F1 2023 - Tumblr Posts

when carlos sainz said he doesn’t use conditioner, i’ve never felt more seen in my life

P5 & DRIVER OF THE DAY!!

I'm living for the toto and mick content

And with that the 2023 f1 season comes to an end

Gonna miss them till next season lol 😭😂💗

If the 2023 cards will be out, I need a new collection folder thingy 👁️👄👁️

In a dark room the door opens and a small shadow stands at the door way.

Esteban: *flinches shaking in fear*

The light turns on, it's Fernando

Fernando: Why is it so dark? Why are you shaking?!?!?

Esteban: *looking around in panic still shaking, whispers* ever since Suzuka I've been hiding from Yuki.

Fernando: Why are you hiding from Yuki?!?

Esteban: *whisper shouts* don't be so loud!

Yuki: * holding a bat* I found you, you fucking baguette! You stole my Pierre!

Esteban: *on his knees crying* please I don't want him! take him back! I'm sorry!!

𝐌𝐲 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞 [𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏]

gif credits: @u-u-piastri81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Summary: Oscar is a visitor at your first art exhibition – not exactly his scene – but it's one that he contributed to financially to help you out, an upcoming artist he's taken a bit of a liking to.

Warnings: criticism but not always constructive, fluff, Reader and Oscar being cute, this man in a suit (audience may faint from the gifs), angst, maybe Oscar is a little out of character but I just upped his rizz by a solid 20% because I love him but he's way too shy to do any of this methinks :)

A/N: I know nothing about this profession icl but I got major black tie and exclusive event vibes from the gifs so this is what came out of it. I did a ton of research to make sure it wasn't too unrealistic but experience beats knowledge so if you guys read any things that need some correction, lmk!

Yeah, I never expected this to be so long but once I got to writing, I couldn't stop so hey, enjoy!

Word Count: 4.6k words (17 mins reading time avg)

…

Safe to say, this wasn’t Oscar’s scene.

Standing among collectors, art enthusiasts, curators, and industry professionals meant feeling a little out of place was a tad understated.

But he wanted to be here tonight. Of course, being invited is one thing but accepting the invitation comes with a whole new world of formalities he hadn’t prepared for.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, busy greeting and socialising with what looked like a few critics and journalists.

The notebooks in their hands were a dead giveaway but your hand drumming on your leg was another. You were anxious.

Oscar took a sip of his drink, the one he was offered when he received an entry pass coming through the venues' doors. He knew how much this evening meant to you, both in the months of planning and the dreams that preceded it.

Initially, the idea seemed farfetched, but as you dove straight into creating the collection, photographing it, staying up late to create statements that wholly captured the essence of your creative process, the once exciting prospect of submitting it to a gallery felt somewhat dissatisfying.

In a few conversations with Oscar, you’d shared your aspirations of seeing your portfolio bask in the limelight. However, the reality of organising a self-funded exhibition in a rented space would blow your budget out of the water.

You don’t know at what point but he’d made the decision to donate a significant sum of money to your artist fund, covering a major portion of the exhibition's expenses.

It helped you realise all those curious questions about possible venues, dates, and basic costs weren’t just to fuel his enthusiasm, but to sincerely offer his support.

You were grateful beyond what words could describe, and the least you could do was ask him to be here today.

You were nervous partially because you had critics and community leaders alike wandering around the space, conversing about your work you’d spent years dedicating blood, sweat and tears to.

But you were also nervous because he was here tonight.

Even if you’d drawn a squiggly line on a blank canvas, Oscar would marvel at it like it was the most beautiful thing on this planet, but tonight was when he was finally seeing your work in all its completion.

He brought your vision to life and the last thing you wanted to do was make him think his investment was a waste.

Last you’d checked, you hadn’t seen his brown wavy hair anywhere around the venue, his innocent smile playing on your mind even when you were entranced in conversation with fellow artists.

You stepped in front of a painting no one else currently seemed to be trained on, focusing on inhaling and exhaling your breaths, fidgeting with your fingers by your sides.

Tonight, was the most important day of your career by a mile.

“Excuse me.” Someone spoke up behind you and you inhaled a deep breath before whisking around to greet them. But your eyes grew soft, and your smile grew amicably at the man glancing downwards back at you.

