to have an aneurysm.

The crowd groaned. The interviewer looked physically pained. Lando just laughed in disbelief. “I knew you’d be the most unromantic bastard alive.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “She said yes.”

Lando wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. “That poor woman.”

The interviewer shook her head in awe. “Oscar, mate, I have to ask—how did you manage to keep this a secret for so long?”

Oscar blinked. “No one asked?”

Lando just screamed.

The interviewer, who had completely abandoned all pretense of professionalism, leaned forward. “Okay, wait, wait, who is she?”

Oscar blinked. “My wife?”

Lando threw up his hands. “YES, OBVIOUSLY, but who is she? What’s her name? Where’s she from? What does she do?”

Oscar's forehead creased. "Is that... relevant?"

The interviewer just about had a stroke. Lando looked like he was going to spontaneously combust.

The fans were losing their freaking minds.

Lando nearly fell out of his chair. “YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED FOR YEARS AND I’VE NEVER MET HER.”

“I mean, I thought it was obvious?”

“OBVIOUS TO WHO?!” Lando yelled. “BECAUSE IT WASN’T OBVIOUS TO ME.”

Oscar just shrugged.

Lando groaned. “Mate, I DIDN’T KNOW SHE EXISTED!”

Lando looked like he was seconds from grabbing Oscar and shaking him until some kind of information fell out. "Okay, I can't believe I have to ask this, but why the hell didn't you tell me?”

"I thought you knew," Oscar answered simply.

Lando just gaped. "How on earth would I have known?"

Oscar shrugged. The interviewer, meanwhile, was leaning closer, clearly invested in the whole thing now.

Lando, apparently having had enough, decided on a different tactic. Lando pointed at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re not getting away with this. You are going to introduce me to your wife.”

Oscar sighed, clearly knowing a losing battle when he saw one. “Fine,” he said after a moment.

Lando sat back, satisfied. “Good.” Then he paused. “Wait—does anyone else know? Like, do the team know?”

Oscar shrugged. “I think Zak does.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “Why does Zak get to know?!”

Oscar pointed out, “Because he’s my boss?”

The interviewer, clearly having thrown all professionalism out the window, was just enjoying the chaos. Lando looked like he wanted to scream. “But I’m your friend!”

Somewhere in the background, McLaren PR was probably losing their minds, trying to figure out how to handle the fact that Oscar Piastri, their quiet, low-maintenance driver, had accidentally revealed he’d been married since he was 18.

Not Oscar’s problem, though...After he escaped Lando Norris' clutches.

He had a wife to call after all.

Oscar Piastri was a man of routine.

He liked predictability. Consistency. A life largely free of unnecessary chaos.

Which was exactly why, after the complete meltdown that was today’s fan stage, he had retreated to his driver’s room, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. If there was one thing in his life that wasn’t chaotic, it was his wife.

The call rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey, love,” she greeted, her face appearing on screen. She was sitting in their apartment, hair tied up, wearing one of his hoodies.

Oscar felt himself relax immediately. “Hey.”

She smiled at him. “So, how was your day?”

Oscar sighed. “Lando found out we’re married.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” A pause. “He… didn’t know?”

Oscar shook his head. "I thought he did."

She let out a small laugh at that. "How the hell did you think he knew?"

Oscar shrugged. "I dunno. We've been married for, what, five years now? How could he not know?"

Her smile widened. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're about as romantic as a cactus?"

Oscar let out a huff. "I can be romantic."

Before she could respond, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by—

“LET ME IN, PIASTRI!”

Oscar sighed through his nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

His wife bit her lip, clearly seconds away from laughing. “Is that…?”

“YOU HAVE EXACTLY THREE SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN AND—”

Oscar hung his head. “Yes.”

She was laughing now, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be mad because it was an adorable sound.

The banging continued. “I CAN HEAR YOU IN THERE. STOP IGNORING ME, OSCAR.”

His wife bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “You should probably let him in before he tries to break the door down.”

Oscar debated not letting him in, but realistically, Lando would either A) find a way in, or B) make this everyone else’s problem.

So, with a long-suffering sigh, he got up and opened the door.

