#f1 fanfiction

[pucksandpower]

Breaking the Ice

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lando Norris x Räikkönen!Reader

Summary: a boy who never shuts up meets a girl who rarely wastes the energy to speak … it doesn’t go as expected (or in which not having much to say runs in the Räikkönen family)

Lando shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting nervously as he awaits the arrival of the other drivers for the pre-season press conference. His gaze darts around the stark concrete room, taking in the harsh lighting and the row of empty chairs on the raised platform.

This is his sixth season in Formula 1, but the thrill of the new year and the prospect of racing still sends butterflies fluttering through his stomach. He sucks in a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

The door opens and you stride in, Valtteri Bottas at your side. Lando’s eyes are immediately drawn to you, the rookie driver already capturing attention despite your quiet presence. You move with the casual confidence of someone who has grown up in this world, unbothered by the lights and cameras.

Lando finds himself staring, captivated by the way you carry yourself. The famously reserved Räikkönen genes clearly run through your veins.

Before Lando can gather his wits to introduce himself, you slide into the chair at the end of the row, Valtteri taking the seat next to you. Lando blinks, realizing he’s been caught gawking.

Smooth, Norris. Real smooth.

He clears his throat and makes his way over, mustering his most charming grin. “Hi there! Lando Norris. Welcome to the circus.”

You turn towards him, your expression unreadable. For a beat, you simply regard him in silence. Then, “Hey.”

You give a small nod of acknowledgment before turning away, effectively shutting down the conversation. Lando’s smile falters as you refocus your attention on … absolutely nothing at all.

Well, that’s a bit rude. He frowns, stung by the brush-off. So much for breaking the ice. Maybe you’re just shy around new people? Lando decides to give you the benefit of the doubt as the other drivers begin filing in.

He takes his seat a few chairs away, sneaking sidelong glances at you. You haven’t so much as glanced in his direction again, adopting the same thousand-yard stare as the Iceman.

Like father, like daughter, Lando muses with a shake of his head.

When the press conference gets underway, question after question is lobbed at the drivers. Lando fields them with his usual charismatic charm, unable to resist hamming it up for the cameras with comedic flair. In contrast, you remain stubbornly curt whenever the mic is passed your way.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I don’t know.”

Your terse responses draw titters of laughter from the audience and press corps alike. Lando watches in amazement, unable to fathom how anyone could be so … so ...

“Boring?” He blurts out before he can stop himself.

You cut your eyes towards him, holding his gaze for the first time since your noncommittal greeting. Lando feels himself flush, suddenly uncertain if he’s been too cheeky. But then the corners of your mouth tug up in an unmistakable smirk before you turn away again, leaving him to wonder if he’s imagined it.

By the time the press conference mercifully ends, Lando has decided you’re definitely an odd duck. But also … kind of fascinating? In an eccentric, robotic sort of way? He’s not sure what to make of his swirling thoughts as you all rise to make your exit.

Lando hangs back, angling to get one more shot at conversation. “Hey, uh, Y/N? I know you’re still getting your feet wet here, but if you ever need any advice or, you know, someone to show you the ropes, I’m always around.”

You pause, glancing back at him over your shoulder. For a fleeting second, Lando thinks he detects … what? Amusement? Disbelief? It’s impossible to tell with your trademark poker face firmly in place.

“Thanks,” you reply, your tone mild. “But I’m good.”

And with that, you pivot on your heel and stride away, leaving Lando to stare after you.

“Huh,” he mutters to himself. So much for breaking the ice.

As the next couple of days of testing wear on, Lando can’t seem to get a read on you. Oh, you’re perfectly courteous whenever your paths happen to cross in the paddock. You’ll return his greetings with a respectful nod or murmur of acknowledgment.

But that’s as far as it goes. You’re polite, but also totally inscrutable. Lando has no idea what you make of him, or really anything at all that might be going on inside that head of yours. All he knows is that his curiosity about you has been thoroughly piqued.

One morning, Lando spies you sitting alone, sipping from a a mug of coffee as you study a stack of data printouts. He ambles over, determined to try chatting you up again.

“Y/N! How’s it going?” His voice is cheerfully upbeat. “That coffee from the hotel? Because let me tell you, it’s rubbish. If you want a proper brew, you’ve got to venture out and find a decent cafe. I know all the best spots around here if you’d like some recommendations ...”

He trails off as you simply look up at him, silent and unblinking. Lando clears his throat, feeling oddly off-kilter beneath your steady regard.

“Anyway,” he blusters on, undeterred. “How are you finding testing so far? Not too overwhelming, I hope? If you ever want to debrief or go over data or anything, I’m happy to lend an ear. Or even an eye, I suppose, since it’s more looking at numbers than listening to-”

“Bwoah.”

The single syllable cuts through Lando’s babbling. You set down your coffee and rise to your feet in one effortless, graceful movement. Lando blinks in surprise as you turn and walk away without another word.

“Oh. Erm. Sure, just … ignore me then,” he mutters, feeling his cheeks flush hotly.

He shakes his head as you disappear around the corner, baffled by your total indifference. But then a wry chuckle escapes his lips as the truth dawns on him with crystal clarity.

You’re not rude or shy at all. That’s just … who you are. Curt, to the point, unconcerned with frivolous chitchat and social niceties. You’ve got laser-focus, and nothing is going to distract you from your pursuit of speed.

In that moment, Lando feels a swell of admiration. He gets it now — you’re carved from the same uncompromising bedrock as your old man. Refreshingly authentic without any affectations or pretense.

Most people would find your blunt aloofness off-putting. But not Lando. No, he finds the prospect of unraveling the mystery that is Y/N Räikkönen irresistibly intriguing.

He grins to himself as he ambles off to get ready for his own session out on track. Just you wait, Y/N. He’s going to get you to crack a smile yet, even if it kills him.

After all, whoever said being a woman of few words was a bad thing?

***

Lando is in the middle of his pre-race routine, trying to center his mind and get into the zone, when you appear out of nowhere and thrust something at him.

“Here,” you say brusquely.

He blinks, puzzled, as he registers the scraggly bundle of wildflowers gripped in your fist. They look like they’ve been unceremoniously ripped out of the dirt, roots, soil and all.

“Uh … what’s this?” Lando asks.

You meet his confused gaze head on, your expression typically unreadable. “Flowers. For you.”

“For me?” Lando repeats dumbly. He glances around, as if expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out at any second. “Are you … giving me these?”

“No, I’m giving them to the other idiot who won’t stop yapping at me every single day,” you deadpan.

Lando feels his cheeks grow warm at the mild rebuke. He knows you’re referring to his persistent, if extremely one-sided attempts at conversation over the past few weeks. All his friendly openings and invitations have been met with a string of indifferent brush-offs and noncommittal hums.

Can’t blame a guy for trying, right? At least he’s being polite, which is more than he can say for-

“Well?” You break into his thoughts, arching one coolly expectant brow. “Are you wooed or not?”

This time it’s Lando’s turn to stare at you blankly. “I’m … sorry, what?”

“Wooed,” you repeat flatly. “You said the girl of your dreams would woo you with flowers or some nonsense. So I got you flowers.” You give the bedraggled bouquet a little shake for emphasis. “Now you’re wooed. Happy?”

It takes a moment for the words to click into place in Lando’s brain. Then a strangled laugh bursts from his lips as he remembers the foolish, offhand comment he made in an interview a few days ago. He’d been prattling on about his imaginary ideal partner, somehow painting the ridiculous picture of himself being “wooed” like some lovestruck Victorian lady.

Leave it to you to take the whole ludicrous scenario at face value. Lando can’t decide if he’s more charmed or bewildered by the fact that you’ve actually gone to the trouble of physically wooing him with … weeds?

“You cannot be serious right now,” he sputters out between residual chuckles.

You simply stand there, utterly unfazed as you hold out the world’s saddest excuse for a bouquet expectantly. “Well? Am I doing it right or not?”

“Doing what right?” Lando shakes his head, chortling again. “This whole wooing business? Y/N, that was just me rambling on like an idiot, as usual. You didn’t actually have to-”

“But I did,” you interject, effectively cutting off his protests. “So. Are. You. Wooed?”

Lando opens his mouth, then closes it again as he searches for the right response. There’s no menace or mockery in your expression, just that same intense focus and matter-of-fact bluntness that you apply to everything. Somehow, he gets the distinct impression that you won’t be deterred until he gives you a straight answer.

“Uh … no?” He ventures at last. “N-Not really, I guess?”

You stand there for a beat, Processing his words. Then you give a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Okay. That’s a you problem.”

With that, you turn smartly on your heel and stride away, leaving Lando gaping after you in a stupor. He stares down at the shoddy little bundle of greenery still clutched in his hand, not sure whether to laugh or just shake his head in amazed disbelief.

“A ‘me’ problem?” he mutters, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “Well, you’ve got me there, Y/N.”

Because the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that you respecting him enough to even entertain his absurd hypothetical … that might just be his new favorite problem.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Lando brings his car across the finish line in fourth place. Not his best result, but respectable points in the bag. He allows himself a tight smile as he peels into the pit lane and kills the engine.

Until the unmistakable bright green and black livery of your Kick Sauber fills his vision, that is.

Lando does a double take, his jaw dropping as the implication sinks in. No way. There’s absolutely no way you’ve … you’ve won this race, right? In that underpowered, aerodynamically-challenged shitbox?

He can scarcely believe his eyes as you glide to a stop behind the large “1” board. The cheers and applause swelling around the track leave no doubt — somehow, against all odds, you’ve just taken the top step of the podium.

Lando scrambles out of his own car, tugging off his helmet and balaclava as he hustles across parc fermé in a daze. The first thing he notices is the sheer confusion and shock etched onto the faces of everyone else milling around. Even the marshals look gobsmacked by this upset for the ages.

In the middle of the chaos, you’re casually unfurling yourself from the cockpit with your trademark nonchalance. Like this is just another ho-hum Sunday drive for Y/N Räikkönen instead of, you know, the most spectacular overachievement in recent Formula 1 history.

Lando stands there gaping at you, unable to fully process what’s just happened. He vaguely registers the rest of the top finishers pulling in around you, their body language radiating bewilderment and disbelief as they all turn to stare, dumbstruck.

No one can quite seem to believe that an underdog backmarker has just eclipsed them all in a car that typically struggles to score points, let alone wins.

For your part, you’re projecting indifference to the chaos swirling around you. You simply grab a water bottle and take a long, unhurried pull, seemingly oblivious to the escalating frenzy.

Then, you casually turn in Lando’s direction and arch one brow ever-so-slightly. A silent question.

“I … you ...” Lando sputters uselessly, his brain still stuttering to catch up. “Did you seriously just ...”

The corners of your lips quirk upwards, hinting at a suppressed grin. “Well?” You prompt him calmly. “Are you wooed yet or what?”

It takes a moment for the light to flicker on in Lando’s mind. Any other time, he’d be delighted by the playful ribbing, eager to keep the back-and-forth banter flowing.

But right now, something else cuts through the haze of astonishment clouding his thoughts.

“Wait … is this ...” Lando squints at you searchingly. “Did you just win this race … for me?”

The words slip out before he can stop them. Because that would be such an impossibly, endearingly you thing to do, wouldn’t it? To dedicate achieving the unachievable all because of an offhand remark about wanting to be wooed?

His heart does a strange little flip-flop at the mere idea of you going to such outlandishly romantic lengths, all for the sake of who-even-knows-what is brewing between you two these days.

For a long beat, you simply stare back at him, your expression unreadable as ever. Then, “What?” You let out a faintly derisive snort. “No, of course not. Why would I do that?”

The words detonate like a slap in the face, momentarily winding Lando with their blunt force. “Oh. Well, I just thought maybe since I mentioned the whole wooing thing, and then you ...”

You shake your head impatiently, cutting him off. “You’re not the one who won this race, Lando.”

With that, you turn on your heel and stride away, dismissing him with a curt finality. Lando is left speechless, mouth agape as he watches your retreating back.

Around him, the rest of the drivers and crew are still buzzing with perplexed whispers and incredulous looks. No one can seem to wrap their minds around what they’ve just witnessed.

A sudden boom of laughter from Stake F1 Team Kick Sauber garage shatters the tension. Lando glances over to see your grizzled race engineer doubled over, tears of mirth streaming down his face as he wheezes helplessly.

“That’s my girl!” He chortles, shaking his head in amazed delight. “Leave it to a Räikkönen to blow the entire fuckin’ field away and just shrug it off like it’s no big deal!”

Lando feels the corner of his own mouth twitch upwards, the pinpricks of embarrassment fading as quickly as they flared. Of course he wasn’t on your mind out there today — you’re a laser-focused competitor brimming with the same single-minded intensity as your father. No thoughts, just pure, unbridled velocity.

You don’t crave grandstanding or glory, you’re simply out there doing what you were born to do, with ruthless, unsentimental precision. No fuss, no frills. Just inevitable, undeniable greatness through sheer force of will.

For now, that’s more than enough to leave him feeling utterly, deliriously, irrevocably … wooed.

***

Lando flops back on the hotel bed with a contented sigh, still basking in the post-race glow. P3 on the podium is a stellar result, made even sweeter by the fact that you claimed second place.

He grins lazily as you emerge from the en-suite bathroom, having shed your team wear in favor of a comfy t-shirt and shorts. Even with your hair tied up in a messy bun and your face scrubbed free of makeup, you’re still the most beautiful sight he’s ever laid eyes on.

“There’s the champion,” he rumbles affectionately, reaching out to snag your wrist and tug you down onto the bed beside him. You allow yourself to be pulled into the circle of his arms with a quiet huff of amusement.

“I didn’t win, you dork,” you point out mildly, making no move to extract yourself from his embrace. “That was Max on the first step today, not me.”

“Mmm, true.” Lando hums his agreement, nuzzling against the crown of your head. “But you’ll get there again soon enough. Then we can really celebrate.”

He punctuates the promise with a languid kiss, smiling against your lips as you melt into him with a soft sigh of contentment. These tender, unguarded moments are rapidly becoming his favorite part of any race weekend.

You allow the liplock to linger for a few long, blissful seconds before finally pulling back with a faint smirk. “Speaking of celebrating ...”

Then, without any hesitation whatsoever, you deftly roll off the mattress and sink down onto your knees in one fluid motion, effectively pitching Lando’s heart rate into a gallop.

“Whoa, hey now,” he sputters out a nervous chuckle, propping himself up on his elbows to gawk down at you in surprise. “What are you doing down there, trouble?”

Rather than answering directly, you simply arch one eloquent brow and ask, “Are you wooed yet?”

Lando blinks, needing a second to parse your meaning. Then a bark of laughter escapes before he can stop it, finally realizing where this is going. “Oh my god, you cannot be serious right now. Are we really still doing that stupid bit?”

There’s no missing the impish glint in your eye as you regard him from your knees, clearly quite pleased with yourself for managing to get the upper hand. “Well? I’m waiting for an answer here.”

Lando shakes his head in amazed disbelief, unable to smother his grin. “Y/N, love, you have got to be the most impossible woman on the planet sometimes.” He reaches down to brush an errant lock of hair out of your eyes, cradling your face tenderly. “But lucky for you, it’s impossibly charming as hell.”

You lean into the caress ever so slightly, regarding him with an impish glint. “So? Do you feel wooed yet or not?”

Something warm and gooey blossoms in Lando’s chest as he studies your features — the amused quirk of your lips, the slight flush on your cheeks, the fire dancing in your eyes. You’re such an endearing contradiction, managing to be the most formidably stoic badass on the racetrack while also being irresistibly playful when it’s just the two of you.

“Y/N ...” he starts, a bemused chuckle rumbling from his lips. He presses a kiss to your forehead, relishing your quiet hum of approval. “You do realize you don’t have to keep trying to woo me anymore, right?”

You blink up at him, your brow furrowing slightly as you process his words. “What are you talking about?”