“Do you know where I could find the host of the evening?” He asked, his smile mirroring yours, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass.

"Oscar," you breathed out, and the F1 driver had to force himself to disregard the palpable sense of relief that accompanied the utterance of his name.

The way it effortlessly rolled off your tongue, it left him wanting to hear you say it repeatedly.

“You made it.” He nodded his head, “I did.” Initially, he had doubts about attending, but considering the venue was conveniently located close to his hotel near Silverstone and his flight to Budapest wasn't until Monday evening, he managed to find the time to come.

You drew in a breath, "you look good." Your compliment was genuine, whenever you'd met up with Oscar or came across photos on Instagram, he was either in racing gear or in casual outfits. To see him in a suit was different. A good different.

"Thanks. Pretty sure I should be counting my breaths though." You chuckle as he looks down at himself, the shirt was a little smaller than he would've liked.

A testament to how life in Formula 1 was like and that his neck size had grown exponentially.

"Each one could be your last," you joked, adding on and he nodded.

"Exactly." His laugh culminated into a final chuckle, melting into a warm smile.

When you looked away, seeing the waiters you'd hired tonight refilling cups as people wandered around, Oscar took the opportunity to let his eyes drag over your figure.

"You look beautiful," his compliment drew a smile from you.

You briefly cast your gaze downward before lifting it to his chest then finally up to his eyes. "Thank you, Oscar."

He responded only with a curt nod; his eyes trained on your face before he tore them away to have a look around him.

"How's it going?"

You hummed, thinking about your answer. "It's okay. There's a few paintings that are getting lots of attention, others a little less."

"Did you expect that?" He asked and you reasoned, you knew when you began this collection that people would naturally gravitate more towards some pieces anyway, that's the advice you were given everywhere you went.

"Yeah, I'd be lying if I said I didn't." Oscar took a sip of some liquid courage before pointing at the painting you'd just been standing in front of with the rim of his glass.

"I like this one." You turned as he took steps towards it, his shoulder grazing yours. "This is the last one." You mentioned as he skimmed over the statements planted on the wall next to the artwork.

"I think it's an elderly couple, and the mirrors all around them are portals into a specific memory of their relationship." He said undisputedly. You look up at him, your mouth parting slightly in surprise.

"Yeah, how did you figure that out so quickly?"

"It's almost like you were brainstorming ideas to me on call a few months ago." You scoff, rolling your eyes but ultimately impressed by his memory.

He hadn't spoken much during that phone call, so you'd assumed he wasn't paying much attention to your endless rambles.

"I never realised you were actually listening." You softly said and Oscar turned his head to look at you.

"Every word." He reassured, and a warm feeling encompassed your chest at his affirmation.

His gaze traced over the painting once more. While he had never hesitated to express his belief in your talent, seeing your artwork displayed in such a way stirred a whirlwind of emotions inside of him.

He was proud of you and excited for you, knowing that you had undertaken this journey for your own sake, garnering an array of artistic admirers. It's no mean feat to organise an event like this, take a risk so early on in your career.

"I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you." You snap him out of his thoughts, turning your body towards him, standing a few feet away.

Oscar mimicked your movements, turning so he was facing you, and placed his now empty glass on a bar tray that a waiter had extended to him, refusing a refill.

"Why do you think you need to repay me? Remember, it was a donation." He said matter-of-factly. You let out a sigh.

Despite his repeated assurances that he expected nothing in return, you couldn't shake off the feeling of indebtedness that lingered in your thoughts.

You found yourself dwelling on the late-night conversations, wondering if your eagerness to discuss your plans had inadvertently conveyed desperation.

Your gaze drops and without hesitation, he reaches his hand out and gently slots it into yours, his thumb caressing over your skin in a soothing gesture. Your heart skips a beat or two, the warmth of his hand was relieving.

"This is the best way you can repay me. Living the dream." He smiles and you nod, finally lifting your eyes to meet his. His voice was a calming anchor amid your thoughts.

"I'll never forget how you made it possible though," a small smile graced your lips, and he let out a chuckle.

