clowneryplusftf1

[clowneryplusftf1]

YES POKÉMON COLLECT EM ALL YESSSS (i’m a whore i fear you honour 😔)

[clowneryplusftf1]

you should do the series as mark webber x reader to eventually mark webber x reader x oscar I MEAN WHY NOT HAVE EM ALL YOU KNOW

So reader should collect them like pokemons? Mmmkay.

[clowneryplusftf1]

awww why is the series dead (if you don’t mind answering ofc haha!!)

Hello! Well, I mean, it's supposed to be a dark!Oscar fic that I write from his POV, but... idk. Maybe I should write it from reader's POV with a "we accidentally fell in love" plot?

[clowneryplusftf1]

Oscar Piastri x reader - masterlist

Summary: Who knows what you might find? Warning: stalking

Chapters:

part one "Are we the hunters? Or are we the prey?" - Game of Survival by Ruelle

[clowneryplusftf1]

Oscar Piastri x webbersgirl!reader x Mark Webber

part one - series masterlist

An offer Oscar hopes you can't refuse. All of this to protect you from the vultures, of course.

When his eyes landed on you, Oscar assumed for a moment that the assistant his mother was talking about was in reality some sort of offering from his manager, like a sacrificial lamb to appease the gods. 

Sure, he wasn’t a god, but who knew, maybe a good fuck before the race, or rather a new girlfriend, no less, would be able to give him the charge he needs to perform well on the track. 

Mark has enough experience to know better if either of these could work, so who was he to question his advice?

But then he looked at the older man and saw the remains of your lipstick on his face, and that’s when he realized just how wrong he was about the situation. You’re not there for him, you’re there for his mentor.

What a shame, you are really pretty, and based on the conversation you had that night, you were also nice and intelligent. Mark undeniably has a good taste, that’s for sure. 

Now, the day after the events at the party, he’s pacing his living room with a bottle of water in hand, thinking about how to get rid of the giant, ugly spider that sneaked into his bathroom. Important matters, especially here, in Australia. He highly doubts it’s venomous, but he can never be too careful.

Well, he’s thinking about that, and you. 

Because no spider can avert his thoughts for long, no spider can make him forget about those soft features, those lips that look so kissable–no wonder Mark couldn’t keep himself away from you.

It’s kind of funny, and kind of pathetic how he suddenly comes to a halt and swears under his breath. 

Normally, he’s not the type of person to be envious when it comes to someone else’s girlfriend, but now? Now he’s going mental from the idea of a girl like you being so obsessed with a guy twice your age, especially when you could get anyone, even him.

And God, he would never ever let you go.

That’s when he sees it out of the corner of his eye. The spider entered his living room.

Fucking spiders.

########

On the morning of media day, Oscar comes to the conclusion that he cannot let the two of you be seen together. He’s just trying to help you keep your secret, he tells himself, because neither of you want to end up on gossip sites, but deep down he knows it’s bullshit.

He wants you all to himself, and he has a plan. 

So, he calls Mark, asking if he’s thinking about taking you to track, and when he says that’s the plan, Oscar lets out a thoughtful hum. Oh, it’s only because he’s such a good guy, of course, not because he wants to make sure the world thinks you belong to him.

“I have an idea for the rest of the season,” he begins eventually, trying to sound as casual as he always does. 

“What would that be?”

And so he explains it, beginning with the theory that Mark would want to have you around as much as possible. If it was him, he definitely wouldn’t let you out of his sight, but that’s something he keeps to himself.

Since his manager attends many of his race weekends, and he’s also there when he shoots important footage with a sponsor, he needs an excuse as to why he has such a young woman on his side.

Okay, sure, you’re his assistant, but he has never been seen with one before. Why now? This question would surely arise eventually. Fans aren’t stupid, and both his and Mark’s fans would start making up theories about who you really are.  

“So, maybe we could say she’s my girlfriend, and that’s why she’s there in the paddock. You’re just making sure she doesn’t get lost,” Oscar introduces the plan. 

There’s a groan on the other end of the line, and he can tell Mark’s not as enthusiastic as he expected. Okay, he didn’t expect him to be okay with this, not right away at least, but maybe with a little guidance his mind can be changed.

“Mark, she said it herself, she doesn’t want to cause you a PR nightmare by going public with your relationship,” he tries, forcing his voice to remain steady and emotionless.

“She also said she doesn’t want to be in the spotlight,” the other man points out.

Oscar bites the inside of his cheek before he says something he would regret later. Why he believed this would be easier is beyond him, but now he has to do his best to change Mark’s mind about the issue.

So, he changes his strategy, offering to tell you the plan too, that it should be your decision. Because–and it pains him to say this–they’re such a cute couple, and they are clearly in love. Why wouldn’t they want to spend more time together without problems?

Two hours later, just when he steps into the McLaren motorhome, he gets a call.

“Alright, fine, let’s do this” Mark tells him. 

The corner of Oscar’s lips curl into a satisfied smirk. And so he’s one step closer to victory.

########

On Friday evening the three of you gather in Oscar’s hotel room to discuss the details. 

Mark looks tense, way more tense than usual, which tells the younger man that despite agreeing to do this, he’s not exactly comfortable with the idea. And there’s you, clinging to him as if he was your lifeline, the only one who can save you from whatever is about to come.  

For a fleeting moment, he begins to regret even bringing this up. 

But then he quickly pushes these thoughts aside. He can’t think like this, and he certainly can’t let you waste your time on a man who’s so much older, so different than you. Sure, he’s still in good shape, he’s undeniably still handsome, but come on, how would that work in the long run? 

Oscar grabs a bottle of water from the mini fridge, then walks back to the two of you to sit on the coffee table in front of the couch you and Mark are sitting on. He offers you the bottle, but you just shake your head, so he nods with a tight smile and puts it next to himself. 

“Are you still sure you want to do this?”

Mark’s voice is so soft and sweet that it almost makes Oscar gag. 

Your eyes, full of uncertainty and adoration, slowly turn to him. It unintentionally makes his blood boil, because he wants you to look at him like that, like you are waiting for him to take care of you, to solve every single one of your problems for you.

Yet, you let out a quiet sigh. “I mean, it would be better if we could go together, but I don’t want to make your life difficult,” you say.

Without hesitation, Mark leans closer to press a kiss on the crown of your head. “It’s not just about me, sweetheart, you know that. People would immediately label you a gold digger, and I won’t let that happen.”

You nod, but that’s all, you don’t say anything else. 

“I will take good care of her, I promise,” Oscar assures his mentor with a small smile, then turns to you. “Hey, all you have to do is walk into the paddock with me, post a photo of the two of us every now and then, and that’s all, don’t worry.”

But you’re still uncertain, still alarmingly quiet. 

“I’ll be there with you every time,” Mark points out. 

Oh, hell no. That’s not gonna happen. “Well, about that,” he begins flatly, keeping his emotions out of his voice, “maybe she should come to two or three extra races when you’re not there.”

When Mark’s eyes narrow in suspicion, Oscar lets out a sigh as if he was just as annoyed by this. “Look, mate, I’m not happy about it either, but you know the fans. They’ll put up the boards and start coming up with theories.”

What a big fucking lie.

Having you all to himself, possibly thousands of miles away from your boyfriend? It would be a dream coming true.

Your eyes widen in shock, and he doesn’t miss the way your grip on Mark’s hand tightens. Oscar raises a brow in question, and you take a deep breath as you collect your thoughts.

When you speak up, your voice is thin, uncertain. “It’s just… I agreed to do this to be there with Mark, but what’s the point if he’s not there?”

“We don’t have to start it this weekend, guys. Just think about it, the offer’s gonna stay on the table, okay?” he says with a barely visible smile.