Lando nods towards the pillow behind him, gesturing vaguely. “The flowers. The race win. All the coy banter and teasing.” He grins, cupping your face in his hands. “Pretty sure that ship has sailed at this point, love.”

You continue to stare at him with a blank look, like he’s suddenly started speaking in tongues. The lack of comprehension on your face is so unguarded and genuine that it makes Lando’s grin slowly slip.

Hold on … could it be that you actually don’t realize-

“Hey,” he asks slowly, hardly daring to breathe. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but … I thought after the whole flower thing, we kind of … you know ...”

He trails off helplessly, not sure how to broach the subject in case he’s somehow misread everything completely. Your brow remains furrowed, making him abruptly hyper aware of the fact that your lithe form is literally kneeling at his feet while wearing very little clothing.

A pregnant pause stretches between you, thick with confused tension. Then-

“Oh my god,” you blurt out, your eyes going comically wide as the pieces finally click into place. “Did you think we were … dating? All this time?”

Lando chokes on his own tongue, too stunned to respond right away. He simply gapes at you, feeling like the world’s biggest moron for somehow operating under the wrong assumption for … how long, exactly?

Now that he’s thinking back, neither of you ever explicitly defined what was brewing between you two ... you just sort of started spending more and more time together, growing more and more intimately intertwined until … well ...

Suddenly he’s laughing, helpless peals of mirth bubbling up from his core as the truth dawns on him. All this time, you two have essentially been a couple of awkward teenagers muddling through the beginning stages of a relationship, the wires of communication getting hopelessly crossed along the way.

But oh man, of course it somehow ended up going down like this between you two. Why would he have expected anything less idiotically convoluted?

You’re chuckling too, the laughter rippling through your body in delightfully unreserved waves as you sway back on your heels. And just like that, the last lingering hint of tension dissolves from the air as you surrender to the hilarity of it all.

“So … I’m just gonna go ahead and take that as a no then,” Lando finally manages to gasp out between wheezing chuckles.

“Well that would depend,” you shoot back, your eyes bright with mischief. You shift forward onto your knees, leaning in close enough for him to feel the teasing rasp of your breath against his lips. “Because according to you, I’m already spoken for.”

Lando’s laughter cuts off with a soft groan as your nose brushes teasingly against his thigh, his palms finding their way to your hips as if by muscle memory. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” He accuses without any real heat.

“Nope,” you agree matter-of-factly before capturing his lips in a searing kiss.

He loses himself in the velvet glide of your mouths for endless minutes, his fingertips tracing maddening patterns across the sliver of exposed skin at your waist. When you finally break apart, you’re both panting softly, gazes locked in a heated stalemate.

“So ...” Lando murmurs at last, his lips brushing deliciously against yours with every word. “If we haven’t actually been dating this whole time, then what would you call … this?” He sweeps one hand up in a languid caress, hinting at the incredible tangle you’ve both willingly stumbled into.

“Hmm ...” You press another series of featherlight kisses along the sharp line of his jaw, leaving him shivering. “How about … badly in need of remedial communication skills?”

Lando bursts out laughing again — because really, is there any more succinct way to sum up the two of you? He tugs you up onto his lap, cupping the back of your head and crushing your lips back to his in a heated clash of teeth and tongues.

You willingly arch against him with a throaty sigh, hands roaming possessively across his chest. The two of you are a whirlwind of tangled limbs and shared laughter and scorching friction.

It’s all so achingly, impossibly right that Lando can hardly stand it. But as you meet his heated gaze, chests heaving and eyes sparking with unspoken promises, Lando finds he wouldn’t have it any other way. Not when the payoff is stealing heated moments like these, all tangled up in each other with boundless laughter and blazing passion.

“Y/N ...” he murmurs reverently, tracing the curve of your smiling lips with the pad of his thumb. “I adore you. You incredible, impossible woman.”

You lean into the caress with a soft hum, covering his hand with yours to hold him there. “So what now?” You arch a playful brow. “Are you officially wooed or do you need some more convincing?”

With a low growl, he abruptly flips you both over onto the mattress in one fluid movement. You let out a startled squeak quickly swallowed by his questing mouth as he settles between your parted thighs, pinning you to the sheets.

You arch up to meet him in a slick glide of fevered skin, clutching him close. Through it all, your soft laughter never ceases — bubbling up in breathless peals of delight that Lando hungrily drinks in.

Yeah, he’s pretty damn wooed all right. But from this moment forward, he’s going to spend every second making damn sure you never have to ask again.

[mrslestappen]

Disease : paranoid ✦ cl16

summary: The fact that you have to work as a Formula One driver's assistant for your final college grade is not the worst of your problems; the true issue is that no one told you that you would become a emotional support human for him.

pairing: charles leclerc x assistant!reader

tags: fluff + angst?, caring charles (tiny bit) + comfort, bad thoughts.

# part one - next part [ series masterlist ]

Everything feels unreal. You're watching the mechanics work in the garage, and the only thing you can think is: has red always been such a pretty color?

It was the first race of the season, and you didn't have much to do yet, they told you that you just needed to make sure that Charles did everything that they asked him to do, and that was easy, thanks to him.

“Have you seen my notebook?" Charles asks as he looks around to see if he can catch a glimpse of the tiny notebook somewhere, you let out a chuckle, grab your purse from the floor and give him what he needs. 

“How is it that you always have everything I need?” he took the notebook from your hands and opened it “I try my best” he gave you a knowing look.

Charles still remembers the first time he saw you at the Ferrari headquarters in Maranello, you had just signed your contract with them and he had just been told that he had a new assistant. 

You were quite awkward and a bit clumsy when he first struck up a conversation with you. He learned that this was your first job, and he made a mental note to make you feel welcome, and also he didn't want you to leave him like the others. 

He tried his best to make you feel as comfortable as possible before the season started, he was patient and generally nice, which was what you really needed at that moment. 

When you made your first mistake and didn't tell Charles that he was supposed to be in a meeting, he took the blame and told Fred that it was his fault. 

You thought he would be angry, but he just said "It's okay, everyone makes mistakes" and in that moment you thank the angels for making him such a nice person. 

"Thank you, Mr. Leclerc" 

"None of that, we are a team you and I, if you ever need help just come to me." 

That was a month ago when you were still new and walking on eggshells trying not to make any mistakes, luckily you got better after all your final grade depended on it. 

"Have you eaten today?" Charles asks, handing his notebook back to you, just needed to check something he thought he should comment on the car in the next meeting they will have. 

"I haven't, but I was about to do so," you told him as you walked out of the garage with him beside you, trying your best not to look at him to see his face, which probably had a disappointed look on it. 

"I thought you said you already ate." 

"I did." 

"What did you have?" 

"Coffee," you mumble softly as you enter the Ferrari hospitality, "that's not food y/n," he scolds you again, you already lose count of how many times he does this.

Charles grabs a plate and starts to put different kinds of fruit on it, "you already ate," he nods, "This is for you," you try to grab the plate out of his hands, but he stretches his arm as high as he can to make sure you don't have a chance to grab it. 

"It's my food, let me grab what I want," he ignores you, grabs your wrist, and walks over to one of the tables. 

He pulls out a chair for you and you sit down, he puts the plate in front of you and sits across from you, motioning for you to start eating, which you do, but not before giving him the meanest look you can.

You take out your phone and play a YouTube video while you eat, it is a bad habit and Charles has told you several times but he still watches with you. 

When you put the phone at the right angle so that you and Charles can see the video without any problems, you notice that he is not watching.

“Mr. Leclerc" you called him but he didn't answer, you sighed softly, you know he heard you. 

"Charlie?" 

"Yes?"

"You have to stop doing that," he tilted his head as if he didn't know what you were saying, "I shouldn't call you that," "Why not?" "Because you're my boss.”

"There's nothing wrong with calling me that, besides it makes me feel old when you call me Mr. Leclerc."

"You are old" 

"I'm twenty-six." 

The look you gave him was enough to make a dramatic gasp come out of his mouth, you were already used to his tactics so you didn't apologize for calling him old. 

When the alarm on your phone went off, you grabbed it and stopped it before it could keep ringing, "Time to go, you have a meeting," you said as you handed him his notebook that he needed for to take notes. 

He gave you a quick thanks, but you grabbed him and raised your hand, he gave you a pout, but you shook your head at that, he took his phone out of his pocket and placed it in your hand, "it was worth the try," he muttered to himself. 

✦ ✦ ✦

While you were waiting for Charles' meeting to end, you took out your laptop and started to finish the assignment you were supposed to send for this month. 

You were quite happy when your professor told you that all you had to do was to send in a report on what you had done, the experience you had gained, and what you had become better at, for your monthly assignment. 

It was a pretty easy assignment since you were traveling around the world and learning things that you didn't even know existed, and since this was your first job, it was easier for you because you were learning a lot of new things. 

“Y/n?" You took your eyes off the computer and looked at the person calling your name, you tilted your head as if to ask if they needed anything but they shook their head and motioned with their hand towards the hospitality door. 

You quickly grab your things and walk to the door to greet your friend, "Did you see what Professor Brown posted in the announcements?" You shake your head and ask, "Is it something important?" "Depends, he wants us to take pictures of what we have been doing lately." 

It didn't sound too bad, if the assignments continued to be like this, you were pretty sure you'd get an easy A. 

"Did you do it?" You ask her, "I did," she nods, "but I came here to tell you because I know sometimes you don't check the announcements," you give her an embarrassed smile, "I'm not that bad," you mutter softly, and she gives you a look, which you shrug off. 

"Well, I'm going back, I'm pretty sure Lando is already out of control again, see you, take care," she gave you a quick hug before walking quickly towards the McLaren hospitality. 

You watched her go and sighed, taking your phone out of your pocket, ready to take some pictures to send with the assignment, "Hey, have you seen Andrea?" You jump a little at the voice next to you, "Don't do that, and yes he’s in your driver's room, are you okay? You've been acting weird since yesterday" you ask him with concern evident in your voice, but he quickly shrugs it off and tells you that he is fine. 

You make a mental note to ask him later. "I'm going to exercise, go to my driver's room if you need anything, okay?" You nod, take his phone out of your purse and hand it to him. 

He quickly says goodbye and walks away before you can say anything else to him, you have noticed that Charles has been acting strange since you arrived in Bahrain. 

You have been meaning to ask him about it, but every time you get the chance he seems to run away, which is so unlike him. 

You snap out of your thoughts and head back into the hospitality area, ready to take some pictures and send off the assignment. 

✦ ✦ ✦

Practice one is about to start and everyone is running around making sure everything is perfect. The only thing that seems not to be here is the driver. 

"Y/n, where is Charles?" Fred asks, you want to shrug your shoulders but then you remember that this is your job, and you should know where he is, you look at him and tell him you're going to get Charles, and he gives you a thumbs up.

You look for Charles everywhere, including his driver's room and the hospitality area. Has he left? You were pretty sure you saw him a few minutes ago.  

How can a person disappear so quickly? you even ask people from other garages and they haven't seen him. 

You tried to call him, but his phone was dead, it didn't even send you to voicemail. 

"Y/n!" You hear someone yell your name and quickly turn your head towards Carlos, he seems out of breath, and you can see his chest rising and falling faster than normal.

"Charles is in my driver's room, I don't know what happened," he said, but that was enough for you to start running towards the Ferrari driver's room. You still shouted a thank you to Carlos and that seemed to have caught the attention of other people who looked at you strangely.

But you did not care about that, you needed it to find Charles and to make sure that he was ready to get into the car. 

You reach the driver's room trying to catch your breath as much as you can, you probably look terrible with hair sticking in your face from how much you've been sweating, you want to kill him for making you suffer like this.

You were now outside Carlos' driver's door and you could hear soft mumbling, was he talking to himself?

You knocked softly on the door and waited for an answer, when you got none you decided to open the door. 

"Charles how can-" you couldn't continue as Charles was lying on the floor with his hands on his head rocking back and forth as if trying to calm himself down, your thoughts of scolding him left you just by seeing him in such a vulnerable state.

You walked as slowly as you could and bent down to his level. You grabbed one of his hands, and that was enough for him to look at you quickly. 

"I'm sorry - I can't, it's going to be like last year," he said quickly, you know from what you heard that last year was not a good one for Charles, the car didn't seem to work for him at all, you didn't know he was that affected by it, and now looking at him you didn't want him to feel that way. 

He's such an amazing person and always so happy and joking with you, but he was hiding a lot of things that had hurt him and you couldn't let that happen.

"Hey, you can do this, okay?" both your hands grab his face and you give him a tiny smile, "I can't..." you shush him and try to get as close to him as you can, were you allowed to hug him? You did not know, but at that moment he probably needed it. 

"Hey, those bad days don't define you, you're amazing and such a talented driver, last year the car wasn't good, let's leave that in the past, okay? This is a new opportunity and you're going to show everyone who Charles is, you're going to make them eat their words, so go and destroy them, champ". 

That seems to make Charles' worries melt away a bit, you told him to take a deep breath with you, and when you felt that he was better you slowly let him go. But that seems to be a wrong move, because when you do, Charles seems to look at you as if you took something away from him, but you ignored it. 

"Okay champ get up, time to make jaws drop with your amazing driving" you joked and you were quite happy because you could see the corner of his mouth move up a bit. 

"Thank you, Mon ange" 

"None of that, we are a team, you and I, remember?" 

He nodded and in that moment he let himself look at you while you smiled at him, he felt as if your smile had the power to melt away his worries leaving behind a feeling of peace, in that moment he was grateful for you, he took a deep breath and let it out, there was nothing to worry about.

He's pretty sure this season will go well with you by his side because you wouldn't leave him, would you?

Scuderia :: @evie-119 @tempo-rary-fix @spookystitchery @boiohboii @halleest @itsjustkhaos @aphroditeisamilf @vicurious28 @lozzamez3 @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @heyheyheyggg @teamnovalak @fakeplastiqtree @michelleyw81 @lillyssh-tposts @these-books-are-ruining-my-life @kqliie @deliciousfestsalad @biitch-with-wifi @xohollie01 @charlesleclerc2003 @loloekie @elliegrey2803 @steamy-smoker @doesnt-care @delululeclerc @vip-access @theseerbetweenus @haikyuen @arian-directioner @marvelfangirl04 @melagem02 @rach3164 @zucchinimalfoy @scopeiguess @landoslutmeout @reiofsuns2001 @badussybumper @nixily @forevercaffeinated-lee @i-wish-this-was-me @gabys-gabs @entr4p3 @trouble-sistar @thef1diary @puttyly @solo2leo @f1and1d4eva @liliummz

Team radio: I hope you like! it I feel I could have done better but English is not my first language but I will do my best to improve, I will keep practicing and improving my writing every day.

