#God’s Quiz 5 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

caesium-55 · 8 months ago

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—seven days. [ iii ]

pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.

summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.

author's note: hi hello welcome to part three. i flunked the quiz. lemme know what you think. NOT BETA READ. NOT EDITED. this chapter kinda sux. can't believe i went through a breakup just last week and i still cant write decent post-breakup scenes.

tags: @whatamidoingwithmylife-ramdom @eugene-emt-roe @bellezaycafe @barnestatic @theseerbetweenus @wcnorris @notyouraveragemochii @lpab hope i didn't forget anyone.

masterlist.

you: *sent a link*

him: ?

him: what's this

you: benefits of crying

you: read it it's enlightening

him: some people do not cry over a breakup you know and that is totally okay

you: why crying helps.

you: 1. tears release toxins, stress hormones to be specific. it is good to let all the bad energy out.

you: 2. it aids sleep. no need for further explanation.

you: 3. crying releases oxytocin and endorphins. i know you don't know what an oxytocin or an endorphin is but they're happy chemicals.

you: 4. crying helps you receive the support you need from the people around you. EMOTIONAL VULNERABILITY is okay, max. stop treating it like an STD.

him: it feels like an std

you: pussy

you: emotional vulnerability is a thing and it's normal so stop trying to be a big strong man when you're barely holding it together.

you: you may look fine now but i know you

him: please stop

you: no

you: 5. crying has a self soothing effect. very nice actually. it activates the rest and digest system.

him: what even is that

you: the parasympathetic nervous system

him: ??

you: this is why you shouldn't have dropped out of high school

you: education is important yknow

you: youre already lacking in three forms of intelligence, academic, emotional n social intelligence

him: fuck you im smart

you: fuck you 2 and yeah you're smart but only in geography

you: you probably can't do your taxes

him: im dutch so the company's account department do it for me by default

him: the american system is just weird

you: cant argue w/ u there

you: also, 6. crying helps restore emotional balance

you: see? you need that

you: yknow now that i think abt it you should consider seeking therapy

him: what makes you think i’m not in therapy right now

you: well have you considered getting MORE therapy?

You stand in front of the body mirror, holding the Red Bull polo shirt against your body to see how it looks on you for one last time. On your right sleeve, the word MANAGER is written in bold, white text. Because that was what you were. Just a manager.

In another universe this is not the shirt that you’d be wearing. The MANAGER would have been ENGINEER. In another another universe where your family has been well-off enough to continuously send you to karting school and you would have been the one driving the fucking car by now.

You know, if Max has even tried talking to Horner and suggested that you should be moved into the engineering team, then you wouldn't be stuck wearing this god-awful polo that burned your skin every time you wore it for work. Everybody reduced you as Max’s American manager and because you are American, most of them kind of just assumed that you're dumb, you know?

Does the world even know how smart you are? That you graduated top of your class, got the best thesis award, and that you had finished your masters just this year? Did they even know that a Japanese car company wanted you on their research team? That a NASCAR team wanted you on board as one of their engineers? Does Max even know?

Fuck no. He only knows that you're the best at ironing clothes and organizing his Google calendar and memorizing his entire coffee order by heart. He knew you're good at extinguishing kitchen fires and kicking ass in YSL Opyum heels. You doubt he knows that you can do Calculus in your sleep.

You can take it if the world puts you down for your appearance. But if the world puts you down because of your intellect? That's a different story. You'll take any insult to the face but not to your intelligence.

You have four days left in Monaco so you have begun packing already. You're right, everything did fit into three suitcases. Also, you haven't told Max yet. For some reason, you’re too anxious. Which is shocking to say the least because you never ever gets anxious when it came to Max Verstappen. You wouldn't have lasted this long working alongside Max if you were a pussy.

Max Max Max Super Max Max—

“[Name] here. Need anythin’, champ?”

Hearing a sob on the other end of the line immediately activates your fight or flight response. Your eyes widen and you toss the Red Bull shirt aside. Your legs leads you to the nearly empty shoe rack stationed beside the front door, grabbing the pair of shoes at the very top of the tiny shelf and throwing them on.

“I’m comin’ there. Hang on, Max. You wait for me, okay?”

He doesn't answer, just continuing to sob and the sound absolutely breaks your heart.