Mark lets go of your hand and wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you against his side. “Oscar’s right, it’s your call. We got together after the last season ended, we have no idea how this would work between us if I left every other weekend,” he tells you. 

You shake your head a little. “And what if said, ‘Fuck it,’ and just went public with our relationship? Let people say whatever they want, I love you, and–”

Oscar bites his tongue, he wants to close out the love confession. Because your voice is defiant, yet soft, and it’s clear that you mean every single word you’re saying. 

So, before Mark can say anything, he cuts in. 

“I get where you’re coming from, I really do, but this world? These fans? They would tear you both apart,” he says, then quickly turns to the other man. “Sorry, mate, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” is all his manager says.

“Just think about it.” Oscar suddenly stands up with the unopened water bottle in hand. “Dinner?”

[clowneryplusftf1]

Oscar Piastri x webbersgirl!reader x Mark Webber

part zero - series masterlist

Oscar finds out your little secret - that you're dating his manager and mentor despite being his age.

It’s a nice party at the Piastri home. Loud and chaotic, warm and full of life. 

Everybody has been dying to see the golden boy again. It’s the weekend of his home grand prix, the McLarens are stronger than ever, so no wonder every family member and friend is in a good mood as they’re waiting for him to arrive. 

When Nicole asks Mark who you are when you arrive, he says you are his assistant for the weekend. There are way too many things to take care of because of Oscar, and he needs the extra help managing his own life. 

Because he has one, he swore that right there with a smile and a laugh after the lady of the house began to question it.

It’s hard not to giggle at this, but one stern side glance is enough to make you behave. You feel his hand land on the small of your back before he begins to steer you away from Nicole, and he doesn’t speak to you until you reach a part of the backyard that’s surprisingly empty.

“What did I tell you, huh?” he asks teasingly as he presses your back against a tree.

His hands are gripping your waist tightly, but he’s not being possessive, he’s just afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t. That’s one of his fears, you know it, he never made it a secret that his insecurities when it comes to you often win the fight in his mind. 

You’re half his age, when you made a move on him two months ago he thought it was either a bet or just an attempt to make a name for yourself as his girlfriend. He still visits the paddock often because of Oscar, it’s not such an unrealistic thought.

But in the past months you proved to him you don’t want to be in the spotlight, you don’t post photos of the two of you anywhere, and if you go somewhere together, there’s always a lie to cover up the fact it’s a date.

“You told me to behave and play along,” you finally answer his question with a small, obedient smile.

He hums in confirmation as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Good girl,” he says before giving you a quick kiss. 

But a quick kiss isn’t good enough, you want more, you need more, so you tangle your fingers into his hair and pull him closer again. He only laughs for a moment before his lips crash into yours.

But no good moments can last forever, and in your case, it can’t even last for a minute. Just your luck.

“Mark? Are you out here?” 

Oscar's flat voice calls out for your boyfriend, who lets out an annoyed groan while resting his forehead against yours. Despite agreeing with him, you take his hands and brush them off your body, then push him away just enough to build an innocent distance between you.

By the time he reaches the pair of you, there’s nothing to see anymore. 

But it’s Oscar. He notices. Because of course he notices.

“Her lipstick is all over your face, mate,” he states with the perfect poker face. 

There’s no grin, no smirk, not even a half smile. It’s like he doesn’t even care about it. But there is something else, a flicker in his eyes that you can’t quite place. 

Mark licks his lips as he rubs his face, then his eyes turn to you, full of worry and panic, but in the end he takes a deep breath and turns to his protégé, waiting to see what else he has to say. 

Still, Oscar doesn’t speak up for a while, all you can see is the way his eyes take a better look at you, taking in the details, analyzing everything he sees. And only then does he pay attention to his manager.

“She could be your daughter.” 

It’s a fact. He’s not judging his mentor, he’s just pointing out the obvious. 

He says these words as if you weren’t there, and maybe this is for the best. Mark can handle it, there’s no need for you to be involved. Maybe going inside and giving them some space would be the wisest decision. 

But when you move, Oscar puts up a hand to stop you. 

So, you stay, although you stand a little closer to your boyfriend, using him as a shield by taking his hand. 

“I guess she’s not your assistant, then,” the younger man goes on, his voice perfectly steady, lacking strong emotions, maybe curiosity is the only one you can detect in it. When Mark’s eyes narrow, he lets out a sigh. “Mum told me you were out here with her. She’s a nice girl, she said,” he adds. 

Only now can you see something remotely close to amusement, and the corner of his lips turn into a barely visible cocky smile. 

“Is it serious?”

You and Mark look at each other for a second, communicating without words and coming to the same conclusion. 

“It is,” your boyfriend replies for the two of you. 

“Good. Well, now that I’ve met your assistant, I think it’s time to have a chat about that sponsor contract,” Oscar says as if nothing happened. 

And honestly? You’re eternally grateful for that.

[clowneryplusftf1]

Max Verstappen x reader

You have a secret Jos reveals to Max, and it leads to a rift that takes time to heal.

warning: mention of domestic abuse!

“How are things going with your girlfriend?” Jos asks, sounding perfectly casual, as if it’s nothing more but a question he asks out of courtesy during a small talk. 

But his son isn’t stupid, he knows it’s a trap, he knows there’s a good reason why he asked that. To be fair, you never liked each other, in fact, you usually did your best to avoid him, or if there was no chance to leave, you simply remained silent. Jos sometimes complained about your rudeness, but Max let it fly past his ear, he didn’t even listen to him most of the time. 

For a moment he thinks about what to say, because there’s a plan, there’s something he’s hell-bent on doing before the two of you travel to Belgium, yet, despite knowing his father would find out anyway, he’s uncertain about telling him the truth. 

“Everything’s perfect,” he says eventually with a smile, then takes a sip of his gin and tonic to calm himself. 

Jos nods with a hum. “Interesting.” Max looks at him with a raised brow, wondering what’s this about. And then, his father continues. “You know, I wonder why she has an escape fund then. If everything was perfect, she wouldn’t need that, don’t you think?”

An escape fund? It suddenly feels like he has icy water thrown on him. He heard about this before, this is something some women, especially those in an abusive relationship, start to have the money to escape from their partner. As far as he can remember, he never treated you badly, he hasn’t even raised his voice, and the two of you barely get into an argument. 

Then why? 

Sure, ever since you moved in, he refuses to let you pay for anything, and since you usually come to the races with him, you can only work remotely and part-time. But you chose that, he never forced you to accept these things. Then again, it’s easy to question his own decisions, wondering if unintentionally he was a little more pushy than he should have been. 

Clearing his throat, he leans back in his chair and looks his father in the eye, defiant and sure he’s either lying, or simply misunderstands the situation. “She does whatever she wants with her own money, she earned it. I’m more interested in how you know about this in the first place,” he says, his voice calm despite the anger that’s rising inside him. 

Jos huffs. “Does it even matter? Listen, I just don’t want you to be stuck in a relationship that can take your mind off of racing any moment. What if she leaves? Yes, you’re tough, but I’m sure her absence would hurt you,” he says. 

He’s playing those stupid mind games of his again, trying to manipulate him to make sure things happen the way he wants them to happen. But Max is smarter than to let him win. “She won’t leave. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go home to her,” he tells his father, his voice making it clear he’s not about to change his mind. 

On the way to his apartment, though, he can’t help but think about your escape fund. Is it one of his dad’s ridiculous lies? Or are you seriously planning to leave? He’s just about to propose to you, he can’t be left in this uncertainty. So, he makes up his mind to ask you once he gets home. 

You’re sitting on the couch cross-legged, covered with a blanket while you binge-watch a series he would normally avoid, but tonight all he wants is spending time with you, enjoying the nice, quiet moments before the storm, before he finally gathers the strength to ask you about what he just found out. 