[shurisasthmaticgf]

the curls are curling: lando norris x black social media influencer fem! reader

summary: the secret behind why his curls have been consistently looking perfect is revealed.

authors note: i am still very new to formula one so please don't jump me if there is some slight inaccuracies. i did my best to look things up if i wasn't sure about them. this fic isn't based off of any race in particular either. also, this is a work of fiction meaning it's not REAL so please remember that as well! constructive feedback is heavily encouraged and very appreciated 🫶🏽

heat pooled through the open windows of the house as you ran around to try and get yourself ready for the long day ahead. you woke up an hour ago to give yourself two hours to get ready because today was a race weekend. usually, you only needed about an hour to get you and your boyfriend out the door but today you'd gotten up earlier to film a vlog.

the whole social media influencer thing was still fairly new for you, only having started to consistently vlog and post a few months ago. before you'd started dating lando you were posting here and there about your day to day as a university student and intern for a large company in the city. every so often one of your videos got a couple hundred thousand views but you didn't really mind that your other content only got a few likes...that was just how tiktok's algorithm worked.

once you graduated from university and your internship ended you didn't have much to vlog about until you decided to film a race weekend and post it. what you didn't expect was the video to get millions of views and likes overnight. a massive influx of fans followed but you didn't really pay too much mind to the number, this was just something you liked to do and people also liked to watch. with time you ended up opening a youtube channel where you posted longer vlogs and other videos, and tiktok became a place where you posted 1-3 minute clips of your longer videos. one thing you never really did was center your entire vlog around your boyfriend. sure, lando was the entire reason you ended up at races but you were also your own person...that and lando was oddly camera shy when it came to your vlogs so he often wanted you to edit him out if he happened to end up in the frame.

which is how you ended up in your bedroom with your tripod pointed the camera directly at you. you smiled widely, hoping that it masked the fact that you were nearly half asleep, "good morning everyone! it's race day and i'm gonna be taking you along with me. everyone's been asking for a longer race day vlog so i'm here to give you all what you want. first lets get into the fit- these pajamas were sent to me from Brooks Avenue, if you like them you can use the code Y/N for a little discount on your purchase!" you backed up to show off your pink and green pajamas that would have definitely cost an arm an a leg if they hadn't come in a PR package. the matching pink and green satin bonnet on your head slowly slipped down your forehead leaving you to push it back up with an annoyed huff. you explained to the camera once more, "okay and first i'm gonna brush my teeth then do my skincare routine...he's in the shower right now so the lens might get fogged up, sorry in advance." you knocked on the bathroom door to let your boyfriend know you were coming in before pulling your skincare products out of your travel bag. quickly you brushed your teeth with until you felt like you'd gotten rid of every trace of morning breath.

just as you finished your skincare routine, the shower turned off and you slipped out of the bathroom. while lando finished in the bathroom you sat back down at the vanity and situated the camera back in front of you. slowly you slipped the bonnet from your head and untied the silk scarf under it, letting the large twists in your hair fall against your shoulders. to the camera you explained, "it's gonna be really hot today so i'm just gonna pull the twists back with a ribbon and call it a day i think." you pulled a jar of edge control and a brush from your bag and began styling your baby hairs, effortlessly into swirls and swoops. a laugh fell past your lips as you admitted, "honestly the only reason i still do this is so my forehead looks slightly less...megamind-esque in pictures." when you finished you tied another scarf messily around your hairline and began gathering your twists into a ponytail to secure it with a holder and ribbon.

the bathroom door opened and lando walked back into your room, fully dressed but his button down left wide open exposing his bare torso. in his hands he held a blow dryer and two bottles, one leave in conditioner and a gel you'd bought for him a few weeks ago. you finished tying the bow around your ponytail then took the two bottles from him and plugged the blow dryer into the wall. a hand gently pulled on your hand and you looked up to see sleepy smile grace his lips, "good morning, beautiful." you drew closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and letting him pull you in by the waist. his head nuzzled into your shoulder as your hand found the back of his head, stroking his hair softly with your fingers you murmured, "hi baby." you could feel the shy smile he wore against your shoulder until you pulled away from him. you pulled a robe from the back of the door and told him, "put this on." he knew most of the reason was so he didn't stain his shirt with hair products but another part of it had to be the fact that his shirt was wide open.

lando sat in front of the camera and you laughed at how awkward he looked compared to normal. you prompted, "baby, say hi to everyone. they ask for you all the time." he stiffly waved a hand in front of the camera and you sighed, "i don't know why you act so funny around my camera but everyone else it's fine." he mumbled a soft, "because it's you..." but only the mic on the camera caught it. he sat on the bench in front of you and slightly leaned back into your body before letting his eyes flutter shut.

meanwhile you showed the leave in conditioner to the camera, "this is the kinky curly knot today leave in-" despite his eyes being shut lando let out a small laugh and you asked, "what?" he mumbled cheekily, "kinky." you let out a exasperated sigh, "oh god you're like a child...anyways i was saying, i put a little of this in his hair but not too much just a tiny amount to add moisture." squeezing the leave in conditioner into your palm then applying it to his hair you hummed along to a sza song that ran through your head. the gentle work of your fingers running along his scalp nearly lulled lando back to sleep. you worked through his hair with a practiced ease, adding product and coaxing the curls atop his head to take perfect shape. not wanting to disturb his peace, you silently showed the matching brand's curling custard and then applied that lightly to his hair. once you'd finished you turned on the blow dryer, accidentally jump scaring your boyfriend under you. a soft melodic laugh fell past your lips and one hand fell to his shoulder before you leant down and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, "my bad babe." the camera didn't miss the way he leaned into your touch, pushing his cheek closer to you with his shoulders dropping further in relaxation.

not even half an hour later you were done and the light brown curls on his head were perfectly defined. you wiped your hands on the hand towel you'd slung over your shoulder earlier and laughed when you realized your boyfriend literally fell asleep. you gently cupped under his chin and pressed another kiss to his cheek. just above a whisper you mumbled, "all done, bubs. " he opened his eyes and smiled while you mused, “my pretty boy.” his cheeks flushed slightly, “thank you” and you brushed a few curls into place before looking at his reflection, "of course." he stood up and pulled you out of the frame to gave you a quick kiss before going downstairs where you'd meet him when you finished getting dressed.

the white and navy blue floral sundress you wore was both nice and simple enough to wear for today. simple gold jewelry and a pair of white sandals finished off your look and you grabbed the camera to show your reflection in the full length mirror on the wall, "all dressed so i'm gonna go meet lando downstairs and i'll see you all a little bit later!" you stopped recording and went downstairs to find your boyfriend sitting and ready to go, his cheeks burning pink when he laid eyes on you. a subtle fluttering erupted in your stomach at the familiar gaze, the one that made you feel like the only girl in the world.

*extra*

you scrolled through your social media accounts, something you never really did if you didn't have to. the first thing that came to your attention was the flood of pictures and comments that were about your boyfriend's hair. for the past few races you'd been doing his hair and more and more fans were noticing it looked better than normal. honestly, you found it amusing that people were bringing it up and so much at that, so you decided to add to the conversation just a bit:

fans reactions to recent vlog upload:

[ladymarvel27]

Dog or Corpse | Carlando | (II)

werewolf!Carlos x reader / vampire!Lando x reader

Part 1

f1 masterlist

Warnings: Mentions of little blood, knives, cuts, fangs. Werewolf transformation?

"You're speaking metaphors, right?" She finally spoke, after a long silence. Carlos softly places his hand on his chest and sighs in relief. He sits down on the couch and takes a deep breath.

“So, are you going to tell me?” She asks.

“What?”

“Why do you hate my project partner?”

“Because he is a vampire. He is posing threat on you. And I have sworn to protect you from him. I am a werewolf and you're my mate. It’s my duty to protect you from him."

She rolls her eyes at him. “I think you have a disease, Carlos.”

“What disease?”

“Lycanthropy! Do you think you are some wolf? And-and we are mated? Gosh, Carlos! You need help!”

“Trust me, I am not lying! And that stupid friend of yours is a vampire!”

“I trust you but-” and she heard bones cracking. His clothes had started to rip and the way those bunch of hairs grew on his body; she had to look away.

A few moments later she heard a soft growling. Her skin had turned pale and her body started sweating, not the way he always made her do, but this time in fear. She slowly turned around. In his place stood a huge black wolf with the same big brown eyes she adores. He held out his paw in front of her. Her hand slowly reached for the jacket and her phone on the table. She immediately grabbed them and ran out of the apartment. Her action caught him off guard and his hand was left hanging there, waiting for her touch, his jaw hanging.

He had to follow her. It was dark outside and she must be in danger. He followed her smell and found her, lying in the middle of the forest, completely passed out, with a little scratch on her head. He must approach her in his human form, maybe she will accept him.

He slowly nudges her body. She blinks and opens her eyes. “What the hell are you, YOU MONSTER!” She immediately snaps at him. Tears blur his vision hearing these words and he takes a step back. “Hermosa please li-,”

“Stay away!” She snaps. He threw his hands in frustration.

“If I wanted to harm you, I already had done it, Mariposa!”

Her face softens as she realises.

“So do you trust me that i won't pose a threat on you?”

She tries to get up and sighs in frustration. “Yes, I trust you.”

“Let me take you home.” She nods and takes his hand to get up.

“I love you amor. I am- we are mated. And I pledge to protect you from any kind of harm.”

“Carlos,” she breathes out softly, “So are you like my guardian angel?”

“No mi amor, I am your boyfriend, your lover,” his face lit up with a smile, his cheeks blushing madly“, And I-I desire to spend the rest of my life with you, Hermosa.”

“And Lando?”

“He is a bloodsucking monster, who wants your blood. He isn’t mortal like us.”

Her eyes widened, “So he will never die?”

“He can die if we stack his heart with a silver dagger.” A dagger goes through a man’s heart even if he did nothing wrong? “NO!” She blurted out loudly.

“What?” He knitted his eyebrows in confusion with her sudden response.

“It’s wrong to kill him. We don’t have any reasons. And how you’re so sure he is a vampire?” She inquired. He shifts and takes a deep breath. “Do you want a real proof?” She nods.

Lando cheerfully greeted her as soon as she opened the door. She gracefully greeted him back and led him to their study place. He looked around, probably checking if that scary boyfriend of hers was here today.

She side-eyes his face as he settles down on one of the chairs. His skin looks paler than what is natural, Carlos had told her, like life had been drained out of him. Lando’s face looks greyish, not the natural skin colour. Seems like all his blood drained from his face. He might look like he is scared, but he isn’t, his tone conveys it. It’s just his natural colour.

After a while, she brought up snacks for them. “Whoa! These are so big,” he commented on the sandwiches. She had made them bigger intentionally. When he opens his mouth wide open to take a bite, she notices his canines. They might not look noticeably like fangs, he might have them filled up so they aren’t easily detectable, but they will be very sharp, like mine. He had told her that Vampires have longer canines which are fangs to suck the blood. Carlos did have sharp canines like a wolf, but not long like a vampire has.

“Oops! I only have one cupcake left,” she spoke looking into the contents of her refrigerator.

“It’s okay,” he smacks his hands in the air.

“No, we can share,” she brings the cupcake in a plate with a knife and place the plate on the table. “I will cut it in two halves, then we both can get it. How’s that?”

“Fine for me,” he shrugs.

She slowly brings the knife but accidentally cuts her finger as she shrieks lightly. “Oh gosh!” A small stream of blood spurs out from the tip of her finger, in the usual bright red colour.

“Are you fine?” He asks, his voice laced with concern but he has his face turned away. Finally, if he gets startled by the bleeding of natural blood and reacts unnaturally, he is for sure a vampire, Carlos' voice kept echoing in her mind.

“Hey! Look at me!” She shouts at him but he keeps looking at the floor. She lifts his chin with all her force and shouts, “LOOK AT ME!” He finally lifts his chin and growls at her, his eyes have turned darker, almost pitch black like he had been possessed, and his canines had elongated into fangs.

Taglist: @faithshouseofchaos @vivwritesfics

[scuderiahalf]

always you — mick schumacher

pairing. mick schumacher x verstappen!merc racing engineer!fem!reader

summary. mick had always been inexplicably tied to you, no matter what distance grew between you. even if it took over two decades for you to figure it out, it had always been mick. it would always be mick. 5.4k, 18+

playlist. "invisble string" by taylor swift, "the perfect pair" by beabadoobee, "moves" by suki waterhouse, "i wanna be yours" by arctic monkeys, "let the light in feat. father john misty" by lana del ray

warnings. pining, mick is kind of very much pitiful in this alright, smut, l-bombs, sort of sub!mick, google translated german, almost choking, oral (fem and male receiving), penetrative sex

. . .

"I'm telling you what the data says, and it says you're wrong, so follow the damn line, George."

Mick fought a smile as you told George off over the radio. Toto cast you a look that you didn't even seem to see, let alone acknowledge. The team principal didn't look all that surprised when you didn't take your eyes off the screens of data you were getting input from.

In the next lap, George's lap time dropped nearly four seconds thanks to your suggestion. George didn't offer an apology for doubting you and you didn't expect one; you only expected him to be consistent in how he attacked turns seven and eight, to continue following your instructions.

Mick had observed your and George's relationship over the last few seasons you had been working with him. As George's racing engineer, you had quite a close working relationship with the Brit.

Off track, you were good if unlikely friends. Where George was all pretense and propriety and politeness, you were nothing but brutally honest, succinct, and to the point. But you were close in age and often seen together chatting and laughing.

On track, you were pretty much the same, if not even more blunt, if that was possible. George fed off your no-nonsense attitude, communicating clearly and without any of the fluff normally gracing his conversational skills.

Mick admired how well you worked with George. He admired just about everything you did. You could sit there doing absolutely nothing and F1TV would catch Mick staring at you like a lovesick fool again.

He still doesn't know how he hadn't seen the cameraman filming him as he watched you from across the garage two weekends ago. People kept referring to him as "Heart Eyes" Schumacher and he really could not blame them after seeing the clip of himself watching you.

You hadn't said anything to him about it. In fact, you hadn't said anything to him all season. Or during pre-season. Or in the two years prior when he was driving for Haas. Or in the thirteen years it had been since your dads had their falling out.

Mick would have liked to talk to you. He would have liked to talk about nothing or everything like you used to. He would have listened to you ramble about statistics and analytics and anything you wanted, even if he didn't understand a word of it.

But you had looked at him maybe three times since he signed on as Mercedes reserve driver. You either didn't remember or—more likely, knowing your keen mind—you didn't care about your shared history.

Even if it was in your childhood and so much had changed since then, Mick still remembered. He remembered playdates and shared family vacations and spending every second together that you could before your dad dragged you away.

He remembered noticing how different your dad treated you than his dad treated him. He remembered sleeping over once and hearing your dad screaming at you until you ran to your bedroom in tears. He remembered telling his dad about it all.

He remembered how he was the one to ruin everything.

You didn't seem to remember any of it—or, at least, you never seemed to reminisce on it. Never got caught up staring at him wondering how things could have been different. Never got distracted by unexplainable yet unavoidable and likely unrequited feelings for someone that was once your friend over a decade ago.

When he was with Haas, your lack of interaction could be excused; you were on different teams. Since he had signed with Mercedes, it felt like you had purposefully been ignoring him for months.

He could approach you. He could simply walk up to you at any point when you weren't fully absorbed by readout screens and analytic diagnoses and strike up a conversation.

He didn't want to push his luck. He didn’t fully understand why you wouldn’t talk to him but he also didn't want to make you uncomfortable.

If being near you meant never truly being close to you again, Mick could live with that. Ultimately, you owed him nothing, so he could watch from afar and adore you silently. He could be content with that.

After all, it was his fault that everything fell apart in the first place.

.

"Hey, heart eyes! Come here!"

Mick hesitated before making his way to where Lewis was in the VIP section of this Friday night's club of choice.

"Hi?"

"I can't help but notice that you're pathetically in love with your race engineer."

"She's George's engineer—"

"That’s beside the point. Anyway, I think your girl could use some saving."

"She's not my girl."

Lewis hadn't said your name. Mick didn't need him to.

Mick leaned on the balcony railing beside Lewis, looking down over the crowd on the main floor of the club. He found you embarrassingly fast. You were wearing a black shirt, pink shorts, and sandals.

He had seen you come in earlier with your brother and thought you were probably the prettiest girl there that night. If you were put in a room with the world's top models, Mick would still think the same.

On the floor below, your personal space was being invaded by a dark-haired man in glasses. You looked incredibly uncomfortable, glancing around for anyone you knew who you could latch onto and get away from the man who was talking at you incessantly.

It wasn’t even a conscious decision on Mick’s part. One second, he was watching you from the VIP balcony and the next, he was pushing his way through the dance floor to get to you.

The unnamed glasses man put a hand on your back, touching the sliver of exposed skin between your shirt and shorts. You visibly tensed up.

Before he could think better of it, Mick called your name and pretended to stumble into you and the man.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you.” He played up being drunk as he stuck himself between you and Glasses. “Hey, mate, how’s it going? Who are you?”

“I’m Nolan. And we were having a conversation.”