Lando barreled in immediately, eyes wild.

“WHERE IS SHE?!?” he demanded. “I NEED TO SEE HER WITH MY OWN EYES.”

Oscar sighed, holding up the phone. “She’s on FaceTime, you absolute lunatic.”

Lando’s head whipped around, and he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get to the couch. He pushed past Oscar with a huff, then stared, wide-eyed, at the phone.

Lando was silent. For once.

His wife was, bless her soul, doing her best to fight her laughter at the look on Lando’s face. “Hi,” she said. “You must be Lando.”

Lando just continued to gape.

Then, slowly, he pointed an accusatory finger at the screen. “You’re real.”

She laughed. “I hope so.”

Lando turned to Oscar, looking personally betrayed. “SHE’S REAL.”

Oscar sighed. “I know.”

Lando turned back to the phone. “And you married him? At eighteen?!?”

She smiled. “Yep.”

Lando reeled. “WHY?!”

She tilted her head. “Because I love him?”

Lando looked like his entire world had been completely shaken. “You love him,” he repeated, staring incredulously down at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oi, mate, why’s that so hard to believe?”

Lando just groaned in exasperation. “You do not understand how hard it is, being friends with a guy for literal years, and never knowing he had a girlfriend—let alone a WIFE.”

“Mate, I’m pretty sure that says more about you than me,” Oscar told him bluntly.

Lando shot him a glare. “Oh, and you’re what? Mister Emotional Intelligence? You’ve been hiding this for years!”

Oscar shrugged. “Never came up in conversation.”

Lando looked horrified. “Don’t put this on me!”

Oscar shrugged. “You never asked.”

Lando flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

His wife stifled a laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she watched Lando in his current state.

Lando, meanwhile, had moved to the “trying to wrap his head around this situation” portion of his breakdown.

“Okay, no. We’re fixing this. Immediately.”

Oscar sighed. “Lando—”

Lando pointed at the phone. “I need to meet her.”

Oscar sighed. “Fine. Silverstone.”

Lando gasped. “Really?!?”

Oscar deadpanned. “No, I just said it for fun.”

Lando turned back to the phone. “Mrs. Piastri, I will see you at Silverstone.”

She laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

Lando nodded firmly, then turned back to Oscar. “I will be grilling you for details later.”

Oscar sighed. “Of course you will.”

Lando stood dramatically. “Good. Carry on.” And then he walked out like he had just personally fixed the situation.

Oscar turned back to his wife, who was fully laughing.

“I love Lando,” she said. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”

Oscar sighed. “I regret everything.”

She smirked. “Love you.”

Oscar huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

And somewhere, in the distance, Lando was plotting.

****

@/oscarpiastri ✅

Posted: 1 day ago

Caption:

So, the internet (and, more importantly, Lando) just found out I’m married.

To be honest, I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been married for years. I assumed people knew. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.

Yes, I’m married. Have been for five years this summer.

So, meet my wife—my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and the only one who has somehow put up with me for this long.

We met when we were 15. Two kids at boarding school, thrown together by pure chance. The only open seat in class was next to me, so she took it. I stole a pen from her once—completely by accident—but she still let me borrow her pens after that. Eventually, she started carrying a second one just for me. I told myself that meant something.

She always knew when I was having a bad day, even when I hadn’t said a word. She made school bearable, made exams feel less stressful, made me laugh even when all I wanted to do was complain. Somewhere between stolen lunch breaks and long walks back to the dorms, between late-night study sessions and whispered conversations about the future, I fell in love with her. Quietly, all at once and over time. I knew by the time we were 15—maybe even before then.

She was my best friend first. The person I trusted most. The one who understood the parts of my life that didn’t always make sense to everyone else. By the time I worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt, she just smiled and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d figure that out.’ Like she had known all along.

When I left school to chase this ridiculous dream, she didn’t ask me to stay. She just told me she’d be there, no matter how far I went. And she was. Through every win, every loss, every moment of self-doubt.