“Hey, you’re home early,” you greet him with a smile.

Max flashes a soft smile at you before leaning down to give you a quick kiss. “You know I’d rather be with you than my dad.” 

With a quiet chuckle, you pat the empty couch next to you, and he follows your silent order like a good little soldier. He immediately reaches out for your hand, wrapping his long fingers around it tightly to ground himself, to make him forget about the possibility of losing you. 

Because it’s there in the cards, once he asks you about the fund, the conversation can go into any direction. You can get defensive, accusing him of spying on you, or you can deny it, even if it’s true, or if it’s nothing more than a lie his father fabricated, you can get mad at him for even considering the possibility. 

So, for now, he tries to enjoy this series, constantly asking you questions about the characters and their relationships with each other, but you answer everything patiently, you don’t get mad at him for interrupting the experience.

He takes the chance to talk to you during a quick snack break between two episodes, and he’s standing in the kitchen next to you, flexing his fingers over and over again to fight his nerves. You’re oblivious to what’s happening, your mind is focused on the quest to find the ice cream you bought for nights like this a few days ago. 

“Can I ask you something?” he asks suddenly, his voice quiet and uncertain, because he’s still unsure about this whole thing.

You look back at him and nod before closing the fridge. He can see the surprise, he can tell you know it won’t be a topic you’ll like. Do you think he wants to break up with you? He doesn’t want you to even consider the possibility of him not loving you enough, because he does, and he has no idea what he would do without you. 

And it’s not even an exaggeration. 

“This is gonna sound weird but… do you really have an escape fund?”

You have your poker face on, if anything, he sees a slight confusion, but he notices the way your breathing gets a little heavier, a telltale sign of being caught in a lie. 

“A what?” you ask innocently, as if you didn’t know perfectly well what he’s talking about. 

“An escape fund, money some women keep to get away from their abusive partners.”

A little tilt of your head is the only reaction. “I do have savings, Max, but I think you already knew about that,” you tell him. “And I wouldn’t exactly call that some escape fund. Why would I even need it?” you ask with a short laugh. 

As much as he wishes he didn’t know the answer, he thinks he does. He does know why you might think there is a small chance of him turning violent, and it’s not the whole ‘Mad Max’ thing, but rather his upbringing. He remembers all the times you heard him talk about the outrageous things his father did when he was a child, how he treated him, and how lightheartedly he could talk about his experiences, as if they were perfectly normal.

But he could never hurt you, and he has no idea how he should assure you of that. 

Did he ever give you a reason to doubt him?

“Max?”

“Hmm?”

You take a hesitant step closer, slowly reaching out as if you were afraid of touching him, but in the end you drop your hand to your side. It hurts him to see you like this, so uncertain about him, because all he wants is unbreakable trust between the two of you. 

“What gave you the idea that I have an escape fund?” you ask eventually. 

Max groans as he hops on the kitchen island. “Take a guess,” he says with a grimace. 

A quiet oh leaves your lips before you fold your hands behind your back and lean against the counter across from him.

“But it’s okay. I asked, and you answered. That’s all I need–honesty, no matter what,” he says with a reassuring smile. “If you ever feel like telling me something, I’m here.”

Maybe this is the right time to do what he’s been planning to do. He kept the ring in his car, hidden in the trunk, but now he has it in his pocket, waiting for the perfect moment. This might be it. This honest and real conversation is proof that the two of you are meant to be together. 

So, without further ado, he reaches for the piece of jewelry and jumps off the counter. “Hold out your hand, I have a little surprise,” he says with a big smile.

At first, you just look at him confused, but then you do as he asked. When he places the ring in the palm of your hand, your mouth opens, yet no sound comes out, your mind is clearly in overdrive as you’re trying to comprehend what’s happening. It’s okay, you just need a moment to get used to the idea. 

“Do you like it?”

“Max…”

“If you don’t like it, I’ll get another one. But if you do, I have a question for you,” he explains the plan. 

You pick up the ring to take a better look at it. 

Uniquely made by one of the best in the world, with one bigger pink diamond, and two smaller white ones, all on a rose gold ring. In all honesty, Max has it all planned out. The date of the big day, the possible locations, most of the guest list, and he even looked for wedding dresses for you. 

He watches you, and he can see that you’re too shocked by the surprise to know what to say. So, he waits patiently, giving you all the time you need. The need to reach out and sweep your hair out of your face is strong, but that would be too much now, he doesn’t want you to feel like he’s trying to rush you, or sneakily convince you to say yes. 

“Are you sure about this?” you suddenly ask, your eyes finally meeting his blue ones. 

Max can only smile at this. When was the last time he said or asked something without meaning it? So, he nods, then takes a step closer to you again. “Is that a yes?” he wonders cautiously, that happy smile already playing on his lips. 

“Yes. It’s a yes!” you squeal before jumping into his arms.

#########

Surprise.

Then curiosity.

Then worry.

And then, finally, panic.

Because you’re nowhere to be found when Max wakes up in the morning, and while initially he assumed you just went to grab something for breakfast (the fridge is full) or left for a jog (you hate nothing more than running) now he’s certain that, with all possibilities eliminated, he has no choice but to call you.

Not because he’s controlling, but because he’s worried sick about you, because he can’t help but wonder if you have doubts about the engagement. What if you changed your mind and now you’re out to gather your thoughts and figure out how to tell him it’s over?

No, he can’t think like this. You love him, you said it yourself.

Your phone is turned off, and he checks the Find My app while cursing under his breath, slowly losing his patience from the fact he knows absolutely nothing. But it’s pointless, because your last known location is this building. Wherever you are, you turned out while you were still at home.

He rushes to the bedroom to change into a pair of jeans and a simple green tee so he can then go out to look for you. And that’s when he notices the ring on the nightstand, and the missing bag on the wardrobe that he often tripped over if he went inside without turning the light on.

You left. 

You left without giving an explanation, without saying goodbye, or without leaving even a short note behind. 

Gulping, he sits on the edge of the bed with the ring in his hand, trying to figure out what happened. Was it him who did something? Or did you just find his question about the escape fund a huge red flag which told you he didn’t trust you?

“Fuck,” he curses as he throws the ring into the wardrobe.

He picks up his phone and begins to write a message, which is followed by new ones over the course of the day. He’s desperate, because no one knows where you are.

First, he went over to Charles to see if you went there to either see Alex to discuss the engagement, but he had no luck. Then he asked every single friend of his you were on good terms with, but they didn’t see you either. Then came your friends with no luck. The last resort was your mother, but she said you hadn’t spoken in weeks.

There was only one friend of yours he couldn’t reach at first, and three excruciating hours after he found out you left, she finally calls him back. Max explains the situation, and surprisingly, all he hears is a long sigh.

“What is it?” he asks eagerly.

Your friend hesitates for a moment. “She bolted. Again.”

Bolted? And again? What does that even mean? 

Before he can ask, she begins to explain the situation. “There’s this Taylor Swift song called The Bolter, and we nicknamed her that after hearing it for the first time because it’s kinda fitting. She always leaves when things get too serious for her liking,” she adds.

“Why does she leave? Was it all pretend? Our relationship, I mean.”

“No, no, it was real!” she quickly tells him. “She really loves you, it’s just too much for her. Look, this is something she should be telling you, not me.”

Of course, it’s understandable, and Max assures her of that. 

#########

Days pass with no sign of you. 

Focusing on work becomes more and more unbearable, because all he thinks about is you, even when those vultures keep asking him about Christian and a speculated private meeting with Toto. He doesn’t care about all this shit, he just wants you to come back to him. He knows he can’t even report you missing since you’re an adult who clearly left on her own will. 