Mick had to hand it to ‘Nolan,’ he was persistent. “My bad, I guess. Y/N, your brother’s looking for you. Come on.”

He walked off and you followed after him. He hadn’t really thought this far ahead. He hadn’t been thinking at all. He was running by the seat of his pants and hoping he didn’t end up making things worse.

Last time he had thought he was helping you, he didn't speak to you for thirteen years.

“My brother left an hour ago.”

“I know.”

Mick kept walking towards the stairs up to VIP.

You kept following.

Maybe this time, things would be different.

.

When Mick was 11, he mentioned to his mom that your dad yelled at you and made you cry. That same day, his dad sat him down and asked him to tell him everything he knew about how Jos Verstappen treated his children.

He had told him everything he knew because he didn’t know why he shouldn’t. If his dad wanted to know, it had to be important. Maybe he would be helping you by telling his dad.

A week later, Mick was playing with you in the backyard when your dad started yelling. Except that time, he wasn’t yelling at you or his most frequent target of your older brother Max, he was yelling at Mick’s dad.

That day had ended with your father dragging you away from Mick. Mick remembers thinking he had grabbed you so roughly; didn’t it hurt to be seized by your arm and jerked around like that?

Jos didn’t care. He just yelled at Mick’s dad to stay away if he had such an issue with how he raised his children. So, the Schumachers stayed away. The last memory Mick had of you was with tears streaming down your face, begging your dad not to make Mick leave.

A little less than ten years later, Mick was a Formula One reserve driver. That same year, you had graduated early from university and earned a spot as a Williams performance engineer. Then, you went to Mercedes in 2021 and took over as George’s racing engineer at only twenty two years of age while Mick was racing with Haas.

"I thought you hated me."

You looked up at him, mouth full. "What? Why would I hate you?"

"For telling my dad about everything. For tearing us apart."

You swallowed your mouthful of sandwich, sat across from him in Mercedes hospitality on your lunch break.

After that night in the club, you and Mick rekindled your old friendship. You looked at him, now. You smiled at him and talked to him and sought him out just to sit and talk during your break.

Getting a second chance to be your friend was more than Mick ever thought he would have.

"Mick, that wasn't your fault. My dad... it's complicated. But our dads' falling out wasn't your fault. I never blamed you for it. You know that, right?"

No, he had not known that. He had spent the last thirteen years blaming himself for losing you. He had assumed you would blame him, too, for ending your friendship because he had spent so long as a self proclaimed scapegoat.

"Mick."

"I know that now."

"Mick!"

"I— Okay, I know it's stupid but I have always blamed myself for the whole situation. Then, when we both were getting into F1, you never reached out."

"You never reached out, either!"

"I know that but I figured you wanted nothing to do with me, so I never tried to talk to you."

"You're so daft sometimes, Schumacher."

Mick took your empty insult without argument.

After spending every free second he had with you over the last several weeks, he realized how dumb he had been. He never thought of himself as the melodramatic type but he had really been going through it when he thought you were avoiding him.

"I've never been the smartest when it comes to you."

You just scoffed at him and ate more of your sandwich.

The next day, it was a double podium for Mercedes with Lewis in P2 and George in third. With your brother on the top step of the podium, you were elated, grin broad and voice loud over the radio as you congratulated George for a race well done.

Then, you looked around the garage. Mick didn't know why until your eyes found him along the back wall. You were looking for him. You smiled (at him) and he was smiling back before he even had to think about it.

Being with you had always been easy. As kids, you never argued. You shared toys and always managed to find some weird, convoluted way to mash what you both wanted to do together.

Now that you had gotten over whatever misunderstandings that kept you apart for the last few years, it was easy again. There was never anything you two couldn't talk about. There was never awkward silence. There was never any want to not be near each other.

Mick spent all night celebrating Mercedes' 2-3 finish with you. It was easy to spend hours by your side, to stand too close, to look at you for too long. Once he had a few drinks, it was all too easy to speak his mind around you, lips loose and heart full.

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too, Micky."

"I mean I really missed you. All the time. I would think about you sometimes and miss what we used to have."

Your eyes were soft and focused only on him. He was barely tipsy from the alcohol but he was definitely drunk on you.

"Then, we were both in F1. But it was the pandemic and I was still worried you didn't want to see me. Then, when I was with Haas, I was so scared to approach you."

"Did I do something to make you think I hated you?"

"No, I was just in my head. And those months preparing for the season with Mercedes were the worst. You were so close but I was still too scared to talk to you."

"I wanted to talk to you, too," you admitted. "I thought about doing it sometimes but... I don't know. We hadn't spoken in so long and I was always so busy. I guess I was scared, too."

"I wish we had spoken sooner. We could have had this so much sooner."

"Had what sooner?"

"I don't know." That was a lie. "This. Us."

In all honesty, Mick didn't know what you two were. To anyone who asked, he would say old friends. But you were much more than that.

When he was ten, Mick kissed you for the first time. He had been in love with you since before he even understood what it meant. There was more heartbreak in the severing of your friendship than your families knew, more than either of you had known at that point.

And now, you were together again. Friends again. Except, friends don't sit knee to knee for hours at a time, wholly absorbed in nothing but each other in a raucous club with post-race celebrations going on all around them.

Friends don't let friends ghost their fingertips over the exposed skin of their shoulders, rest their hands on each other's thighs, play with the ends of their hair or the hem of their clothes.

"I missed us." Mick wondered if you knew what he meant by that.

You smiled (at him, again). "Me, too."

You were so close to him. Any sort of respectable distance was out the window. Your thighs were pressed together. You were sat sideways, head resting in your hand as you leaned an arm on the back of the couch.

He could sit up a little straighter and that was all it would take to reach your lips. He was seriously debating doing it.

Then, your brother smacked the back of your head as he was walking past, said something to you in Dutch that had you cursing at him in the same language.

"Hey, Mick," Max tossed at him with an uncomfortably knowing grin.

"Hey, Max."

Suddenly faced with the older brother of the woman he was just been fantasizing about kissing in the middle of a public space, Mick felt his face grow hot. He couldn't quite make eye contact with the eldest Verstappen child.

"Go away, Max," you told your brother with a glare.

Kelly took pity on you, dragging her boyfriend away.

"What did he say?" Mick asked you.

"'Get a room.'"

Mick laughed nervously, shifted away from you slightly. "Sorry, I—"

"Do you want to get out of here?"

Being with you had always been easy. It was maybe the easiest thing Mick had ever done to nod his head yes and let you drag him out of that club.

You sat too close in the cab ride back to the hotel. He stood too close in the elevator up to his hotel room. You held his arm as he fumbled with the keycard to get the door open.

You pushed at his chest to get him to sit on the edge of the bed. He went down willingly, kept his eyes on you the entire time. You stood between his legs, pushed his hair back, let him lean into your touch.

"Is this okay?" you asked.

Were you seriously asking that? He had turned into putty in your hands from just a few touches. You hadn't even kissed him yet.

"Mick," you insisted at his silence.

"Yes. It's okay. It is so okay. Don't stop. Please."

He couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed by just how easily you had reduced him to begging.

Above him, you smiled before leaning down to press your lips to his. His neck was craned back; you had a hand on the back of his head and one on his shoulder to keep him in place. He let you dictate the pace, let you kiss him however you wanted.

It was slow at first, just your lips on his. You set the tempo low, moved your mouth at a torturous pace. You sucked his bottom lips between both of yours. When your tongue finally poked out, he let his jaw slacken, let you lick into his mouth without a need to fight against it.

You slid your tongue against his. The exchange of saliva was erotic and messy and left Mick panting against you. He gripped the backs of your thighs, adjusted his hips, tangled his fingers in the hem of your dress.

Mick slipped into German as he got lost in want. "Liebe, bitte. Bitte, ich brauche dich." [Baby, please. Please, I need you.]

And you—brilliant, keen, genius you—knew what he was saying. When did you learn German? Did you remember enough of it from all the time you had spent with his family as a child? He had no clue.

"Sei geduldig. We will get there." [Be patient.]

"I have been patient for years. Please, Y/N."

You kissed him again to shut him up, faster, harder, sloppier this time. Your hand slid over the column of his throat, just resting there as nothing but a reminder. He keened into your mouth, the vibration getting caught by your hand.

"I love you," he gasped, out of breath.

You drew back.

Mick's heart stopped.

"You love me?"

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing against your hand. "Yes. I have since we were kids. I don't— I don't want this if this is all it will be. I want everything with you. I want you to love me, too."

Somehow, it was still easy for him to lay all his cards on the table, to let you see everything and wait for your verdict. He was terrified, yes, but he trusted you implicitly.

He loved you and only you—he had only ever loved you this desperately and wholly, thirteen years apart be damned.

"I'm in love with you," he said.

You seemed breathless and speechless all at once.

He knows he said too much. It was definitely overwhelming to have all of that said to you with no warning but once he started, he couldn't stop. He had kept it all to himself for so long, watching from afar, never able to get close to you.

Now, here you were. He only hoped he had not read into things that were not there. He looked up at you, ice blue eyes wide and hopeful, patiently awaiting your response.

"I love you, too," you said on an exhale. "I'm in love with you, too. I thought I was crazy for it but I think I've always loved you."

Mick was not entirely convinced that this all wasn't some sick wet dream he would wake up from in the morning. He didn't care. He couldn't care, not when you slid your hand up to his jaw, held his face so gently, looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

"It's always been you, Mick."

He couldn't stop himself anymore. He pulled you close, guided your legs to either side of his hips, held your head and kissed you.

Dominance was shared this time as you kissed each other. You sighed into his mouth, a contented and wanting sound. You rested your arms on his shoulders as your tongues danced. His hands pushed up higher under the skirt of your dress, squeezing the soft skin of your upper thighs.

"Okay?" was the simple question he asked before taking things any further.

"Please."

Supporting your weight, Mick lifted you out of his lap and laid you out on your back. Hovering over you, he slid a hand up your dress to your hip. He caught the waistband of your underwear, glanced up at you to make sure.

You nodded.

He got both hands under your dress to pull your underwear off. He pushed your legs apart and you let them fall open, exposing yourself to him and he nearly moaned at the sight alone.

You were laid open and not quite bare with your dress still on but your pretty pink folds were in clear view. He had never expected to have you in any way, let alone spread open and ready to be ravished, but to say he hadn't imagine it two hundred times over would be a lie.

He moved down your body to kiss your left thigh, first closer to your knee then moving up so the soft, supple skin of your inner thigh. He let his breath fan over your pussy, felt the way you twitched at the sensation. Then, he kissed back down your right leg, trailing kisses down to your knee.

"Mick," you urged.

He bit back the repetition of your words about patience from earlier, instead deciding to be nice and lift your knees up over his shoulders, slide his arms under your legs to warp around and hold them in place, then settle in between your thighs like he had nowhere to be for quite some time.

Your folds were glistening in anticipation by the time his lips met them. He kissed over your aching core one, two, three painfully slow times before finally letting his tongue slot against your clit. His lips moved in tandem with his tongue, sucking and licking at the little bundle of nerves until you threw your head back and choked out a throaty moan.

"Mick—please."

That was all the encouragement he needed.

Mick dropped his head to slide his tongue down between your folds, to press at your entrance over and over, lapping at your pussy in a way that could not care about saliva and slick dripping off his chin.

His nose nudged at your clit. Every breath in was nothing but the scent of you ingraining itself in his brain in a way he will never forget. He would never want to forget a single thing about you in that moment.

Not your scent or the taste of your cunt on his tongue. Not the feeling of your fingers tangling in his hair, not pushing or guiding just holding onto him like you just wanted to have your hands on him in any way you could. Not the way you breathed his name halfway between a moan and a cry, or how you arched your back as you were overwhelmed with bliss.

You were coming apart on his tongue and lips and nothing else. If he could save the taste of you and get high on it every night he would. If he could bottle the feeling of you trying not to squirm under the pleasure that he was bringing you, he would drink himself dumb a thousand times over.

"Mick—!"

He hummed in perfect contentment as you cried his name in warning. Your muscles tensed, legs tried to close around his head as he worked you closer and closer to the edge. He just dug in more, ate you out more fervently, slipped his tongue inside of you until you were gasping from the feeling of it.

When he made you come the first time, it was with a cry of his name and panting moans as you bucked your hips up against his face. He worked you through it, kissing and licking at your clit until you were pushing at his head to pull him off.

When he lifted his face from between your thighs, his face was wet, covered in you and he loved it. You laughed breathlessly as you saw him, still shaking slightly from your orgasm.

"Jeez, Mick. When did you learn to go down on a girl like that?"

He was a little lightheaded and a lot pussy drunk, but he still knew better than to mention any girl he'd been with before. "I want you to be the only girl I ever go down on again."

"Good answer," you said, and pulled him up to kiss you as a reward.

You could probably taste yourself on his lips but didn't seem to care as you kissed him hungrily. You tugged at his shirt, so he pulled it over his head. You ran your hands over his torso unabashedly, feeling his stomach and shoulders, bringing goosebumps to his skin as you ran your fingernails down his chest.

Despite having you crumbling apart under his mouth not three minutes ago, when you climbed into his lap and started kissing his neck, Mick felt like he was short circuiting.

Your dress had fallen back over your hips to hide it but he knew you were uncovered underneath the silky fabric. If his pants were off, he could be inside of you right now.

He slid the straps of your dress off your shoulders as you gripped his jaw and tilted his head to the side to kiss at his neck some more. He went pliantly, moaned softly at the feel of your teeth tugging at the sensitive skin where his neck met his clavicle.

He reached around to your back to unzip your dress. When you slid your arms out of the straps and he pulled the top of the dress down, he was finally able to get his hands on your boobs, taking big handfuls of each.

You were still kissing and licking his neck, teasing your teeth against his skin every so often. When he ran his thumbs over your nipples until they were hard under his fingers, your breaths grew shaky. He carefully let his nails drag over the firm peaks, pinched them between his thumbs and forefingers and tugged until you were arching into him.

"So handsy," you commented breathlessly.

"I want to touch every inch of you until you can recognize me by feel alone."

Mick dropped his head between your breasts, kissed the skin there and the side of your boob before you pushed him back. He whined as you deprived him of becoming acquainted with another part of yourself he already knew he would never get enough of.

Then, you stood and stepped out of your dress to leave yourself bare. He couldn't find a reason to complain.

He was prepared to slide to the floor at your feet. Then, you beckoned him toward you.

You had him sit at the edge of the bed again. You dropped to your knees. You popped the button of his pants. You pulled his boxers down just enough, and then his cock was stood at full attention just in front of your face.

He cursed under his breath. You heard it and smirked before licking up the underside of his cock. You wrapped a warm hand around him, stroked him a few times while kitten licking at his tip.

"Y/N. Liebe, please. Y/N, please."

You were not as easily convinced to dive in and give Mick what he wanted as he was with you. You didn't change what you were doing, just continued to let the tip of your tongue dance along the top of his cock while your hand moved on him slowly.

You finally closed your lips over the head of his dick and Mick could have come from that and nothing more. You popped him out of your mouth with an audible noise. Mick groaned; you would be the death of him and he wouldn't even fight against it.

You shot him a Cheshire grin. The sight was lewd and unbelievably hot: you, with a hand around his cock and a big smile on your face like you enjoyed nothing more than sucking him off. Mick was going to combust if he wasn't inside of you in the next two minutes.

"Y/N—"

He tried to tell you as much but your mouth was on him again and he couldn't get the words out. You swirled your tongue around his head, then your jaw opened and and you took as much of him in your mouth as you could. It was warm and wet.

Your tongue flexed against the underside of his dick when it hit the back of your throat. He could feel himself press into your soft pallet until you had to come up for air with a slight gag.

He couldn't bring himself to make you stop when you went back in for more. His breaths were short and labored, legs tense under your free hand as he mentally and physically had to hold himself back from coming down your throat.

He could imagine how you would gag around him when he did, pulling up to take his load just behind your lips instead. You might open your mouth after he had finished, show him your handiwork as it was pooled on your tongue before swallowing it all.