So when we turned 18, we didn’t wait. Three weeks after graduation, we walked into a registry office in London, signed a piece of paper, and walked out married. No grand ceremony, no expensive dress. Just us, two rings we picked out in under twenty minutes, and a promise we already knew we’d keep.

We told our families afterward. Some took it better than others.

I know getting married at 18 sounds a little mad. People told us we were too young, that we should wait, that we were being reckless. But why? I had no doubt in my mind then, and I have none now.

She’s still the first person I call after every race, no matter the result. She’s the one who tells me to go to bed when I’m up too late on the sim, who reminds me to eat when I forget, who talks me down when I start overthinking. She’s been with me through everything. Through junior categories to F1, through every high and every low, through the moments I wanted to quit and the ones where I felt like I was on top of the world.

She’s my best friend, my greatest love, the only person who can call me out on my nonsense and get away with it.

So, no, I don’t have a tattoo. But I do have a wife. The person who still looks at me like I’m just that 15-year-old kid stealing a pen and falling in love before he even realizes it’s happening.

I have no idea how I convinced her to marry me, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

10/10, would always marry her again. ❤️

Comments:

@/landonorris: FIVE YEARS??? YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS???

↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I assumed you knew. ↪️ @/landonorris: WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED HAVING A WIFE???

↪️ @/mrspiastri: He does this thing where he forgets people don’t just know things.

@/danielricciardo: High school sweethearts. Eloped at 18. Best plot twist of the season.

@/mclaren: We have so many questions.↪️ @mrspiastri: Submit them in an organized document, I’ll answer the best ones.

@/f1updates: Today in ‘Oscar Piastri casually drops life-changing information’—he has a whole wife. Lando learned this at the same time as the rest of us.

@/lanoscult: Not Lando finding out with the fans and having a full existential crisis on stage 💀💀💀

@/thef1editz: POV: You just found out your best friend has been MARRIED FOR YEARS and never told you (attached video of Lando’s reaction with dramatic music)

@/wagsf1: WE NEED A FULL BOARDING SCHOOL LOVE STORY IMMEDIATELY.

@/f1tea: No thoughts, just Lando yelling ‘WHO GETS MARRIED AT 18’ like he was personally betrayed.

@/padlockthegrid: We’ve been watching this man for YEARS and never once suspected a wife??

@/georgerussell63: I feel like this is something you announce at a dinner, not in front of an audience.

↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I thought I had mentioned it. ↪️ @/landonorris: YOU DID NOT.

@/charles_leclerc: This is the greatest plot twist in F1 history.

@/fernandoalo_oficial: I respect this level of secrecy.

@/chaoticneutralf1: Oscar Piastri is terrifying. He just DOES things and assumes people KNOW.

@/mclaren: Oscar, any other life-altering facts you’ve forgotten to mention? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not that I can think of. ↪️ @/landonorris: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT.

@/mrspiastri: 10/10, would marry him again. (Even if he forgets to tell people.) ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Love you too. ❤️

@/danielricciardo: Oscar, mate, do you have any other shocking secrets? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not really. ↪️ @/landonorris: I AM NOT CONVINCED.

@/chaoticgrid: I will think about this every day for the rest of my life.

@/mrspiastri

Posted: 2h ago

Caption:

"So. Yesterday happened.

Since Oscar apparently forgot that telling people you’re married is something you actually have to do, I’ve spent the last 24 hours watching the internet lose its collective mind. You guys have questions. Lots of them. So, let’s go:

1. Wait… Oscar is MARRIED?!

Yes. Since we were 18. I know, I know. We should have made a big announcement. Or at the very least told his teammate. Oops.

2. When did you get married?!Right after we graduated. We were 18, ran off to London, signed a piece of paper, and then told our families. In hindsight, we probably should have done that last part beforehand, but hey, we were young and in love (and slightly impulsive).

3. Why so young?Because we were sure. It wasn’t impulsive—it was inevitable. People told us we were crazy, that we should wait, that we’d change. But we didn’t. We grew up together, and we only ever grew toward each other. If I had to choose again, I’d do it exactly the same way.

3. How did you two meet?We were 15, stuck at boarding school, and Oscar stole my pen. He swears it was an accident. I maintain that it was the moment he decided to make me fall in love with him.

