aquarelliwrites - Tumblr blog

aquarelliwrites · 5 months ago

Text

Go For Broke, Chapter 1: First Loser, Second Loser

the Monaco 2022 Grand Prix weekend retold. // series masterlist

Picture the Monaco riviera on a Thursday morning. Mechanics buzzing around cars and stacks of tyres, reporters and photographers streaming in through the gates, and a Ferrari driver sitting squeezed between the pit wall monitors and the wall on the second story of her garage. A thick pane of glass muffling the chatter and racket growing louder by the minute.

Away from the overwhelming sea of rich tourists, camera lenses and microphones, sleep clawed at the edges of her vision and the cobwebbed peripheral hallways of her mind. The iced coffee and half-eaten pastry on the floor next to her weren’t doing a good job of holding it back on their own.

A long, quiet stanza shattered with the note of a simple “Ciao.”

“Fuck!” Her hand came up sharply - to punch her teammate in the face, or rest over her heart to calm it? She couldn’t know.

“Wouldn’t have pinned you for fight, puzzone. You seem more like a flight type of person.” He - Charles - laughed, fiddling with the vlog camera in his right hand. “Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning, my ass. Gave me the scare of my life just now.”

The liar grinned. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Sure. What are you doing up here, anyway?” Giving the floor right next to her a little pat, she prompted him to sit down and join her behind the wall of computers. It’s not like anyone was there to tell them they were in the way.

“I’m recording a behind-the-scenes vlog this weekend. This seemed like a good place to get some aerial footage, but I was going to go up to the terrace as well, to see which was better.” His answer was enthusiastic, and she smiled and nodded as he continued to talk about his camera specs and when the lighting on track should be the best. Alas, it didn’t distract him as well as she’d hoped. “Why are you sleeping up here?”

“I couldn’t sleep very well last night.” Understatement of the century. The heels of her palms rubbed her eyes in a vague attempt to somehow rectify an entire night’s worth of tossing and turning.

“How come?” Finally setting his camera down, he glanced back at her. “Oh, you smudged your, um..”

“Eye pencil? Of course I did.” With a sigh too deep to be indicating exclusively frustration over her messed-up makeup, she swiped whatever smudges she could from her under eyes. “I don’t know. At first, everything was too loud. Then it got too quiet, so I had to put on music. Then it was too hot, then too cold. I think I also spent a while staring at the ceiling.” And crying. That part went unsaid, though. “I’m just a bit nervous about the weekend, I think.”

Did she say ‘understatement of the century’ earlier? She was fairly sure this beat the record. It was a miracle she'd managed to keep down the few bites she did.

He grimaced slightly, extended his hand to hold hers, gave it a slight squeeze even. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“No worries. Not your fault, monello.”

A smile reappeared on his face at the childish nickname. “Come on, you’re the only one of us who actually likes media day.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She managed a small smile. Now that she was distracted, he managed to swipe the rest of her pastry - not without earning a slap to the wrist in the process.

“Hey!”

“You weren’t eating it!” He yells in complete defense of his actions. Had she been actually hungry, she might have killed him then and there.

“It’s fine. I was done with it.”

Media didn't suck as much as she expected it to. Not that it usually did.

There were the ever-present questions, of course. It was a mental checklist, maybe bingo card, every week:

Are she and Charles dating? (No.)

How does it feel to be the first woman in Formula 1 since Lella Lombardi to score points? (Good, but there should have been women before her.)

Which brands of haircare or skincare did she use? (Lots, but what did it matter when she wore a helmet most of the time?)

Does she feel like she can keep up with the rest of the grid? (This one usually just received a blank stare until the interviewer got too uncomfortable to wait for an answer.)

Was it sad that she got excited to actually talk about the car she'd be driving? Incredibly.

The rest of the interviews were crammed full of hopes that Charles would finally do well, that the team would do well as a whole, that- well, you get the point.

Minutes later, the photographers that managed to walk out first got treated to a great shot of supposedly sworn enemies - two Ferrari drivers and two Red Bull Racing drivers - standing near the exit of the media pen and watching reporters file out.

Chatting with Sergio - Checo, she and everybody else called him - was the best way to spend the, seemingly, geological eon Charles and Max took to debrief each other about… well, about everything. Those guys didn't talk all that much outside of the paddock, and they were practically neighbors. It's weird.

She always found Checo more approachable, anyway. Whenever she even walked past his Dutch teammate, she could practically feel his icy gaze shooting daggers through her. If looks could kill, she'd have died a hundred times over.

Not that she didn't return the glares - she found it quite enjoyable to produce a staring contest out of thin air, and it would usually end up with him looking away, the slightest of unnoticed blushes settling upon the tips of his ears.

Today, Checo had a delightful surprise - a guy on Twitter doing imitations of F1-related personalities. She laughed along at the stuttering blunders of Will Buxton and the monotone accented voice resembling Checo's uncannily, and even the one of Max struggling to open a can of Red Bull and swearing profusely upon receiving radio instructions, but what really got her to look aghast was the next impression. Of her.

“Come on, that's no girl voice!” She was sure they were attracting attention with their laughter, since their teammates both looked over in confusion. “He sounds like he inhaled helium!”

“No, no, he sounds correct to me.” Checo faux-wiped a tear from his eye.

“It absolutely does not!”

“Here, Charles, Max, take a look at this.” They complied - and unfortunately, did not agree with her.

“I don't know, that pretty much sounds like you. Whenever I hear you speak it's like a caffeinated chipmunk squeaking at me all angrily.” Max laughed, and she felt blood rush up to her face, embarrassment and anger mixing dangerously.

“I don't know, Verstappen, you not being able to open a can of Red Bull on your own also seemed fairly accurate.” Her sweet tone did nothing to disguise the way the words dripped with acid. He grimaced like they actually burned.

“Sorry, schat, my mistake. Truly, will you ever forgive me?” He turned away - to speak with her teammate once more.

The guy was fucking insufferable. And the nicknames he gave her only fueled a desire to crush him out on the track. What the hell did schat even mean?

Charles squinted behind his sunglasses. “What in the fresh hell are they doing?”

A long, obnoxiously loud slurp identical to that of a nearly empty plastic cup that used to store iced coffee sounded off from next to him. “Will you stop that?” He huffed a laugh.