"Yeah, you never miss a chance to mention it," he quipped, his eyes dancing with amusement. You playfully rolled your eyes, a good-natured sigh escaping you as you did.

Oscar's hand retreated to his side, and a subtle longing for his touch flickered within you. Nevertheless, you mask it with a smile that grew as you exchanged a couple more jokes.

...

He courteously held the door ajar, giving a nod to a man entering the bathroom who appeared to appreciate the gesture. Letting the door close behind him, Oscar took out his phone to check the time.

Absentmindedly, he began scrolling through his notifications: a mix of sports updates, a message from his mum, one from Mark. Yet, none seemed particularly urgent.

Just as he was about to tap on one of the notifications, his attention was drawn upward to the sound of your voice.

You were engaged in conversation with a man, his journal held in his hands, and sunglasses perched atop his head. Oscar's gaze briefly went back to his phone screen; he made no overt effort to eavesdrop.

Despite this, fragments of your conversation found their way to his ears anyway.

"I must say, your work is quite disappointing. The lack of technical skill is evident in every piece." Oscar's eyebrows furrow as he observes openly, a marked departure from his earlier disinterested demeanour.

You clear your throat as you try to collect yourself, bringing your fingers up to your mouth to hide your quivering lip.

You had previously cautioned yourself that not everyone will like your work, but experiencing such candid criticism directly was far more destructive than you could have expected.

"Um, okay. What sort of things did you not like about it?" You asked, trying to find some sort of valuable insight from such a respected critic in your community.

"The colours are garish and clash horribly. It's clear that you have no understanding of colour theory or composition." You nod, gathering some form of strength to just take his words on the chin but you were failing rather miserably. Your stomach was sinking, and your eyes were watering slowly.

"It's a shame that your efforts have resulted in such subpar creations." Your jaw tightens and as you scramble for the right words to respond with in your mind, a hand presses into your lower back from behind.

"Excuse me. I want to purchase a piece, but I can't seem to find your sales assistant." The accent is unmistakable, and you muster a smile as you turn to face him.

"I'll help you." Your voice is unsteady, your emotions deflated.

"Thank you," Oscar responds, though his gaze carries a hint of concern. He moves to follow you but before he can do so, the critic extends his hand to grasp his arm, waiting until he's certain you're out of earshot.

"Coming from a collector, don't bother." He smirks, his conviction clear. Yet, the F1 driver's face remains impassive.

"Sorry, I don't remember asking you. Now, if you don't mind." He looks down at the grip on his arm, his fist clenching by his side. The critic seems taken aback at the blank expression looking back at him, devoid of any gratefulness.

He swallows before loosening his grip.

Oscar rounds the pillar just as you press down on the handle to the fire door exit at the distant end.

He contemplates whether he should grant you some space, but he wonders if doing so will only make matters worse.

Pausing briefly, he contemplates his choices before deciding to make his way toward the fire exit anyway. His hand firmly grasps the handle, and he proceeds to push open the door.

With your back turned towards him, you're unaware of his presence. Your palms are pressed against your face as a means of stifling your sniffles hence the closing of the door registers faintly, the sound hardly penetrating your thoughts.

It's only when the crunching of gravel beneath someone's shoes reaches your ears that you realise you're no longer alone. But oddly, you know there's only one person who it could be.

The combination of embarrassment, distress, and sheer exhaustion was what left you feeling so overwhelmingly emotional.

Aware that you don't want Oscar to witness you in this state, you quickly swipe at your cheeks, hastily erasing any traces of tears from your face.

You whisk around, smiling up at him and nodding your head. "I'm good Os. It's not always going to be a perfect score, right?" His heart swells at the nickname you called him, very few people did so, but hearing it from you felt special in a way.

"He's a dick," the F1 driver bluntly responds, his tone carrying a hint of anger.

You chuckle softly, but the sigh that follows is slightly shaky. A wave of heaviness crashes over you again as the critic's hurtful words echo in your mind, your stomach sinking in response.

Oscar picks up on the shift of emotion and his eyes soften at your teary and lowering expression.

Without a word, he opens his arms and pulls you into an embrace. You don't resist; instead, you bury your face in his shoulder, your shoulders trembling as silent tears escape your eyes.