5. Did you really not tell Lando?I thought he knew! Everyone close to us does! I assumed Oscar had mentioned it at some point, but, well… you all saw what happened. Apparently, Oscar’s ‘private life’ policy extended to his teammate of three years. Which is why we all got to witness his public breakdown in real-time.

5. Does this mean you’re an F1 WAG?Technically? Yes. Do I have the outfit coordination and expensive handbag collection to back it up? No. I do steal Oscar’s team hoodies, so that counts, right?

6. What’s your favorite thing about Oscar?The way he loves—quietly, steadily, with his whole heart. He still waits up for me if I’m out late, still kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep, still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves like he did back when he was karting. I’ve loved him for so long that I can’t imagine my life any other way.

7. And since Oscar said ‘10/10 would always marry her again,’ what’s your answer? 10/10. No regrets, no hesitation, no doubt. I’d marry him a thousand times over.

Comments:

@/landonorris: I’M STILL NOT OVER THIS. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I’m never going to live this down, am I? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. But I love you anyway.

@/danielricciardo: This is the kind of romance novel material I expect from an F1 WAG.

@/mclaren: We demand a Netflix special on this.

@/wagsf1: This is the cutest thing we’ve ever seen. Please post more.

@/f1updates: The way she said ‘10/10’ like it was the easiest question ever 😭💖

@/wagsf1: He still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves??? I’M GONNA CRY.

@/f1updates: This woman just broke the internet by being casually, devastatingly in love.

@/f1fangirl92: The way this man has been secretly in love since he was FIFTEEN is actually lethal.”

@/fanaccountoscarpiastri: So what I’m getting is that Oscar is out here winning races and marriage. I respect it.

@/paddockinsider: Be so honest. What did people say when they found out you guys eloped? @/mrspiastri: Oh, everyone thought we were insane. Random people who barely knew us were convinced we’d crash and burn. Now we get a lot of, ‘Wow, you guys really made it work.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Wasn’t hard.

@/f1obsessed: Did you guys ever break up? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. Not once. Not even a ‘we were on a break’ situation. We’ve been together since we were 15, which is wild when I think about it.

@/fanofeverything: Why did Oscar keep it a secret??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: It wasn’t a secret so much as… he never felt the need to bring it up? It’s not like he was hiding me in a basement somewhere lol. He just doesn’t talk about personal stuff unless someone asks directly. Which, apparently, no one did.

@/gridgossip: So who knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark. Andrea. Probably Zak? Our families, obviously. And, um. That might be it?

@/paddockinsider: Did Oscar just assume that everyone knew you guys were married? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. 100%. This man did not think to mention it because he thought it was ‘obvious. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: “OBVIOUS TO WHO??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: To him. He just figured if someone asked if he was married, he’d say yes. But since no one did, he saw no need to bring it up. ↪️@/landonorris: HOW IS THAT YOUR LOGIC. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No one asked. ↪️@/landonorris: I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

@/f1insider: We need more details about Mark Webber finding out. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I swear I saw his soul leave his body. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, EXPLAIN YOURSELF. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Didn’t seem necessary to tell him at the time ↪️@/landonorris: “HOW IS MARRIAGE NOT NECESSARY INFORMATION???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark Webber sat Oscar down like a disappointed dad and was like, ‘Mate. How do you just… forget to mention you’re married? ↪️@/mclarenupdates: “And what did Oscar say??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: “He just shrugged and went, ‘Not really relevant to racing. ↪️@/landonorris: “I NEED TO LIE DOWN.”

@/paddockdrama: People always joke that Oscar is a robot. Does that ever bother him? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. I once asked him and he just shrugged and went ‘Doesn’t bother me. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone as long as you know how much I love you.’ ↪️@/landonorris: NO BECAUSE WHERE WAS THIS ENERGY WHEN I TOLD HIM I GOT P2 AND HE JUST WENT ‘NICE’??? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It was nice.

@/paddockgossip: “Did ANY other drivers know???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar’s Prema teammates figured it out. The rest of the grid? Oblivious. ↪️@/landonorris: How did Oscar never accidentally spill?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He doesn’t overshare. Meanwhile, I am still in awe that he just assumed people knew.