“Stop what?” The second slurp managed to sound more ear-grating than the first. He wasn't sure how that was possible.

“Just… look over there, right?”

The pair stood on the third-story terrace of the Ferrari garage - a feature unique to the Monaco race - and stared out into the harbor. The Red Bull Energy Station was a raft, and it was huge, so the commotion near their swimming pool was easily visible to anyone higher than the second floor.

“That's Max and Checo, Charles.”

“No, idiot, I know that. Look at what they're doing.” He gestured, exasperated, so she cocked a hip and leaned forward over the railing to get a better look.

“They're putting rubber ducks in the pool. Or just a bunch of…” she squinted as well, “tiny yellow blobs. I’m guessing ducks, though?”

“I'm at a loss for words.”

“Charles, you are so dramatic. They just had me blindfold you to drive a sim lap in Imola a couple of weeks ago.”

“That's different.”

“We've done shit more insane than releasing a couple dozen yellow duckies into a pool.”

“Okay, and?

They observe as Max seems to… fish one out of water? A couple of moments later, he's speaking to someone on the phone, and Checo looks like he'll burst if he doesn't let go of his laughter.

“This has to be for the YouTube channel, right?” She half-turned to him to see the confusion and disbelief visible all over his face.

“Definitely. Max wouldn't agree to do that if it wasn't some sort of PR.”

“Okay, loverboy.” His encyclopedic knowledge of Max would annoy her to death if she didn't know every fact she could dig up about him. Some would call it obsessive - she'd just explain it as studying her rival's weaknesses.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Okay, see, he just looks like he's crying again!” Charles’ voice raised a little.

“I don't understand why you're so worked up over this.” It was his turn to observe his teammate's nonchalant, if a little curious, exterior.

“You're- ugh. Whatever. Now he's just calling someone again.”

“Oh, to be a fly on that deck. I'd kill to know what Checo was laughing at.” With a final slurp, she rediscovered one last sip of her drink that had missed her entirely.

“Ooh, be careful.” His voice was laced with a teasing undertone behind her.

She shot Charles a confused look.

It's Friday now, and all their successful data gathering in both practice sessions earned them the privilege - she'd beg to differ - of an ice bath. She's tried and failed to kick, scream, and claw her way out of them (metaphorically, of course) before.

It was, however, a relief to finally get to take her hoodie off. It had been sensible clothing mere hours earlier, but it was positively stifling then. She let out a dramatic gasp at the freedom of weather-appropriate attire.

“What do you mean?”

“Getting changed? In front of everyone? What will the media think?” His voice was nothing but crystal clear sarcasm, with his face distorted in an expression of faux disapproval. “Scandalous. I thought I taught you better.”

A puzzled laugh escaped her. “Wh-? Why the hell are you shaking your head at me? I have a top on.” She gestured to the, realistically, fairly modest swimsuit top on herself.

“Did you even think of the poor engineers who will be so distracted from working on our cars?”

The level of this man's theatricality was show-stopping and infuriating simultaneously. “Charles. Darling.”

“Hm?”

“You were literally flashing your tits to, oh, I don't know, about… what, half the paddock? And thousands of SkyTV viewers? Like, ten minutes ago?”

“What? Me? I could never.” He even did a pearl-clutching motion at the very implication. She rolled her eyes.

“You are literally wearing less clothing than me right now. Like, if you turn around, you'll count approximately… two dozen Paddock Club girls drooling over your biceps as we speak.”

“No… Well, touché. They want us in the tubs now, though.”

“That's- yes, why else did you think I was undressing?”

“You can never know with you.”

She rolled up the towel in her hand in order to smack him as hard as she could, but he only laughed. “Prick.”

The ice bath was terrible. Awful. She wished she could be poetic and compare it to a breath of winter's night, or a fireless hearth - that would not do it justice. Plunging into the tub was the ninth circle of hell, with Dante and Virgil observing her slow and painful eternal fate.

The media people were having a field day with Charles. She didn't know how he managed to keep his composure enough to let them film thirst traps.

“Fuck me, this is miserable.” Her teeth were chattering so hard that she thought her lower jaw would soon start creaking on its hinges from the motion. She watched the goosebumps blooming all over her thighs and arms. And Charles was fucking laughing, the bastard.

“Mon dieu, I don't know what I did to wrong you,” she uttered through gritted teeth towards the sky, “but I swear never to do it again.”

The sky, of course, didn't respond. Her teammate thought it was a good time to pipe up, though.

“You took me out two years ago, in Alfa Romeo. This is karma.”

Her head snapped towards him, if only to lower her sunglasses and glare at him over the tops of the frames. He didn't bother looking up from checking his fingernails.

“That wasn't even my fault- Fuck, this is so cold.”

When the Ferrari social media girl let her know she'd start filming her then, the only thing she could do is nod curtly, jaw clenched.

“How are you feeling after FP1 and FP2?”

“Very… very positive about the weekend.” If nothing else, every single muscle in her body seizing at the freezing water might finally be the thing to give her better abs.

“And how are you feeling?”

“What, right now?” The girl nodded. “Arguably worse than before I got in. I'll be loving it when I get out in- when can I get out?”

The small gaggle of Ferrari employees around her laughed. “Oh, yes, hilarious, I bet.”

“Ah, you're being dramatic now. It's not a duck's cold.” His badly translated French idiom forced a small smile onto her face. Both of them being multilingual more often than not meant one of them being stared at in confusion over a poor choice of words that got mistranslated on its way over their tongue.

“I'm just saying, it's a perfectly pleasant and sunny day. I don't understand what need there was for a plastic tub colder than a Siberian lake?”

An ice cube hit her head. Her glare only made Charles smile sweetly.

“If I wasn't under threat of all of Monaco skinning me alive at any harm done to you, I'd throttle you right now.”

He blew her a kiss. Bitch.

Champagne bubbled past her lips on the second step that Sunday. It was a Red Bull 1-3, with an incredibly disappointed Charles down in P4. She only managed to spot his melancholic expression down in the crowd of navy and red when the Mexican anthem was playing its last notes.