"Y/N, you have to stop. I'm going to come."

You took him out of your mouth to press a sloppy kiss to his cock. You pouted up at him as you let his length rest against your face. He could feel your eyelashes against it when you blinked.

"You don't want me to make you come?"

"I don't want to be spent yet. Come lay down for me?"

You let him pull you off the floor, kissed him as you crawled up the bed and laid yourself out on your back. He managed to kick his pants and boxers off while searching his suitcase for a condom then get back over to you without tripping over his own feet.

You giggled at his eagerness. Your hands ran over his chest as he ripped the packet open and slid the condom on. Your legs were already parted for him as he positioned himself.

He glanced up at you, not nervous but checking in. Your gaze was set on where your two bodies were about to fit together, hungry and expectant. Who was Mick to deprive you of what you wanted?

Entering you was as easy as anything with you was. You were still soaked from Mick's saliva and your own fluids. Your mouth fell open and your walls fluttered around him. A moan croaked past your lips as you gripped his arms.

"Holy shit, Mick."

He had to be sure, so he asked, "Are you alright?"

"I'm in fucking ecstasy. Oh my god, baby."

Mick started moving his hips, long, slow strokes in and out as you keened beneath him, panting from almost nothing at all. He could live off the noises you made for him. He snapped his hips against yours, was rewarded with a gasp and startled little mewl and your fingernails digging into his biceps.

"Mick, please."

He continued the same slow pace. In and out, almost languid, near torture but so worth the desperate way you pulled at his shoulders and hips, physically trying to get him to speed up, to give you more.

"Mick. Go faster."

"I love you." Anything for you.

He made a smooth transition from rolling his hips against yours to making them a piston, pace and weight faster and harder. He bore down on you heavier. You cried out, dragging your nails down his back to only spur him on.

He sat back, pressed down on you with his hands on the backs of your knees to fold you in half. You couldn't easily get away from him when he had you pinned down like this, thighs spread wide and pussy bared to be split open on his cock. You tipped your head back and moaned loudly.

"You've got to try and be quiet, baby," he told you; you were still in a hotel.

"You're making it really difficult."

Mick grinned but eased off just a bit. "Sorry—"

"Don't you fucking dare. Fuck me, Schumacher. Fuck me hard."

So, he did.

.

You were sticky, shaking, and more than satisfied when Mick was through with you. Three more orgasms, four different positions, and five I love you's later, you had passed out against Mick's chest after he had carefully wiped you clean.

The next morning, you and Mick came down for breakfast together. Max was already there; you usually ate breakfast with your brother if you were staying in the same hotel because there wasn't much time to see him elsewhere on race weekends.

When he clocked the way you and Mick were so casually close together, the little looks you kept sneaking, he smacked a hand on the table and pointed an accusatory finger in your face.

"I knew it!"

Mick went red.

You just rolled your eyes. "Shut up, Max."

. . .

a/n. this was partially inspired by this one max fic i read a while ago that i couldn't find again. it's schumacher!reader x max and reader is the one to tell michael about how jos treats max then reader and max reconnect years later. i think it was inspired by "seven" by taylor swift.

if anyone can find it/the author lmk and i'll give credit! hope you enjoyed <3

edit: credit is due to @mastermind123 (who i cannot tag for some reason) and their story, seven. go read it; it’s so cute!!

[theundercoversquid]

Awkward first encounters Pt2

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x Reader

Request: O my god, I’m in love with this 🥹🥹 I would love this to be a series of multiple stories and just tell the whole thing 😂 So if you’re up for it……. 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡 thank you so much - @justthatgirlxox

Warnings: 

Part one: Awkward first encounters

Masterlist

Your hands were shaking when you arrived at the restaurant. You knew you were far too early. But you were ready early and could sit in your dorms with so much adrenaline running through your veins. You figured, at the very least, you could get there early and look at the menu.

When you got there, the waiter asked for the name of the booking, to which you tentatively gave them Pierre's. You watched as they crossed the names off a list before leading you off.

You follow the water as it leads you through the restaurant. Suddenly, ducking into a hallway as they lead you to an unmarked door. 

Pushing it open, they lead you into a smaller room. It is furnished with a single table set for two, two lit candles in the middle, a red tablecloth, and a vase of red roses.

The waiter led you in and to one of the chairs. Pulling the chair out, he let you sit down and tucked you in.

Before presenting you with one of the menus, taking it, you start to scan the menu.

You noticed that the menu was lacking in prices. Something that made you nervous. How expensive was it all, especially if it was lacking in price? How would you know what to get to fit your budget? You were only a student and not a millionaire.

Just as your thoughts were starting to spiral, the door opened again. This time, however, Pierre looked surprised to see you.

"You are early," he commented. Sounding surprised as he sat opposite you.

"So are you," you reminded him. The date was not due to start for another 20 minutes.

Pirre laughed at that. His eyes brightened.

However, as his laughter faded, silence came in. The two of you are unsure what to say now.

After a bit, you finally spoke up. "I think my menu might be defective." You admitted. "It doesn't say the price of anything on it."

At that, Pierre just smiled at you. "No, that is deliberate. I didn't want you to know how much anything would cost, so you would freely order what you wanted. I am the one who asked you on a date and picked this restaurant, so I will pay. My treat."

"That's not fair." You immediately started to protest. "I can pay for my own lunch."

"I know that," Pierre assured you, "but as I picked a more expensive restaurant, I am happy to pay. You can pick where we go on the next date, and I will gladly let you pay."

"Are you sure?" You questioned.

"Absolutely," Pierre smirked. "Especially if it means I get another date with you."

At that, you could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks.

"Yeah, that, uh. that works for me." You stuttered out.

"Perfect." Pierre grinned. Returning to look at his munie. "Now, what were you tempted by."

With that, the two of you funny stellated into more effortless conversations. Maybe there wasn't such a need for you to feel so awkward; maybe, just maybe, this would end up working out.

[marieracingteam]

Weekend 9. Monaco Grand Prix

Part 9 | masterlist

The season continues, however, fans are beginning to see a change in the results. A change that many of them prayed for. Will Max prove them wrong or does he have his mind elsewhere?

[translation]

Lola: So… are you going out tonight again?

Cala: You also think I shouldn’t?

Lola: I think you should do what you want to do

Lola: No one is bossing you around anymore, love

Cala: Then yes, I think I am going out tonight

Lola: Let’s go!! Have fun with prince charming

Lola: Outfit photo plz

[theferrarieffect]

snickerdoodles, chapter 3: drifting apart, keeping in touch, a bar near-miss and a senior year surprise (4.9k words)

previous chapter here!

warnings: a bit more angst followed by fluff, the slowest burn (sorry)

chapter 3: let them eat macarons (or cake)

The cookies sit heavy in your bag, straps digging into your shoulder, while the foam of the orange headphones that have been on your head for more than an hour now squeeze your temples uncomfortably. But you don’t notice either of those things, because your eyes are glued to the monitors showing everyone’s track position, and your heart hammers in your chest not unlike the way it does when the anesthetist announces there’s five minutes to go before rewarming.

Oscar tries to negotiate Lewis in Turn 15, but even you can see that Hamilton pulls a dirty defensive move, squeezing Oscar dangerously close to the wall. The radio beeps.

“Man, Hamilton is trying to kill someone today.”

A chill runs down your spine. When you streamed the races from the comfort of your own couch, you hadn’t realized, really, exactly how fast these drivers go. But watching and hearing them take sharp corners at the speeds you take your car on the motorway when you’re hurrying to the hospital…Oscar’s right. He could kill someone. Literally.

There’s no way you could work for motorsport, at least not in a capacity where you have to come to all the races. But then, you feel a crazy compulsion to come, as if you need to be there, need to make sure nothing bad happens to him.

Lewis attempts to chase Lando down, but Lando, daring and hot-headed, doesn’t budge, and you cheer internally for the papaya team. Look at yourself. Already biased, already fangirling.

“Okay, Oscar,” Tom says into the radio. “You are within DRS, you can push, last lap.”

Your nails dig crescents into your palms.

Oscar edges the car near Lewis, tries to take the inside line…

…and Lewis swings wide, retaining his lead. Oscar crosses the line not half a second behind, P4.

You sigh with relief as he slows on his way into the pit lane.

“Okay, good job Oscar, P4, P4,” Tom tells him.

“Fuck,” Oscar’s voice crackles through the radio. “I’m sorry guys. Fuck.” True to Oscar form, even in rage, he sounds downright placid.

“No worries, Oscar, it was a tight race. Good drive. Lando P2.”

A heavy sigh. “Well, congrats to Lando at least. Good for the team.”

When Oscar extricates himself from the car and walks over into the paddock, you’re waiting for him. He pulls off his helmet, then the balaclava underneath. His brown waves point in every direction, matted with sweat, but his frown melts as soon as he sees you.

“I’m gross—” he warns, but you’ve already pulled him into a tight hug.

“Congrats,” you whisper into the rough fabric of his suit.

“This wasn’t the race I wanted you to see,” Oscar says, dully.

You pull away, but move your hands from his back, holding him by his biceps. “It was the one I got to see. You’re incredible. It’s like you become a different person out there, you know that? You’re just so…in your element.”

Oscar chuckles. “Too bad the second the suit comes off, I’m the dorky bloke who likes cookies way too much.”

“Funny you should mention,” you say, reaching into your bag, producing the snickerdoodles you’d gotten up to bake at the crack of dawn with a flourish.

You swear Oscar’s eyes just light up, and he pulls you close to him again.

The paddock is much more relaxed after the race, more disorganized. Papaya mixes with navy which mixes with scarlet, green, pink; you shake many hands attached to many people you’ll never remember, all the while searching for Oscar, even though you know he’s probably tied up with press. Luckily, Logan makes a beeline for you and herds you around, introducing you to more of the guys on the grid.

“Oscar’s being held hostage by Sky Sports,” he says with a grimace.

You grin. “I figured.”

Charles, equally as beautiful as his teammate—does Ferrari hire drivers or models?—presents you with a tiny, squirming golden puppy. “His name is Leo,” he beams, waving a diminutive paw. “Say hi, Leo.”

You nearly melt, stroking Leo’s head gently with two fingers, which is about the most you’re willing to do with a creature that miniscule.

“Ay, cabrón,” Carlos practically shoves Charles out of the way. “That dog is just his excuse to flirt.”

Logan rolls his eyes, stunningly reminiscent of Oscar.

Fortunately, only the Ferrari boys seem hungry for your attention. Pierre actually apologizes for Charles’ antics—”he ees so desperate”—oblivious to Yuki yanking one of his shoelaces and bounding away. Fernando fulfills your plea to witness one of his famous celebratory dances as Checo and Max roar with laughter. And you’re pleased to be able to tesitfy that Danny Ric’s smile is as blinding as they say it is.

“How’s trauma service treating you?” Logan asks conversationally as you walk back towards the McLaren motorhome.

You shrug. “It’s alright—” Huh. “Wait, how do you know I’m in surgery?”

Logan reddens, as if he’s accidentally revealed classified information. “Ah—well, I mean, Oscar talks about you a lot.”

Talks about you so much that Logan knows what department you’re currently rotating through?

As if he read your mind, Logan straightens up, clears his throat. “Suppose you weren’t aware.”

“Aware of what?”

“Of how…invested Oscar is. In your life. In you.”

Your heart begins to pound. “I mean, we’re good friends.”

Logan raises his eyebrows. “Nothing more?”

You shake your head, lips pursed.

He looks thoughtful. “What?” you demand.

“Well…nothing.” He notices your suspicious frown. “Okay, well, the way he talks about you, you’d think the guy’s a little nuts about you. Like, he’s not exactly the most chatty dude on the grid, but I swear if someone mentions a TV show, it’s suddenly your favorite show. And we’ve all learned not to ever bring up anything medical, or else we’re about to hear a whole ass lecture on how cool you are, how you’re a real doctor. And don’t even get me started on cookies, or cakes, or come to think of it, baking in general…”

You don’t know whether to laugh, or cry, or crawl into a cave and never come out. But now it’s Logan’s turn to appraise you shrewdly. “So…are you interested in him?”

Well, the cave option sounds pretty good now.

“No! I mean—I don’t—we’re just not like that,” you stumble clumsily. Is Logan Sargeant really interrogating you about your love life right now? “We’re friends. We’ve known each other for ages—”

Before you can continue to dig yourself an even deeper grave, Oscar mercifully emerges from the motorhome’s front doors. “Hey.” He nods at Logan. “Thanks for babysitting her.”

“Hey, I didn’t need babysitting—” you say, and then see the faintest whisper of a smirk on his face. You give him a playful jab in the side with your elbow.

“I don’t know,” Logan says innocently, “by the way you were wandering around, looking like a lost sheep…”

Oscar laughs, really laughs, and then you know Logan’s actually his friend, even off the track. That laugh is sunshine. That laugh is the crest of a wave on the Australian beach.

“Let me guess,” Logan says. “Lando’s already drunk.”

“He’s halfway to the bars in London,” Oscar chuckles.

“When are you heading to?”

Oscar glances at you, then back at Logan. “Actually, I was thinking of sitting this one out?”

“What?” you say. “Why? You should go celebrate. It’s an off week next week too.”

“You on nights this week?” Oscar turns to face you.

“Yeah, although I don’t see how that’s relevant,” you retort.

Oscar hums. “Welllllll…hypothetically, it’d be good for you to be staying up late, right? To prepare.”

You have to laugh at that. “Are you saying you want me to go to your team’s afterparty?”

Logan says nothing, eyes flickering back and forth between the two of you, an infuriatingly knowing smile plastered on his face.

You imagine taking a few tequila shots—something you haven’t done since uni, really—and jumping up and down on the dance floor with a bunch of strangers. Logan’s eyes search your face imploringly.

“I guess I could go,” you say hesitantly. Oscar brightens. “But I’m not staying late, or going crazy. That’s all on you.”

“Deal,” Oscar says.

“Deal,” Logan smirks.

You’re not sure what you’ve just signed up for.

~

“Sweetie,” your mom says one day, “the almond flour’s about to go bad. Weren’t you going to make macarons?”

Yeah, with him, you think bitterly. “I guess so. Haven’t been baking much recently.”

“Not as fun without Oscar, huh?” your mom’s voice softens. You try hard to fight back tears, even though it’s been nearly a year since he packed his bags and left for London. You shake your head.

“Well…Nicole was asking about you. I think she misses seeing you too, honestly.”

Nicole? Oh. Mrs. Piastri—Oscar’s mom. You sigh, remembering all the times you’d walked over to his house together, balancing plates wrapped loosely in clingfilm, Tupperwares full of baked goods. Oscar’s little sisters crowding around you while you watched TV on the couch, begging you to let them braid your long, thick hair, which had reached nearly to your waist. You tug on the newly short, barely-skimming-the-collarbone ends now—another thing, you think, Oscar wouldn’t recognize.

“S’pose I could bring her some macarons,” you mumble, and your mom smiles.

It’s not as fun without Oscar, of course, but you get the job done, and forego the drive in favor of a walk. A perfect March day in Melbourne—crisp, cool, and dripping in autumn foliage. London must be cold and rainy. It certainly is today; you check the weather there before here every morning without fail.

Oscar’s mom answers the door almost right away—your mom must have given her a heads-up about your impending arrival—and immediately scoops you up into a hug. “You’re all grown up!” she cries, and you feel a wave of guilt, remembering your mom telling you that she’d noticed your relative disappearance. But Mrs. Piastri waves you through the door as if no time has passed at all. A picture of Oscar, no more than ten or eleven, beaming in a tiny racing suit and perched on top of a kart, stands on the mantle. It’s been there forever. You realize why you’ve been avoiding baking, avoiding going to see Oscar’s family—because they’re just more reminders of the fact that Oscar himself isn’t here.