@/foreverf1: Wait, I need to know—who said ‘I love you’ first? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar did. Completely out of nowhere, too. We were 16, lying on the floor doing homework, and he just looked over and went, ‘Oh. I love you.’ Like he just realized it in real time.

@/f1teaqueen: Okay but like… NO COLD FEET?? Not even a little?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. We were 100% sure.

@/wildforwags: Who actually officiated your wedding?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Some very lovely lady at a London registry office. She called us ‘sweethearts’ and I think she knew we were completely insane, but she was very supportive about it.

@/racewifematerial: What did you wear?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A white sundress I bought the week before. Oscar wore a suit that was slightly too big because he borrowed it last-minute. We looked like two teenagers who ran away from home, which, to be fair… we kinda did.

@/formula1fangirl: Who took the wedding photos? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We handed a disposable camera to two very confused tourists outside the registry office. They did a great job.

@/landoandchaos: Oscar, babe, how did you manage to keep this from your friend for FIVE YEARS? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Listen, Oscar is elite at two things: racing and not offering information unless directly asked.

@/mclarenfanatic: Did he really think Lando knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: 100%. I asked him and he was like, ‘Well, I didn’t HIDE it?’ And I was like, ‘Oscar. That is not the same thing as telling people.’

@/fastandflawless: Be honest, did you ever have a moment of ‘Oh my god, I married an 18-year-old racing driver, what have I done’?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really? I mean, other people definitely thought we were nuts, but we knew exactly what we were doing. The real crisis moment was a few months later when I realized I’d have to file taxes as a married person.

@/waggossip: “Did Oscar have a big, romantic proposal, or was it just like, ‘Wanna get married?’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar woke up one morning, looked at me, and said, ‘We should get married. Logically, it makes sense.’ ↪️@/f1softies: YOU’RE JOKING. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I was like, ‘Okay?’ And he said, ‘Great, I’ll book an appointment.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: So let me get this straight. No knee. No ring. Just ‘We should get married.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Correct. ↪️@/f1wifeguys: And you weren’t even a little mad?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nah, I thought it was funny. If he’d done some big, dramatic proposal, I’d have thought he was concussed. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Please tell me he at least got a ring after that. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He did! We picked one out together. It has both our birthstones.

@/paddocktea: Okay, but does he ever get super romantic out of nowhere?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. Once, when I was really stressed out, he just looked at me and said, ‘You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m always going to be here.’ ↪️@/f1wifeguys: STOP THAT’S SO SWEET.

@/paddockinsider: What’s the most uncharacteristically romantic thing he’s ever said? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were lying in bed once, just scrolling on our phones, and out of nowhere he goes, ‘You know, no matter how my life turned out, I think I would’ve found you in every version of it.’ And then he just went back to reading about Formula 2 tire degradation like he hadn’t just ruined me.

@/backmarkerbrigade: “So, like, what did you do after you got married? Fancy dinner? Celebratory champagne?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: ...Sandwichs at Pret-a-manger

@/gridlove: What’s the most Oscar Piastri way he’s ever told you he loves you? ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time he texted me ‘You’re my favorite human’ completely out of the blue. No context. No follow-up. Just that. It was adorable.

@/pitlaneprincess: Who cried more at the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Me. Oscar was annoyingly composed. He did squeeze my hand really tight when we said our vows, though.

@/drsforlove: “This man has been giving post-race interviews like ‘Yeah, good race, car felt good’ and then just casually drops a wife like it’s a tire strategy.

@/wildforwags: What’s something you wish you had done for the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly, nothing. It was chaotic, but it was ours.

@/pitstopqueen: What was your first impression of Oscar? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? I thought he was too quiet. Then he made some dry, sarcastic comment under his breath in class, and I immediately knew we’d get along.

@/tracksidegossip: How long did you actually plan the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A week. And ‘plan’ is a generous term. We just Googled how to get married in London, booked the appointment, and that was that.