You run to his penthouse at a speed that will even put the RB19 to shame. Not even bothering to knock, you barge in and yell his name in the empty halls of his penthouse. You search in the kitchen. He's not there. The living room. Not there either. The room where his simulations are. Not there. You run to his bedroom upstairs.

The door is locked. Dammit. Panic overflooded your system.

“Max, sweetheart, you there?”

No answer, but you can hear a faint sound behind the door if you press your ear against the wood. Firefighter training covered how to open a fucking door when it was locked so this once again becomes a situation where you're grateful that you did that tiring and borderline suicidal volunteer work.

Max keeps a fire extinguisher inside his penthouse as per your advice. There is one stationed in almost every room inside his house. You knew there is one inside his room and another one just at the end of the hallway. You make a quick run for it and once you have the extinguisher in your hands, you run back to his door.

“Step away from the door!” you instructed while your mind mentally calculates your payment plan as you hit the door knob with so much force, the walls tremble at your strength. You're functioning on pure adrenaline. Your instincts only yell one thing and that is: go to Max. No one and nothing in this world will keep you from him. It isn't long until his bedroom door broke down. With one last final kick, it crumbles down from its hinges and you forcefully pry it open and sprint inside.

Max tucks himself in the tiny space in the corner of his huge bedroom, his knees shoved up to his chest. A 181-cm tall man trying to make himself as small as possible.

This is it. This is the bottled-up emotions he's been storing since Abu Dhabi. You cannot say you have not anticipated this. Max is bound to explode sooner or later.

Panic attacks have made a home in Max’s body since he was a child. That's what one gets when they’re parented by someone like Jos Verstappen. He killed Max’s soul and made the boy a machine and for what? To shape a child into a man, a racer that he wanted to be but failed to become at the cost of Max's mental health and childhood.

When Max looks up with that heartbreaking look on his face, you almost crumble. Almost, because you cannot crumble. Not when Max needs you.

Sometimes, you forget what it took for Max to become the champion that he is today. A childhood sacrificed for his dominance on the tracks. A whole lot of hatred from the people to become a WDC. And now, a love lost for his third consecutive championship.

“You came,” his voice cracks towards the end.

Your eyes soften, “You called, Max. Course I’ll come.”

You barely brace yourself for the impact that is Max’s body wrapping around yours in a tight hug. The man have literally launch himself from the floor to you at sixth gear speed. You stumble backwards slightly, holding his bed for support so the both of you won't fall down.

“Max—”

“No,” he whispers and his grip on your tightens as if he's afraid that you’ll slip away if he even tried to give your lungs space to breathe. “Don't speak. Stay.”

What Max wanted, what Max would get. So you shut your mouth, shuffle slightly so he'll be in a more comfortable position and allow him take whatever he wants from you. This will be the last chance he’ll ever do it anyway because in four days time, you’re flying to Texas.

You stay for what is probably hours in that position. Crumbled together on the floor, leaning against the side of Max’s king-sized bed. Your shirt is completely damp from his tears but you cannot even bring yourself to care about it.

“Your shoes…” It's the first time Max has spoken since the start of his meltdown.

“Hm?” you turn your head and your nose nuzzles against his hair, making you scrunch it up a little. His hair is tickling your nostrils. If you lean a little forward, your lips will meet the skin of his temple.

“They’re mismatched.”

Brows furrowed, your eyes move to your feet and see that Max is right. Your shoes are indeed mismatched. On your left is one of your Adidas slides and the other is your slip-on Skechers. You ran from one building to another in mismatched shoes. Fucking embarassing.

“Ignore them.”

Silence.

“You good now?”

“No.”

“Okay,” you say. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

You hear Max let out a shaky breath, “Just stay for a while. Don't leave me alone.”

“Okay.”

Eventually, you manage to talk Max out of the hug. You're beginning to feel claustrophobic but you do not want to say it out right so you try to negotiate instead. That's how you and Max found yourselves inside his kitchen again. You're trying to replicate your Abuela's cheesecake, which she was known for back in Austin, and Max is…well, he's Max and he’s trying to be helpful in any way he can. If it's some other day, you'd have shoved him out of the way because you prefer working alone in the kitchen. Having eyes on you gives you anxiety. But given today’s circumstances, you do not have the heart to make Max leave so you task him with doing the little stuff like mixing things and throwing shit to the trash can nearby. And he does so splendidly.