Every now and then he sends you a message. These aren’t requests to make you return to him, just worried tell-me-you’re-okay texts. Sometimes he simply tells you how he is or what happened during the weekend. He hopes you would answer at least once, but you don’t.

Having his mother around in Belgium helps him, because she’s there to listen and she really liked you from the beginning, and the feeling was mutual as far as he knew. She was even willing to reach out to you, hoping you would answer her call or text, but nothing. 

“She will come around eventually,” she says with a smile.

The two of them are sitting in a restaurant, enjoying a nice evening together, but no matter how hard he tries to smile and be happy, he can’t shake off the feeling that something happened to you. He can’t help but wonder if this is his father’s doing, if his manipulation by making him assume you wanted to leave was the wedge between the two of you. 

It wasn’t such a wild idea–the manipulation, that is. His father often did that, he often tried to control his life, and you were never happy about that, you always told him to just tell him to fuck off. And then he would tell you that he’s been past that, and that’s when you usually nod and let the topic go. 

“Why did I listen to dad?” Max suddenly asks, breaking the thick silence that fell between them after her reassuring sentence. “It’s always like this, I become a stupid kid and listen to him, and he just fucks things up for me again and again.”

His mother lets out a sigh as she reaches out to take his hand. “Max, you’re beginning to blame yourself for what happened. You’re right, it’s your fathers doing as always. He never liked her,” she adds. 

Everything comes back to him, all the evil remarks, every occasion when his father tried to humiliate you by calling you a gold digger. All of this while he knew perfectly well you only let him pay for things because he insisted and never let you alone when it came to this, so in the end you just gave up and began to put the remaining money in your savings. 

The savings his father believed to be an escape fund. “I’m so stupid for even considering the idea that he’s right,” he mutters as he rubs his eye with his hand. 

After the chaotic, rain-soaked race weekend ends, he comes to the conclusion that he needs to give you the space and time you need. You can’t be gone forever, right? You have a life in Monaco with a job and friends. And he hurt you with the accusation, even if it was wrapped in a simple, innocent question. But he was accusing you, he knows that now.

At this point he doesn’t even want you to return because of him. If it’s over, at least he would know you’re okay. And maybe he could even get a proper closure. 

#########

Max will have some time before the Dutch Grand Prix, so you decide to give him a visit. In the past weeks you had time to think, to consider the pros and the cons, but what tipped the scale was a chat with your mother, who was over the Moon to hear you left Max. You always knew she didn’t like him, but hearing her be so happy that you expected even a bottle of champagne to be popped showed you the truth.

You need to tell him the truth, you need to be open about your past, about your childhood so he would understand why you did what you did, and why you got scared when he found out. It’s not that you wanted to leave, you loved him too much, you still do, but you couldn’t bear the thought of him feeling sorry for you. 

You: Can we meet?

Honestly, you don’t expect him to answer your text. It would be perfectly understandable if he went radio silent. If the roles were reversed, you would do the same. 

Yet, a few minutes later, your phone beeps once. 

Max: Why? You want to get your stuff from the apartment? 

The apartment. Not my, not our, but the apartment, as if he was building a distance, not even considering it to be his home anymore. 

You: I know you were looking for me. Leaving like this was a shitty move, I’m sorry. But I’d like to explain the situation. 

Dots. Those fucking dots appear and stay for over three minutes (you keep track of time) and you begin to wonder if he typed an answer that he doesn’t intend on sending you. Maybe you should call him, maybe a proper conversation would soften him enough to agree to meet. 

And then, your phone’s screen lights up and his name shows because of a FaceTime call. Your heart rate jumps suddenly, making it hard to breathe, and suddenly you’re not sure what to tell him. You want to talk in person, you don’t want to spill your heart out over a goddamn screen. 

But you answer. You reached out and now he’s willing to talk. If this is the moment when you tell him everything, so be it. He deserves to choose when and how to learn the truth. 

“Hi,” you say, your voice quiet and uncertain. 

Max gulps, then exhales slowly, clearly not sure what to say. But then he speaks up, and his voice gives away that he’s still hurt and worried at the same time. “It’s good to see you’re okay.”

Guilt fills your mind all of a sudden. How could you do this to him?

“I know it means nothing, but for what it’s worth, I’m terribly sorry. But I had my reason, and if you’re willing to listen, I can tell you about it.”

“Why exactly do your friends call you The Bolter?” Max suddenly asks, curiosity shining in his eyes.

A sigh leaves your lips. You should’ve expected him to hear about this, and he does deserve an explanation, yet you don’t know where to start. In the end, you decide to go back to the beginning. 

You lick your lips to buy some time, just enough to put your thoughts and the events in order. “My dad… wasn’t a good man. He hurt my mom, and then he wanted to hurt me too, but my mom took me away from him before it became too late,” you say.

While you take a breath, Max decides to chime in. “That’s why you hate my dad so much, because he reminds you of your own, right?” he asks. 

It’s hard to admit that this is the truth, because unlike you, he has a complicated relationship with his. How do you tell someone that ‘sorry, I just have PTSD every time your violent idiot of a father shows up?’ But you promised yourself to be honest, so you nod quietly. 

He remains silent, and you’re not sure what’s going on inside his head. This has never been an issue, not once. But now, for some reason, it feels like you’re talking to a stranger. And it’s your fault. There’s no one else to blame but yourself. 

When you least expect it, Max speaks up again. “You did have an escape fund, didn’t you?”

His voice is quiet. Raspy but full of the kind of softness you appreciate. 

“I did.”

“Why? Did you really think I’d become just like my dad? That I would be able to hurt you one day?”

You gulp as you watch him through the screen, the pained look on his face feeling like a dagger in your heart. “It wasn’t my idea. My mom… when I moved in with you, she started one for me, then told me to regularly put money on that account too. She was worried about me, and she wanted to make sure I’d be okay if the worst happened,” you explain. 

“Baby, you’re making excuses for her, even if what she did was not right,” Max tells you. 

It’s easy to say he’s speaking from experience, that he used to make the same mistake. But lately he does it less and less often, now as an adult knowing perfectly well what was healthy parenting, and what was absolutely toxic bordering on abuse. 

A few seconds of heavy silence follows his words, and you’re trying to figure out what to say to that. But it’s easy, you just don’t want to believe being forgiven can be that easy. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.”

“We’re gonna leave this behind and come out stronger, okay? I don’t want you to leave, I don’t want to break up with you for lying about something like this. I just want to go on with our relationship with this put behind us for good, with total honesty between us from on. Can you do this?” he asks seriously. 

Fighting back your tears, you nod. “I promise you, there will be no secrets anymore.”

Max smiles at this. “Good. See you in Monaco when you return?” he asks. 

You awkwardly scratch the back of your neck. “Yeah, about that. I’ve been hiding in Monaco the whole time,” you quickly admit. 

“Come home. Now.”

[clowneryplusftf1]

series summary: After Oscar finds out Mark has a controversially young girlfriend who's his age, he decides to help them stay under the radar by pretending to be her boyfriend. But he doesn't want this to be pretend, he's determined to get her for himself.

note: I don't have a taglist, but if you follow @clowneryplusftrbs you can see when I post new stuff.

part zero - dirty little secrets Oscar finds out your little secret - that you're dating his manager and mentor despite being his age.

part one - the offer An offer Oscar hopes you can't refuse. All of this to protect you from the vultures, of course.

[clowneryplusftf1]

Oscar Piastri x reader

Oscar is whipped the moment he sees you playing video games at the middle of a crowded club.

All Oscar wants is to go home and fall into his bed face first. 

And that’s coming from someone who only arrived at the party twenty-four minutes ago, from which he spent seven minutes trying to get rid of his jacket at the coat check. 