@/f1chaos: Oscar, be so honest, did you really think people would just ‘figure it out’ without you ever saying anything?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/paddockprincess: Wait, so how did Oscar’s family react to you guys getting married so young? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? They were really supportive. His mum just went, ‘That makes sense,’ and his dad laughed. Oscar’s family has always been the ‘if you’re happy, we’re happy’ type. ↪️@/oscarpiastriupdates: “So no dramatic reactions from the Piastris??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: “The most dramatic reaction was his mum sighing and saying, ‘You two are hopeless.’ But she meant it fondly.”

@/chaosinthepaddock: What about your family? 👀 ↪️@/mrspiastri: Ah. Well. See, they did not get over it in five minutes. ↪️@/f1tea: Omg. HOW mad were they??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Very. Like, ‘multiple angry phone calls’ mad. Like, ‘we refuse to speak to you for years’ mad.” ↪️@/landonorris: Did they actually say you were ruining your life? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, yes. There was a lot of dramatic ‘you’re throwing your future away’ speeches. Which was funny, because my future was literally the same, just with more love and an Australian husband. ↪️@/piastrination: Did Oscar ever try to talk to them about it? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, he tried. But Oscar is Oscar, so he just very calmly said, ‘I love her, we’re married, and that’s not changing.’ Which, surprisingly, did not make them less angry. ↪️@/f1gossip: Have they come around since then? ↪️@/mrspiastri: No.

@/landonorris: Lando’s reaction when he found out vs. your family’s reaction when they found out—who had the bigger meltdown?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, my family by far. Lando was just confused—my relatives were furious.

@/gridgirlgossip: Oscar Piastri, the man who quietly eloped at 18, dealt with family drama, and then just went racing like nothing happened.

@/drsdiva: “This is the wildest reveal in F1 history. Netflix, do your job.”

@/f1softies: “The fact that Oscar has been in wife guy mode for YEARS and we had no idea.”

@/lando4lyf: Lando: ‘YOU GOT A TATTOO?!’ Oscar: ‘No, I’m married.’ Lando: internal system crash

@/piastriupdates: “Lando Norris finding out live on stage that his teammate has been MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS is the funniest thing to ever happen in F1.

@/f1memesdaily: “Oscar Piastri eloped at 18, never told anyone, and assumed people would figure it out while Lando was out here thinking he was a single man. I respect the commitment to quiet chaos.”

@/danielricciardo: Mate. You were MARRIED this whole time?? I thought you were just too focused on racing to date anyone, and instead you were out here with a whole WIFE???

@/charles_leclerc: You were married at 18? And Oscar thought that was a normal thing to do?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/alex_albon: Tbh, I respect it. Absolute power move. Eloping at 18, casually keeping it a secret, and then just dropping it on Lando like that?? Unreal. ↪️@/mrspiastri: See? Alex gets it.

@/robertschwartzman: Oh, now everyone suddenly cares. Meanwhile, WE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. ↪️@/mrspiastri: To be fair, you two were basically forced to know. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Yeah, because he wouldn’t shut up about you. ‘Oh, I can’t come to dinner, I have to call my wife.’ ‘Oh, I’m flying to London to see my wife.’ Mate, we were 19, and you were out here married like a 40-year-old. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He still does that, btw. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Not surprised. The man has been whipped since day one.

@/jehannadaruvala: “The funniest part was watching Oscar just assume we all knew. Like we’d be talking about normal 19-year-old things, and he’d casually drop, ‘Yeah, my wife said the same thing.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: And did any of you ever ask for clarification? ↪️@/jehannadaruvala: Oh, we asked. His response? ‘What about it?’ LIKE SIR. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: “One time, I straight-up said, ‘Mate, do you realize you’re married?’ and he just blinked at me and said, ‘Yeah.’ As if that was a totally normal thing for a teenage racing driver. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Sounds about right. ↪️@/ollicaldwell: “Honestly, we stopped questioning it after a while. He was just so chill about it. ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Yeah, it was like, ‘Oh, Oscar’s in a committed marriage while we’re all just trying to survive? Cool, cool.’