“Thank you, by the way.”

��For what, baby?” You internally wince at your own slip of the tongue. Damn that habit of yours of calling people with affectionate call signs. Thankfully, Max seems to have not noticed it.

“For coming here.”

You shrug.

“I only did what you did for me in 2021.”

Again, your breakup with Leo was bad bad. You spent a month crying for a love lost and Max was there for you. For the most part, at least. You want him to focus on winning and winning alone that you pushed him away a lot of times but you appreciated how he was more obedient to your commands, that he held his tongue so he wouldn't piss you off even though he was not liking your words, and that he was considerate of you.

“I hope you won't go into fights though,” you chuckle. “Like I did after my breakup.”

He smiles, shaking his head lightly and you know he's recalling the memory. 2021 is a hilarious year for you, the Red Bull manager. You went viral after getting into a cat fight with a girl and a whole fist fight with her boyfriend.

You and Leo called it quits a week before Monaco and even though it had been four races since then, your heart was still in a quite fragile state at that specific race weekend. One minor inconvenience was enough to ignite a wild blaze of fire within you and nobody could extinguish the flames.

After Silverstone FP1, you were leading Max to the cool down room to brief him with Horner’s relayed instructions and someone had thrown a glass bottle towards the both of you while walking. Originally, Max was the main target of the bottle but you happened to have moved towards the line of trajectory and the bottle landed on your temple, hard enough that you stumbled upon impact.

You barely heard Max’s shocked gasp and shout of panic over the sound of glass shattering on your foot because the only thing you could register was the terrifying feeling of a thick liquid trickling down the side of your face and you didn't even need to see it to know it was blood.

The only thing you saw was red and it was on fucking sight.

Fucking Hamilton fan. Fucking Hamilton. He’s in Max’s way. He’s in your way. He’s the wall that was dividing you from your dream position in the engineering team.

You shoved the iPad you were holding to Max’s hands and marched down to the woman wearing the Merc #44 merch, swiftly jumping over the barricade and grabbing her by the collar of her pristine white Versace top.

The events that followed were too fast. You grabbed her collar. She pulled your hair. You also pulled her hair. Someone pulled her away from you. You tried to grab her, clawing her bare arms with your manicured nails. She screamed. You screamed back. You pulled out some curse words in Spanish as well because cursing her in one language alone is not enough. Her boyfriend appeared. A quick punch to your cheek. You fell to the ground.

The world stood still. There was a sting on your palm because your skin got torn from the hard surface of the concrete ground. You let a bloodcurdling war cry and your Dad would definitely be disappointed at you for using the boxing techniques he taught you for self defense purposes only to fight a guy two times your size.

Everything was a bigger blur from there. But you did remember the sensation of Max’s strong arms around you, stopping you from lunging forward again. He was saying sweet words to your ear to calm you down but your brain failed to intercept them so you could hear the words, could hear his voice, but not understand any of it. You remember Christian Horner's disappointed face that haunted you even two years later. You remembered feeling so terrified as you sat outside Christian Horner’s office waiting for the final verdict while he and Max and a few of the Red Bull higher-ups argued about your future with the team. You remembered hearing Max’s loud snarl on the other side of the mahogany door: “Did you see her face?! There was blood everywhere! On her nose, on her mouth, on the fucking side of her head!” You remembered the girl taking the case to court. You remembered fearing that you’d be sent to jail. You remembered that she lost the case because it was ruled as self defense and your injuries were grave. You remembered discovering that it was Max who used all his power and got the best lawyer to fight your case. You remembered the atmosphere in the Red Bull garage shifting when you entered it a few weeks later and everyone stared the bandages and bruises. Everyone thought one thing: of course, it would also take a monster to manage a monster like Max Verstappen. You remembered Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, apologizing personally for the fight caused by his own fan. He didn't need to but he was so sincere with it that you cried when he handed you the apology flowers. God, how could you even hate this man? Your anger towards him was misplaced.

You’d been living with the guilt ever since, that you were horrifyingly violent for a day, that you were capable of killing for a day. And it could happen again. One day. God, you hoped you wouldn't have to see that day. You knew all your coworkers have been careful with angering you ever since. They're terrified of you even. Max should be, too. But then again, why would he when he already saw the horrors done by his father’s hands ever since he was a child? He was used to it.