His arms encircle you tightly, offering a comforting refuge as your emotions spill over again.

His chest rises and falls with each steady breath, the rhythm providing you with some comfort despite how irritated you're getting at yourself for letting one conversation bother you this much.

As he holds you, his chest aches both for your vulnerability and the anger he feels towards the critic who provoked it. You reluctantly pull away after a minute or so, a mixture of gratitude and sadness in your eyes.

But in the moment, you can't help but feel that the money he donated for the exhibition might have gone to waste, that your efforts fell short.

Disappointing your clients is business but disappointing him felt personal, he was the reason you even had a chance to do this, and it'd turned out horribly.

"I let you down," you say quietly, and Oscar's eyebrows knit together as he studies your expression.

"How? Every piece I love, Y/N." He responds, placing his hand on your forearm, his touch warm. It sends a flurry of goosebumps over your skin which you're sure he would've picked up on considering his attention to detail.

He positions his index finger under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes which you do. Your legs suddenly feel like they're incapable of keeping you upright, your face warming under his gaze.

"You didn't let me down." He whispers.

Oscar's concern remains palpable as his hand doesn't fall back to his side. His eyes hold a depth of emotion, the colours in his eyes becoming more distinct.

The connection that you can sense increases, and it's as if the unspoken understanding between you becomes more profound in that moment.

His cologne surrounds you but it's his gaze that flickers to your lips, a fleeting but unmistakable gesture. You realise that he's leaning in closer and there's a fraction of a second when it feels like the world around you fades.

The possibility of his lips meeting yours feels tantalisingly close.

But just as the moment deepens, you're both interrupted by one of the assistants, their voice breaking through the charged atmosphere.

"Sorry," the assistant interjects, sounding somewhat hurried. "There're a few clients waiting to speak with you Y/N."

Oscar slowly pulls back; he tucks in his bottom lip between his teeth and his expression shifts from one of intimacy to one of polite neutrality.

He offers you a subtle smile, the connection lingering between you even as the assistant's words redirect your attention.

"Of course," you reply, your voice steady despite quite the hurricane of emotions storming inside of you. You look to the assistant, ready to face the responsibilities of the exhibition once again. As you move away, you steal a glance at him, his gaze locked onto you for a moment longer before he nods.

That damned connection between you and Oscar remains, but now only punctuated by unspoken possibilities.

...

"Thank you, ma'am." you say with a warm smile as the elderly woman clasps your hand, offering kind words about your artwork while draping her shawl over her shoulders.

Once she'd left, you looked around to see if there was anyone else remaining in the space. Oscar had left a while ago considering he was on a flight tomorrow to Budapest.

Though a tinge of disappointment lingered within you, you understood and bid him goodnight.

You wrapped up a little later than you would've liked, a couple of your pieces had sold so you had to coordinate transport for them.

For the remaining few, you'd wrapped them up, gathered the papers for each one before loading them into the van to have them delivered back to your studio.

Oscar eventually made it back to the space he'd rented on Airbnb, staying in a hotel for a week definitely wasn't something he was fond of doing, a neatly packaged box of takeout planted on the small table.

He threw the crumpled paper bag into the bin and settled onto the couch, his phone in hand. He opened Instagram, scrolling through his feed to pass the time it'd take for him to get sleepy.

As he tapped through the stories, your profile picture caught his eye. He felt a smile tug at his lips as he watched it whole. The familiar scenes of the exhibition unfolded before him – videos capturing the venue, the artwork.

His gaze lingered on the art as if he hadn't been there tonight, his mind wandering into the world you had created. It wasn't just the work itself that interested him; it was the glimpse they offered into your mind, your perspective, and the emotions you poured into your work.

The admiration he felt for your creativity was intertwined with the growing fondness he was developing for you as a person.

Once you'd reached home, you dropped on to the couch with a sigh of relief that the day was done.

So, when your phone started vibrating besides you, you groaned and brought it up to your ear, not bothering to take a look at the caller ID.

"Y/N," you closed your eyes and waited for the other person to respond. They stuttered first before speaking up, "should I - should I reply with my name, or do we just get into the conversation?"