The race was a spectacle by Monaco standards - an incredible 21 overtakes and a fight for P2 for the entire duration. She had barely managed to drag the Ferrari over the finish line on mediums so torn up, they might have punctured on the following lap. Really, she was just counting her lucky stars.

She blinked rapidly, wiping alcohol from her eyes. Or was it still sweat from the race? Taking a long drag from the bottle seemed to cool her down enough. Checo was chatting with Max, both of them soaked just like her. She was delighted at his win, and happier more when she realized she beat Max. A smile grew on her face uncontrollably at the thought of the way she practically skipped past the third step and straight into second place - his eyes burning holes in the side of her head the entire time. If looks could kill, they’d be cleaning her dead body off the floor before any trophies could even be handed out.

Had she glared back at him, he’d have turned his head abruptly to avoid notice.

To be entirely honest, she wasn’t even sure when a rivalry between them began to form. They never karted together - maybe she only saw him a couple of times when she was very young and he was in a category above hers. While he had skipped F2 altogether and left Charles his F3 seat, she was still fighting through regional F4 championships. When she was in Alfa Romeo with Kimi in 2020, he was already winning with Red Bull.

Maybe she had grown tired of the news of his wins; or he had had it with her successfully playing the media darling; or both of them started growing abrasive every time the other flaunted a better result as proudly as a championship win.

To put it shortly: If the two of them were involved, it tended to be tense.

Flashing Max a proud and mocking grin from behind Checo’s back only resulted in a scoff and a roll of his eyes. Or at least she guessed - the champagne stuck to her lashes made her vision a kaleidoscope a little more than she would’ve liked.

After they had their picture taken, she gathered her trophy against her hip and the open bottle limply in her other hand. Had she walked off the podium any faster than she did, she wouldn’t have caught his muttering.

“You always have to one-up everyone, huh?”

“Not everyone.” She smiled, sweetly. “Just you.”

“Aw, I’m honored.” He spoke in a tone that was anything but honored. “You only try so hard to keep up with me, schat?” Again with the ridiculous nickname. Was he calling her shit?

“In your dreams, Verstappen. S’not my fault I’m just so naturally talented, and you’re… you. You know?” Anyone who heard her dry reply might have doubted she even believed the praise she threw at herself. Except Max.

“Was it natural talent when-”

“Alright, children, enough.” Checo’s arms came around both of their shoulders as he led them off the podium. “Kid, do you want to come to the energy station- Max, don’t look at me like that- do you want to come watch the pool dive? Horner said he might wear a… what’s it called? The swimming underwear?”

“Um, Speedos?”

“Yes!” The snap of his fingers rang behind her right ear. “A Union Jack Speedo.”

“That’s… supposed to be enticing?”

He shrugged, letting go of both of them now that the trio was away from cameras. Max left immediately. “Invite Charles. I’ll see if I can get any other drivers to come.”

“Me and Charles? I thought we were practically Public Enemies #1 and #2 over there?”

“Ah, well… yes. Maybe don’t come in red.”

“Incredibly helpful as always, Checo.”

Raising his pointer finger at her, he looked more like a dad than ever before. “Don’t give me that tone.” He received only a sly grin and an eyeroll.

“Any plans for tonight?”

“You’ll see it in the groupchat.”

The Red Bull Energy Station ended up looking more like a millionaire’s- no, billionaire’s college pool party that afternoon, with more and more people filtering in by the minute.

In a show of solidarity towards her teammate, she had stolen the P2 champagne for him and herself to share in a walk around the marina. Already, they observed yacht owners getting ready for the afterparty of the year all around them.

“You look surprisingly somber.” He said after a long silence.

She simply took a long swig of lukewarm alcohol to avoid answering.

“Are you-” He stopped. Hesitated. “Is- Um, how are you doing?”

“Good.” A response typical for someone who most definitely was not good. “Very good.”

“Are you su-”

“Y’know, I’m very excited for tonight. I don’t get to party it up in Monaco much.” Cutting him off looked to be the best option right then. “Last year was more chill.”

“...Yes, we went for a picnic up to that viewpoint with Charlotte and… who were you dating then?”

“Oh, Antonio? I wasn’t serious with him.”

“Oh?” He gratefully took the bottle when she offered it. “I thought you were.”

“It’s hard to be. You of all people should know how the media reacts to our relationships.” Among other things.

Having not even realized it, they were now standing before the Red Bull hospitality - if that was a correct term for the frat raft it appeared to be.

“Shall we?” He said. She swallowed.

“Might as well.”

To be fair, the deck was comfortable. And loud. Incredibly loud. They were offered Red Bulls - which they accepted, as they weren’t, y’know, animals. In a few minutes, she found herself sitting on the railing to get a better look over everybody else’s heads, while he leaned against it right next to her.

And to her mixed disappointment and relief, Christian Horner did not wear a Union Jack Speedo while jumping into the pool. He didn’t even jump - Max shoved him in after Checo.

The little party went on for a little while, but her social battery was dying and relying on Charles’ charms didn’t work as well as she’d hoped. When she announced her decision to leave to him, he agreed quickly, still carrying her souvenir bottle for her.

Unfortunately for them, nobody else had. The crowd was still there, much like a great number of immovable concrete walls, and they struggled to make their way to the stairs. Charles, being a bit taller and more broad-shouldered, went first in an attempt to push his way through. She, however, got separated fairly easily and had little control in being accidentally herded to the pool’s edge like cattle.

“Hey, wait-” Someone she had no time to see collided with her, sending her right into the water.

Or they would have, if her arm wasn’t abruptly grabbed by the most irritating, bothersome individual who she could have possibly crossed paths with at that moment.

He had an annoyed look in his eyes. “Watch it.”

“...Thank you.” It was painful for her dignity to say while he pulled her back to a standing position. Not waiting for a response, she hurried after Charles.

And left Max standing alone in the crowd.

NOTE: Honestly, I'm not that happy with this but I am glad that I finally got it out. Slightly anticlimatic for a first chapter? Yeah, nothing I can do about that now. Also this wasn't beta read, sorry for the mistakes you were forced to endure lol

TAGLIST: @falk0r3

Liked this? Check out my masterlist!