He pushes through the crowd, looking for a familiar face, but he can’t spot anyone. Lando’s supposed to show up, he was invited too, although he mentioned that he might have to be back at base despite this being a sponsor event. Guess he got a get out of jail free card. 

Lucky bastard. 

So, he gives up looking and heads to the bar, hoping a glass or two can make him forget about the upcoming series of hello and nice to meet you that will fill the rest of the night. Boring people at a boring and predictable party. It was designed to be a trendy event, at a trendy club, probably with some famous musician showing up too to entertain the masses. 

At first, he believes he’s imagining the whole scene, that you’re nothing more but a vision, a fragment of his imagination. Because why would anyone in their right mind let someone sit on the bar table with her heels resting comfortably where people put their drinks? What’s more important, though, is why are you playing video games at a party? 

Before he could stop himself, he begins to walk towards you, as if you were a siren, a beacon that’s calling out for him. There are many gamer girls in the world, sure, but you’re quite a sight in your short sequin dress and those sparkly high heels.

“Never expected to see someone bring a Steam Deck to a club,” he says casually when he stops next to you and rests his forearms on the back of a stool. 

There’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes when you look up at him, but then you quickly return your attention to the game without speaking up. For a moment he even begins to question if you’ve registered that he's standing there, talking to you. 

Oscar can’t help but wonder why you’re not putting the game aside to chat. He’s not full of himself, it’s nothing like that, you don’t have to pay attention to him just because an F1 driver–who currently leads the championship, but who cares–yet it would be nice if you looked at him for more than a second. 

Yes, he’s surprisingly craving your attention. Why, he can’t tell, but he knows that he needs it badly. Like a drug that he can’t let go–or rather one that doesn’t let go of him. Either way, it’s a dangerous thing, and a voice in the back of his mind keeps telling him to turn around and let you be.

“What are you playing?” he asks you, although there’s no need for you to tell him as he already knows. 

It would be hard not to recognize the game, especially after the scandal around its release a few years back. Welcome to Night City, everyone. 

He watches you pause the game, then place the handheld console on your thighs with a tired sigh. “Is there something you want from me?” you ask, your voice not rude or annoyed, just bored and flat. 

He points at the device. “Why do you have MaxTac breathing down your neck?”

With a raised brow, as if you were surprised he knew what was happening in the game, you look down at the screen, then shrug. “Well, you know, I might have raised some hell, then things escalated quickly. During my last playthrough, I pissed off Militech during an NCPD scan hustle.”

“Badlands?” You nod with a small smile. A little, adorable smile that melts his heart. “Fuck Militech,” he says with a huff, forcing himself not to smile. 

Why he wants to avoid smiling is beyond him at this point. If he’s flirting with you, the least he can do is smile, right? 

You turn off the screen, put the device behind you, then move to be sitting on the edge of the bar table, your legs mere inches from his knees. “An Arasaka fan, I take it,” you say as you let out a quiet laugh. 

It’s hard to resist the urge to put his hands on your knees, or two just brush them with his knuckles, so, instead of doing something reckless, he simply builds some distance by sitting on the closest stool. It’s still close, but definitely far enough to keep things safe for now. 

“Wouldn’t call myself that,” Oscar admits as he takes a closer look at the clear and yellow gradient shell that lets you see the inside of the machine. “Why are you here if you’re so bored you’d rather play games instead of partying.”

“I don’t see you partying hard either,” you point out as you reach behind the bar to pull out a glass of mojito that you probably hid there. 

He smiles for the first time, letting himself go for a moment. “I just got here, I’m still warming up,” he responds. You tilt your head to the side a little. “What is it?”

You lean closer, then conspiratorally signaling him to do the same. “You don’t take me as the party guy type,” you whisper to him. “Also, you have a reputation to uphold. Although…”

“Although what?”

Letting out a long, thoughtful hum, you edge a little closer to him. “A lot of people joke that you’re like Kimi. Räikkönen, not Antonelli. So, if you are, then you know how to party,” you say with a wicked smile. 

“Would you like to party with me?”

“I would like to hide under the blanket and have a nice long sleep,” you inform him. 

A part of him finds it amusing that this was his first thought as well when he got here, that he’d rather be in bed now. But now there’s another part, and he really doesn’t want to say what it wants him to say. Because he’s not like that, he’s a good guy–at least he tries to be–acting like this, saying this is not like him. Maybe Lando’s style is rubbing off on him. 

“I have a bed not far from here,” he offers, mentally slapping himself right away. 

“Whoa, hold your horses, cowboy,” you say with a heartfelt laugh. “We’ve just met, why would I jump into your bed right away? Jesus, what do you take me for?”

Humiliating. 

That’s the only word that comes to his mind now. 

And holy fuck. 

Yes, that too. 

“I’m sorry, it came out wrong, it was supposed to be a joke,” he starts to ramble. 

And then it just happens. You slide off the bar table, right into his lap, then wrap your arms around his neck as you take a closer look at his face. “You’re actually really handsome in person,” you blurt out. 

“In person? Oh, wow, thanks, good to know I’m not that good-looking on TV,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “What are you doing, babygirl, hmm?” he asks with his lips already hovering inches from yours. 

“Your boss was heading this way after noticing you’re talking to me. Thought you might want to avoid him,” you tell him with a smile. 

Oscar can’t help but wonder about what you just said. “What’s so special about you?” 

It’s a miracle you can hear him, because his lips are busy placing kisses all over your jawline and neck, while his hands are holding you firmly in place. But how could he resist when you offer yourself to him like this? What’s wrong with acting reckless and losing control just once? You can have as much control tonight as you want, he knows that by now. 

But you don’t let him get too lost in the taste of you, because you put a finger under his chin to make him look up at you. “My dad’s company is one of your bigger sponsors,” you explain. 

“Shit.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, Zak’s gonna kill me for this. Sorry, I’m so sorry, I–”

“Oscar?”

“I shouldn’t have–”

“Hey, focus!” you snap as you grab his chin. “No one’s gonna kill you. I bury hatchets and don’t burn bridges, so even if this is nothing more but a one-night stand, the sponsorship is safe. I won’t be mad if we don’t meet again,” you explain with a kind smile. 

For the first time that night, he takes a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs completely, then blows it out slowly to calm himself. It’s been a long time since he last panicked like this. Damn, he didn’t miss it. Losing control truly sucks. 

Instead he decides to focus on you again, closing out the possibility of his boss giving him a lecture about how to act around sponsors and their daughters. (He’s actually pretty sure Lando heard this lecture at one point.) You’re still watching him, waiting patiently for the moment when he’s ready to return to this little bubble of yours. 

“You sure?” he asks, and your nod is all he needs. “Good.”

And with that, he kisses you again, this time not worrying about the possible consequences. 

[clowneryplusftf1]

who's afraid of little old me?

bunny 🩵 20s 🩵 she/her

why bunny? because my dad calls me that and it kinda stuck with me. and, apparently, i'm saved as such in his contacts.

👩‍💻 blog for general madness: @clowneryplus 👩‍💻 blog for reblogs: @clowneryplusftrbs 🎵 spotify playlists 🔗 masterlists: journalist!reader & webbersgirl!reader

[clowneryplusftf1]

Hiiiiiii! I've just posted a new piece. Anyway, the taglist: I don't have one. I kept a taglist on an old CoD blog of mine, but tagging everyone one by one is dreadful, I had a migraine each and every time.

So I created @clowneryplusftrbs where I'm only gonna reblog the stuff I write either her or on my Criminal Minds blog. Hope that's okay!

Toto Wolff x journalist!reader

A little honesty never killed anyone, so after you see Kimi cry in Belgium, you need to tell Toto what you think about this situation.