Mrs. Piastri gushes over the macarons, calls Oscar’s sisters down to enjoy the bounty, and your chest aches a bit at how much you’d missed this.

“What happened to your hair?” the youngest one whines. You smile apologetically, tell her you’d chopped it off for track.

Then Oscar’s mom asks about your senior year, college applications, and you swallow. Actually, you’d applied in Year 11, having frontloaded an obscene number of classes, done pretty much nothing but study and build up your résumé and get applications together. Honestly, it’d been a pretty good distraction from…well, other things.

You remember how, right at the beginning of term this year, you’d squeezed your eyes shut as you clicked the button to open your decision, read “Congratulations! University of Oxford is offering you a place for Medicine in the 2017 term”, heard your parents shout jubilantly, felt your mom’s tears on your neck as she whispered how proud she was of you.

“Actually,” you say, “I’m graduating a bit early, and writing medicine at Oxford in the fall.”

Mrs. Piastri’s mouth forms a tiny O, which quickly morphs into a beaming smile. “Oh honey, congratulations!”

“If anyone could do it, it’s you,” she continues, and you blush at the compliment. “Oscar always said you were going to be a doctor, no, the best doctor—”

You freeze at his name, and she’s definitely noticed, because then she asks if he knows. You remember how you’d immediately reached for your phone, realized the only person who you wanted to tell was currently halfway across the globe, no doubt too busy with karting and his new school and his new friends for you to be so much as a blip on his radar. You’d called a few times, texted back and forth when he’d first moved, but they’d gotten sparser and sparser, until by the end of Year 11, there were hardly any messages at all.

You shake your head apologetically. “We’ve been pretty bad at keeping in touch.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it—he hardly even calls me,” she laughs. “He misses you, though, he always makes it a point to ask about you when he does call.”

Mrs. Piastri’s probably being diplomatic, so you just nod. But when you finally stand up from the dining table to leave, she tells you in earnest, “Give him a call, will you? I think it would really, really make his day.”

At home that night, you stare at his contact photo. In it, Oscar’s wearing one of your mom’s aprons, brandishing a piping bag like it’s medieval weaponry, looking goofy as hell. Maybe he’ll think you’re weird for calling. Maybe he won’t pick up.

Here goes nothing, you think, and click on the Facetime button.

One ring, two rings, and Oscar’s face suddenly fills your laptop screen. Your hands immediately starts to tremble.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

His voice is almost unrecognizable, no longer the reedy drone of a teenager’s, and his hair, no longer so cropped, dips in a smooth wave over his forehead. You had no idea his hair was wavy.

“Hi.” Your voice cracks; you clear your throat. “Been a while.”

“You cut your hair,” Oscar observes, his eyes darting around the screen, taking you in as you did him.

“Yeah. It was getting too hot for track.”

Oscar’s eyebrows fly up. “Since when do you run track?”

You shrug. “Since Year 11, I guess.”

“You hate running,” he says softly, and you feel a pang at the fact he remembered, and another at the realization that you’d joined the team because you needed something to take up your time on your newly vacant evenings. Then, louder, “I like it. You look…older.”

“Thanks. And I don’t hate running anym—well, I’m trying to like it,” you correct yourself, and both of you chuckle awkwardly.

“So,” Oscar says abruptly, all business. You feel a little prickle snake up your arms as he crosses his. “I heard something from a little birdie.”

“Whaddya hear?”

“I just—is it true you got into Oxford? For medicine?” His voice rises about two octaves on the last word.

“I—ah, yeah,” you stammer. Clearly, Mrs. Piastri had wasted no time in exposing you.

“Oh my god,” Oscar all but shrieks. You’ve never heard him this worked up before. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” you say, feeling suddenly shy.

“You’re excited, right? Why don’t you sound more excited?” he demands.

You swallow. “I am. Excited.”

“And why didn’t you tell me about it? I can’t believe I had to hear it from Mum.”

“I wasn’t sure if,” you take a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure if you’d care,” you finish, lamely.

Shit, you think, as the smile fades from Oscar’s face.

“Oscar—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say you don’t care, or that you’re a bad friend—”

Oscar looks down. You see him chewing on his lower lip, and for a second you think he’s going to yell, or cry, or cuss you out.

But he just hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Why are you apologizing?” you demand, horrified.

“Because…it’s true. I’ve been a shitty friend.”

“No you haven’t,” you plead. “I could’ve—should’ve—told you myself. I just assumed you were busy, and that you had better things going on—”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“If you assumed I was busy…” Oscar says slowly, “I was the one who should’ve reached out.”

You shake your head.

“I thought you were too busy,” he blurts out suddenly. “All I do is race. But you…you have so much. Top of the class, every club under the sun…you don’t have time to sleep. How could you have time for me?”

And even though Oscar’s face is marred by the pixelation of the screen, the red that rims his eyes isn’t lost on you. Too quickly, the screen isn’t the only thing blurring your view.

“But I—” Your voice cracks; you swallow, resolute. “Oscar. I’ll always have time for you.”

You think that in another universe, one where Oscar stands a few meters and not oceans away, you’d show him how much you mean it. Pull him close and breathe him in and hang on for dear life.

Maybe Oscar hears you anyway.

He drags his forearm across his nose, tries to disguise his sniffle in a laugh. “Do you still bake?”

“Not without you…but hey, I did today,” you quickly amend, as he quirks an eyebrow.

“You should start again,” Oscar says. “I’m gonna call you next week and you can tell me what you’ve baked.”

You open your mouth to protest, then realize what he’s said, how there’s going to be a call next week, and think it’ll be the longest week of your life. Might as well bake something to pass the time.

~

Oscar’s drunk. You’ve had a beer together, maybe a glass of wine with a cheese board, but you’ve never seen this Oscar, his hair sweaty and matted against his forehead, cheeks flushed from dancing and yelling over the thumping bass, his eyes a little glassy. You’ve been nursing a cocktail he’d bought you for the last hour, pleasantly tipsy, taking it all in.

Logan bounds over and plants himself on the stool next to you. “Why aren’t you dancing?” he gestures exaggeratedly to the mass of bodies undulating to the music.

“I’m old,” you grin, knowing full well Logan has you beat by a few months. His eye roll tells you he’s all too aware. “And I have a real job, remember?”

“But Oscarrrrr,” Logan drawls.

Your heart does a little lurch.

“What about Oscar?” you ask carefully.

“He wants you to daaaance,” he singsongs.

No way. Boy’s making stuff up. “I was gonna leave soon, anyway.”

As if summoned, Oscar shoves his way past a small throng gathered near the bar, stumbles up to you and Logan. You stick out an arm to steady him.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” you tease. “I’ve never seen you so gone before.”

Oscar grimaces. “Not that gone.”

“Good thing you showed up, though. I was just telling Logan I’m about to head out.”

He blinks slowly, as if you’d just woken him from a nap. “You’re…leaving?”

“I’m working tomorrow,” you remind him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan wink, slide out of his chair, then slink away to the mosh pit.

Oscar shakes his head, pushes his damp hair up his forehead. One strand remains stubbornly stuck above his right eyebrow. You resist the urge to brush it out of the way. “I’ll go too.”

“What?” you say, alarmed. “No. This is your party. Come on, Osc.”

“Then I’ll walk you out,” he says, and something in his voice tells you he won’t take no for an answer.

So you let him lead you out of the bar—although maybe you’re the one doing most of the leading, Oscar leaning on you, an arm wrapped around your waist. You try not to pay too much attention to the way his hand feels, gripping your side firmly.

The night air is cool, and you feel little bumps prick on your arms. You shiver involuntarily.

“Cold?” Oscar asks. Before you can respond, the arm around your waist moves up, wrapping itself around your shoulder. Another arm joins it around the other shoulder, two hands clasping together around your chest. Oscar rests his chin on your head, and you feel the heat radiating from his chest onto your back.

You giggle, a little giddy, maybe from the drink, maybe from him. “You make a great jacket. But I need my arms to call a cab, ya know.”

Oscar’s grip slackens, and you think he’s freeing you, but then he spins you around and suddenly, your face is buried in his chest. He smells like his cologne, intensified by the dampness of his shirt. “Thanks for coming.”

Your chest feels tight. “Of course,” you manage.

His eyes roam over yours, your cheeks, finally settling on your lips, and your heart hammers a painful staccato against your ribs. He slowly brings up a hand to your face, thumb lightly brushing the corner of your lips, index tilting your chin up. Your faces are mere centimeters apart.

He’s going to do it, you think.

But his shoulders sag, and his hand drops. You search his face desperately, wondering what he’s thinking, try to hide your disappointment.

“I’m drunk,” he says quietly. “And stupid. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. Not ten seconds ago, you’d felt like you were suspended in the air, before everything came crashing back down. Now you just want to…run. “You’re not. Stupid, I mean.”

Stupid. Kissing you would be stupid of him. He is drunk; anyone could be standing in front of him right now. Maybe he wishes someone else was.

Oscar’s lips disappear in a thin line. A shiny black cab rolls up to the curb.

The last thing you see before you turn the corner is Oscar’s stricken face. You bury your face in your palms, still slick with his sweat.

~

“A cake?”

“It was Nate’s birthday,” you retort.

“Oh yeah, and I bet Nate was so much happier to get your girly-ass flower cake over peanut butter cookies. I know they’re his favorite.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the pride in his voice at knowing your brother’s favorite cookie. “I’ll have you know he ate three slices at dinner last night.”

Oscar’s face softens. “In all seriousness, that cake looked pretty fire.”

“Thanks,” you say, blushing a little at the validation. You had to admit you were pretty proud of the orchids you’d painstakingly piped over the bottom of the cake—no cheating with fondant in your kitchen.

“How’s formal stuff? I saw some schools already had theirs. You’re going, right?”

“Nah,” you say, “it just wouldn’t be the same without—” You catch yourself just in time.

“Sorry, I think you cut out,” Oscar says. “It wouldn’t be the same what?”

“Nothing,” you reply hastily. “I just don’t really feel like going.” You picture him frowning on the other end of the line. “Do you have a formal at your school?” you attempt to change the subject.

He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah,” he says. “Same weekend as yours.”

Somehow, an image of him dancing with a pretty British girl materializes in your mind, and it prickles at your chest. Oscar would have no trouble getting a date to his formal—you remember the picture he sent you of him on holiday, tall, tanned, broad-shouldered, with the same grin that had so endeared you years ago.

Rustling on the other end. “Hey. Still there?”

You force yourself to snap out of it. “Yeah, sorry, got distracted.” Then, in as casual of a voice as you can muster, “Are you taking a date?”

“I dunno,” Oscar replies, his tone blasé. “Some of my mates are. I haven’t really thought about it.”

There it is again, Oscar asking the imaginary girl to be his date, her blushing and nodding yes.

“You should,” you say despite yourself. “Anyone would say yes to you.”

Your mom’s voice faintly echoes up the stairs, calling you down for dinner.

“Gotta go, Osc.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to you later.”

You tap the button to end the call, feeling a little like you’d just made a terrible mistake.

You tie the satin laces of your dress together behind your back in what you hope is a proper bow, fasten the straps of your heels around your ankles, and slick on a layer of lip gloss before inspecting yourself in the mirror. Not too shabby for someone who would rather be doing pretty much anything else than going to Year 12 formal with some strange boy and friends who are a lot more excited about it than you.

In the end, it was Jessica who had relentlessly begged and wheedled you to come, and you’d acquiesced, mostly to stop her from yapping your ear off.

But two days before formal, she told you at lunch that she’d found you a date.

“What?” you’d snapped. “Jess, I don’t want a date.”

“Please?” Jess widened her eyes. “I just think it’d be so much better for pictures, you know, if we all had a partner.”

You shook your head in exasperation. It wasn’t like you could do anything to change her mind. “Well?” you said, irritated. “Who is it, then?”

Jess smiled, a tad apologetically, mostly not. “I can’t tell you.”

“Jess! I swear to God—”

“Sorry, sorry,” she waved your words away. “I promise he’s not ugly and I promise you won’t hate him...you’ll just have to wait and see.”

You aim your phone at your mirror, and snap a selfie for Oscar, just like he’d asked. He was probably just waking up now...if he was actually awake. It was a Saturday, after all. And Oscar Piastri was not one to ever wake up earlier than 10am by his own will.

But this time, your phone pings right away.

Oscar  You look great!! :)

And that’s all you need to feel a little better about this entire formal situation.

You descend the stairs cautiously. You can already hear your friends chattering downstairs with each other, interspersed with a few unfamiliar voices you assume are some of their dates and all of your parents. One of them sounds vaguely like Oscar, and you wrench your thoughts away from him. Nope. Not tonight. You know you’re just going to be miserable if you keep thinking about him like that.

Jess notices you first, and squeals. “You look so good!”

The other girls crowd around you, complimenting your hair, your makeup, your dress. You think to yourself that it’s fun to dress up every once in a while. Be something other than your everyday self, forget about physics finals and the looming threat of college and boys who are going to other formals a thousand kilometers away.

“Jess is right,” a voice says behind you.

You whirl around.

Oscar is standing there, dressed in a black suit, the blush pink of his tie matching your dress, grinning from ear to ear. He’s holding a little box with a corsage inside of it.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

So you just launch yourself at him instead.

Oscar drops the box, picks you up by the waist as easily as if he was picking up his backpack, and spins around once, twice. Some of the guys whoop, and you can’t help but giggle, even though you feel tears on your face.

“What can I say?” he says, gently putting you back down. “Someone told me I should go...and that anyone would say yes to me.”

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, knowing your mascara is probably ruined for good.

“So,” Oscar continues softly. He bends down, picks up the corsage. “Does that apply to you too?”

Your heart feels like it’s about to burst. “Yes, Oscar,” you laugh, “yes it does.”

Oscar beams, takes your hand, sliding a little bouquet of creamy orchids up your wrist. Jess takes picture after picture of the two of you.

The smile doesn’t leave his face for the rest of the night, not as you cram into the backseat of one of your friends’ minivans, not as you jump up and down to the music at formal, not even as he passes out from the travel-induced exhaustion on the ride back.

You’re pretty sure it doesn’t leave yours, either.

--

taglist: @sideboobrry11 @helloooobroo @fangirl125reader

[37sommz]

✼. THRU SPACE 'N TIME | THE FAMILY.

NOW PLAYING: michaela's family members. ✼. view:⠀masterlist⠀⸻⠀join the taglist⠀⸻⠀request.

✹.⠀The Sommers family is very tight-knit. Throughout her career, Michaela's family has made a lot of sacrifices to provide her with the opportunities that have enabled her to become the driver she is today. Ever grateful, Michaela has never let them forget how precious they all are to her. Between luxurious gifts and simple podium gestures, the Sommers family retains the ultimate spotlight within Michaela's career.

TOBIAS SOMMERS is the father of Formula One racing driver Michaela Sommers. Attributed by his daughter as being the "driving force" behind her love of racing, Sommers gifted her with a go-kart for her fifth birthday as a form of bonding. After Michaela fell in love with driving, he entered her in karting competitions across eastern Australia. After losing his job in 2012 through massive layoffs, Michaela would be forced to put a hold on her racing for nearly a year before leaving for the UK with the financial assistance of Tobias' younger brother, Travis. Currently, Tobias Sommers is a frequent face in the paddock on race weekends. Notoriously, he can be found wearing the cap of his daughter's team while conversing with her manager Guido Marotta.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀THE BASICS.

birth name: tobias stephen sommers

alias: toby sommers

date of birth: october 20, 1970

zodiac sign: libra

hometown: whyalla, australia

ethnicity: australian

nationality: australian

languages: english

height: 5'10" (178 cm)

career: accountant

faceclaim: guy pearce

MIRIAM SOMMERS, better known by her professional name Miriam Sandile, is the mother of Formula One racing driver Michaela Sommers. Born in Johannesburg, South Africa, Sandile moved to Australia at the age of 17 to pursue a professional dance career with the Sydney Dance Company. After marrying Tobias Sommers, Miriam moved to Gold Coast to focus on choreography. According to her youngest daughter, Miriam was not as enthusiastic as her husband with Michaela's love for racing. In fact, she would avoid watching full races due to her overwhelming anxiety. Regardless, Miriam did her best to prepare her daughter for the impending negativity that would follow her throughout her career. Ever proud of her daughter's accomplishments, Miriam has a hand in every contract Michaela signs.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀THE BASICS.

birth name: miriam yonela sandile

legal name: miriam yonela sommers

date of birth: january 26, 1970

zodiac sign: aquarius

hometown: johannesburg, south africa

ethnicity: xhosa

nationality: south african

languages: english, xhosa

height: 5'7" (170 cm)

career: choreographer

faceclaim: hlubi mboya

COURTNEY SOMMERS is the older sister of Formula One racing driver Michaela Sommers. Five years the driver's senior, Michaela often jokes about her sister's taking after her mother in regards to her distaste for racing. While Tobias Sommers was unable to convince his older daughter to pick up his interest in motorsport, Courtney is a passive fan of formula racing. Although the distance between the two sisters often results in relationship strain due to their equally headstrong natures, the two are still incredibly close. In her free time away from her work with her STEM foundation, Courtney can be seen supporting Michaela (from a stress-free distance).