“I won't,” he says, smiling at you. “I wouldn't want to add anymore problems for you to clean up.”

But you will not be the one cleaning it up because you resigned. You didn’t tell that to him though. Not right now. He just had a meltdown over Kelly leaving him and the news of his manager leaving him too will destroy him.

The cheesecake is a little burnt when you take it out of the oven but it actually adds more flavor to it so yeah, that's a win.

“We should drink,” you suggest.

“It’s mid-afternoon.”

“We drank at mid-afternoon yesterday,” you give him a blank stare. “With Alex and Charles, remember?”

He doesn't say anything as you make your way to his fridge and pull out two bottles of beer. Max has champagne stored somewhere but you have enough of those expensive champagnes. You need beer. Beer is good. Beer is nice. You're a beer type of person and it is time Max becomes one, too.

“I’m no scientist,” you begin, biting off the beer’s bottle cap. “But according to chemistry, alcohol is solution.”

Well, technically, edible alcohol or ethanol is not a mixture. Rather, it's a pure substance that happens to be a liquid at room temperature and typical atmospheric pressure. Pure ethanol is not a solution. Hard spirits though? That's a solution.

Beer is not a hard spirit. It's more of a fermented drink. But Max doesn't know that, though, so you don't bother explaining the science behind it.

Somewhere down the road, the two of you move to his living room. You use the Youtube app in his TV to search karaoke video and have the bestest time of your lives. You're screaming along some Daddy Yankee and El Alfa songs and Max doesn't know how to speak Spanish so he’s just vibing to it.

At 5 PM, you pull out Max’s expensive vodka bottle. Now this is the real shit. The ten bottles of beer? Those are just pregame. Max is already drunk with just those because he’s a pussy but you’re no pussy, so the only right answer is vodka! Viva la vodka or whatever.

Your throat gets tired of singing and Max gets tired from dancing, too, so you both decide to just go entertain yourselves in other ways. First, you introduced Max to beer-pong. He loses, of course. He sucks at everything not racing. Then, the two of you move onto chess. Max gives up mid-game. He cannot understand the rules. Then, lastly, you move to the billiard table Max owned. He only used it when the other guys are over and you do not even know why he bought it when he sucked at playing billiards.

“You know what Kelly said the morning before the race?” Max suddenly says and you look up at him, brow raising slightly. He’s drunk; his skin is flushed and he is all giggly and smile-y as he sits on the billiard table’s side rail and using the billiard stick as some sort of support stand to keep him from falling. You hope he won't accidentally poke himself. You're no better, too. Ten beer bottles and a few glasses of vodka. But you’re not as drunk as Max, and you still have a straight vision and you can still sink the colored balls into the pockets of the billiard table.

“Hm?”

“That it was unfair for her.”

You raise a questioning brow, “Why?”

“I bought shoes and they don't fit her.”

You blink. He laughs at himself as if he has uttered the funniest joke in the world.

“Three years of relationship gone because of a single pair of shoes,” he continues. “She wanted those shoes, too.”

Kelly….what the fuck?

“But that's okay. She….She made me open my eyes, you know? She made me realize what I truly love.”

“Racing.” It's not even a question. It's the truth.

Max stares at you, long and hard, and you look away first because you fear that if you allow yourself to stare too long, you’ll drown in those beautiful blues. This is enough heartache for the day. No need to add more.

“Hey [Name],” he begins. “If I asked you to kiss me, would you do it?”

#manager!reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #f1 x reader #f1 imagines #formula one #fanfic #angst #mv1 #mv33 x reader #mv33

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lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar · 5 months ago

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MORE SONGS FROM YESTERDAY

youtube

YOU CAN DO MAAAAAGIIIIIC

#russ ballard #germany #2024 #i love how #in god gave rock and roll to you when he looked at the camera and said “HELLO”#while he was playing #just before he gets the crowd to clap and sing #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa #AND THEN DID HE JUST DO THE THING AGAIN #HE STUCK HIS TONGUE OUT #LIKE HE KEPT DOING IN THE POP QUIZ EPISODE IN THE 80'S #russ please #HIS LITTLE BOUNCIES #he's still going to be doing that into his 100's probably #I LOVE WHEN HE PUTS LYRICS FROM 'JUST LIKE ME' IN THERE #his guitar about 5 minutes in to the fire still burns help #aafhjsgjdhdjfh he's so cute i love him he's adorableeeeeeeeee

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gguk-n · 2 months ago

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Chapter 5- Epilogue

Accelerating Emotions (Oscar Piastri x Reader)

Series Masterlist

Summary- Y/N and Oscar are just happy being together. They enjoyed the time they got to spend together.