It was over for you the moment you watched Kimi cry as he was walking to the media pen, and before you let the camera roll, you had a short chat with him to make him feel a little better, after all any driver can have a bad day. You even pointed out that the great Lewis Hamilton can be knocked out in the first round, it’s not that big of a deal, and you’re sure the team wouldn’t hold it against him, but he just shrugged and put on his not-so-successful poker face to get this interview over with. 

Now, several hours later, you’re lying on the bed in your hotel room, scrolling one social media app after another to see the reactions about today’s events, and seeing everyone defend Kimi makes you smile. That kid is so loved by everyone, how can he be put into the position where he ends up this sad? It’s simply not fair. 

Before you could stop yourself, you open the messaging app on your phone and begin to type a text.

You: I hope you’re happy with yourself and your decisions. That poor kid doesn’t deserve this.

In less than five minutes, a notification pops up on the screen. You didn’t think he would answer. He never does. The only thing he’s willing to send is a simple ‘no comment’ text. This time? This time he actually put some effort into an answer. 

Toto: I hope you’re not hinting at this being my fault. Because it’s not. He’s good, he just has to learn how to handle it when things don’t work out. 

Sure, right. It’s never his fault. 

You: He’s eighteen. He’s still a kid. Don’t you think it was a little too soon to put him in that car? And don’t bring up Max as an example, because we both know that wouldn’t be a fair comparison.

You can’t even lower your phone before his name shows up on the screen as he decided to call you instead of texting. Shaking your head, you sit up and rest your back against the cushioned headrest, your finger hovering over the phone as you try to decide what to do. You’re mad, maybe this isn’t the right time to get into a yelling match with one of the most influential members of the paddock. 

Even though you decline the call, it starts ringing again almost immediately. 

“Yes?” you answer it, your voice soft and innocent. 

“You don’t know a damn thing about what’s going on in our team, so please, don’t even think about spreading some stupid rumor you made up in anger,” Toto tells you, and surprisingly, his voice doesn’t sound like he was mad at you, it’s just simply stern. 

With a short laugh, you shake your head and look up at the ceiling. “Do you take me for someone who spreads lies? Please, I thought you knew me better than that.”

Because he does know you better than that, you’re probably one of the few–if not the only–journalists he traveled with on his private jet from one race weekend to another, offering a quick glimpse into how his weeks are usually spent. It ended up being a great article about him, something that the head of the communications department thanked you by sending a big basket of your favorite snacks to your hotel room. 

How he knew what you liked has been a mystery ever since. 

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “What is this about then? Your maternal instincts have kicked in since you saw Kimi sad once?” he wonders.

“If that was the first time I saw him this stressed out, I would let it go, but–”

“He’s fine,” Toto interrupts you, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m sure everything’s gonna be okay, no need to worry,” he adds, and this time you can tell the tough surface is slowly beginning to melt away. 

Toto Wolff, the fearless head of the Mercedes F1 team is just as worried about the kid as you are. Whatever stupid lie he’s been trying to feed himself is now nowhere to be found. You know there’s something he wants to say, but you don’t want to rush him, there’s no need for that. 

And then, after almost two minutes of complete silence, he finally speaks up again. “Do you really think giving him a seat was such a terrible idea?” he wonders. 

Taking a deep breath, you think about what to say to that. You get where he’s coming from, he’s spent long years looking for the next Max Verstappen, and with Lewis gone, he needs the next great talent on his team. So yeah, he saw the potential in Kimi, and to be fair, he’s been decent so far, making rookie mistakes sometimes, but generally he just needs more experience with the car, that’s all. 

Still…

He’s just a kid. 

No matter how hard you try, you simply can’t get this thought out of your mind, because every time you look at him, your protective instincts kick in. Or maybe Toto is right, and it’s some kind of maternal instinct instead. Whatever is the case, you’re quite sure he could have used another year or two in F2. If anything happened to him… Well, you know the rest.

“I don’t know, it’s complicated,” you say eventually with a sigh. 

“Yes or no? It’s that simple.”

“Yes.”

Over the phone, you can hear Toto inhale deeply, then slowly blow out the air, probably thinking about how to respond to your honest answer. He’s not the type of man who loves to hear the sugarcoated version of facts and opinions, he’s someone who appreciates brutal honesty, and that’s exactly what he’s just coaxed out of you. 

And then, just when you think you lost him, he goes, “Yeah, sometimes I think so too.” The silence that follows his words are full of tension, and you already know what he’s going to say next. He’s not that hard to figure out, after all. “If you tell anyone, or write even one line about what I’ve just said–”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you,” he says, and you can tell there’s a small, fond smile on his face. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

[clowneryplusftf1]

Toto Wolff x journalist!reader

The night before the news about Lewis's departure become public, Toto asks for the help of the only journalist he's willing to trust with such an issue.

Toto doesn’t exactly despise journalists, he just generally prefers to avoid them until meeting them becomes absolutely necessary. Are they vultures? Most of the time, this is why he’s rather not risk an accident that can cost him everything. 

Not like he has such big secrets. 

But today, he knows he needs help from someone in the system to keep as much control over the situation as possible. Lewis will leave the team, the bomb will be dropped tomorrow afternoon, and now, at eight in the evening, he jumps out of a crisis call to contact the only journalist he actually trusts with a topic this big–you. 

“You have a second?” he asks the moment you answer his call. 

No greeting. No small talk. Nothing. Straight to the point.

You let out a sigh on the other end of the line. “All I have is time,” you say, your speech nothing more but a drunken slur. 

Toto is taken aback by the state you must be in based on what he heard so far. “Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice flat, but still full of disapprovement. 

“It’s,” you begin, putting a little more emphasis on the last letter than you should, but then you manage to go on, “none of your business.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose as if it could stop the incoming headache, he speaks up again. “For fuck’s sake. Sober up, I need your help.”

“Awww, the big bad wolf needs little old me’s help?” 

“Are you alone?”

“I have no one. I’ll die alone. How did you know?”

And now you’re sobbing, unable to continue the conversation. For a few moments he listens, even calls out your name to get your attention, but it doesn’t work, so he just ends the call. You’re useless in this state of mind, he has no time to waste on that.

But then, after an hour passes, he comes to the conclusion that you’re the only one he can trust with this, so he arranges his jet to be ready by the time he arrives. If you can’t talk over the phone, maybe he can get through to you in person.

God, the things he would do for the team…

Because it’s for the team, it has nothing to do with worry. He’s not worried about your well-being, about you being alone when you’re clearly wasted. Before he heads to the airport, he quickly asks someone to send him your address–the perks of having good connections–and he’s surprised to see that you are, in fact, in London. During a brief conversation, you were talking about having an apartment near Zürich, he always believed you lived there. 

So, he decides to cancel the flight and gets in his car to drive there, hoping he can get there in time before you pass out. Well, even if you do, he’ll just wake you up. You’re miserable, it was clear from the call, so maybe you could even use some company.

Not like that’s the reason why he visits you. It’s strictly business, nothing more, nothing less. 

##########

It’s late when he arrives, but he doesn’t care about that. Once he parks the car, he searches for your name in his phone and taps it to start the call, then waits impatiently for you to pick up. He lets it ring, hoping it won’t go to voicemail, and after a solid two minutes, you finally answer. 

“What?” you mumble tiredly. 

If he had to guess, Toto would assume you’re lying on your stomach, the phone on speaker so you don’t have to bother holding it, and you refuse to even lift your head a little from the pillow. Why he has this image in his mind is beyond him, but that’s his best guess. 

Letting out a heavy sigh, he leans his head against the head restrain. “No hello?”

“What do you want, Wolff?”

Good, you’re waking up. “I’m here, so you’d better crawl out of bed and open the door when I knock,” he orders, although his voice isn’t as stern as it usually is. A tired groan fills his ear, which is soon followed by some quiet rumbling. “Care to use words?” he asks with an amused smile. 