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀THE BASICS.

birth name: courtney christine sommers

alias: coco sommers

date of birth: august 06, 1994

zodiac sign: leo

hometown: gold coast, australia

ethnicity: australian & xhosa

nationality: australian

languages: english

height: 5'6" (168 cm)

career: nonprofit advocacy director

faceclaim: carolyn moore

TRAVIS SOMMERS is the uncle and former manager of Formula One racing driver Michaela Sommers. As the younger brother of Sommers' father, Tobias, Travis spent much of his niece's early childhood tagging along to her karting competitions. Sharing his brother's love for all things racing, Travis invested a great deal of time into ensuring his niece's karts were in prime condition for competition while pulling strings in the background to get her into races for older children. Recognizing her potential early on, Travis stepped up to provide the financial support for Michaela's racing career after his brother lost his job in 2012. Moving to the UK, Travis became Michaela's full-time guardian and manager, establishing connections across all levels of formula racing to ensure his niece would be able to achieve her dreams and more. Known to be a lion of negotiation, Sommers stepped back from managing Michaela's career in 2016, only after securing top manager Guido Marotta to replace him. Travis continues to have input in Michaela's career, namely with sponsors and promotional appearances but has since shifted his focus to making a Formula One caliber racer in his young son, Quentin.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀THE BASICS.

birth name: travis joseph sommers

date of birth: november 03, 1980

zodiac sign: scorpio

hometown: whyalla, australia

ethnicity: australian

nationality: australian

languages: english

height: 6'1" (185 cm)

career: day trader

faceclaim: alex o’laughlin

BEENA KOTHARE is the wife of Travis Sommers. Frequently referred to as the calming force to calm Travis' madness, Beena is credited for establishing a connection between Prema Racing principal, Rene Rosin and her husband. Michaela attributes much of her demeanor to the elegant editor who continues to work as a fashion editor for Harper's Bazaar. Beena is typically spotted accompanying her husband to Formula races and being more than supportive of her son's racing ambitions.

✹.⠀⠀،،⠀THE BASICS.

birth name: beena kothare

legal name: beena kothare-sommers

date of birth: september 17, 1985

zodiac sign: virgo

hometown: london, england

ethnicity: marathi

nationality: english

languages: english

height: 5'2" (157 cm)

career: harper's bazaar editor

faceclaim: dilshad vadsaria

✼. taglist:⠀

@cha-hot @certifiedlesbianbaddie @nichmeddar

@d3kstar @thewannabewriter @hwalllllllelujah

@pacmacs-macs @thearchieves @doodlehunz

@lavisenri @evie-119 @bxdbxtxh

@seaweed-orchid @glitterquadricorn @99snse

@ginghampearlsnsweettea @alliwantisadonut

[uniquexusposts]

Her || Charles

Main characters: Charles Leclerc x OC Genre: fanfiction, fluff  Story type: novel  Part: 13/? Word count: 1456 Co writer: @mistrose23

Summary: This was Matilde Jørgensen, the newly appointed team principal of Scuderia Ferrari, about to face one of the most nerve-wracking challenges of her life. She tried to save the team from more disappointing results and put everything on the line to make them world champion again. There will be a big challenge to lead a historic team as 'newbie' and keeping her work and personal opinions apart from each other. The big question everybody will be asking: is she capable to do so?

Previous chapter

Chapter 11. Home

"Nothing beats the Monaco Grand Prix," Charles said while collecting his stuff. His family and friends were sitting in the living room. "It means I can sleep in my own bed, and leave the house as late as possible... The dream."

Arthur, his little brother, smirked. "Yeah, but it's also known as: the cursed home race."

"Arthur," multiple people groaned.

"I wish he was lying," Charles chuckled. "But hopefully, we can break the curse. Everything is looking fantastic, we have been working really hard and we might have a chance."

It was silent in the living room; everyone admired his comment.

"What?" Charles looked around, not liking the silence.

"You sound so optimistic," his mother said. "So I assume everything is going well at Ferrari now?"

Since the beginning of this season, since the moment Matilde got introduced as team principal, Charles had doubts about Matilde. She was young, barely had any experience and seemed like she had no idea what she was doing or how she had to lead a team. But over the weeks, Matilde adapted quickly and showed that she had potential. Charles had shared his opinion on her, so his family and friends knew about his vision.

"Yes, everything is going fine now," he replied. "After Miami, she openly talked about the incident with the entire team, and she listened to everyone who had to say something. I think she's the first team principal I ever had who is really part of the team, instead of the leader of the team." Charles showed a smile when he realised how much the team had grown over the weeks. "She even hired an external coach and things have changed, suddenly everyone is communicating with each other."

Charles' family and friends listened as he spoke about the changes happening within Ferrari under Matilde's leadership. His family and friends began to see her in a new light. She was clearly actively working to create a more collaborative and open environment within the team.

"An external coach?" Pascale asked. "What does it do?"

Arthur couldn't help, but laugh. He imitated his mother, it lightened the mood. "'What does it do?'"

Charles shared a smile as a reaction to Arthur. "He is some sort of a psychologist, he helps to get new insights within the team, like our weaknesses and strengths, observes how things are going, improves the weaknesses by giving advice," Charles explained.

Lorenzo nodded impressively. "I'm a fan. This should have happened way sooner." He, too, was beginning to see the positive impact of Matilde's leadership. He was hopeful that these improvements would lead to better results on the track.

"Maybe the curse will finally be broken this year," Joris, Charles' best friend, chimed in after hearing the optimism Charles had. And he also saw how things turned around under Matilde's watch.

Charles chuckled, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "That's the plan. With how things are going, I honestly think we have a chance of winning races, maybe even the championship."

The group made their way to the track. It was only a ten-minute walk, but due to the fans, the family and friends decided to take the car. Charles, Joris and Andrea decided to take the bike. Charles loved this race, and he wanted to take the opportunity to interact with his fans. As they rode through the streets of Monte Carlo, the excitement in the air was present.

The streets were lined with enthusiastic people, all hoping to catch a glimpse of their favourite driver. Charles smiled as he waved to the fans. He stepped off his bike to sign autographs and took some photos with fans. The support of the Monegasque crowd meant the world to him, and he cherished these moments.

Charles, Joris and Andrea arrived at the paddock. They were welcomed by the press. The family and friends of Charles were already waiting on the inside of the gates. They met up with Charles and they made their way to the Ferrari hospitality. It was the first time his family was about to meet Matilde. Approaching the hospitality area, they spotted Matilde seated outside, eating one of the two tangerines and reviewing documents. She looked up, her gaze meeting Charles' and his entourage. A warm smile came on her face.

"This is Matilde," Charles said to his family.

Matilde set aside the papers, and she gave them her full attention. "Hey," she said, standing up. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said and shook everyone's hand. She knew Joris and Andrea already, but only by name.

Charles' family and friends, particularly his mother Pascale, expressed their delight at finally meeting Matilde in person. "We've heard a lot about you," Pascale mentioned with a warm smile.

A conversation began between the team principal and Charles' family. In the meantime, Carlos had arrived at the hospitality as well. He noticed how Matilde was chatting with Charles' family, so he decided to greet her by only padding her on the shoulder when he passed her. Matilde looked at him and gave him a nod. Then Arthur mentioned he had to go, he had to go to his team to prepare for qualifying. His family and friends wished him good luck, just like Matilde. It became clear to Charles' family that she was not just the team principal, but also just a human and an approachable team member.

"Is this your first time in Monte Carlo?" Lorenzo, Charles' older brother, curiously asked.

Matilde nodded. "It is, actually."

Charles raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. "Really? I had no idea."

She nodded again. "I had a 50% travel contract at Red Bull. I've been to almost every circuit at least once, but I have never been to Monte Carlo, so this is an exciting one."

"Wow," he perplexedly mumbled. "If I had known, I would have given you a tour... only if you wanted to, of course."

Matilde blushed a little bit, and Charles' cheeks also turned a bit reddish.

"We still can do it!" Arthur excitedly shared. "After this weekend, when there's time."

"Sounds like a plan," Pascale agreed. "Just let Charles know, and we will plan something."

She showed a promising smile and looked at her watch. "If you will excuse me, I have to attend a briefing. Please, make yourself comfortable here and have fun this weekend," she mentioned, collecting her documents, the tangerine and the peel of one of the eaten tangerines. She walked away, leaving everyone behind.

"What a lovely woman," Pascale mentioned. "She's doing her best, and it shows. You should cherish this within the team." She padded Charles' shoulder and kissed his cheek. "Perhaps invite her for lunch on Monday and then go out for a tour. It's tradition. And that way I can meet her properly. I want to know who your boss is."

"I will let you know about it."

"Let me know on time so I can do some groceries."

Charles looked at the Ferrari's hospitality, following Matilde with his eyes. She was talking to her assistant, smiling and listening carefully. 

A frown captured Arthur's face; tradition? His eyes met Lorenzo's, who shared the same look. 

Only Lorenzo dared to say something about it. "Tradition?" 

"Yes, from now on," Pascale grinned and winked, looking at Charles for his reaction. However, Charles wasn't listening. And perhaps it was better for now. 

* * *

The free practice sessions on Friday turned out to be a perfect day for Ferrari. The iconic streets of Monte Carlo presented a unique challenge for the drivers, with narrow twists and turns, demanding precision and finesse.

Charles, with his deep familiarity with the circuit, set the pace during the first practice session. His laps were nothing short of masterful, as he expertly manoeuvred his Ferrari through the narrow streets. He delicately pushed the boundaries, skirting with the barriers but never crossing the line into mistakes. His lap times remained consistently impressive, putting him at the top of the leaderboard.

But Charles wasn't the only notable driver that day. Carlos also demonstrated his skill and adaptability. Just like Charles, he pushed and delivered consistent lap times. His feedback to the team was invaluable, helping them fine-tune the car's setup to suit the tight layout.

Inside the garage, the engineers and mechanics worked hard, making adjustments based on the drivers' input. The people back at the factory in Maranello, followed every movement and worked along with the people on the track. Matilde watched with a sense of satisfaction as both the drivers performed flawlessly.

The faultless performance didn't go unnoticed by the other teams, the media or the fans. The team had clearly done their homework, providing Charles and Carlos a car that responded impeccably to their commands.

Nothing could go wrong... right? 

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @chocolatefartstrawberry

[pucksandpower]

PowerPointless

Part II

Part I

Formula 1 x Russell!Reader

Summary: you decide to throw your brother a birthday party based on the thing he loves most in the world: PowerPoint

#16 - Charles Leclerc

#18 - Lance Stroll

#20 - Kevin Magnusen

#22 - Yuki Tsunoda

#23 - Alex Albon

#24 - Zhou Guanyu

[leclerc-hs]

73 Questions with Mrs. Leclerc - cl16

pairing: husband!charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which you do a 73 questions interview with Vogue OR charles can't help but third wheel your interview warnings: none??? just cute fluff basically, NOT PROOFREAD word count: 2.1k author's note: I actually got a request by someone to do this and thought it was such a CUTE idea and concept. I obviously didn't do ALL 73 questions cause that would've taken forever. But thought this was a cute little piece to do. I hope you enjoy and don't forget to let me know what you think don't be shy !! xoxo

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

THE DELICATE FOLDS of the pale pink sundress fluttered like petals in a gentle breeze, framing your figure with a soft, ethereal elegance. As the front door yielded to the push, the fabric danced around your legs, caressing the tender skin of your thighs with a whisper of touch. Your radiant smile illuminated the scene, a beacon of joy amidst the fluttering fabric and nervous flutter of butterflies in your stomach.

“Hey!” The male voice chimed brightly, his tone cheerful as a songbird greeting the dawn, echoing through the air with an infectious energy that mirrored your own bright smile.

“Hey!” You respond with effervescent warmth, your smile stretching across your face like a sunbeam breaking through clouds. With a graceful gesture, you swing the door open wider, revealing the inviting warmth of your home’s foyer. The soft light spills in, casting a golden glow over the polished floors and elegant furnishing. The first thing to notice is the giant painting of a Ferrari Formula One car, hung high above the entry way table.  

“Look who we have here! It’s Mrs. Leclerc!” A delicate blush warms your cheeks, a subtle reminder of the tender affection that tingles within you whenever you’re addressed as such. Though you and Charles have been together for many years, your marriage has infused your relationship with a fresh sense of intimacy and closeness. And despite that it’s been almost five years, the title of “wife” feels forever new and unfamiliar.

“On a scale of 1-10, how excited are you about life right now?”

“I would say 8, so I’m super excited!” With a gentle click, you shut the front door behind you, enveloping the foyer in a tranquility as you made your way down the hallway to the kitchen. Along the way, you stooped to pick up a scattering of children’s toys that lay scattered like confetti on the polished wooden floors, offering a quick apology for the perceived “mess.” However, you couldn’t help but inwardly smile at the orchestrated chaos around you. While the house was meticulously maintained by the cleaning company before the video shoot, every detail was carefully curated to strike the perfect balance between lived-in warmth and elegance, ensuring a setting that felt both inviting and authentic to you and the viewers.

“Any reason for that?”

In the heart of the home lies a kitchen adorned with a stunning green cabinet motif. The cabinets, painted in a rich emerald hue, exude an air of sophistication and charm, perfectly complemented by gleaming brass hardware. Sunlight filters through the vast array of windows, casting a warm glow over the polished marble countertops. 

“You mean other than the fact that the kids go back to school soon?” You and the interviewer let out a soft laugh as you made your way behind the kitchen island, opening the fridge in a smooth motion to pull out a water bottle. “Want one?”

“No, but thanks though!” His voice is light-hearted. 

As the fridge door remains open, a tantalizing glimpse is offered to the audience of its well-stocked interior. A colorful array of fresh produce fills the shelves, showing an abundance of vibrant fruits and crisp vegetables. Among the healthy offerings, assortment of juice boxes catches the eye, adding a playful touch to the wholesome scene.

“That’s a lot of juice boxes you have in there.” He makes a comment, it’s not a question, but you take it as one.

“Two kids and a husband,” You start, your tone light and casual before lowering your voice into a conspiratorial whisper for the camera, “who practically is also a kid, results in a lot of juice boxes.” With a playful wink directed at the lens, you punctuate the statement, adding a touch of humor to the scene. Setting the water bottle down on the expansive kitchen counter, you resume your easy demeanor, effortlessly blending candor and charm for your audience.

“Hey!” Your head shoots over, the camera seamlessly following your gaze to where Charles, your husband,sits on the floor of the living room, two of your kids, aged two and three, beside him with an abundance of toys strewn about. “I heard that!” Charles retorts with mock offense, a playful grin lighting up his face as he joins in the banter.