Over all just fluff.

Y/N and Oscar enjoyed the time between the end of the previous season and the start of the next. Both of them would follow each other around like lost puppies through out the day. Just as the holidays were coming to an end for Y/N, Oscar too had to leave for pre-season training, reluctantly. They would call each other and sometimes Y/N would send him packages and Oscar would send her packages and then the two of them would open them up on video calls.

Oscar really wanted her to come to the first race of the season, which was not possible at all due to her academic year being in full swing. Luckily, she didn't particularly need time off to be at his home race. The Australian GP couldn't come any sooner. Oscar did fly in earlier then usual. Y/N was there to pick him up at the airport since he did fly in super late. "You have a thing for making sure I don't get any sleep" she commented as Oscar climbed into the passenger seat. "I have other ways of keeping you up" he laughed. She just shook her head as she started driving.

They spent the next few days together, Oscar was on a strict diet; so Y/N found great joy in being able to cook for him and having at home dates. They would watch some silly shows and lay awake wrapped in each others arms. "I might have done some shopping" she said randomly. "Doesn't sound like it's a good thing" he said skeptically. "It is a good thing. I bought a dress in your god awful team colour and surprisingly I look good in it. So, I'll be wearing that with a 81 head band to the race." she said proudly. "Where did you get the 81 head band from?" he chuckled. "I made it myself, you'll see" she said kissing his lips. "If this is your way of bribing me, I'll take more" he said. "I'm not bribing you, I did a quiz and my love language is physical touch apparently" she said. "What's mine?" he asked. "Gift giving and physical touch, I think" she said. "I will not be denying that" he smiled.

Y/N accompanied him on quali day, the pair walked hand in hand to the paddock. The camera flashing rapidly to catch their moment together, Y/N was wearing Oscar's papaya jersey, a big smile on her face as she walked in. Oscar found great joy in dragging Y/N around with him. He would introduce her to his team with the biggest smile they had seen on Oscar. Lando had stopped teasing them, since Oscar started to enjoy it too much much to his dismay.

Oscar qualified P6, Y/N was cheering for him as always. It was a warm feeling racing in his home and having all the people that love and support him there. Y/N was wearing an papaya dress with the 81 head band that she knit. The fans loved her outfit and wanted their own 81 headbands. The race was quite eventful, Oscar finished just out of the podium but Y/N celebrated his finish like it was a podium. They spent the night together with their family, laughing and talking about random things and reliving old memories of all the times each of them found out Oscar had a crush on Y/N. It was a good time at Oscar's expense. "Last year, I wouldn't have thought I would get just outside of a podium in my home race or you for that matter" he whispered with his arms wrapped around her waist as they stood there watching everyone. "Well, you've improved." she smiled pecking his cheek. "I love these improvements" he smiled. "Can't wait to watch you win a race honestly" she stated. "I love you babe" he whispered. "I love you too, Osc." she whispered back. "I'm gonna have to ask Lando to stop calling me Osc, it feels weird" he stated. "He says it with love. It's cute honestly. I would also like to ask you to look at me with the same amount of love you look at Lando with" she chuckled. "I look at you with love, Lando it's shock" he said shaking his head.

Oscar's birthday was the day after the Japanese GP. They couldn't spend it together so Y/N sent him a package as a little gift; just some stuff from home and the customary birthday wishes. Oscar wasn't very happy about spending his birthday alone this year, but it's the nature of the sport. He wasn't able to fly in for her birthday either since he had another race weekend. So, they FaceTimed each other with a small cake and blew out candles while on call. Y/N had gotten him a wallet with their initials engraved on it which Oscar carried around with great pride. Y/N had gotten a necklace with an O. You could pass that necklace off as anything but she found a lot of happiness in telling anyone who asked that it was her boyfriend's initial.

During her time off she would fly to Oscar, they would spend all their time together either cuddling in the hotel room or exploring the city. Oscar would love to have her at race weekends but they never coincided with her time off. The fans had started to notice him hanging out with the girl who had the 81 headband and deduced that they were dating as if Oscar wasn't obvious enough.