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk.”

A snort comes out of you at this. “I don’t want visitors, go home,” you tell him, sounding like you’re about to close the conversation. 

Toto gets out of the car when he sees the motion detecting lights turn on inside the building, then, as a young couple walks out with their dog, he uses this chance to sneak inside. “I’m already here, so I’m not leaving without talking to you. I have big news, and I need your help,” he informs you as he calls the elevator. 

There’s silence, which is followed by a heavy sigh, then a groan. “No work tonight. I’m too sad.”

The elevator starts moving, and he lets out a long sigh as he leans against the metal wall. He can’t help but wonder if it would be best if he turned around and went home, after all it seems like you’re gonna be useless. Then again… “Lewis is going to Ferrari,” he says, knowing it’s safe to say it out loud as he’s alone in here.

“Say that again,” you demand, your voice sounding like you’ve been jolted awake. 

“I’ll tell you in a second, just open the door.”

He gets out on your floor, and not three steps later a door opens, and you show up, still wearing a little black dress, your makeup smudged, and his heart clenches at the sight. Whatever happened to you, it hit you hard. Maybe a little too hard. But at least there’s that bright look in your eyes, meaning you’re fully awake and paying attention. 

You’re quick to shepherd him inside, and the moment the door closes, you start speaking again. “Lewis is leaving Mercedes? What? How? Why?” you ask, sounding utterly confused. 

Raising a hand, Toto tries to convince you to stop talking. “Just sit down, I’ll bring you some water, then we can discuss what’s going on, okay?” 

You nod obediently, doing exactly as he asked. When he turns his back to you, he can’t help but smile as he shakes his head. If only you did what you’re supposed to at work too, things would be much easier. Hell, he might as well hire you, although maybe it’s for the best not to work together. 

And then, as he’s going through your fridge to find a water bottle, he comes to a stop for a moment. Why shouldn’t you work together? It’s a thought he can’t comprehend, he can’t understand why it’s suddenly so important. 

“What’s taking so long? I want to hear the details!” you begin to complain. 

“Here. Drink this,” he tells you when he returns and hands you the bottle. 

You narrow your eyes as you put it down on the coffee table, but he gives you a stern look in return, so you change your mind and open the bottle. To be fair, he’s beginning to enjoy this game with you. 

“The news will go public in the afternoon, until then, you can’t say or write a damn word, understood?” 

You nod, and so he begins to tell you the story, strictly the facts, nothing more, he doesn’t want to get his emotions involved. Was it in the cards that he would leave? Yes. Did he expect it to happen so early in the season? Not really. But he has a backup plan, and that’s Kimi. The young Italian is talented, and he might be able to make sure he inherits Lewis’s seat next year. 

Once he’s done with the story, you let out a thoughtful hum. “And what do you expect me to do?” you wonder out loud. 

“I want you to be the first to write the story. Except–”

“You want me to include your point of view to frame the narrative,” you finish. 

Toto can’t help but smile. “Clever girl.”

 “Alright, let me get rid of what’s left of my makeup, change into something more comfortable, then we’ll get to work,” you tell him with a smile, then jump up and disappear into the living room before he could stop you. 

While you’re away, he has the chance to take a better look around, to see where exactly you spend your time. But it’s strangely empty, lacking the personal touch. The furniture is minimalistic, every object has a function, and this is the kind of home one can see in a magazine, not a place that tells someone’s life story. This is nothing more but an apartment where you can stay between the race weekends, that’s all. 

In a way, it reminds him of his home. 

And then he sees it. A framed photo with a broken glass, lying behind the couch. He picks it up to take a better look at it, and it’s you with a guy your age, someone he doesn’t recognize. Is it your boyfriend? Or your ex? Maybe that’s why you’ve been crying and drinking, why the glass of the frame is now shattered into pieces. 

Since you don’t seem to show up anytime soon, he decides to make you both a cup of coffee while he’s waiting. Despite having chats with people in the paddock and saying you love coffee, it’s quite surprising that you have a coffee maker that works with capsules. For a quick moment, the idea of buying you a proper one as a thank you crosses his mind, but he waves it away. 

No gifts for such things. 

“Alright. I’d love to say I’m battle ready, but I can already feel the hangover co–” You stop not far from him with your laptop in hand, the words catching in your throat. “Oh my God, coffee,” you say, as if you’ve just seen a miracle happen. 

It’s quite amusing, really, how you can be cheered up by such simple things like coffee. With a smile, he pushes a mug closer to you, then waits for his own to be ready. There are suddenly so many things he wants to ask you, so many things that make him wonder what you’re like outside the paddock, when it’s just you, the person, not the journalist. 

If one thing’s for sure, is that this will be your little secret. He won’t tell anyone that he showed up in your apartment uninvited, that he saw you at probably one of your lowest points in life, and hopefully you won’t tell anyone that he was desperate enough to ask for your help in damage control. 

He watches as you put the laptop on the kitchen island, then you pick up the mug to smell its content, seemingly happy and content following your outburst a few hours ago about dying alone. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you eventually. 

You look up, eyes wide in surprise. “Me? Yeah, sure, of course, what makes you think I’m not?” you add with a nervous chuckle. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

Deep down he wants to know more, he wants to know if that guy in the photo is the reason why you’re this… broken now, but he lets it go. It’s none of his business. 

[clowneryplusftf1]

You have no idea how good it feels to read this ❤️

First, we’ll see her at her lowest point from Toto’s POV in a quick one-shot, but then it’s time for that week she spends shadowing him to write that article! Because… you know… there might be a reason why she received exactly the kind of snacks she loves 🤭

Toto Wolff x journalist!reader

A little honesty never killed anyone, so after you see Kimi cry in Belgium, you need to tell Toto what you think about this situation.

It was over for you the moment you watched Kimi cry as he was walking to the media pen, and before you let the camera roll, you had a short chat with him to make him feel a little better, after all any driver can have a bad day. You even pointed out that the great Lewis Hamilton can be knocked out in the first round, it’s not that big of a deal, and you’re sure the team wouldn’t hold it against him, but he just shrugged and put on his not-so-successful poker face to get this interview over with. 

Now, several hours later, you’re lying on the bed in your hotel room, scrolling one social media app after another to see the reactions about today’s events, and seeing everyone defend Kimi makes you smile. That kid is so loved by everyone, how can he be put into the position where he ends up this sad? It’s simply not fair. 

Before you could stop yourself, you open the messaging app on your phone and begin to type a text.

You: I hope you’re happy with yourself and your decisions. That poor kid doesn’t deserve this.

In less than five minutes, a notification pops up on the screen. You didn’t think he would answer. He never does. The only thing he’s willing to send is a simple ‘no comment’ text. This time? This time he actually put some effort into an answer. 

Toto: I hope you’re not hinting at this being my fault. Because it’s not. He’s good, he just has to learn how to handle it when things don’t work out. 

Sure, right. It’s never his fault. 

You: He’s eighteen. He’s still a kid. Don’t you think it was a little too soon to put him in that car? And don’t bring up Max as an example, because we both know that wouldn’t be a fair comparison.

You can’t even lower your phone before his name shows up on the screen as he decided to call you instead of texting. Shaking your head, you sit up and rest your back against the cushioned headrest, your finger hovering over the phone as you try to decide what to do. You’re mad, maybe this isn’t the right time to get into a yelling match with one of the most influential members of the paddock. 

Even though you decline the call, it starts ringing again almost immediately. 

“Yes?” you answer it, your voice soft and innocent. 

“You don’t know a damn thing about what’s going on in our team, so please, don’t even think about spreading some stupid rumor you made up in anger,” Toto tells you, and surprisingly, his voice doesn’t sound like he was mad at you, it’s just simply stern. 