92 notes · View notes

aquarelliwrites · 5 months ago

Text

i am mentally dragging myself to the finish line of writing chapter 1 of this fic, much like lightning mcqueen did in cars (2006)

alas we live, it'll be up either later today (sunday) or tomorrow. unsure yet

0 notes

aquarelliwrites · 6 months ago

Text

What Kind Of Woman Do You Take Me For?

SHIP: Charles Leclerc x Reader

SUMMARY: After a dinner date at your apartment, Charles is forced to sleep over as to not get caught up in a snowstorm.

CONTENT: Mention of alcohol, domestic fluff, you/yours pronouns with fem!reader, no use of Y/N.

1.1k

"Well, this was lovely."

Charles used his napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth. You leaned back in your chair, your elbow coming to rest on the backrest of the one next to you. A vague silence washed over the dining room of your apartment, both of you observing the snowfall outside.

The view out of the dining and living rooms of your apartment was spectacular, and half the reason you were paying such a ridiculous price for it - the sprawling cityscape and background of rolling Swiss Alps breathtaking on evenings like this.

Was it really even evening anymore? You had sat down for dinner four hours ago - really, the date had actually started in the early afternoon. He had come in bearing gifts, with the first snowflakes adorning his coat, hair, and eyelashes. Then, he spent the better part of a few hours helping with dinner.

If you could count his sitting pretty on the barstool, drinking wine, and distracting you with gossip the entire time helping. You had a good reason to keep him away from the stove, however - the man was many things, but a culinary expert he was not.

"Is there anything we forgot to talk about?" You joked, tearing your gaze away from the panoramic view to the, arguably, far better one across the table.

He, to his credit, did take a moment to consider. You liked the way he looked when he was deep in thought. "I... don't believe so. How long has it- oh, wow. Midnight already?" The shock on his face, like all of his other emotions, was visible as soon as he caught sight of the clock hanging in the living room behind you.

"Nearing it." The snow outside was bad now - Switzerland was used to snow, sure, but was Charles? At night? In that sports car you saw him drive here? "You should stay over."

"Yeah?" His smile was teasing while he picked at a few crumbs on the tablecloth. "Are you propositioning me? Is that what this is?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Don't be ridiculous-"

"I came all this way-"

"Charles-"

"-all for an elaborate booty call? Really? Thought you were better than that, amour." Combined, the twinkle in his eyes and the smirk tugging upwards at the corners of his lips made you want to jump across the table and do unholy things to him. Not that you’d readily admit it.

You gestured to your matching empty glasses and plates. "Well, technically, I’ve been wining and dining you. Not a booty call. Come on, what kind of woman do you take me for, Leclerc?"

He shrugged, now picking at the tablecloth itself.

Clearing your throat was more uncomfortable than you’d thought. "The guest room situation isn't- um. I've got my office in there."

"Right, yes."

"...And I have a queen bed." That you didn't know if you wanted to share with him. This was- what was this? The third date? He had said he wanted to take it slow, get to know you. This wasn't exactly planned.

"Oh."

Another silence fell over the room. You felt like you were drowning in it.

"You can take the bed. I just changed the sheets this morning," you offered.

"No, no, I couldn't take that from you."

"I insist."

"No-"

"You're a houseguest. Fae rules."

"What? Fae rules?" He sputtered in surprise.

"Yes." You were smiling smugly, and he pointed it out.

"It's not a problem, chat." The tips of his ears went a little red at you calling him 'cat', but you continued. "The sofa’s comfy. I made sure when I was buying it just in case my, how did you put it, ‘booty call’ could be comfortable."

An extended quiet passed by before he nodded. "Alright."

"Alright."

You cleaned up together - he washed dishes, you dried them; he offered a piece of gossip about the people in his life, you returned one about an office affair you nearly got caught up in; he gasped in disbelief, you nodded solemnly; he caged you against the counter when you were done, you reciprocated his kiss sweetly, slowly.

He tasted of alcohol and dessert, mostly, then of mint after you brushed your teeth together and stole a final kiss. And your pillow.

"Bonne nuit." You whispered against his lips.

"Bonne nuit, amour."

To your credit, you managed to get incredibly cozy on the couch - spare duvet, blankets, pillows galore. You allowed yourself the luxury of imagining him lying in your bed, daydreaming about the way you’d look there with him. You then spent a good quarter of an hour debating with yourself whether joining him there would be uncomfortable for both of you or not.

Oh, god. Had he seen your stuffed animals? The thought nagged at you as you drifted off.

A click of a door roused you from sleep. You couldn’t really tell what time it was in the dark, but the room being so dark and the snow still falling heavily suggested it hasn't been more than… what? Two hours?

"Amour?" He whispered from the doorway. You hummed, acknowledging his presence, but not exactly comprehending it yet.

"Wha's up?" The only word your half-asleep mind could really think of to describe him then is cute - hair a little messy, shirt a little askew, sweatpant cuffs riding up a little on his legs.

He didn't answer, instead stealing one of the top-most blankets covering you. Before you could protest, he moved - sort of clumsily, which prompted a snickering laugh from you - to lay down on top of you. After he got comfy, you were pressed into the couch - his legs tangling with yours, his arms enclosing around your waist under your shirt, his head resting on your chest.

A more conscious you would probably hesitate a little, and a more conscious he probably wouldn't have done what he did. Alas, tired people do stupid things, and you embraced him back quickly. You helped him cover himself in the stolen blanket, and your hands carded through his hair a little while neither of you were asleep yet.

"Thank you." You heard him whisper, and you made a little noise of agreement.

"Didn't know if you'd want to sleep together."

"Hah, I thought you didn't want it, amour?"

"With you? Don't be ridiculous. If I had more confidence, I'd be throwing myself all over the opportunity." Your finger twirled a longer strand of hair, and you got to enjoy the way his fingers were mind-numbingly warm drawing patterns on your waist.

This was miles better than any sleep you could have gotten on your own.

NOTE: these fics keep getting shorter and shorter but i'm not lying when I say everything that could have possibly gone wrong while writing this went wrong. I'm truly shocked and appalled.

Rivals to lovers Max fic is hopefully still on the way - alas i got too ambitious with it and now it's looking like it's going to be the longest thing i've ever written. not yet sure if i should be excited or worried?

Liked this? Check out my masterlist!