Oscar winning his first Formula One race was a big thing but sadly Y/N wasn't there to celebrate with him. Instead he flew back to Australia even if only for a few days before he would have to fly back for the last race before the summer break. Back home, he was met with a lot of celebrations. Y/N spent her whole time showering Oscar in praises after his first win. Oscar couldn't help but bask in her praises forgetting the ordeal following his first win.

Y/N was very observant, she noticed when Oscar would wince or hiss quietly when some one would hug him or touch him. He made a conscious effort not to slip up when Y/N was touching him but she caught on and cornered him just like the time Oscar caught her topless when they were teens. "Piastri what's wrong?" she asked, voice laced with concern. "Nothing right now, but you look very hot cornering me. We might have a problem now" he said placing his hands on her waist and leaning closer. She took his hands off her waist and placed them on either side of him, effectively pinning him. "Babe, my mum's 2 feet away" he whispered. "I know, something's wrong and you won't tell me" she questioned further. "Nothing's wrong" Oscar replied trying to lighten the mood but Y/N wasn't buying it. He could easily over power her but he liked the situation he was in. "You've been hissing and wincing in pain since you've been back. I know you're hurt. Tell me where or I will not be kissing or touching you for the foreseeable future." she stated. Oscar knew he couldn't lie to her, she would figure it out, sooner or later. "I fractured my rib before the race" he said. "What" she almost screamed, carefully placing his hands down. "How? You raced? Why didn't you tell me or us?" she barraged him with questions. "It just happened but the medical team cleared me. I'm good and with a bit of rest I'll be as good as new" he said. "What rest? You plan on racing the next race. You didn't tell anyone. It's like you don't need us" she lamented. "I'm perfectly fine now. Don't worry about me" he said cupping her cheeks and pressing a kiss. "Well, it's my second nature to worry, you can't stop me" she announced. "I won't. I love it when you worry about me actually" he gloated. "You will be punished. I'm not touching you until you're fully healed. I heard rib fractures hurt a lot. So, you're on bed rest while you're in Melbourne" she stated. "What? NO! You can't deprive me" he groaned. "I can and I will. Just be grateful I'm not announcing this to the whole family" she tsked and walked away.

Oscar was babied and made to rest by Y/N. She found a way to avoid telling everyone what happened until Oscar would himself. Which he did after the summer break started. His parents were disappointed him but more concerned. Y/N apologised to hiding it since she didn't want to worry them as well.

They spent the summer break lounging around their house or going out to eat. They would catch up on movies and trying out new foods. Oscar had been thinking, he thought about it quite a lot especially when they would be grocery shopping together or he would see her interact with kids or when she would joke with his family or when she would fret over him; that he was ready. He was ready to settle down if it was with her. He wanted everything; a family, a house, kids, the whole nine yards. Oscar might have jumped the gun and bought a ring. He couldn't wait; these could be place holders till she picked one out she liked. He had gotten them his and her bands; they looked a lot like wedding bands. He carried those around for a while, not knowing when to ask and that's how the summer break ended and he would be back racing.

They spent their first anniversary at home while Y/N cooked for Oscar and make him rest. He was on a sex ban because of the rib fracture. No matter how much he tried to reason with her, Y/N wasn't about to budge. Oscar was like a piece of glass and Y/N was too scared to touch him lest she hurt him. Oscar got them his and her matching watches since he wasn't sure he had the guts to propose to her. She got him matching sweaters that she knit and a belt with her initials. "Are you trying to brand me?" he asked looking at the sweater with a big first initial of his girlfriend and the belt too. "I would ask you to get my name tattooed but let's wait for the second anniversary before be pull that" she laughed. "Plus people should know who you belong too" she said. "I think they know, I only talk about cars and you" he said solemnly. "I'm honoured that Mr Piastri talks about something other than cars" she smiled. "I can talk about you all the time. Cars aren't my only interest" he quipped. "Glad to know I don't have to compete with your love for cars like when you were 4" she chuckled. "Cars could never compete with you" he whispered snaking his arms around her waist trying to pull her onto his lap. She carefully pushed him away. "Nope. I'm not falling for this. You are on strict bed rest" she reprimanded. Oscar groaned "Ugh, this stupid rib." "I'm all yours once you're healed" she said pecking his cheeks and getting up to clean up the mess of wrappers they made.