With a short laugh, you shake your head and look up at the ceiling. “Do you take me for someone who spreads lies? Please, I thought you knew me better than that.”

Because he does know you better than that, you’re probably one of the few–if not the only–journalists he traveled with on his private jet from one race weekend to another, offering a quick glimpse into how his weeks are usually spent. It ended up being a great article about him, something that the head of the communications department thanked you by sending a big basket of your favorite snacks to your hotel room. 

How he knew what you liked has been a mystery ever since. 

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “What is this about then? Your maternal instincts have kicked in since you saw Kimi sad once?” he wonders.

“If that was the first time I saw him this stressed out, I would let it go, but–”

“He’s fine,” Toto interrupts you, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m sure everything’s gonna be okay, no need to worry,” he adds, and this time you can tell the tough surface is slowly beginning to melt away. 

Toto Wolff, the fearless head of the Mercedes F1 team is just as worried about the kid as you are. Whatever stupid lie he’s been trying to feed himself is now nowhere to be found. You know there’s something he wants to say, but you don’t want to rush him, there’s no need for that. 

And then, after almost two minutes of complete silence, he finally speaks up again. “Do you really think giving him a seat was such a terrible idea?” he wonders. 

Taking a deep breath, you think about what to say to that. You get where he’s coming from, he’s spent long years looking for the next Max Verstappen, and with Lewis gone, he needs the next great talent on his team. So yeah, he saw the potential in Kimi, and to be fair, he’s been decent so far, making rookie mistakes sometimes, but generally he just needs more experience with the car, that’s all. 

Still…

He’s just a kid. 

No matter how hard you try, you simply can’t get this thought out of your mind, because every time you look at him, your protective instincts kick in. Or maybe Toto is right, and it’s some kind of maternal instinct instead. Whatever is the case, you’re quite sure he could have used another year or two in F2. If anything happened to him… Well, you know the rest.

“I don’t know, it’s complicated,” you say eventually with a sigh. 

“Yes or no? It’s that simple.”

“Yes.”

Over the phone, you can hear Toto inhale deeply, then slowly blow out the air, probably thinking about how to respond to your honest answer. He’s not the type of man who loves to hear the sugarcoated version of facts and opinions, he’s someone who appreciates brutal honesty, and that’s exactly what he’s just coaxed out of you. 

And then, just when you think you lost him, he goes, “Yeah, sometimes I think so too.” The silence that follows his words are full of tension, and you already know what he’s going to say next. He’s not that hard to figure out, after all. “If you tell anyone, or write even one line about what I’ve just said–”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you,” he says, and you can tell there’s a small, fond smile on his face. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

[clowneryplusftf1]

late night honesty A little honesty never killed anyone, so after you see Kimi cry in Belgium, you need to tell Toto what you think about this situation.

the last resort The night before the news about Lewis's departure become public, Toto asks for the help of the only journalist he's willing to trust with such an issue.

[clowneryplusftf1]

Toto Wolff x journalist!reader

A little honesty never killed anyone, so after you see Kimi cry in Belgium, you need to tell Toto what you think about this situation.

It was over for you the moment you watched Kimi cry as he was walking to the media pen, and before you let the camera roll, you had a short chat with him to make him feel a little better, after all any driver can have a bad day. You even pointed out that the great Lewis Hamilton can be knocked out in the first round, it’s not that big of a deal, and you’re sure the team wouldn’t hold it against him, but he just shrugged and put on his not-so-successful poker face to get this interview over with. 

Now, several hours later, you’re lying on the bed in your hotel room, scrolling one social media app after another to see the reactions about today’s events, and seeing everyone defend Kimi makes you smile. That kid is so loved by everyone, how can he be put into the position where he ends up this sad? It’s simply not fair. 

Before you could stop yourself, you open the messaging app on your phone and begin to type a text.

You: I hope you’re happy with yourself and your decisions. That poor kid doesn’t deserve this.

In less than five minutes, a notification pops up on the screen. You didn’t think he would answer. He never does. The only thing he’s willing to send is a simple ‘no comment’ text. This time? This time he actually put some effort into an answer. 

Toto: I hope you’re not hinting at this being my fault. Because it’s not. He’s good, he just has to learn how to handle it when things don’t work out. 

Sure, right. It’s never his fault. 

You: He’s eighteen. He’s still a kid. Don’t you think it was a little too soon to put him in that car? And don’t bring up Max as an example, because we both know that wouldn’t be a fair comparison.

You can’t even lower your phone before his name shows up on the screen as he decided to call you instead of texting. Shaking your head, you sit up and rest your back against the cushioned headrest, your finger hovering over the phone as you try to decide what to do. You’re mad, maybe this isn’t the right time to get into a yelling match with one of the most influential members of the paddock. 

Even though you decline the call, it starts ringing again almost immediately. 

“Yes?” you answer it, your voice soft and innocent. 

“You don’t know a damn thing about what’s going on in our team, so please, don’t even think about spreading some stupid rumor you made up in anger,” Toto tells you, and surprisingly, his voice doesn’t sound like he was mad at you, it’s just simply stern. 

With a short laugh, you shake your head and look up at the ceiling. “Do you take me for someone who spreads lies? Please, I thought you knew me better than that.”

Because he does know you better than that, you’re probably one of the few–if not the only–journalists he traveled with on his private jet from one race weekend to another, offering a quick glimpse into how his weeks are usually spent. It ended up being a great article about him, something that the head of the communications department thanked you by sending a big basket of your favorite snacks to your hotel room. 

How he knew what you liked has been a mystery ever since. 

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “What is this about then? Your maternal instincts have kicked in since you saw Kimi sad once?” he wonders.

“If that was the first time I saw him this stressed out, I would let it go, but–”

“He’s fine,” Toto interrupts you, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m sure everything’s gonna be okay, no need to worry,” he adds, and this time you can tell the tough surface is slowly beginning to melt away. 

Toto Wolff, the fearless head of the Mercedes F1 team is just as worried about the kid as you are. Whatever stupid lie he’s been trying to feed himself is now nowhere to be found. You know there’s something he wants to say, but you don’t want to rush him, there’s no need for that. 

And then, after almost two minutes of complete silence, he finally speaks up again. “Do you really think giving him a seat was such a terrible idea?” he wonders. 

Taking a deep breath, you think about what to say to that. You get where he’s coming from, he’s spent long years looking for the next Max Verstappen, and with Lewis gone, he needs the next great talent on his team. So yeah, he saw the potential in Kimi, and to be fair, he’s been decent so far, making rookie mistakes sometimes, but generally he just needs more experience with the car, that’s all. 

Still…

He’s just a kid. 

No matter how hard you try, you simply can’t get this thought out of your mind, because every time you look at him, your protective instincts kick in. Or maybe Toto is right, and it’s some kind of maternal instinct instead. Whatever is the case, you’re quite sure he could have used another year or two in F2. If anything happened to him… Well, you know the rest.

“I don’t know, it’s complicated,” you say eventually with a sigh. 

“Yes or no? It’s that simple.”

“Yes.”

Over the phone, you can hear Toto inhale deeply, then slowly blow out the air, probably thinking about how to respond to your honest answer. He’s not the type of man who loves to hear the sugarcoated version of facts and opinions, he’s someone who appreciates brutal honesty, and that’s exactly what he’s just coaxed out of you. 

And then, just when you think you lost him, he goes, “Yeah, sometimes I think so too.” The silence that follows his words are full of tension, and you already know what he’s going to say next. He’s not that hard to figure out, after all. “If you tell anyone, or write even one line about what I’ve just said–”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you,” he says, and you can tell there’s a small, fond smile on his face. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”