306 notes · View notes

aquarelliwrites · 6 months ago

Text

hey how the hell do you write a rivals to lovers? asking for a friend

#the friend is me #i seem to have forgotten how to start a scene #or. um. end it #this was supposed to be up by friday but i have approximately 300 words and no plot yet oh my god #aqua rambles #not a fic

0 notes

aquarelliwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Reading Date

SHIP: Oscar Piastri x Reader BLURB: A miserably cold day during winter break gives Oscar the opportunity to have a closer look at one of your hobbies. CONTENT WARNINGS: passing mention of alcohol, fluff, you/yours pronouns with no specified gender, no use of Y/N

1.8k

Weak white daylight streamed in through the gauzy curtains of your sitting room - first illuminating dust particles caught floating in its path, then reaching you on the sofa. The sage green record player played its honeyed vintage notes at a leisurely pace, the soft tones of a melody on piano only there for you to hear.

By all means, you were happy with this. The radiator right under the window kept the sitting room at a relatively normal temperature considering the miserable January weather outside, and you buried yourself in blankets in addition - if someone were to ask, you'd have to guess some number between 3 and 5, all covering different parts of you.

The collection of essays you'd been dragging yourself through reading was finally finished, which made you more than happy to pull one of your 'rainy day' books off the shelf and decide if it was a worthy successor to the last novel you'd read. The essays were incredibly interesting and provided a fresh view of the world, sure, but sometimes all you really needed was a good piece of fiction to sink your teeth into. Your boyfriend sometimes teased you about the number of books you bought and never read, but your argument was sound: you often needed the story to find you at the right time to enjoy it fully.

Speak of the devil - a door down the hallway creaked open and closed faintly, and you hear Oscar's soft footsteps on the hardwood shortly before he speaks up.

"Good morning." He really was the embodiment of a polite cat right then and there - cozy clothes, tired smile, a voice still scratchy from sleep.

"Good morning, darling," you smiled back. His hands held the back of the couch behind you, and you observed the way they supported his weight before craning your neck upwards to see him looking at you upside-down. "How'd you sleep? Sorry if the music woke you up."

"Oh, no, don't worry about that." He rested his entire forearm on the backrest now, laying his head in a way where it was right next to yours. You swore you got goosebumps from the way his morning voice spoken right next to your ear scratched your brain just right. "I couldn't even hear it in the hallway. I slept fine. Take it you did too?"

You nodded, sitting up slightly and reaching for his cheek to press a soft kiss on his lips. He let out a satisfied hum, reaching up to tangle his hand in your hair. You weren't a new couple by any means, having not been in your 'honeymoon lovebirds' phase for at least a year or two by now; still, you loved that every kiss and small gesture you exchanged still made you feel as warm and bright as the day you met.

"How does coffee sound?" He asked when he pulled away, his hand traveling from your hair to cradle your face. Tiny sparks lit a fire under where his thumb ran over the apple of your cheek, and you briefly shut your eyes to savor the moment.

"Coffee sounds great, Osc,” you spoke, and after his pointed pause chuckled, “please and thank you."

His laugh is in harmony with the song on the vinyl - although maybe you’re just young and in love and so it seems that way. The sound of him grinding coffee beans for you both sort of fades into the background, so you don’t really notice he’s back until a latte’s placed on the side table next to you. In the rich foam, the figure of a lopsided heart catches your attention.

“You did latte art for me,” you gush, a grin seemingly stuck on your face as he sets his mug down by the other end of the sofa. It’s nearly surreal: the athlete behind the visor is curling up on the couch with you now, sipping a latte from a matching mug and choosing a Netflix show. Lifting the needle and turning off the turntable, you watch the vinyl come to a slow stop before putting it away with care.

You’re left sitting in a comfortable silence after that, with background noise of muffled dialogue and the occasional flipping of a page. He did manage to end up with his legs completely in your space under the blankets, though. Not that you minded.

“You don’t have anything planned for today, right?” Is it shitty if he secretly really, really hoped you would say no?

"No.” He breathed a silent sigh of relief, and you smiled at his antics. “I was thinking about maybe, possibly taking a walk later, but…" you looked out of the window. The street outside was empty and foggy, and the overcast sky enveloped everything like the world’s most depressing duvet. “I’d have to bundle up, and I’m just not feeling it right now.”

"We could have a day in. Just the two of us."

"That sounds lovely, Osc." And with that, you were back to silence, each of you cozy in your own little bubble.

Oscar did end up having to get up later on your behalf to bring you a snack, but he lingered by the bookshelf for a strangely long time on his way back.

"What's up?" You glanced over to see him craning his head sideways and examining the titles.

"I kind of want to read with you. Just… not sure what." It’s cute how focused he was - his brows furrowed adorably and he chewed his lower lip a little. He didn’t even know how attractive you found him like that.

"I thought you weren't a book person."

"You seem like you enjoy it." He shrugged. "Any recommendations?"

It was a couple of beats of collective pondering of the titles before you clicked your tongue and pointed to the middle rack. "Uh, fifth from the left, white spine with blue letters."

He followed your instructions, but playfully rolled his eyes at the title. "'Normal People'? Is this supposed to mean something?"

"It's not a jab at you, it's just a pretty good character study that reads fairly easily." You sounded a little defensive, so he lifted his hands up in mock surrender before collapsing back on the sofa and curling up. He didn’t miss the opportunity to steal one of your blankets then, laughing at the death glare you sent him.

You waited for him to settle before scooting yourself and the blanket nest over, resting under his left arm. A satisfied sigh left you at the sensation of immense warmth and comfort you found and let him know you don’t plan to move away anytime soon.

Not that he really minded.

“Who has to cook?” He asked you around midday, both of you already deeply invested in your reading.

You hummed indecisively. “I'll rock-paper-scissors you for it?”

Oscar agreed, and you both cupped your fists in your left hands.

"Best of three," he added after losing the first round. You're unsurprised he lost overall - he always chose scissors first.

“Best of five?” He suggested.

“Get to it, pastry boy. Chop chop.”

He sighed dramatically, like the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders, and stood up suddenly, leaving you to fall into a fit of giggles - now in a fully lying position.