Y/N finally had time off and she was able to fly to Azerbaijan. She had the two weeks off from school and spending time with Oscar was the only thing on her mind. Who would've thought? Okay, Y/N did think. She had maybe hoped Oscar would win since he was starting P2 in the race. Until the very end, you couldn't say much. It was during the last laps; Y/N felt it; watching Oscar zip past, that he might win and he did. She was crying; she couldn't be there for his first win but she was there now. Oscar got out of the car and rushed to his family. He hugged his mother and turned his attention to Y/N who had tried to fix her make up before she came since she had been crying. "I'm so happy you're here to see me win" he whispered in her embrace. "I'm happy I get to share this with you" Oscar pulled away and kissed her and Y/N melted right into his lips. She squished his cheeks deepening the kiss. They pulled away breathless, "I love you so much" he whispered. "I love you too Oscar" she whispered back. "Marry me" he blurted out. "You're not proposing right now, like this" she had started to cry. "Go on, we'll talk later" she said quietly.

Oscar was back in the drivers room with Y/N sat looking solemn. "Sorry about that. I knew this wasn't a good idea" Oscar lamented. "No no, babe. I meant it like you can't be proposing to me in that moment since it was your moment. It was yours and only yours" she explained. "It was ours baby, I've been thinking and I wanna marry you" he stated. "Osc, sweetheart, we're so young. We started dating just over a year ago." she began. "I've loved you for more than half my life. I think I know if I want to marry you or not" he interrupted. "As much as I hate to admit it, I would marry you right now, if I could" she chuckled. "Yay" he laughed. He opened up the red velvet box he had and 2 identical rings were shining back at them. "These look like wedding bands" she couldn't help but laugh. "Maybe" he stared at the box and than her. "You can pick whatever ring you would like. I didn't want to choose something you wouldn't like" he explained. "You know what I like" she said. "I'm not that confident" he said. "Well, I love you and anything you pick, I would love that too" she smiled at him. Oscar felt like he would turn into mush.

At the Singapore GP, the two of them were spotted with their rings. The media and fans were speculating whether they had a shot gun wedding. Oscar found great joy in calling Y/N, Mrs Piastri. But later, his mum did tell everyone that they hadn't indeed gotten married and those were engagement rings because her son was a big sap.

Oscar stared at their hands as they lay in bed entangled in each other, her hand on his chest and his wrapped around her. If you told 13 year old Oscar that he would be laying in bed with his crush he would've laughed at you, but 23 year old Oscar was lying in bed with the love of his life. Oscar wouldn't have it any other way. If you had told Y/N that the annoyingly quite and mature kid her brother befriended would be the man she planned on marrying, she would call you delusional but right now everything felt like a blissful dream that she would like to never wake up from. The two of them were happy in each others arms, away from the world.

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nomazee · 2 months ago

Text

dan heng x gn reader — 1.0k — HIGH SCHOOL AU, delinquent reader, you MIGHT be able to tell that i've been playing persona 5 with the way i wrote this, himeko is dan hengs adoptive mother SPREAD THE WORD, nebulous and ambiguous school setting

notes: my first drabble of what will probably be hundreds in the dan heng x delinquent reader saga... THANK YOU GWEN ( @tragedy-of-commons ) for entertaining me and my silly ideas , GUYS READ OUR BIG THREAD ABOUT THIS CONCEPT LINKED HERE i loved yapping about it and i cannot wait to write a million more drabbles for this concept OKAY!!!

warning for mild blood description but nothing really graphic, just the aftermath of a scuffle

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Dan Heng finds you behind the school in a pool of your own blood, though—it’s less of a pool of it, and more of a steady drip drip drip through the fingers clasped over your bleeding nose. You’re scrambling to get back up on your feet at the sight of him, and he catches a glimpse of a stupid smile from behind the gaps in your fingers.

Whoever beat you up—successfully, by the looks of it—has long since disappeared, and it’s just you and Dan Heng and your bloody nose alone in the grassy courtyard.

“Are you serious,” Dan Heng deadpans, because this is not the first time he’s caught you like this and it surely won’t be the last.

“You should see the other guy,” you joke back, the same way you joked a thousand times before and the same way you’ll joke a thousand times again. It was never funny, not in Dan Heng’s opinion, and each stupid quip of yours makes his patience run thinner and thinner.