The living room exudes a chic sophistication with a distinct Formula One flair. Charcoal-gray walls provide a sleek backdrop, accentuating the mounted flat-screen television. A striking statement piece dominates one corner—a display of artwork showcasing all of the racetracks Charles has conquered – infusing the room with a sense of triumph and energy. A plush white sofa, adorned with an array of vibrant red pillows, invites relaxation and style. Across the room, a sizable shelf proudly showcases a collection of racing helmets, some belonging to Charles and others gathered over time, adding a personal touch to the space. Below the television, was a long console table that was adorned in various plants and photos of your family. You couldn’t help but smile as you glanced at them.

With a casual wave of your hand, you dismiss Charles’s playful interruption, maintaining your position at the kitchen island as the camera refocuses on you. The gesture carries an air of affectionate familiarity, a gentle reminder of the dynamic energy that permeates your bustling household.

“If you could do a love scene with anyone, who would it be?”

“Definitely Austin Butler.” You answer almost immediately, no hesitance in your voice.

“Hey!” Charles’s playful yelp echoes through the room once more, accompanied by the joyful laughter of your children. One nestled in his lap, the other engrossed in a picture book, their presence adding warmth and vitality to the room. You share a knowing smile with Charles, the affectionate banter a familiar melody to your family life.

The laughter of the interviewer joins the playful exchange. The camera effortlessly captures the dynamic interaction between all of you with ease.

You roll your eyes playfully, “Restez en dehors de ça.” Stay out of this!

“Arrête de faire semblant de vouloir faire l’amour avec quelqu’un d’autre que moi!” Stop pretending you want to make love with anybody but me!

With a mischievous gleam in your eye, you turn back to the camera, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Can I change my answer?” You inquire, injecting a hint of playful anticipation into your tone.

“Sure,” the interviewer replies.

“You’re supposed to say no,” You quip with a chuckle.

“Oh, um no?”

With a playful pout, you glance over at Charles who is already staring at the interaction. A smile adorned on his face like he is in complete awe of you, regardless of what you are saying. “Sorry honey!” You wave your hand around. “Answers are final!”

Leaving the kitchen behind, you make your way towards the backyard, where the promise of relaxation and leisure awaits. Stepping through the door, you’re greeted by the sight of a large pool shimmering under the sunlight, its crystal-clear waters beckoning for a refreshing dip. Surrounding the pool, lounge chairs are strategically place, some on the pool’s ledge, inciting you to bask in the sun while enjoying the cool water. A wide arrangement of pool floaties from unicorns to racecars litter the pool as well.

It’s a breathtaking sight: a vast expanse of bright blue skies stretching overhead, adorned with barely a wisp of cloud in sight. The warm rays of sun dance upon your skin. With a stylish flourish, you slip on a pair of your favorite Ray-Bans, a subtle nod to your husband’s sunglass collection. 

“Vintage or new?”

You ponder for a moment as you stand in the backyard, a breeze blowing your hair behind your shoulders. “Depends, but definitely vintage.”

“Window or aisle seat?”

“Aisle, although Charles likes to take the aisle more.”

“What are three things you can’t live without?”

“Wait, do my children count as two of the three?”

“Up to you.”

“Okay, so my two children. And my lip gloss.” You laugh, pausing for effect. “Kidding! My two kids, and my lip gloss…” You pause, jokingly. “And my husband of course.” The light-hearted remark reflects the joyful chaos of humor and love in your life. “He’s really the sweetest man. I’m so lucky.”

The glass door slides open with a whisper, and into the frame steps Charles, his presence incessant. With a carefree demeanor, he approaches you clad in a pair of baggy jeans and a plain white t-shirt that stretched at the seams from his muscles. He presses soft kisses to your cheeks, the stubble of his own rubbing against your smooth skin, his love evident in each tender kiss.

“Désolé,” Sorry. He apologizes before pecking another kiss to your cheek. “Tellement ambrassable.” Just so kissable. He places one more on your cheek, your face bright red from the camera’s catching all of this.

“Looks like he can’t be far from you for very long.”

Charles looks at the camera, a glint in his eye with a large smile, like he was the happiest man on earth, and nothing could dampen his spirits. Especially with you nearby. “Est-ce que tu la vois?” Do you see her?

The interviewer, unaware of Charles’s words, simply nods in response behind the camera lens, acknowledging the affection in his tone. Later translations will reveal the depth of Charles’s words no doubt. Elle est tellement belle. Bien sûr, je ne peux pas rester loin longtemps.” She’s so beautiful. Of course, I can’t stay far long.

Your face is bright red as Charles remains at your side.

“Where are the kids?”

“Put them down for a nap!” Charles answers, his arm slung over your shoulder as he leans on you comfortably. 

As the interviewer continues the questionnaire, Charles can’t resist interjecting with playful remarks and comments on almost every question. His spontaneous interruptions add an element of humor and spontaneity to the video, turning what could have been a standard interview into an entertaining and engaging exchange.

“How do you define beauty?” “My wife.” “Charles, the questions are for me!”

"What do you love most about your body?" "That's an easy one...I think her--" Charles begins, but you swat his chest and cut him off. "I love my arms. Not because they're that nice but they give me the ability to hold my children." Charles clicks his tongue, hating that you even implied something about yourself as 'not that nice'.

"Least favorite color?" "Red." Charles lets out a large gasp with a string of phrases in French, clearly hurt by your response. "It's a joke, mon amour!" "How did you know you were in love?" You look at Charles then, his eyes already on you, a soft smile pulling on both of your lips. "I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with him. Probably when I realized I would rather be awake in the middle of the night, since he was traveling so much, just to talk to him for even a few minutes, instead of going to sleep." Charles plays with the ends of your hair, twirling the ends around his fingers as he chimes in. "We've known each other for so long. But, when I first met her, it was like meeting someone I've known my entire life. There was no awkward silences between us. We just clicked."

“Diamonds or pearls?” “Pearls.” “Mon chou, don’t lie.” “I’m not!” “The diamond on your finger says otherwise!”

“If you made a documentary, what would it be about?” “Charles’ brain. I seriously question what goes on in there sometimes.” “Hey! It’s only you…”  You raise your eyebrows at him, like he’s a liar. “And racing.” “Definitely racing.”

“If you had a tattoo, where would it be?”

Charles smirks deeply, like he knows something the world doesn’t, the interviewer picks up on it. “Wait, you have a tattoo? Can we see it?”

“No! It’s for me only.”

You playfully swat at Charles’ chest, a playful blush coloring your cheeks as you both wander throughout the house, showcasing its beautiful décor. Despite your embarrassment at Charles’ antics, you can’t help but be thankful for him easing your nerves. You weren’t one for the public eye, normally. So, when you agreed to this interview it came out as quite a surprise.

“Okay final question of the day.” 

You both stand by the front door, the interviewer on the front step outside of the home. 

“Hugs or kisses?”

“Definitely ki—” You don’t get to finish your answer as Charles’ fingers grasp onto your neck, his fingers sprawled along your jawline as well, and tugs your face into his. He shuts the door as soon as his tongue slips into your mouth.

It’s a few seconds before you push him off you. “You’re unbelievable!”

A giant smile spreads across his face as he looks down at you. “Only for you, mon chou!”

[mrslestappen]

The art of blood ✸ cl16

summary: Monaco is the jewel in the crown, a world of expensive cars, casinos, and sheer luxury that conceals the true reason for its name; who imagined that a night of joy would finish with blood on your hands.

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

tags: violence, fluffy + angst, charles is crazy (a little) mafia au! protective + possessive charles = simp, bad thoughts, blood and mentions of killing, multiple mafia families (drivers)

# part one : [ June 12 ]

# part two :

# part three :

# part four :

# part five :

# part six :

[shurisasthmaticgf]

under the influence: lando norris x social media influencer black fem! reader | mini series

author’s note: this is honestly just a mini series i'll update whenever i get ideas myself or if someone requests more

the curls are curling

[hemmingsleclerc]

A Livestream to remember

Dad!charles leclerc x Mom!fem!reader

warnings: fluff

summary: Where your daughter interrupts Charles' livestream without realizing it

It was a rainy sunday afternoon in Monaco, and Charles was at home with his girlfriend, Y/N. The sound of raindrops hitting the windows provided a relaxing background as Charles decided to relax with a live stream of his favorite video game.

As he settled into his gaming chair, the glow of the computer screen illuminated his focused expression. The virtual race was intense and fans from all over the world joined the live to see Charles.

Meanwhile, in the other room, Y/N was busy with her own activities when she heard Charles' laughs coming from his gaming room. Curiosity won and she decided to see what was happening.

Y/N opened the door quietly and peered into the room, where she found Charles deeply engrossed in the game. A smile played on her lips as she watched him, but before she could announce her presence, a tiny figure entered the room.

Their daughter, toddled into the room with a mischievous grin on her face. Charles, still engrossed in the virtual race, didn't notice her at first. The little girl approached the gaming setup with wide-eyed wonder, her curiosity piqued by the colorful lights and sounds.

When the little girl reached the gaming chair, she happily climbed onto Charles's lap, capturing the attention of both the livestream fans and Charles himself. Fans erupted in cheers and comments as they saw little leclerc.

charlesfanpage OMG LOOK IT'S EMMA!!!!😍😍

thelordperceval NO WAY STOP IM GONNA CRY OF CUTENESS

y/nandcharles EMMAAAAA!!!😭💕

Charles, momentarily stunned, looked down to find his daughter giggling and clapping her hands. A radiant smile spread across his face as he realized the delightful interruption. He took off his gaming headset and lifted his daughter into his arms, holding her close.

"Looks like we have a surprise guest, guys!" Charles announced with pure joy in his voice and giggling. The live chat exploded with heart emojis and messages expressing delight at the adorable intrusion.

Y/N, now standing in the doorway, shared a knowing look with Charles. Their daughter, oblivious to the online audience, continued to babble happily, stealing the spotlight from the virtual race.

[vroomvro0mferrari]

LN4 | Panic at the Disco

Summary: When you call your brother to pick you up from the club, it's his best friend who answers.

Lando Norris x Fewtrell!Reader

WC: 1.3K

Warnings: Maybe slight panic attack, insinuated sexual harassment/assault

Part 2

Masterlist

You rush through the club in a hurry, bumping into God knows how many people as you search for the exit. The hot, stuffy air makes it even more difficult to breathe as you keep pushing through the crowd. You can feel the wetness of your tears run down your cheeks as you reach the exit, nearly running into the bouncer checking IDs outside. You stand close to him as you wipe your cheeks and sniffle, trying to calm yourself down while you rummage through your purse in search of your phone. Taking a deep breath, you call your brother.

You wait impatiently as the phone rings. He doesn’t answer, so you call again. And again. Eventually, after three tries, the phone is picked up. 

“Hello? Max?” You say rushedly.

You hear some noise on the other side. In your frenzy, you don’t realise it’s not your brother, not from the mere grumpy hello the phone is answered with.

“Can you come pick me up? Please?” The sheer panic you’re experiencing is clear in your voice. Lando can even hear your sniffling through the phone as you wipe your hand under your nose. 

“Y/N? Is that you? Are you crying?” He asks, much more awake now as he sits up from his position on the couch.

“Who’s this? Lando?” You realise now that you hear him speak; it's your brother’s best friend – to your frustration.

“Yes”

“Why are you answering my brother’s phone?” You ask annoyed.

“We were just hanging out, he fell asleep and-”

“You know what – it doesn’t matter. Can you tell him to come pick me up please?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m not sure, uhm, it’s called Palace, I think.” You sniffle, “You’ll send him to get me?” You ask hopefully.

“I’ll come get you myself. I’m just putting my shoes on, I’ll be there in a bit.” He says, putting your brother’s phone on speaker mode and stepping into his shoes.

“Lando you don’t have to come, just tell Max to come pick me up, please. I need him right now.” You say, frustrated that Lando wants to come. He’s not who you want and need at this moment; you need someone who you can trust, who’ll protect you and make you feel safe after what just happened. You need your brother, a close friend, or maybe even your father, but not Lando. Why can’t he understand that? You can feel your tears welling up again in frustration.

Lando ignores you, however. “Are you safe right now? You should try to find a group of people or something, stick to them until I get there, okay?”

“Lan-” He cuts you off, in a rush to get to you. 

“Do you want to stay on the phone? I’m getting in the car right now, I’ll be there in, like, eight minutes.”

“Lando, just send Max, please.”

“I’m already in the car. Do you want me to stay on the line, or not?” You hear the car revving in the background.

You sigh. Nevertheless, you’re relieved he’s on his way and you don’t have to stay here much longer. “That’s not necessary, Lando. I’m with the bouncer right now. Just come quick, please?” You’ve given up on the idea that your brother might come, Lando’s very much set in his ways.

“Of course, I’ll be right there.” Lando says firmly before hanging up.

Although you and Lando aren’t the best of friends, you get along well enough. Regardless, you get caught up in discussions quite regularly; both of you are passionate and stubborn in your opinions – it rarely happens that you and Lando do not end up being separated by your brother or a mutual friend. However, that you know exactly how to push each other's buttons doesn’t mean Lando doesn’t care about you. In fact, the opposite is true. Although he would never admit it, Lando has liked you for quite a while and cares for you deeply, even though he doesn’t generally show his feelings. And so, when you call him (well, not him specifically, but that doesn’t matter) crying and upset, he worries about you. He could’ve woken up your brother, who you obviously would have preferred over him, but he wants to be the one who’s there for you. He wants to be the one who protects you and keeps you safe – better yet, the one who makes you feel safe, if he could ever accomplish such a thing.

Lando exceeds his own expectations when he arrives at the nightclub in under five minutes. Already spotting you standing with the big, bulky bouncer, arms wrapped around yourself in an attempt to keep yourself warm in the cold, late night (or early morning) breeze. He carelessly parked his car on the side of the road, barely turning on the hazard lights before exiting the car. 

“Y/N! Are you okay?” He jogs towards the club entrance, concern showing on his face.

You lifted your head at the familiar voice yelling your name. Quickly thanking the bouncer who kept you company, you rushed over to the familiar boy. You had never been so happy to see Lando.

He pulled you into his arms as soon as you were within his reach. Cradling your head and brushing your hair with one hand, while the other pulled you closer by your waist. Although you initially wanted your brother to come, this was good too – you’d even go as far as to say you were enjoying it. Despite your differences, Lando’s presence (more specifically, his strong arms holding you tight) made you feel at ease and calmed you down. He relieved the tenseness of your body and you relaxed in his hold. Hiding your face in his neck and fisting the fabric of his shirt, you nestled yourself comfortably in Lando’s body and exhaled the breath you had been holding.

He buried his nose in your hair on the top of your head, breathing in your scent and smiling at the feeling of you snuggling into him. It felt right, so right, to be holding you like this. He whispers, “Are you okay?” You merely nod your head, not wanting to leave his embrace. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” He questions further.

You stay silent, enjoying Lando’s strong hold on you. It makes you feel safe. Safe enough to share what happened in the club. “There was some random guy who thought he was entitled to my attention.” You mumble into his neck.

“He didn’t touch you, did he?” He continues, already fearing the answer.

You let a silence fall before answering, “He did,”

Lando squeezes you tighter at the revelation. He’s not surprised a man ruined your fun night out.

You continue quickly, “But there were some girls who helped me, and I think they kicked him out. I’m not sure though, I left as soon as I could. Then I called Max, but he didn’t answer, and now…”

“I’m sorry,” Lando says, a pained expression on his face. “Men are shit.”

You let out a small laugh and Lando can barely avoid shivering at the feeling of your warm breath hitting the sensitive skin of his neck. Nevertheless, he smiles in accomplishment when he hears the sound, glad he could cheer you up.

“You want to go home? To my place, I mean, Max is there…”

“Yes,” You say into Lando’s neck, sighing before distancing yourself from him.

He kisses the top of your head before letting you leave his hold, “Let’s go then.” He says, pulling you along to his car, still tucked into his side.

– – – – –

Part 2