@/f1softies: Okay but does he ever have romantic moments?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. They just happen out of nowhere and leave me emotionally ruined. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Example, please. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I was having a bad day, and he just looked at me and said, ‘You know, the best part of my life is that I get to love you.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME SIR??? ↪️@/landonorris: “WHAT THE HELL.”

@/f1updates: So you eloped… but do you think you’ll ever have a big wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. Oscar and I don’t love being the center of attention, so a big wedding never appealed to us. ↪️@/landonorris: THEN CAN I HAVE A BIG PARTY ON YOUR BEHALF??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We literally just had a wedding reveal by accident and you want to throw an even bigger event??? ↪️@/landonorris: YES.

@/f1insider: So how did Mark find out?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We didn’t tell him. He found out when Oscar referred to me as his wife in conversation. ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were in a meeting. Mark stopped mid-sentence and went, ‘Your WHAT?’ ↪️@/landonorris: HIS WORLDVIEW SHATTERED. @/mrspiastri: Oscar, completely unbothered, said, ‘Oh. Yeah. We got married a while ago.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: I CAN HEAR MARK WEBBER’S EXASPERATION. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark didn’t speak for a full minute. Then he sighed, rubbed his temples, and went, ‘Mate. You can’t just drop that into conversation like it’s nothing.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I didn’t see the problem. ↪️@/landonorris: YOU WOULDN’T. ↪️@/f1updates: Does Mark ever bring it up now? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Every single time we see him. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It’s been years. He should let it go. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Finally he just said, ‘Yeah, I should have figured.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Apparently, Oscar was too relaxed for someone hiding a major life decision. Mark said he’d seen too many drivers try to balance racing and relationships, and he knew Oscar had already locked it down. ‘Kid’s too stable for anything else.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: That’s actually terrifying. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Immediately after he went ‘Alright. Suppose we better make sure this doesn’t derail your career then.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Classic Webber. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Did he at least congratulate you? ↪️@mrspiastri: Yes. Eventually. But only after making sure we’d thought it through. ↪️@/f1softies: Did he give you a lecture?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. More like a ‘If you’re doing this, do it properly’ talk.

@/drsfordays: The fact that her family was furious while Mark Webber just sighed is sending me.

@/oscarpiastri_fanclub: So Mark Webber has known this whole time??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. And I think he’s still mildly offended that Oscar didn’t ask for any advice beforehand.

@/f1updates: Why doesn’t Oscar wear a wedding ring? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He does! He just doesn’t wear it when driving. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Okay but I have never seen this man wear a ring in my life. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He wears it in the off-season. Also, fun fact: he has a silicone one for training that he keeps losing.

@/f1updates: Oscar is so calm and logical on track. Is he the same at home? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mostly, yeah. But sometimes, out of nowhere, he’ll just say the most devastatingly romantic thing. ↪️@/f1softies: EXAMPLES PLEASE. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I joked, ‘You’re stuck with me forever,’ and he just looked at me, completely serious, and said, ‘That was the goal.’

@/f1updates: Do you ever wish you dated other people before settling down? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Not even a little? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Why would I? I already found my person.

@/f1updates: Serious question—why don’t you ever go to races?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Anxiety. And I like my privacy. Nobody needs to see my terrified facial expressions. ↪️@/f1memes: You really married a professional racing driver and said no thanks to the circus.” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yep. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: And Oscar’s fine with that??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He knew what he was signing up for.

@/landonorris: So I still haven’t met you because??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Because you are chaos incarnate and I am scared. ↪️@/landonorris: I AM DELIGHTFUL. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar tells me otherwise. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, SAY IT AIN’T SO. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No comment.

@/mclarenmemes: So you just send him off to work and watch from home like it’s the Super Bowl? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. ↪️@/f1memes: AND HE’S FINE WITH THAT??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He comes home, I feed him, we watch race replays together, and he tells me all the paddock gossip. We have an excellent system. ↪️@/f1updates: Oscar, confirm or deny? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Confirmed.

@/f1updates: So, will we ever see you at a race? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Maybe. One day. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, MAKE HER COME TO ONE. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: She does whatever she wants. I learned that a long time ago.

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