The sight of blood smeared across your face is sickening. It seeps into the cracks of your fingers with every attempt you make to wipe your lips clean, but blood clings and sticks and you never learn your lesson. Dan Heng sighs, the first of many, already swinging his backpack off his shoulder and rummaging through it to find his usual pack of baby wipes and gauze.

It’s not exactly a daily occurrence, but this has happened often enough to train Dan Heng’s hands. He moves silently, brow furrowed and fingers shaking with hesitation—like he’s scared that he’ll hurt you, which is funny because you’ve already been hurt at the hands of someone else. If he lingers on that thought for too long, his stomach will start to twist, so he leaves it alone.

The damp cloth of a baby wipe is cool against his fingers as he swipes it across your face, his other hand firmly planted on your shoulder to keep you still. He clicks his tongue when you make a gargled sniffling noise, muttering a low stop that before you choke on your own blood.

“Why so quiet?” you ask, still with that stupid smile on your face even as he pulls out a second wipe for your face. “There’s so much to talk about. Did you take that quiz in Gallagher’s class today? It was so bad! Half the stuff on there wasn’t even in the study guide.”

“Shut up,” Dan Heng mumbles, loud enough that you can hear him but quiet enough that there’s no real bite to it. The shake in his hands has only grown, because there was so much blood dried on your face that it’s already soaked through the wipe and smears across the tips of his fingers, and it’s not just the sight of blood that makes him nauseous, but the knowledge that it’s yours.

“Heng,” you say, something like a petulant whine in your voice, and he wishes god, for once, can’t you take this seriously, you’ve caused him so much grief in the last two months of knowing you and it’s a miracle that he hasn’t gone gray already. Your hand—still blotted with crimson, dried into rusty smudges—goes up to grab his. It’s pressed against your cheek, the half-dry wipe still in his grasp, clinging to your skin. Dan Heng holds back a flinch at how warm your hands are compared to his own—cold, clammy, trembling.

“It’s late,” you continue, voice still light but the weight of your words settling deep between his shoulder blades, “I have to walk you home. Otherwise your mom will think I’m busy beating you up.”

“Not—“ he starts, choked and face warming so suddenly that it makes his head spin, “—she’s not my mom,” and it’s an oversimplification, and not important right now, and soon he’ll develop an immunity to your distractions. “That was a lot of blood. You should be going straight home.” And he realizes he doesn’t even know where you live, doesn’t know how far you are from his home, how out-of-your-way it is to walk him home nearly every day. He doesn’t ask—you’d never answer.

“It wasn’t that much,” you wave off his concern, “it stopped bleeding already. And my nose isn’t broken. And I’m walking just fine!” It’s one positive after another with you, and Dan Heng sighs again, already losing count of how many times he’s done it.

There’s a moment where you waver, face tensing and wobbling, bloody lips bitten back for a second before that stupid grin is on your face again and you say, tersely, “What, scared you’ll get caught with me?”

And isn’t that an odd way to say it—caught with me, spoken like it’s a curse. Like he’s paying penance by standing behind the school with you, your hand clasped around his. It takes every ounce of self-control for him not to drag his fingers down and wipe the blood off your face himself, staining his fingers and his heart. He wonders what it would mean, then catches himself, again and again, like he’s been doing for two months on repeat.

“No,” he says, urgent in a way that’s unfamiliar to him, like he’s trying to prove himself, dedicated in a way that makes him nauseous, the same way that the blood on your face makes his stomach squeeze. “That’s— not it. You can walk me home. But Himeko will— she’ll fuss over you, you know that. It’ll be annoying.”

“Annoying?” you say, incredulous. “As if! I love that woman. I hope she has those almond cookies, you know, like the ones from last week,” because of course you walked him home last week, too, and Himeko spent thirty minutes making you taste-test every sweet thing she had in her cabinets all while giving Dan Heng an unsettlingly knowing look. He represses a shudder at the memory, and gives you an acknowledging hum.

“Probably not,” he tells you, “she eats them all before I even get a chance.”

“She wouldn’t do that if you told her they were for me! Since I’m her favorite person, and all.” And Dan Heng can neither confirm nor deny, but his finger twitches when it brushes against your hand as you walk side-by-side, and he thinks you might’ve hit it right on the money, whether you’re Himeko’s favorite person or his.

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

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