You lightly gasped, chuckling and straightening up on the couch. "Oscar, sorry. I'm still in work mode I think." You rubbed your forehead and the F1 driver poked through his food with a fork on the other end.

"No harm done. You back from the venue?" He asked and you stretched your legs out in front of you, fiddling with the hem of your dress.

"Yeah, only just. Perfect timing, Piastri." He smiled at your response, "I pride myself in that."

"I'm sure you do." You joked teasingly and fell back on the couch again. The similar onset of warmth and goosebumps from earlier bubbled up again inside of you.

"I thought you would've knocked out by now." Oscar hums, swallowing his food as he traps his phone between his ear and shoulder, throwing the now empty box on to the coffee table in front of him.

"Yeah well, I needed to eat. Luckily for me, there was a long queue at every takeaway place tonight." He retorted sarcastically and you scoffed, "typical London."

He agreed wordlessly before shifting his body horizontally, propping his head up on the armrest, his legs splaying over the leather sofa.

"What did you end up getting?" He made a humming sound as he reached for the receipt he'd tossed carelessly aside, bringing it up to eye level.

"Caribbean chicken curry." He said slowly, squinting to read the half-printed letters. Your stomach rumbling beneath you helped you remember that you too hadn't eaten for majority of the day. Your last meal was breakfast with a few snacks you always have on hand.

"Sounds good. I'd kill for some chicken curry right now." You mumble and Oscar's head turns to look up at the clock hung on the wall above the television.

"How 'bout I bring some?" He asks nonchalantly and your heart skips, you stutter in your response, glancing at the digital clock blinking at you from the corner table.

"You'd do that?" You say, a little more high-pitched than you would've preferred.

He smiles, refraining to say something corny. "Yeah, well I mean it's not my bedtime for another hour so..." He trails off thus leaving you to make the decision.

You don't even care about the food anymore, your stomach is doing somersaults from the mere thought of seeing him twice in one day.

"Only if it's alright with you. If you need to sleep, please sleep." You insist and there's a pause, you could swear you hear keys jangling on the other end of the phone before Oscar confirms.

"I'll be there in a bit."

...

You're changed into some slightly more flattering pyjamas than your regular animated giraffe ones when you hear a knock on your door. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you walk the length of the hallway and reach for the doorknob.

Giving it a couple of moments, you open the door to find Oscar standing there, a warm smile on his face that mirrors your own feelings.

He's holding a paper bag up and you smile, "my saviour. Come in."

He slides past you, toeing his trainers off and pushing them up to the wall so they weren't in the direct pathway, allowing you to lead him into the living room.

He places the bag on to your wooden dining table and you sigh in delight, the smell of the food faintly wafting out of it.

"How much do I owe you?" He shakes his head, letting you take the box out of the bag.

"Only your eternal gratitude," he replies, his lips curving into a smile as he takes in the sight of your light expression, your eyes lit with appreciation.

"You already have that." You chuckle.

Eventually, you begin eating, all the while holding a conversation. With each passing minute, a subtle worry creeps in - that he might decide to leave soon. Not that you're against him getting his rest, but your own enjoyment of his company is growing stronger by the second.

The idea of the evening ending prematurely becomes less and less appealing. The warmth of his presence, the humour in his words, the hesitance you initially felt about him leaving transformed into a silent plea for him to stay, at least a little longer.

"I'm going to go up and use the bathroom, head over to the couch, make yourself comfortable." You insist and Oscar nods. His feelings he was aware of when he reached back to his place had tripled since he'd got here.

His leg had been bouncing the entire duration he'd been talking, he was nervous but albeit not understandably. He'd visited your place a few times now, he'd known you for nearly a year.

Nothing about the fluttery sensation in his belly, the excitement prior to seeing you, the attraction, the thoughtfulness, made any sense to him.

But at the same time, they made perfect sense. He likes you. A whole lot.

Realising he was getting a bit warm, he pulled the hoodie over his neck to reveal just a plain white tee underneath.

Tossing it on to the dining room chair he was previously sat on, he plops on to the couch, bringing the calf of his right leg up to rest on the knee of his left, his arm outstretching on the back of the couch.