Eventually, you poured yourself a drink from the fridge and sat yourself all pretty on the kitchen island. He hummed along to some song from his Spotify, and you took a moment to really admire him. Even in a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair still fell in that graceful swoop across his forehead; the way you can see his forearms flex with how he rolled up his sleeves made your thoughts race.

You did also catch yourself staring at his ass. It was unavoidable.

“They should call you Oscar Pi-ass-tri, goddamn.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder and cocked his hip with a sly smile. “Did you put any alcohol in there, baby?”

“You know I'm just naturally like this.”

“I do.”

"You know," you took a sip after an extended silence, "the sluttiest thing a man can do is know how to cook delicious meals."

He was quiet for a moment, stirring a pot on the stove, before he shrugged with a small smile tugging upwards at the corners of his lips. "'Guess I'm a filthy whore of a man then."

You both paused, again, and he looked up at you from the pasta sauce he was making. You could have heard a pin drop, then.

In the moment after, you were both roaring with laughter - he was almost on his knees on the floor while your knuckles were white with how hard you were gripping the countertop not to fall off.

You barely wheezed out, "That's your new name in my phone," before Oscar was practically folded over again and you were struggling to catch your breath.

The pasta ended up tasting divine, and you were both full before you knew it. The couch welcomed you back after lunch, the TV just on as background noise to avoid the afternoon drowsiness.

"You were right, you know," he said while marking his place - over your dead body would you let him dog-ear the page - "it is a good character study. I wish they'd just, well, you know. Talk about their problems."

"It's a little frustrating, yeah,” you mumbled. He was so indescribably warm and comfortable and you really couldn’t make yourself move to look at him from where you were still lying under his arm and several blankets. A certain comfort settled deep into your bones, and you felt as heavy as lead. "It ends well, I promise."

"It better." He grumbled, and you responded with a huffy giggle.

While he had a late lie-in, you had been up for a while already by that point. After a few too-long moments of silence, he lifted his elbow and noticed you dozed off completely. Your weight was comfortable on him, and the story was interesting, so he put yours away on the coffee table and decided he could waste the afternoon just like this.

Ultimately, you stirred a couple of times throughout the few hours you were out - never truly waking up, except to pull yourself closer to him. He was more than halfway through the little paperback you assigned him and, surprisingly, he was actually enjoying himself. Maybe it was just because he got to participate in a hobby you like as well. Or maybe he enjoyed the closeness and intimacy of getting to read your little pencil notes in the margins; enjoyed the soothing rhythm of your chest rising and falling; enjoyed the small pleasures of ‘normal people’ things.

It was such a perfect moment that, for an instant, he felt like he could spend every single one of the rest of his days like this.

Note: I'm not as happy with this as I was with the Max fic (and I'm upset with myself for not posting it when I said I would?? alas we live) but Oscar is one of my favorite drivers and I hope I did him justice lol

Liked this? Check out my masterlist!

262 notes · View notes

aquarelliwrites · 6 months ago

Text

the writing process is. processing.

it's going, for sure. oscar fic today or tomorrow???

#also anon i got your ask and i GOT U that just might take a little bit #aqua rambles #not a fic

0 notes

aquarelliwrites · 6 months ago

Text

All Caught Up

SHIP: Max Verstappen x driver!Reader PROMPT: “I got you three gifts for Christmas. Since I wasn’t there for Valentine’s Day or your birthday-” “We weren’t even dating then!” CONTENT WARNINGS: slight alcohol consumption in the last scene, she/her pronouns, no use of y/n

3.1k

You sigh, the door shutting behind you with a soft click. Another one, and it locks. The keys get tossed unceremoniously into the decorative tray right next to the entrance, and your shoes get toed off soon after that.

What a way to spend Valentine’s Day, huh? A transcontinental flight from Nice to Luton of all places, then waiting around for nearly an hour for your luggage to find itself on the revolving conveyor belt in front of you. Then, as if the universe itself had it out for you, the thin metal frame holding your umbrella together twists out of shape under the onslaught of wind - leaving you fuming in the cold rain for 45 minutes before your Uber arrives. The guy is apologetic, of course, and the traffic isn’t his fault, so you try your best to smile and reassure him it’s alright. Following that, you spend the half-hour drive to Milton Keynes attempting to warm up even slightly in your soaked coat.

Really, that whole monologue was a long way of saying the pre-RB20-launch meeting was cold, rainy and miserable in many ways. There were a couple of positive sides to it, though, you think as you unpack your bag in the hallway - your coworkers, both the ones who’d stay in the factory and who’d join you in the paddock, were all delightful and friendly, congratulating you on the promotion. The car itself looked fantastic - all smooth carbon fiber wrapped around the innards of the car like a silk sheet, covered in sponsor logos, sharp nose already pointing to another successful season for the team.

And Max. He was… also there.

The dark and lonely flat seems to mock you at the very thought.

Well, no, that’s a rude way of putting it. Your most famous coworker was as kind as anyone else you’d met before and during that day. You’d already met before, when you became a reserve driver for the team the year before. Your first meeting face to face was nothing but pleasant, and you quickly found you both had a similar sense of humor.

You’re half-worried the kettle won't work after several months of abandonment. It turns on on the first try. You breathe a sigh of relief.

The problem arose in the fact that this grayscale day around you was eclipsed by his presence - as if he was the only object in full Technicolor - as soon as you’d noticed him. His smile was downright infectious, for one, and you honestly could have sworn your hand trembled when you clasped his in greeting.

“Hi, it’s great to meet you again.” He lit up the room with that smile, at least in your eyes. “Christian and the team have only sung your praises for the past few days.”

A softer sigh escapes you when you remember it, and your response: “Oh really? That’s good to hear - they haven’t exposed my worst secrets to you yet.”

“Your worst secrets?” He looked confused while you were busy taking off your coat.

“Yeah, you know,” you grinned, “that I’m secretly a terrible driver who has autopilot installed on her car, or that I’m awfully annoying. So they don’t scare you off, you know?”

To you, his laugh sounded like silver bells, and spring awakening in your chest, and a golden spark blooming into fireworks inside you, and every cliche thing you’ve ever read about in books. You had heard it in recorded interviews and distantly at parties you both got invited to, obviously, but the attraction fully hit you now that you were standing face to face.