You eventually return, having brushed your teeth since the aftertaste of the curry wasn’t a very pleasant one in your mouth.

“Do you piss for that long?" Oscar asks curiously, locking his phone and sliding it on to the table.

You scoff and feign offence as you sit next to him just a few inches away. "I don't actually, even if I did, what's it to you?" You tease and he shrugs, his lower arm draping off the couch casually, his fingertips brushing close to your shoulder.

"I was bored," he admits, his explanation falling a bit flat.

You raise an eyebrow, a mockingly sympathetic expression on your face. "Poor Oscar, suffering from boredom in my humble abode. My heart aches for you." He smirks, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head at your antics.

His eyes sparkle with amusement, "Well, I must say your empathy is truly heartwarming."

"That's just me, a paragon of compassion," you quip, a mischievous glint in your eyes. His proximity has your heart racing, and you're acutely aware of the playful tension that's building between you.

He tilts his head, his gaze holding yours as he leans in slightly. "You know, I was half expecting you to beg for my forgiveness."

You roll your eyes, your gaze locked on to his, you didn't mean for them to glance down to his lips, but it didn't skip past his notice either.

Your heart was hammering in your chest and the silence that followed afterwards definitely gave Oscar enough time to be able to pick up on it.

"Please forgive me Oscar, please?" You reduce your words to a whisper and he smiles, refusing to waste another second and he instantly ducks his head to catch your lips in a fervent kiss.

His actions catch you off guard, the sensation electrifying and sending a jolt of surprise through your system.

Your thoughts scatter as the world seems to narrow down to the point of contact between your lips. The kiss is eager and filled with a mixture of longing and curiosity, as if both of you have been dancing around this moment for far too long.

Your heart continues racing, and time feels suspended as his touch sends shivers up and down your spine.

The sudden intimacy of it all is exhilarating, and you find yourself responding without hesitation, your fingers instinctively finding their way to his arm, your body moving a fraction closer to his.

A soft moan escapes you, and Oscar slides his hand beneath your top, pressing his palm against your waist. A squeeze of your skin hints at you to move back slightly, creating the room needed for him to push you down on to your back.

Your lips detach for a moment as he positions himself over you, lowering his head seconds later to press them together again.

His face was level with yours when he eventually pulled away to catch his breath, and let you catch yours, his arm propping him up besides your head.

"Isn't it your bedtime?" He chuckles softly, his fingers toying with a few strands of your hair.

"I'll just have to use the plane's naptime feature." You laugh, bringing your hand up to push his hair out of his eyes.

His gaze flickers across your face, capturing the traces of your faint smile lines and the tiny beauty mark adorning your skin.

He leans in, planting a tender kiss on the mole. Meanwhile, your fingertips journey to the nape of his neck, exploring the contours of his hair.

He grins boyishly when he picks his head up again. "I think I could stay here forever," he admits, his voice a soft confession.

You playfully raise an eyebrow. "Oh really? What if the plane's naptime feature gets jealous?"

He chuckles, a low, melodious sound. "Well, I guess it'll just have to deal with a bit of competition," he remarks before his lips find yours once again.

...

Masterlist

Gonna get myself one of those Red Bull engines

F1 + Text Posts But Make It ✨The Class of 2023, Pt. 1✨

just watched a video of Max's 2023 season ... and the thing is. we all knew we were watching something great then, something for the history books. but i don't think any of us fully realised then just how magical that season was. we knew it wouldn't repeat itself even as it was happening; we knew that were witnessing a once in a lifetime season, with the connection between driver and car so perfect they were one. but i still don't think that any of us still can fully comprehend just how incredible and untouchable max was in 2023. the way he was winning so dominantly without ever getting complacent, or arrogant about it. it was art. it was just max doing what he was born and raised to do. racing and winning and enjoying and taking it all in. people were saying that he was ruining the sport, that f1 was dead; all while he produced some of the finest racing ever. people didn't appreciate it then, and people still can't fully grasp it now. he knew it was his season. he knew rocky was special, and that he wouldn't have another 2023 maybe ever. which doesn't mean he won't ever have another great season again, but it won't be the same. which is okay. we were all just lucky to witness his greatness, and couldn't even fully appreciate it then.