Oh, attraction. That’s what it was. You hum and sit down on the couch, your teacup still scalding your fingertips. It's quiet everywhere but your thoughts. Actually, no, if you strain very hard, you might hear your downstairs neighbor's TV.

You couldn’t even fathom how headlines nicknamed him the rain of this cursed place, having spent half the meeting subtly glancing his way, and the other half trying to think of ways to look at him that weren’t… how should you put it? Outright creepy?

Hours later, you both stood in the car park under his umbrella - he’d insisted, and you really couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

“What a Valentine’s Day, huh?” You chuckled, warming your hands in your pockets. He looked towards you - fuck, his eyes were beautiful - and shrugged.

“Never was a fan, really.”

“Me neither. I’ve never had anyone stick around long enough to celebrate properly.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Any plans, then?”

“Not really. They set me up with a flat here back in December, so I’m just heading there for the night. Might get real freaky and order pizza, or something crazy like that.”

“Ooh, don’t go too wild.” He chuckled, and you joined heartily.

The LED headlights of your Uber bathed you both in white light, and you stepped out from under the umbrella. “Thanks for everything, Max. I’m looking forward to this season.”

“Yeah, no problem.” The pitter-patter of raindrops against concrete nearly drowned out his reply as you walked towards the car. He lingered for a moment, gazing at your retreating silhouette through the sheets of rain before unlocking his own car and leaving the car park empty of people once more.

You’re content to stare out of the window now, watching the raindrops race down the glass. The launch is tomorrow, and they'll announce you as the second Red Bull Racing driver. The world will either accept it, or be forced to deal with you for a year.

Truly? Honestly? You're just looking forward to becoming friends with Max.

It is barely 9 in the morning, but the late-July sun is dead-set on giving you a headache today, apparently.

The automated gates at the paddock entrance let you through, and a couple of photographers spot you from a short distance, snapping photos immediately. You grin joyfully, throwing up a peace sign at them before checking your watch.

You have time to make a detour.

The fans at the barrier buzz with excitement when you approach them, and you find yourself in an easy conversation with the front-most ones. It’s nice to hear people are fans of you sometimes, so what?

A girl thanks you profusely for signing her poster, and extends a pink friendship bracelet towards you. “Oh, here’s a birthday gift!”

“Aw, I love it, thank you! Do we match?” You smile, tightening it around your left wrist, right below your watch. The girl simply responds by showing her own wrist - indeed, she has a matching one.

The short detour takes longer than expected, and shortly, one of the social media girls comes to find you. “You’re all great, thanks for coming to free practice!” You wave goodbye and jog to catch up to your coworker.

Your side of the garage is experiencing an unusual amount of activity, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happening - the people weren’t too subtle with their cameras either.

“She’s here, she’s here!” Someone yells, and you’re ushered into the middle of the crowd to stand in front of Anthea, your race engineer. Who is, shockingly, holding a cake.

“Happy birthday!!” The crowd roars, and you spot a bunch of the drivers hanging around as well - not that it isn’t obvious, what with the colorful fireproofs in a sea of navy polos. Charles and Pierre are standing somewhere in the middle of the crowd, Carlos and Lando in the back (granted, talking animatedly with each other as soon as the congratulating was over), Oscar and Logan to your left, close by. Max, of course, right next to Anthea.

The cake itself is Red Bull blue and checkered black-and-white on the top, a small model of your car right on top, surrounded by 22 lit candles.

In that instant, you feel indescribably loved. And it's a beautiful, sparkling feeling.

Are those tears rolling down your cheeks? Oh no, they are. And you worked so hard on your eyeliner today - you feel Oscar and Logan each put an arm around your shoulders as you wipe the skin under your eyes dry.

“Happy birthday, dude. You’re finally old enough for preschool.” You yelp when Oscar ruffles your hair lovingly and swat at his hand.

“No, Osc, come on!” You laugh through tears, fixing your hair hurriedly. “Who organized this?”

Anthea grins at you, and Max suddenly looks extremely invested in the concrete floor underneath Logan’s feet. “Max suggested it, I think he was the only one who knew about it? Other than, like, Horner and the people who did your paperwork.”

A soft blush appears on your face, though you feel it burning your cheeks and ears to high heaven. Or at least that’s what it feels like - maybe it doesn’t look so bad to everyone around you. “You guys are the best, seriously. Thank you, Max, and everyone for making it happen.”

“Yeah, yeah, you big sap. Blow out the candles already.” Logan pipes up, and the entire garage chuckles. You roll your eyes in mock annoyance, but lean forward with a silent wish in mind, and blow them out in one breath.

Afterwards, you vaguely remember Oscar trying to shove your face into the cake when the candles and car were taken off - and failing - but the minutes after were so chaotic that it felt like one moment you were standing there, hugging your best friends, and the next you’re sat atop a countertop with Max, both attacking the chocolate cake with vigor.

“Oh my God, this is so good,” you practically moan, your mouth full. “Is this Belgian chocolate?”

Max is swinging his legs, hitting your right calf rhythmically with his foot. “Yeah, I think so. I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.”

“Me, too,” you nod, licking off the ganache stuck to your fork. “Hopefully practice won’t be a complete tragedy today.”

“It’ll be good. The data shows it,” he says, completely sure of himself, before hurriedly adding, “I think. I- well, I know. Anthea told me.”

“Good, then. It’ll just be my shit driving that will put me in the wall then.” You nudge his shoulder with yours, but his core strength is greater than you expect and, alas, he doesn’t even move. For a moment, you kind of want to stay stuck to him, leeching off his body heat.

However, it is July, and you are just friends.

He nudges you back - more like shoves, you nearly go flying - and clicks his tongue. “You always say that, but it only happened in Canada. And it wasn’t even your fault.”

You blush, again. Annoyingly. Were you overthinking, or was he keeping track of your results during the season?

“And you’ve already got three podiums. It’s great for a rookie.”

He was definitely keeping track.

You lower your head, smiling. “Thanks, Max. Seriously. For the surprise and the support you’ve given me - it means so, so much.”

“It’s really no problem. I think you’re very talented.”

“I can’t believe you knew when my birthday was,” you pipe up when he takes a breath in between monologues.

It’s evening now, and the late July sun is streaming golden light through the window of Max’ room at the Belgium Grand Prix paddock. You’re standing in the doorway, chewing on your drinking straw absentmindedly while he talks about the data gathered in FP1 and FP2 - as if you weren’t in the debrief together. Or, you know, as if you don't drive the same car. It’s a habit of his that many could find annoying and is nothing but endearing to you.

He looks a bit taken aback, but after a moment simply says “I can’t believe no one’s ever celebrated it with you like this.”

You shrug. “People don’t really stick around enough. Or, most of the time, my friends and family were too far away to make plans,” is your reply. “You know how it is - moving to Monaco as soon as you can and leaving everyone behind.”

“It’s a shame, though.” He’s studying your face now, and you feel some emotion between ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘flustered’ when you notice how he’s checking you out. Or maybe he isn’t?

“It is, but so what?”

“You deserve to celebrate your birthday properly.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s a no-brainer. Which it may be - you’ve had birthdays, and they were great, but they seem like such a long-lost part of your childhood that it takes you a moment to remember when you last held a party.

“I did. Just- well, just not with other people.” You did. Really. You took yourself out to breakfasts and treated yourself to flowers and books and new shoes, occasionally. It’s just that you did it alone most of the time.

“Would you be opposed to celebrating with other people?” Why does he look like he has something planned?

“...Do you have something planned?”

“No, but we could go hang out. Grab dinner somewhere, and a drink after, maybe?”

It’s a casual request, and you feel inclined to accept. Maybe you’re a bit brave, or a bit stupid, or just a bit head-over-heels when you laugh softly and nod. “Sure, what is this? A date?”

Now he’s the one who looks flustered. “Uh… sure. If you want it to be one.”

“Sure.” You’re smiling again, and when he moves on to his next talking point, you’re more than happy to keep chewing on your straw and listening.

Ripping open the wrapping paper to reveal a plain cardboard box, you send the camera guy in front of you a worried glance.

It’s a lovely, warm November morning in Abu Dhabi, and the Secret Santa event is wrapping up. You had gotten Logan - who was practically too easy to shop for - but now it’s your turn to open your present, and you’re nervous.

“Hopefully it won’t explode?” You joke, then run your nail under the piece of tape holding the box closed. When you manage to get it open, your lips curl upwards into a bright smile.

The box is full to the brim without any of the items cluttering together - whoever packed this had to have put immense care into it. You spot a pair of fuzzy socks, candles, bath salts, a bottle of French wine, and many other small self-care items.

“Aww, this is so sweet- Oh, there’s no way.” You pull out the last thing, which is a copy of ‘The Book Thief’ by Markus Zusak. “This is my favorite book,” you tell the camera, having a sense of who this is from, “and I remember I was talking to Max the other day about how sad I was that I lost my copy on a flight a few months ago. We agreed to start a book club over winter break.”

The media employees chuckle at the thought, and you join them. “More like, I made him. Yeah, this is from him.”

“It is.” The woman holding the microphone confirms.

They leave you sitting on the white couch on the terrace, a small smile still tugging at the corners of your lips while you read what he’d written on the inside cover:

‘Sorry I can’t hang out - my weekend is fully booked. How about Christmas at my place? - Max’

You roll your eyes and giggle. What an idiot.

Your idiot.

“Alright.” He starts when you both settle on the shaggy beige carpet in his living room. You’re both a bit buzzed - both having had screwdrivers for late Christmas breakfast, champagne on the balcony before lunch, red wine with the lunch itself, and now you’re nursing a mimosa while he finishes the champagne. Talk about day drinking.

“Alright. Presents, right? How do you want to, like… Should we alternate?” Your head tilts at the size of the pile of presents you definitely knew you didn’t bring.

“I was thinking we could go one by one, from the top, and just sort them by whose name is on it?” He suggests, legs stretching out in front of him. You smile when he playfully nudges your calf with his foot.

“Sounds good,” you nod, taking one last sip for the time being and leaving your glass on the coffee table.

Max reaches for the first present you got him - it’s wrapped in red and green with an obnoxiously large bow on the top - and is delighted when he sees that you’ve gotten him diecast models of his and your 2024 cars, different only in the numbers and the yellow T-cam on yours. He promises to keep them on his desk with a laugh, and hands you the next present.

Inexplicably, it’s wrapped in pink. With hearts all over it. And another obnoxiously large bow on top.

Wondering if he may secretly be colorblind (or unaware of Christmas traditions), you peer up at him with brows furrowed in confusion. Meanwhile, he’s handing you another two boxes: one white one with party hats all over, and another with a candy cane pattern.

“I got you three big presents. Since I wasn’t there for Valentine’s Day,” he says. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Or your birthday.”

You can feel yourself start tearing up. “Max…”

He grimaces. “I’m so sorry. Should I have gotten more-”

“Max. We weren’t…” You swipe the tear off your left cheek, a little bit of eye pencil coming off with it. The alcohol is making you emotional, you tell yourself. “We weren’t even dating back then.”

“You were alone, though. I mean we did go on that date for your birthday, but it was just dinner. I, just…” He trails off, pulling at the carpet fibers. “You deserved better for this year.”

You set the box down gently, and move over to sit on his lap. He’s a little surprised when you hug him tightly, but he embraces you back quickly, one of his hands immediately reaching up to play with your hair.

“You’re one of the most thoughtful people I know. Thank you.” You whisper, and you can hear an exhale of a laugh when your breath tickles the back of his neck.

“It’s my pleasure, shatje.” He pats your shoulder, and you kiss him with a giggle still on your lips. Crawling off of him, you turn your attention back to the presents he gave you. The pink box holds the silkiest, softest cami nightgown you’ve ever touched; the one with party hats, a signed copy of your favorite author’s newest novel laying on top of a heavy navy blue knitted blanket. Arguably, though, the Christmas one is your favorite - a pair of Lightning McQueen Crocs. Signed by Charles Leclerc.

“You’re ridiculous,” you burst out laughing again while he only smirks and pours his champagne flute full once more.

“You know it, darling."

Liked this? Check out my masterlist!

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x y/n #formula one fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fluff #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n

252 notes · View notes